y; the song
sparrow's, faith; the bluebird's, love; the catbird's, pride; the
white-eyed flycatcher's, self-consciousness; that of the hermit
thrush, spiritual serenity: while there is something military in the
call of the robin.

The red-eye is classed among the flycatchers by some writers, but is
much more of a worm-eater, and has few of the traits or habits of
the _Muscicapa_ or the true _Sylvia_. He resembles somewhat the
warbling vireo, and the two birds are often confounded by careless
observers. Both warble in the same cheerful strain, but the latter
more continuously and rapidly. The red-eye is a larger, slimmer
bird, with a faint bluish crown, and a light line over the eye. His
movements are peculiar. You may see him hopping among the limbs,
exploring the under side of the leaves, peering to the right and
left, now flitting a few feet, now hopping as many, and warbling
incessantly, occasionally in a subdued tone, which sounds from a
very indefinite distance. When he has found a worm to his liking, he
turns lengthwise of the limb and bruises its head with his beak
before devouring it.

As I enter the woods the slate-colored snowbird starts up before me
and chirps sharply. His protest when thus disturbed is almost
metallic in its sharpness. He breeds here, and is not esteemed a
snowbird at all, as he disappears at the near approach of winter,
and returns again in spring, like the song sparrow, and is not in
any way associated with the cold and the snow. So different are the
habits of birds in different localities. Even the crow does not
winter here, and is seldom seen after December or before March.

The snowbird, or "black chipping-bird," as it is known among the
farmers, is the finest architect of any of the ground-builders known
to me. The site of its nest is usually some low bank by the
roadside, near a wood. In a slight excavation, with a partially
concealed entrance, the exquisite structure is placed. Horse and cow
hair are plentifully used, imparting to the interior of the nest
great symmetry and firmness as well as softness.

Passing down through the maple arches, barely pausing to observe the
antics of a trio of squirrels,--two gray ones and a black one,--I
cross an ancient brush fence and am fairly within the old hemlocks,
and in one of the most primitive, undisturbed nooks. In the deep
moss I tread as with muffled feet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate
in the dim, almost religious light. The irre