In a delightful article called “Character in Birds,” Mr. Torrey gives many instances of bird traits that show distinct differences of nature in various species, and which lead one to recall others that have fallen under observation. Mr. Torrey does not mention, for instance, a peculiarity of the redeyed vireo, which is as marked as its persistent and rather tiresome note; that is, its almost intolerable curiosity and fussiness, qualities which it carries to such an extreme that they become absolutely comic. I think I have never seated myself to watch the nest of any bird, that a redeyed vireo has not appeared on the scene and scolded me; and the moment a bird utters a cry of alarm a redeyed vireo is sure to appear with his fretful air of “Oh, dear, what is the matter now?” ready and willing to take a hand in any rows that may be going and quite sure to make more fuss than the really aggrieved party; and oddly enough seeming, in one instance at least, even to resent the noise that the troubled bird was making, for one day when an indigo bird, that I had tormented by watching its nest, had chippered and chattered until he had brought every bird in the neighborhood to see what was the matter, a redeyed vireo, after prancing around for a time, flew at the distracted indigo bird with a very cross squawk, which said as plainly as words, “Do be quiet, can’t you?”

The vireo’s action in this case was in marked contrast to that of a thistle bird which came up warbling and gave me a careless glance, and then flew away still singing, but as the noise continued he came back presently and perching on a twig above me, bent his bright head to look at me, saying, “swee-et” in a long-drawn, inquiring way, with a little break in his voice which was singularly endearing, as are all the ways of these charming creatures; after inspecting me again he disappeared, but at a renewed outcry from the indigo birds he came warbling back once more. This time he paid little attention to me, having apparently satisfied his curiosity on that point on his former visit; but seeming to divine that there must be some reason why the indigo bird should make so much fuss, he began to examine the tree which held the nest. Suddenly he discovered the nest, and after a start which expressed surprise and interest, he flew up and hovered over it for an instant and then flitted away, warbling. Redeyed vireos seem to be always restless and irritable, and perfectly sure that you mean to do them or their nests some harm, and it is sometimes quite distracting to go into a certain piece of woods where they are very plentiful; the moment you enter it they begin their distressful “please, please,” uttered half pleadingly and half crossly. One is sure they must be near a vireo’s nest, yet may pass beneath it day after day, and though looking for it fail to find it, if there are no young ones, so skillful are they in concealing their beautiful nests. These are among the most fascinating of bird cradles, particularly in this piece of woods where there are many birch trees, from which the vireo obtains fine, silky shreds of the beautifully tinted bark and weaves into the nest with the most exquisite effect, giving unusual delicacy of color and texture. The redeye has also the most remarkable habit of arranging the nest so that it shall be quite hidden by the leaves, often with one leaf which serves as a roof and protects the young or eggs from sun and rain; and if they would only keep quiet they would usually be quite safe, but instead, the moment any one appears they make so much noise that attention is attracted to them at once, and you begin naturally to look for the cause. Even then it may be some time before the nest is discovered, as there are usually only one or two points from which a view of it can be obtained and a single leaf will sometimes quite conceal it. Possibly there are circumstances in the life of a redeyed vireo which, if known, would account for his irritability and egotistical belief that all eyes are upon him with evil intent; but our eyes are dull, and one could wish at times that his trials, whatever they may be, might sweeten his temper. I do know, at least, that redeyed vireos are much tormented by that plague of bird life, the cowbunting, which delights in laying her eggs in the redeye’s nest; and nowhere could they be placed where they would cause more discomfort, for the vireo’s nest is a delicate structure and none too large for its own nestlings. I think the cowbird often injures the nest when she lays her egg, as she probably gets in and out of it with more or less haste, being hurried by the aggrieved owners, for not only do the young vireos fall out of the nest, but even the interloping cowbird sometimes falls out before he is able to fly and meets his death by a tumble before he is prepared to leave the nest.

One summer I was watching a hawk’s nest and was always greeted by the angry cries of the redeyed vireos, who never ceased to scold at me and the hawk, and so upset a nervous, but well meaning at least, flycatcher that it, too, joined in the abuse. Sometimes when the hawk flew away the vireos would follow him for quite a distance through the trees, scolding in the most dismal manner and showing little fear of the great, fierce creature, who they seemed to know could not catch them among the thick branches of the trees. But one day I was amazed to see a redeyed vireo actually on the lower part of the hawk’s nest. To be sure the hawk was absent, but he had a swift and silent way of returning that made it seem a rather dangerous bit of bravado. The redeye often has a most uncomfortable habit not only of quarreling with any neighbor that will quarrel but also of squabbling with each other even during the time that they are engaged in caring for the young. One summer a pair of them, having a nest in a tree near the house, were so quarrelsome and kept up such a persistent clatter that they became really tiresome. It must be admitted, however, that in this particular case they had cause for being irritable, for they were trying to bring up a cowbunting besides their own family, and perhaps each thought the other was to blame for the misfortune. Indeed it took little imagination to think that their perpetual squabbles were caused by mutual recriminations in regard to their voracious foster nestling. Poor vireos! They fought with each other and everyone else, but particularly with a phoebe which had a nest near by, and was also tired and fretful from overwork and perhaps fond of a row himself, for he had an aggravating habit of coming into a little tree just below the vireos’ nest and twitching his tail in the rather inane manner peculiar to phoebes, and that was all that was needed to throw the vireos into a perfect fume, and they responded instantly, flying at him wrathfully and were promptly met by a kindred spirit. It was a most unreasonable business, as neither wanted anything that the other had, and seemed to prove that all they needed was an excuse to show their ill temper. These same vireos had a very real cause for rage and fear in the presence of the red squirrels, and they never failed to pursue and scold one the moment it appeared. Their whole life seemed so uncomfortable and their perpetual fussing was so wearisome that it was difficult to feel proper sympathy for them when their affairs ended tragically. But they were most devoted parents, and as such must have credit, though their domestic arrangements seemed squalidly inharmonious and were so pronounced that no one living in the vicinity could help knowing all about them.

Thistle birds, like the vireos, are very apt to appear in response to any call of alarm or annoyance from their neighbors, but their interest seems to have a sweet and kindly spirit, very different to the acidulated attitude of the redeyed vireo. In truth the most marked characteristic of these little beauties is a peculiar loveableness and their gentle cheeriness makes them ideal companions. They have a delightful habit of appearing in June in flocks and congregating on the white sandy beach of the lake, reminding one of the clouds of yellow butterflies that come to the same place at certain times of the year. At this time the male thistle bird sings in a perfect ecstacy of joy and love; but of all their attractive qualities none is so endearing as a habit they have late in the fall of singing as they fly high up, mere specks, their exquisite ethereal notes drifting down sometimes with the first snowflakes as they go joyfully to meet the storm and the night.

Scarlet tanagers are often hardly more agreeable in their marital relations than the redeyed vireos, and though no doubt they vary greatly in this respect, those that I have noticed showed a decided coldness, occasionally varied by marked crossness. And the wooing of a scarlet tanager is sometimes most amusing, for the female is, or pretends to be, amazingly indifferent and it must take a courageous lover to persist in spite of her severe manner, but male tanagers are gifted with persistence and do not seem to go unmated, and they make most devoted parents, though it would hardly have been expected of them after their seeming indifference during the incubating. One pair of tanagers that had a nest close to the house, and so could be constantly watched, were never on really friendly terms with each other, sometimes quarreling outright, and only seeking each other’s society when some danger seemed to threaten their young ones. Then the female seemed glad of the presence of her mate. Young scarlet tanagers are very confiding and gentle in their ways, and do not seem to have much fear of man here. There are always several of these pretty creatures flitting about in the evergreens near the house at the season when they are old enough to begin to take care of themselves, and they often alight on the hammock ropes or sit on the branches quite near me, looking on with bright, interested eyes. They have little playful ways that are rather unusual in a young bird and remind one of kittens. Sometimes when a shred of the arbor vitÆ bark hangs down above them they will play with it, using their beak as a kitten does its paws, and their voices have an almost plaintive sweetness that adds greatly to their attractions.

Next perhaps in fussiness to a redeyed vireo may be counted the phoebe; and there does not appear to be quite so much reason for the phoebe’s unhappy frame of mind, for on the whole their nests seem rather safer than those of most birds, built as they so often are in sheltered places about the houses and barns. But though the nests escape the young phoebes are very liable to come to grief, and their elders nearly wear themselves out when the young first leave the nest, which they often choose to do on a very stormy day. Phoebes are pugnacious, too, and carry on feuds among themselves year after year, those on the east side of the house always quarreling with those on the west side, and when they first come back in the spring there are frequent conflicts, noisily carried on in midair, which continue at intervals until both parties are too busy with their nests and young to attend to other things, though even then, if an idle moment occurs, they promptly take advantage of it to have a brush with each other. There never seems to be any particular advantage gained on either side; so dismal as they seem about it all they no doubt rather enjoy the excitement afforded by these little interludes.

Young phoebes show none of these aggressive qualities, and have the most gentle and attractive manners and a peculiar air of innocence that is most captivating. If the parent phoebe brings up an insect all the nestlings, who may be sitting in a row on a branch, wave their soft wings and squeak. The parent inspects them for a moment and then feeds one. The instant the old bird has decided which shall be fed the rest subside and wait quietly until her return. There is no pushing and crowding or following the parent.

The slate colored junco is another of the essentially cheerful spirits, yet has a remarkable sedateness and self-possession, such as one is sometimes surprised to find in people of particularly quiet and gentle dispositions. And he has one habit that has made him very dear, for he always appears in the fall and remains until quite late in the season. During this time he haunts the evergreen trees in front of the house, coming back there every evening to sleep or to seek shelter from a storm, announcing his arrival with low twitterings and restless games of play. If one goes under the evergreens after dark and gently shakes a branch there will be a slight fluttering of wings and disturbed sleepy notes from the juncos. They love to feed in the drive which runs in front of the house and in the thickets of rose bushes that creep up to the windows, coming close to the veranda and eating any crumbs that are thrown out for them, and even on the wettest day looking trim and contented and bringing with them a sense of companionship which can be only appreciated by those who have lived much alone, when the different creatures come to be better known than they can be where there are people constantly distracting the attention.

The Kentucky cardinal, though I have known it but slightly, made a very vivid impression because of its gentle pensiveness. I once spent a few months in a little village in Florida and flocks of these exquisite creatures appeared from time to time in our garden and in different places that we visited. They were always rather tame, coming near us and feeding on the ground, uttering plaintive notes that reminded me of the cedar bird and which suggested a much smaller bird. The cardinal’s manner had something so sensitive and touching about it that it appealed to me at once and made the lovely strangers as dear as though they had been known a lifetime. They were never hurried or excited and I never heard a cross note or saw the slightest indication of any friction among them; but their whole manner was colored with sadness—a quiet, unobtrusive sadness. Even their song was tinged with it and it was curious how these brilliant creatures left on the mind a sense of “going quietly” and being subdued, which made them the greatest contrast to the absurd redwinged black birds with whom they often shared the umbrella tree.

Hundreds of other instances of bird character crowd into the mind, as one writes, and the air seems again full of airy creatures each with his or her small personality standing out from all the rest in bright contrast, some grave, some gay, some cross, and others kind, but all beautiful and full of interest.

Louise Claude.

Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him

Sore, that the song of the robin restrained him

Wrongly of slumber, rudely of rest.

“From the north, from the east, from the south and the west,

Woodland, wheat-field, corn-field, clover,

Over and over and over and over,

Five o’clock, ten o’clock, twelve or seven,

Nothing but robin-songs heard under heaven:

How can we sleep?”

—Sidney Lanier, “Owl Against Robin.”