Over in a maple-tree on the edge of Farmer Brown's door yard lived Mr.
and Mrs. Redeye the Vireos. Peter Rabbit knew that they had a nest there
because Jenny Wren had told him so. He would have guessed it anyway,
because Redeye spent so much time in that tree during the nesting
season. No matter what hour of the day Peter visited the Old Orchard he
heard Redeye singing over in the maple-tree. Peter used to think that if
song is an expression of happiness, Redeye must be the happiest of all
birds.
He was a little fellow about the size of one of the larger Warblers and
quite as modestly dressed as any of Peter's acquaintances. The crown
of his head was gray with a little blackish border on either side. Over
each eye was a white line. Underneath he was white. For the rest he was
dressed in light olive-green. The first time he came down near enough
for Peter to see him well Peter understood at once why he is called
Redeye. His eyes were red. Yes, sir, his eyes were red and this fact
alone was enough to distinguish him from any other members of his
family.
But it wasn't often that Redeye came down so near the ground that Peter
could see his eyes. He preferred to spend most of his time in the tree
tops, and Peter only got glimpses of him now and then. But if he didn't
see him often it was less often that he failed to hear him. “I don't
see when Redeye finds time to eat,” declared Peter as he listened to the
seemingly unending song in the maple-tree.
“Redeye believes in singing while he works,” said Jenny Wren. “For my
part I should think he'd wear his throat out. When other birds sing they
don't do anything else, but Redeye sings all the time he is hunting
his meals and only stops long enough to swallow a worm or a bug when he
finds it. Just as soon as it is down he begins to sing again while he
hunts for another. I must say for the Redeyes that they are mighty good
nest builders. Have you seen their nest over in that maple-tree, Peter?”
Peter shook his head.
“I don't dare go over there except very early in the morning before
Farmer Brown's folks are awake,” said he, “so I haven't had much chance
to look for it.”
“You probably couldn't see it, anyway,” declared Jenny Wren. “They have
placed it rather high up from the ground and those leaves are so thick
that they hide it. It's a regular little basket fastened in a fork near
the end of a branch and it is woven almost as nicely as is the nest of
Goldy the Oriole. How anybody has the patience to weave a nest like that
is beyond me.”
“What's it made of?” asked Peter.
“Strips of bark, plant down, spider's web, grass, and pieces of paper!”
replied Jenny. “That's a funny thing about Redeye; he dearly loves a
piece of paper in his nest. What for, I can't imagine. He's as fussy
about having a scrap of paper as Cresty the Flycatcher is about having a
piece of Snakeskin. I had just a peep into that nest a few days ago and
unless I am greatly mistaken Sally Sly the Cowbird has managed to impose
on the Redeyes. I am certain I saw one of her eggs in that nest.”
A few mornings after this talk with Jenny Wren about Redeye the Vireo
Peter once more visited the Old Orchard. No sooner did he come in sight
than Jenny Wren's tongue began to fly. “What did I tell you, Peter
Rabbit? What did I tell you? I knew it was so, and it is!” cried Jenny.
“What is so?” asked Peter rather testily, for he hadn't the least idea
what Jenny Wren was talking about.
“Sally Sly DID lay an egg in Redeye's nest, and now it has hatched and
I don't know whatever is to become of Redeye's own children. It's
perfectly scandalous! That's what it is, perfectly scandalous!” cried
Jenny, and hopped about and jerked her tail and worked herself into a
small brown fury.
“The Redeyes are working themselves to feathers and bone feeding that
ugly young Cowbird while their own babies aren't getting half enough to
eat,” continued Jenny. “One of them has died already. He was kicked out
of the nest by that young brute.”
“How dreadful!” cried Peter. “If he does things like that I should think
the Redeyes would throw HIM out of the nest.”
“They're too soft-hearted,” declared Jenny. “I can tell you I wouldn't
be so soft-hearted if I were in their place. No, sir-ee, I wouldn't! But
they say it isn't his fault that he's there, and that he's nothing but a
helpless baby, and so they just take care of him.”
“Then why don't they feed their own babies first and give him what's
left?” demanded Peter.
“Because he's twice as big as any of their own babies and so strong and
greedy that he simply snatches the food out of the very mouths of the
others. Because he gets most of the food, he's growing twice as fast as
they are. I wouldn't be surprised if he kicks all the rest of them out
before he gets through. Mr. and Mrs. Redeye are dreadfully distressed
about it, but they will feed him because they say it isn't his fault.
It's a dreadful affair and the talk of the whole Orchard. I suppose his
mother is off gadding somewhere, having a good time and not caring
a flip of her tail feathers what becomes of him. I believe in being
goodhearted, but there is such a thing as overdoing the matter. Thank
goodness I'm not so weak-minded that I can be imposed on in any such way
as that.”
“Speaking of the Vireos, Redeye seems to be the only member of his
family around here,” remarked Peter.
“Listen!” commanded Jenny Wren. “Don't you hear that warbling song 'way
over in the big elm in front of Farmer Brown's house where Goldy the
oriole has his nest?”
Peter listened. At first he didn't hear it, and as usual Jenny Wren made
fun of him for having such big ears and not being able to make better
use of them. Presently he did hear it. The voice was not unlike that of
Redeye, but the song was smoother, more continuous and sweeter. Peter's
face lighted up. “I hear it,” he cried.
“That's Redeye's cousin, the Warbling Vireo,” said Jenny. “He's a better
singer than Redeye and just as fond of hearing his own voice. He sings
from the time jolly Mr. Sun gets up in the morning until he goes to bed
at night. He sings when it is so hot that the rest of us are glad to
keep still for comfort's sake. I don't know of anybody more fond of the
tree tops than he is. He doesn't seem to care anything about the Old
Orchard, but stays over in those big trees along the road. He's got
a nest over in that big elm and it is as high up as that of Goldy the
Oriole; I haven't seen it myself, but Goldy told me about it. Why any
one so small should want to live so high up in the world I don't know,
any more than I know why any one wants to live anywhere but in the Old
Orchard.”
“Somehow I don't remember just what Warble looks like,” Peter confessed.
“He looks a lot like his cousin, Redeye,” replied Jenny. “His coat is a
little duller olive-green and underneath he is a little bit yellowish
instead of being white. Of course he doesn't have red eyes, and he is
a little smaller than Redeye. The whole family looks pretty much alike
anyway.”
“You said something then, Jenny Wren,” declared Peter. “They get me all
mixed up. If only some of them had some bright colors it would be easier
to tell them apart.”
“One has,” replied Jenny Wren. “He has a bright yellow throat and breast
and is called the Yellow-throated Vireo. There isn't the least chance of
mistaking him.”
“Is he a singer, too?” asked Peter.
“Of course,” replied Jenny. “Every one of that blessed family loves the
sound of his own voice. It's a family trait. Sometimes it just makes my
throat sore to listen to them all day long. A good thing is good, but
more than enough of a good thing is too much. That applies to gossiping
just as well as to singing and I've wasted more time on you than I've
any business to. Now hop along, Peter, and don't bother me any more
to-day.”
Peter hopped.