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Title: The Burgess Bird Book for Children
Author: Thornton W. Burgess
Release Date: February, 2002 [Etext #3074]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
[The actual date this file first posted = 12/15/00]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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This etext was produced by Eve Sobol.
THE BURGESS BIRD BOOK FOR CHILDREN
Thornton W. Burgess
TO THE CHILDREN AND THE BIRDS
OF AMERICA THAT THE BONDS OF LOVE AND
FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN THEM MAY BE
STRENGTHENED
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
PREFACE
This book was written to supply a definite need. Its preparation
was undertaken at the urgent request of booksellers and others
who have felt the lack of a satisfactory medium of introduction
to bird life for little children. As such, and in no sense
whatever as a competitor with the many excellent books on this
subject, but rather to supplement these, this volume has been
written.
Its primary purpose is to interest the little child in, and to
make him acquainted with, those feathered friends he is most
likely to see. Because there is no method of approach to the
child mind equal to the story, this method of conveying
information has been adopted. So far as I am aware the book is
unique in this respect. In its preparation an earnest effort has
been made to present as far as possible the important facts
regarding the appearance, habits and characteristics of our
feathered neighbors. It is intended to be at once a story book
and an authoritative handbook. While it is intended for little
children, it is hoped that children of larger growth may find in
it much of both interest and helpfulness.
Mr. Louis Agassiz Fuertes, artist and naturalist, has marvelously
supplemented such value as may be in the text by his wonderful
drawings in full color. They were made especially for this volume
and are so accurate, so true to life, that study of them will
enable any one to identify the species shown. I am greatly
indebted to Mr. Fuertes for his cooperation in the endeavor to
make this book of real assistance to the beginner in the study of
our native birds.
It is offered to the reader without apologies of any sort. It was
written as a labor of love--love for little children and love for
the birds. If as a result of it even a few children are led to a
keener interest in and better understanding of our feathered
friends, its purpose will have been accomplished.
THORNTON W. BURGESS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I JENNY WREN ARRIVES
Introducing the House Wren.
II THE OLD ORCHARD BULLY
The English or House Sparrow.
III JENNY HAS A GOOD WORD FOR SOME SPARROWS
The Song, White-throated and Fox Sparrows.
IV CHIPPY, SWEETVOICE AND DOTTY
The Chipping, Vesper and Tree Sparrows.
V PETER LEARNS SOMETHING HE HADN'T GUESSED
The Bluebird and the Robin.
VI AN OLD FRIEND IN A NEW HOME
The Phoebe and the Least Flycatcher.
VII THE WATCHMAN OF THE OLD ORCHARD
The Kingbird and the Great Crested Flycatcher.
VIII OLD CLOTHES AND OLD HOUSES
The Wood Peewee and Some Nesting Places.
IX LONGBILL AND TEETER
The Woodcock and the Spotted Sandpiper.
X REDWING AND YELLOW WING
The Red-winged Blackbird and the Golden-winged Flicker.
XI DRUMMERS AND CARPENTERS
The Downy, Hairy and Red-headed Woodpeckers.
XII SOME UNLIKE RELATIVES
The Cowbird and the Baltimore Oriole.
XIII MORE OF THE BLACKBIRD FAMILY
The Orchard Oriole and the Bobolink.
XIV BOB WHITE AND CAROL THE MEADOW LARK
The So-called Quail and the Meadow Lark.
XV A SWALLOW AND ONE WHO ISN'T
The Tree Swallow and the Chimney Swift.
XVI A ROBBER IN THE OLD ORCHARD
The Purple Martin and the Barn Swallow.
XVII MORE ROBBERS
The Crow and the Blue Jay.
XVIII SOME HOMES IN THE GREEN FOREST
The Crow, the Oven Bird and the Red-tailed Hawk.
XIX A MAKER OF THUNDER AND A FRIEND IN BLACK
The Ruffed Grouse and the Crow Blackbird.
XX A FISHERMAN ROBBED
The Osprey and the Bald-headed Eagle.
XXI A FISHING PARTY
The Great Blue Heron and the Kingfisher.
XXII SOME FEATHERED DIGGERS
The Bank Swallow, the Kingfisher and the Sparrow Hawk.
XXIII SOME BIG MOUTHS
The Nighthawk, the Whip-poor-will and Chuck-wills-
widow.
XXIV THE WARBLERS ARRIVE
The Redstart and the Yellow Warbler.
XXV THREE COUSINS QUITE UNLIKE
The Black and White Warbler, the Maryland Yellow-Throat
and the Yellow-breasted Chat.
XXVI PETER GETS A LAME NECK
The Parula, Myrtle and Magnolia Warblers.
XXVII A NEW FRIEND AND AN OLD ONE
The Cardinal and the Catbird.
XXVIII PETER SEES ROSEBREAST AND FINDS REDCOAT
The Rose-breasted Grosbeak and the Scarlet Tanager.
XXIX THE CONSTANT SINGERS
The Red-eyed, Warbling and Yellow-throated Vireos.
XXX JENNY WREN'S COUSINS
The Brown Thrasher and the Mockingbird.
XXXI VOICE OF THE DUSK
The Wood, Hermit and Wilson's Thrushes.
XXXII PETER SAVES A FRIEND AND LEARNS SOMETHING
The Towhee and the Indigo Bunting.
XXXIII A ROYAL DRESSER AND A LATE NESTER
The Purple Linnet and the Goldfinch.
XXXIV MOURNER THE DOVE AND CUCKOO
The Mourning Dove and the Yellow-billed Cuckoo.
XXXV A BUTCHER AND A HUMMER
The Shrike and the Ruby-throated Hummingbird.
XXXVI A STRANGER AND A DANDY
The English Starling and the Cedar Waxwing.
XXXVII FAREWELLS AND WELCOMES
The Chickadee.
XXXVIII HONKER AND DIPPY ARRIVE
The Canada Goose and the Loon.
XXXIX PETER DISCOVERS TWO OLD FRIENDS
The White-breasted Nuthatch and the Brown Creeper.
XL SOME MERRY SEED-EATERS
The Tree Sparrow and the Junco.
XLI MORE FRIENDS COME WITH THE SNOW
The Snow Bunting and the Horned Lark.
XLII PETER LEARNS SOMETHING ABOUT SPOOKY
The Screech Owl.
XLIII QUEER FEET AND A QUEERER BILL
The Ruffed Grouse and the Crossbills.
XLIV MORE FOLKS IN RED
The Pine Grosbeak and the Redpoll.
XLV PETER SEES TWO TERRIBLE FEATHERED HUNTERS
The Goshawk and the Great Horned Owl.
THE BURGESS BIRD BOOK FOR CHILDREN
CHAPTER I Jenny Wren Arrives.
Lipperty-lipperty-lip scampered Peter Rabbit behind the
tumble-down stone wall along one side of the Old Orchard. It was
early in the morning, very early in the morning. In fact, jolly,
bright Mr. Sun had hardly begun his daily climb up in the blue,
blue sky. It was nothing unusual for Peter to see jolly Mr. Sun
get up in the morning. It would be more unusual for Peter not to
see him, for you know Peter is a great hand to stay out all night
and not go back to the dear Old Briar-patch, where his home is,
until the hour when most folks are just getting out of bed.
Peter had been out all night this time, but he wasn't sleepy, not
the least teeny, weeny bit. You see, sweet Mistress Spring had
arrived, and there was so much happening on every side, and Peter
was so afraid he would miss something, that he wouldn't have
slept at all if he could have helped it. Peter had come over to
the Old Orchard so early this morning to see if there had been
any new arrivals the day before.
"Birds are funny creatures," said Peter, as he hopped over a low
place in the old stone wall and was fairly in the Old Orchard.
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!" cried a rather sharp scolding voice.
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut! You don't know what you are talking
about, Peter Rabbit. They are not funny creatures at all. They
are the most sensible folks in all the wide world."
Peter cut a long hop short right in the middle, to sit up with
shining eyes. "Oh, Jenny Wren, I'm so glad to see you! When did
you arrive?" he cried.
"Mr. Wren and I have just arrived, and thank goodness we are here
at last," replied Jenny Wren, fussing about, as only she can, in
a branch above Peter. "I never was more thankful in my life to
see a place than I am right this minute to see the Old Orchard
once more. It seems ages and ages since we left it."
"Well, if you are so fond of it what did you leave it for?"
demanded Peter. "It is just as I said before--you birds are funny
creatures. You never stay put; at least a lot of you don't.
Sammy Jay and Tommy Tit the Chickadee and Drummer the Woodpecker
and a few others have a little sense; they don't go off on long,
foolish journeys. But the rest of you--"
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!" interrupted Jenny Wren. "You don't
know what you are talking about, and no one sounds so silly as
one who tries to talk about something he knows nothing about."
Peter chuckled. "That tongue of yours is just as sharp as ever,"
said he. "But just the same it is good to hear it. We certainly
would miss it. I was beginning to be a little worried for fear
something might have happened to you so that you wouldn't be back
here this summer. You know me well enough, Jenny Wren, to know
that you can't hurt me with your tongue, sharp as it is, so you
may as well save your breath to tell me a few things I want to know.
Now if you are as fond of the Old Orchard as you pretend to be,
why did you ever leave it?"
Jenny Wren's bright eyes snapped. "Why do you eat?" she asked
tartly.
"Because I'm hungry," replied Peter promptly.
"What would you eat if there were nothing to eat?" snapped Jenny.
"That's a silly question," retorted Peter.
"No more silly than asking me why I leave the Old Orchard,"
replied Jenny. "Do give us birds credit for a little common
sense, Peter. We can't live without eating any more than you can,
and in winter there is no food at all here for most of us, so we
go where there is food. Those who are lucky enough to eat the
kinds of food that can be found here in winter stay here. They
are lucky. That's what they are--lucky. Still--" Jenny Wren
paused.
"Still what?" prompted Peter.
"I wonder sometimes if you folks who are at home all the time
know just what a blessed place home is," replied Jenny. "It is
only six months since we went south, but I said it seems ages,
and it does. The best part of going away is coming home. I don't
care if that does sound rather mixed; it is true just the same.
It isn't home down there in the sunny South, even if we do spend
as much time there as we do here. THIS is home, and there's no
place like it! What's that, Mr. Wren? I haven't seen all the
Great World? Perhaps I haven't, but I've seen enough of it, let
me tell you that! Anyone who travels a thousand miles twice a
year as we do has a right to express an opinion, especially if
they have used their eyes as I have mine. There is no place like
home, and you needn't try to tease me by pretending that there
is. My dear, I know you; you are just as tickled to be back here
as I am."
"He sings as if he were," said Peter, for all the time Mr. Wren
was singing with all his might.
Jenny Wren looked over at Mr. Wren fondly. "Isn't he a dear to
sing to me like that? And isn't it a perfectly beautiful spring
song?" said she. Then, without waiting for Peter to reply, her
tongue rattled on. "I do wish he would be careful. Sometimes I am
afraid he will overdo. Just look at him now! He is singing so
hard that he is shaking all over. He always is that way. There is
one thing true about us Wrens, and this is that when we do things
we do them with all our might. When we work we work with all our
might. When Mr. Wren sings he sings with all his might."
"And, when you scold you scold with all your might," interrupted
Peter mischievously.
Jenny Wren opened her mouth for a sharp reply, but laughed
instead. "I suppose I do scold a good deal," said she, "but if I
didn't goodness knows who wouldn't impose on us. I can't bear to
be imposed on."
"Did you have a pleasant journey up from the sunny South?" asked
Peter.
"Fairly pleasant," replied Jenny. "We took it rather easily, Some
birds hurry right through without stopping, but I should think
they would be tired to death when they arrive. We rest whenever
we are tired, and just follow along behind Mistress Spring,
keeping far enough behind so that if she has to turn back we will
not get caught by Jack Frost. It gives us time to get our new
suits on the way. You know everybody expects you to have new
things when you return home. How do you like my new suit, Peter?"
Jenny bobbed and twisted and turned to show it off. It was plain
to see that she was very proud of it.
"Very much," replied Peter. "I am very fond of brown. Brown and
gray are my favorite colors." You know Peter's own coat is brown
and gray.
"That is one of the most sensible things I have heard you say,"
chattered Jenny Wren. The more I see of bright colors the better
I like brown. It always is in good taste. It goes well with
almost everything. It is neat and it is useful. If there is need
of getting out of sight in a hurry you can do it if you wear
brown. But if you wear bright colors it isn't so easy. I never
envy anybody who happens to have brighter clothes than mine. I've
seen dreadful things happen all because of wearing bright
colors."
"What?" demanded Peter.
"I'd rather not talk about them," declared Jenny in a very
emphatic way. "'Way down where we spent the winter some of the
feathered folks who live there all the year round wear the
brightest and most beautiful suits I've ever seen. They are
simply gorgeous. But I've noticed that in times of danger these
are the folks dreadful things happen to. You see they simply
can't get out of sight. For my part I would far rather be simply
and neatly dressed and feel safe than to wear wonderful clothes
and never know a minute's peace. Why, there are some families I
know of which, because of their beautiful suits, have been so
hunted by men that hardly any are left. But gracious, Peter
Rabbit, I can't sit here all day talking to you! I must find out
who else has arrived in the Old Orchard and must look my old
house over to see if it is fit to live in."
CHAPTER II The Old Orchard Bully.
Peter Rabbit's eyes twinkled when Jenny Wren said that she must
look her old house over to see if it was fit to live in. "I can
save you that trouble," said he.
"What do you mean?" Jenny's voice was very sharp.
"Only that our old house is already occupied," replied Peter.
"Bully the English Sparrow has been living in it for the last two
months. In fact, he already has a good-sized family there."
"What?" screamed Jenny and Mr. Wren together. Then without even
saying good-by to Peter, they flew in a great rage to see if he
had told them the truth. Presently he heard them scolding as fast
as their tongues could go, and this is very fast indeed.
"Much good that will do them," chuckled Peter. "They will have to
find a new house this year. All the sharp tongues in the world
couldn't budge Bully the English sparrow. My, my, my, my, just
hear that racket! I think I'll go over and see what is going on."
So Peter hopped to a place where he could get a good view of
Jenny Wren's old home and still not be too far from the safety of
the old stone wall. Jenny Wren's old home had been in a hole in
one of the old apple-trees. Looking over to it, Peter could see
Mrs. Bully sitting in the little round doorway and quite filling
it. She was shrieking excitedly. Hopping and flitting from twig
to twig close by were Jenny and Mr. Wren, their tails pointing
almost straight up to the sky, and scolding as fast as they could
make their tongues go. Flying savagely at one and then at the
other, and almost drowning their voices with his own harsh cries,
was Bully himself. He was perhaps one fourth larger than Mr.
Wren, although he looked half again as big. But for the fact that
his new spring suit was very dirty, due to his fondness for
taking dust baths and the fact that he cares nothing about his
personal appearance and takes no care of himself, he would have
been a fairly good-looking fellow. His back was more or less of
an ashy color with black and chestnut stripes. His wings were
brown with a white bar on each. His throat and breast were black,
and below that he was of a dirty white. The sides of his throat
were white and the back of his neck chestnut.
By ruffling up his feathers and raising his wings slightly as he
hopped about, he managed to make himself appear much bigger than
he really was. He looked like a regular little fighting savage.
The noise had brought all the other birds in the Old Orchard to
see what was going on, and every one of them was screaming and
urging Jenny and Mr. Wren to stand up for their rights. Not one
of them had a good word for Bully and his wife. It certainly was
a disgraceful neighborhood squabble.
Bully the English Sparrow is a born fighter. He never is happier
than when he is in the midst of a fight or a fuss of some kind.
The fact that all his neighbors were against him didn't bother
Bully in the least.
Jenny and Mr. Wren are no cowards, but the two together were no
match for Bully. In fact, Bully did not hesitate to fly fiercely
at any of the onlookers who came near enough, not even when they
were twice his own size. They could have driven him from the Old
Orchard had they set out to, but just by his boldness and
appearance he made them afraid to try.
All the time Mrs. Bully sat in the little round doorway,
encouraging him. She knew that as long as she sat there it would
be impossible for either Jenny or Mr. Wren to get in. Truth to
tell, she was enjoying it all, for she is as quarrelsome and as
fond of fighting as is Bully himself.
"You're a sneak! You're a robber! That's my house, and the sooner
you get out of it the better!" shrieked Jenny Wren, jerking her
tail with every word as she hopped about just out of reach of
Bully.
"It may have been your house once, but it is mine now, you little
snip-of-nothing!" cried Bully, rushing at her like a little fury.
"Just try to put us out if you dare! You didn't make this house
in the first place, and you deserted it when you went south last
fall. It's mine now, and there isn't anybody in the Old Orchard
who can put me out."
Peter Rabbit nodded. "He's right there," muttered Peter. "I don't
like him and never will, but it is true that he has a perfect
right to that house. People who go off and leave things for half
a year shouldn't expect to find them just as they left them. My,
my, my what a dreadful noise! Why don't they all get together and
drive Bully and Mrs. Bully out of the Old Orchard? If they don't
I'm afraid he will drive them out. No one likes to live with such
quarrelsome neighbors. They don't belong over in this country,
anyway, and we would be a lot better off if they were not here.
But I must say I do have to admire their spunk."
All the time Bully was darting savagely at this one and that one
and having a thoroughly good time, which is more than could be
said of any one else, except Mrs. Bully.
"I'll teach you folks to know that I am in the Old Orchard to
stay!" shrieked Bully. "If you don't like it, why don't you
fight? I am not afraid of any of you or all of you together."
This was boasting, plain boasting, but it was effective. He
actually made the other birds believe it. Not one of them dared
stand up to him and fight. They were content to call him a bully
and all the bad names they could think of, but that did nothing
to help Jenny and Mr. Wren recover their house. Calling another
bad names never hurts him. Brave deeds and not brave words are
what count.
How long that disgraceful squabble in the Old Orchard would have
lasted had it not been for something which happened, no one
knows. Right in the midst of it some one discovered Black Pussy,
the cat who lives in Farmer Brown's house, stealing up through
the Old Orchard, her tail twitching and her yellow eyes glaring
eagerly. She had heard that dreadful racket and suspected that in
the midst of such excitement she might have a chance to catch one
of the feathered folks. You can always trust Black Pussy to be on
hand at a time like that.
No sooner was she discovered than everything else was forgotten.
With Bully in the lead, and Jenny and Mr. Wren close behind him,
all the birds turned their attention to Black Pussy. She was the
enemy of all, and they straightway forgot their own quarrel. Only
Mrs. Bully remained where she was, in the little round doorway of
her house. She intended to take no chances, but she added her
voice to the general racket. How those birds did shriek and
scream! They darted down almost into the face of Black Pussy, and
none went nearer than Bully the English Sparrow and Jenny Wren.
Now Black Pussy hates to be the center of so much attention. She
knew that, now she had been discovered, there wasn't a chance in
the world for her to catch one of those Old Orchard folks. So,
with tail still twitching angrily, she turned and, with such
dignity as she could, left the Old Orchard. Clear to the edge of
it the birds followed, shrieking, screaming, calling her bad
names, and threatening to do all sorts of dreadful things to her,
quite as if they really could.
When finally she disappeared towards Farmer Brown's barn, those
angry voices changed. It was such a funny change that Peter
Rabbit laughed right out. Instead of anger there was triumph in
every note as everybody returned to attend to his own affairs.
Jenny and Mr. Wren seemed to have forgotten all about Bully and
his wife in their old house. They flew to another part of the Old
Orchard, there to talk it all over and rest and get their breath.
Peter Rabbit waited to see if they would not come over near
enough to him for a little more gossip. But they didn't, and
finally Peter started for his home in the dear Old Briar-patch.
All the way there he chuckled as he thought of the spunky way in
which Jenny and Mr. Wren had stood up for their rights.
CHAPTER III Jenny Has a Good Word for Some Sparrows.
The morning after the fight between Jenny and Mr. Wren and Bully
the English Sparrow found Peter Rabbit in the Old Orchard again.
He was so curious to know what Jenny Wren would do for a house
that nothing but some very great danger could have kept him away
from there. Truth to tell, Peter was afraid that not being able
to have their old house, Jenny and Mr. Wren would decide to leave
the Old Orchard altogether. So it was with a great deal of relief
that as he hopped over a low place in the old stone wall he heard
Mr. Wren singing with all his might.
The song was coming from quite the other side of the Old Orchard
from where Bully and Mrs. Bully had set up housekeeping. Peter
hurried over. He found Mr. Wren right away, but at first saw
nothing of Jenny. He was just about to ask after her when he
caught sight of her with a tiny stick in her bill. She snapped
her sharp little eyes at him, but for once her tongue was still.
You see, she couldn't talk and carry that stick at the same time.
Peter watched her and saw her disappear in a little hole in a big
branch of one of the old apple-trees. Hardly had she popped in
than she popped out again. This time her mouth was free, and so
was her tongue.
"You'd better stop singing and help me," she said to Mr. Wren
sharply. Mr. Wren obediently stopped singing and began to hunt
for a tiny little twig such as Jenny had taken into that hole.
"Well!" exclaimed Peter. "It didn't take you long to find a new
house, did it?"
"Certainly not," snapped Jenny "We can't afford to sit around
wasting time like some folk I know."
Peter grinned and looked a little foolish, but he didn't resent
it. You see he was quite used to that sort of thing. "Aren't you
afraid that Bully will try to drive you out of that house?" he
ventured.
Jenny Wren's sharp little eyes snapped more than ever. "I'd like
to see him try!" said she. "That doorway's too small for him to
get more than his head in. And if he tries putting his head in
while I'm inside, I'll peck his eyes out! She said this so
fiercely that Peter laughed right out.
"I really believe you would," said he.
"I certainly would," she retorted. "Now I can't stop to talk to
you, Peter Rabbit, because I'm too busy. Mr. Wren, you ought to
know that that stick is too big." Jenny snatched it out of Mr.
Wren's mouth and dropped it on the ground, while Mr. Wren meekly
went to hunt for another. Jenny joined him, and as Peter watched
them he understood why Jenny is so often spoken of as a feathered
busybody.
For some time Peter Rabbit watched Jenny and Mr. Wren carry
sticks and straws into that little hole until it seemed to him
they were trying to fill the whole inside of the tree. Just
watching them made Peter positively tired. Mr. Wren would stop
every now and then to sing, but Jenny didn't waste a minute. In
spite of that she managed to talk just the same.
"I suppose Little Friend the Song Sparrow got here some time
ago," said she.
Peter nodded. "Yes," said he. "I saw him only a day or two ago
over by the Laughing Brook, and although he wouldn't say so, I'm
sure that he has a nest and eggs already."
Jenny Wren jerked her tail and nodded her head vigorously. "I
suppose so," said she. "He doesn't have to make as long a journey
as we do, so he gets here sooner. Did you ever in your life see
such a difference as there is between Little Friend and his
cousin, Bully? Everybody loves Little Friend."
Once more Peter nodded. "That's right," said he. "Everybody does
love Little Friend. It makes me feel sort of all glad inside just
to hear him sing. I guess it makes everybody feel that way. I
wonder why we so seldom see him up here in the Old Orchard."
"Because he likes damp places with plenty of bushes better,"
replied Jenny Wren. "It wouldn't do for everybody to like the same
kind of a place. He isn't a tree bird, anyway. He likes to be on
or near the ground. You will never find his nest much above the
ground, not more than a foot or two. Quite often it is on the
ground. Of course I prefer Mr. Wren's song, but I must admit that
Little Friend has one of the happiest songs of any one I know.
Then, too, he is so modest, just like us Wrens."
Peter turned his head aside to hide a smile, for if there is
anybody who delights in being both seen and heard it is Jenny
Wren, while Little Friend the Song Sparrow is shy and retiring,
content to make all the world glad with his song, but preferring
to keep out of sight as much as possible.
Jenny chattered on as she hunted for some more material for her
nest. "I suppose you've noticed, said she, "that he and his wife
dress very much alike. They don't go in for bright colors any
more than we Wrens do. They show good taste. I like the little
brown caps they wear, and the way their breasts and sides are
streaked with brown. Then, too, they are such useful folks. It is
a pity that that nuisance of a Bully doesn't learn something from
them. I suppose they stay rather later than we do in the fall."
"Yes," replied Peter. "They don't go until Jack Frost makes them.
I don't know of any one that we miss more than we do them."
"Speaking of the sparrow family, did you see anything of
Whitethroat?" asked Jenny Wren, as she rested for a moment in the
doorway of her new house and looked down at Peter Rabbit.
Peter's face brightened. "I should say I did!" he exclaimed. "He
stopped for a few days on his way north. I only wish he would
stay here all the time. But he seems to think there is no place
like the Great Woods of the North. I could listen all day to his
song. Do you know what he always seems to be saying?"
"What?" demanded Jenny.
"I live happ-i-ly, happ-i-ly, happ-i-ly," replied Peter. "I guess
he must too, because he makes other people so happy."
Jenny nodded in her usual emphatic way. "I don't know him as well
as I do some of the others," said she, "but when I have seen him
down in the South he always has appeared to me to be a perfect
gentleman. He is social, too; he likes to travel with others."
"I've noticed that," said Peter. "He almost always has company
when he passes through here. Some of those Sparrows are so much
alike that it is hard for me to tell them apart, but I can always
tell Whitethroat because he is one of the largest of the tribe and
has such a lovely white throat. He really is handsome with his
black and white cap and that bright yellow spot before each eye.
I am told that he is very dearly loved up in the north where he
makes his home. They say he sings all the time."
"I suppose Scratcher the Fox Sparrow has been along too," said
Jenny. "He also started sometime before we did."
"Yes," replied Peter. "He spent one night in the dear Old
Briar-patch. He is fine looking too, the biggest of all the
Sparrow tribe, and HOW he can sing. The only thing I've got
against him is the color of his coat. It always reminds me of
Reddy Fox, and I don't like anything that reminds me of that
fellow. When he visited us I discovered something about Scratcher
which I don't believe you know."
"What?" demanded Jenny rather sharply.
"That when he scratches among the leaves he uses both feet at
once," cried Peter triumphantly. "It's funny to watch him."
"Pooh! I knew that," retorted Jenny Wren. "What do you suppose my
eyes are make for? I thought you were going to tell me something
I didn't know."
Peter looked disappointed.
CHAPTER IV Chippy, Sweetvoice, and Dotty.
For a while Jenny Wren was too busy to talk save to scold Mr.
Wren for spending so much time singing instead of working. To
Peter it seemed as if they were trying to fill that tree trunk
with rubbish. "I should think they had enough stuff in there for
half a dozen nests," muttered Peter. "I do believe they are
carrying it in for the fun of working." Peter wasn't far wrong in
this thought, as he was to discover a little later in the season
when he found Mr. Wren building another nest for which he had no
use.
Finding that for the time being he could get nothing more from
Jenny Wren, Peter hopped over to visit Johnny Chuck, whose home
was between the roots of an old apple-tree in the far corner of
the Old Orchard. Peter was still thinking of the Sparrow family;
what a big family it was, yet how seldom any of them, excepting
Bully the English Sparrow, were to be found in the Old Orchard.
"Hello, Johnny Chuck!" cried Peter, as he discovered Johnny
sitting on his doorstep. "You've lived in the Old Orchard a long
time, so you ought to be able to tell me something I want to
know. Why is it that none of the Sparrow family excepting that
noisy nuisance, Bully, build in the trees of the Old Orchard? Is
it because Bully has driven all the rest out?"
Johnny Chuck shook his head. "Peter," said he, "whatever is the
matter with your ears? And whatever is the matter with your
eyes?"
"Nothing," replied Peter rather shortly. "They are as good as
yours any day, Johnny Chuck."
Johnny grinned. "Listen!" said Johnny. Peter listened. From a
tree just a little way off came a clear "Chip, chip, chip, chip."
Peter didn't need to be told to look. He knew without looking who
was over there. He knew that voice for that of one of his oldest
and best friends in the Old Orchard, a little fellow with a
red-brown cap, brown back with feathers streaked with black,
brownish wings and tail, a gray waistcoat and black bill, and a
little white line over each eye--altogether as trim a little
gentleman as Peter was acquainted with. It was Chippy, as
everybody calls the Chipping Sparrow, the smallest of the family.
Peter looked a little foolish. "I forgot all about Chippy," said
he. "Now I think of it, I have found Chippy here in the Old
Orchard ever since I can remember. I never have seen his nest
because I never happened to think about looking for it. Does he
build a trashy nest like his cousin, Bully?"
Johnny Chuck laughed. "I should say not!" he exclaimed. "Twice
Chippy and Mrs. Chippy have built their nest in this very old
apple-tree. There is no trash in their nest, I can tell you! It
is just as dainty as they are, and not a bit bigger than it has
to be. It is made mostly of little fine, dry roots, and it is
lined inside with horse-hair."
"What's that?" Peter's voice sounded as it he suspected that
Johnny Chuck was trying to fool him.
"It's a fact," said Johnny, nodding his head gravely. "Goodness
knows where they find it these days, but find it they do. Here
comes Chippy himself; ask him."
Chippy and Mrs. Chippy came flitting from tree to tree until they
were on a branch right over Peter and Johnny. "Hello!" cried
Peter. "You folks seem very busy. Haven't you finished building
your nest yet?"
"Nearly," replied Chippy. "It is all done but the horsehair. We
are on our way up to Farmer Brown's barnyard now to look for
some. You haven't seen any around anywhere, have you?"
Peter and Johnny shook their heads, and Peter confessed that he
wouldn't know horsehair if he saw it. He often had found hair
from the coats of Reddy Fox and Old Man Coyote and Digger the
Badger and Lightfoot the Deer, but hair from the coat of a horse
was altogether another matter.
"It isn't hair from the coat of a horse that we want," cried
Chippy, as he prepared to fly after Mrs. Chippy. "It is long hair
form the tail or mane of a horse that we must have. It makes the
very nicest kind of lining for a nest."
Chippy and Mrs. Chippy were gone a long time, but when they did
return each was carrying a long black hair. They had found what
they wanted, and Mrs. Chippy was in high spirits because, as she
took pains to explain to Peter, that little nest would not soon
be ready for the four beautiful little blue eggs with black spots
on one end she meant to lay in it.
"I just love Chippy and Mrs. Chippy," said Peter, as they watched
their two little feathered friends putting the finishing touches
to the little nest far out on a branch of one of the apple-trees.
"Everybody does," replied Johnny. "Everybody loves them as much
as they hate Bully and his wife. Did you know that they are
sometimes called Tree Sparrows? I suppose it is because they so
often build their nests in trees?"
"No," said Peter, "I didn't. Chippy shouldn't be called Tree
Sparrow, because he has a cousin by that name."
Johnny Chuck looked as if he doubted that, "I never heard of
him," he grunted.
Peter grinned. Here was a chance to tell Johnny Chuck something,
and Peter never is happier than when he can tell folks something
they don't know. "You'd know him if you didn't sleep all winter,"
said Peter. "Dotty the Tree Sparrow spends the winter here. He
left for his home in the Far North about the time you took it
into your head to wake up."
"Why do you call him Dotty?" asked Johnny Chuck.
"Because he has a little round black dot right in the middle of
his breast," replied Peter. "I don't know why they call him Tree
Sparrow; he doesn't spend his time in the trees the way Chippy
does, but I see him much oftener in low bushes or on the ground.
I think Chippy has much more right to the name of Tree Sparrow
than Dotty has. Now I think of it, I've heard Dotty called the
Winter Chippy."
"Gracious, what a mix-up!" exclaimed Johnny Chuck. "With Chippy
being called a Tree Sparrow and a Tree Sparrow called Chippy, I
should think folks would get all tangled up."
"Perhaps they would," replied Peter, "if both were here at the
same time, but Chippy comes just as Dotty goes, and Dotty comes
as Chippy goes. That's a pretty good arrangement, especially as
they look very much alike, excepting that Dotty is quite a little
bigger than Chippy and always has that black dot, which Chippy
does not have. Goodness gracious, it is time I was back in the
dear Old Briar-patch! Good-by, Johnny Chuck."
Away went Peter Rabbit, lipperty-lipperty-lip, heading for the
dear Old Briar-patch. Out of the grass just ahead of him flew a
rather pale, streaked little brown bird, and as he spread his
tail Peter saw two white feathers on the outer edges. Those two
white feathers were all Peter needed to recognize another little
friend of whom he is very fond. It was Sweetvoice the Vesper
Sparrow, the only one of the Sparrow family with white feathers
in his tail.
"Come over to the dear Old Briar-patch and sing to me," cried
Peter.
Sweetvoice dropped down into the grass again, and when Peter came
up, was very busy getting a mouthful of dry grass. "Can't,"
mumbled Sweetvoice. "Can't do it now, Peter Rabbit. I'm too busy.
It is high time our nest was finished, and Mrs. Sweetvoice will
lose her patience if I don't get this grass over there pretty
quick."
"Where is your nest; in a tree?" asked Peter innocently.
"That's telling," declared Sweetvoice. "Not a living soul knows
where that nest is, excepting Mrs. Sweetvoice and myself. This
much I will tell you, Peter: it isn't in a tree. And I'll tell
you this much more: it is in a hoofprint of Bossy the Cow."
"In a WHAT?" cried Peter.
"In a hoofprint of Bossy the Cow," repeated Sweetvoice, chuckling
softly. "You know when the ground was wet and soft early this
spring, Bossy left deep footprints wherever she went. One of
these makes the nicest kind of a place for a nest. I think we
have picked out the very best one on all the Green Meadows. Now
run along, Peter Rabbit, and don't bother me any more. I've got
too much to do to sit here talking. Perhaps I'll come over to the
edge of the dear Old Briar-patch and sing to you a while just
after jolly, round, red Mr. Sun goes to bed behind the Purple
Hills. I just love to sing then."
"I'll be watching for you," replied Peter. "You don't love to
sing any better than I love to hear you. I think that is the best
time of all the day in which to sing. I mean, I think it's the
best time to hear singing," for of course Peter himself does not
sing at all.
That night, sure enough, just as the Black Shadows came creeping
out over the Green Meadows, Sweetvoice, perched on the top of a
bramble-bush over Peter's head, sang over and over again the
sweetest little song and kept on singing even after it was quite
dark. Peter didn't know it, but it is this habit of singing in
the evening which has given Sweetvoice his name of Vesper
Sparrow.
CHAPTER V Peter Learns Something He Hadn't Guessed.
Running over to the Old Orchard very early in the morning for a
little gossip with Jenny Wren and his other friends there had
become a regular thing with Peter Rabbit. He was learning a great
many things, and some of them were most surprising.
Now two of Peter's oldest and best friends in the Old Orchard
were Winsome Bluebird and Welcome Robin. Every spring they arrived
pretty nearly together, though Winsome Bluebird usually was a few
days ahead of Welcome Robin. This year Winsome had arrived while
the snow still lingered in patches. He was, as he always is, the
herald of sweet Mistress Spring. And when Peter had heard for the
first time Winsome's soft, sweet whistle, which seemed to come
from nowhere in particular and from everywhere in general, he had
kicked up his long hind legs from pure joy. Then, when a few days
later he had heard Welcome Robin's joyous message of "Cheer-up!
Cheer-up! Cheer-up! Cheer-up! Cheer!" from the tiptop of a tall
tree, he had known that Mistress Spring really had arrived.
Peter loves Winsome Bluebird and Welcome Robin, just as everybody
else does, and he had known them so long and so well that he
thought he knew all there was to know about them. He would have
been very indignant had anybody told him he didn't.
"Those cousins don't look much alike, do they?" remarked Jenny
Wren, as she poked her head out of her house to gossip with
Peter.
"What cousins?" demanded Peter, staring very hard in the
direction in which Jenny Wren was looking.
"Those two sitting on the fence over there. Where are your eyes,
Peter?" replied Jenny rather sharply.
Peter stared harder than ever. On one post sat Winsome Bluebird,
and on another post sat Welcome Robin. "I don't see anybody but
Winsome and Welcome, and they are not even related," replied
Peter with a little puzzled frown.
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut, Peter!" exclaimed Jenny Wren. "Tut,
tut, tut, tut, tut! Who told you any such nonsense as that? Of
course they are related. They are cousins. I thought everybody
knew that. They belong to the same family that Melody the Thrush
and all the other Thrushes belong to. That makes them all
cousins."
"What?" exclaimed Peter, looking as if he didn't believe a word
of what Jenny Wren had said. Jenny repeated, and still Peter
looked doubtful.
Then Jenny lost her temper, a thing she does very easily. "If you
don't believe me, go ask one of them," she snapped, and
disappeared inside her house, where Peter could hear her scolding
away to herself.
The more he thought of it, the more this struck Peter as good
advice. So he hopped over to the foot of the fence post on which
Winsome Bluebird was sitting. "Jenny Wren says that you and
Welcome Robin are cousins. She doesn't know what she is talking
about, does she?" asked Peter.
Winsome chuckled. It was a soft, gentle chuckle. "Yes," said he,
nodding his head, "we are. You can trust that little busybody to
know what she is talking about, every time. I sometimes think she
knows more about other people's affairs than about her own.
Welcome and I may not look much alike, but we are cousins just
the same. Don't you think Welcome is looking unusually fine this
spring?"
"Not a bit finer than you are yourself, Winsome," replied Peter
politely. "I just love that sky-blue coat of yours. What is the
reason that Mrs. Bluebird doesn't wear as bright a coat as you
do?"
"Go ask Jenny Wren," chuckled Winsome Bluebird, and before Peter
could say another word he flew over to the roof of Farmer Brown's
house.
Back scampered Peter to tell Jenny Wren that he was sorry he had
doubted her and that he never would again. Then he begged Jenny
to tell him why it was that Mrs. Bluebird was not as brightly
dressed as was Winsome.
"Mrs. Bluebird, like most mothers, is altogether too busy to
spend much time taking care of her clothes; and fine clothes need
a lot of care," replied Jenny. "Besides, when Winsome is about he
attracts all the attention and that gives her a chance to slip in
and out of her nest without being noticed. I don't believe you
know, Peter Rabbit, where Winsome's nest is."
Peter had to admit that he didn't, although he had tried his best
to find out by watching Winsome. "I think it's over in that
little house put up by Farmer Brown's boy," he ventured. "I saw
both Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird go in it when they first came, and
I've seen Winsome around it a great deal since, so I guess it is
there."
"So you guess it is there!" mimicked Jenny Wren. "Well, your
guess is quite wrong, Peter; quite wrong. As a matter of fact, it
is in one of those old fence posts. But just which one I am not
going to tell you. I will leave that for you to find out. Mrs.
Bluebird certainly shows good sense. She knows a good house when
she sees it. The hole in that post is one of the best holes
anywhere around here. If I had arrived here early enough I would
have taken it myself. But Mrs. Bluebird already had her nest
built in it and four eggs there, so there was nothing for me to
do but come here. Just between you and me, Peter, I think the
Bluebirds show more sense in nest building than do their cousins
the Robins. There is nothing like a house with stout walls and a
doorway just big enough to get in and out of comfortably."
Peter nodded quite as if he understood all about the advantages
of a house with walls. "That reminds me," said he. "The other day
I saw Welcome Robin getting mud and carrying it away. Pretty soon
he was joined by Mrs. Robin, and she did the same thing. They
kept it up till I got tired of watching them. What were they
doing with that mud?"
"Building their nest, of course, stupid," retorted Jenny.
"Welcome Robin, with that black head, beautiful russet breast,
black and white throat and yellow bill, not to mention the proud
way in which he carries himself, certainly is a handsome fellow,
and Mrs. Robin is only a little less handsome. How they can be
content to build the kind of a home they do is more than I can
understand. People think that Mr. Wren and I use a lot of trash
in our nest. Perhaps we do, but I can tell you one thing, and
that is it is clean trash. It is just sticks and clean straws,
and before I lay my eggs I see to it that my nest is lined with
feathers. More than this, there isn't any cleaner housekeeper
than I am, if I do say it.
"Welcome Robin is a fine looker and a fine singer, and everybody
loves him. But when it comes to housekeeping, he and Mrs. Robin
are just plain dirty. They make the foundation of their nest of
mud,--plain, common, ordinary mud. They cover this with dead
grass, and sometimes there is mighty little of this over the
inside walls of mud. I know because I've seen the inside of their
nest often. Anybody with any eyes at all can find their nest.
More than once I've known them to have their nest washed away in
a heavy rain, or have it blown down in a high wind. Nothing like
that ever happens to Winsome Bluebird or to me."
Jenny disappeared inside her house, and Peter waited for her to
come out again. Welcome Robin flew down on the ground, ran a few
steps, and then stood still with his head on one side as if
listening. Then he reached down and tugged at something, and
presently out of the ground came a long, wriggling angleworm.
Welcome gulped it down and ran on a few steps, then once more
paused to listen. This time he turned and ran three or four steps
to the right, where he pulled another worm out of the ground.
"He acts as if he heard those worms in the ground," said Peter,
speaking aloud without thinking.
"He does," said Jenny Wren, poking her head out of her doorway
just as Peter spoke. "How do you suppose he would find them when
they are in the ground if he didn't hear them?"
"Can you hear them?" asked Peter.
"I've never tried, and I don't intend to waste my time trying,"
retorted Jenny. "Welcome Robin may enjoy eating them, but for my
part I want something smaller and daintier, young grasshoppers,
tender young beetles, small caterpillars, bugs and spiders."
Peter had to turn his head aside to hide the wry face he just had
to make at the mention of such things as food. "Is that all
Welcome Robin eats?" he asked innocently.
"I should say not," laughed Jenny. "He eats a lot of other kinds
of worms, and he just dearly loves fruit like strawberries and
cherries and all sorts of small berries. Well, I can't stop here
talking any longer. I'm going to tell you a secret, Peter, if
you'll promise not to tell."
Of course Peter promised, and Jenny leaned so far down that Peter
wondered how she could keep from falling as she whispered, "I've
got seven eggs in my nest, so if you don't see much of me for the
next week or more, you'll know why. I've just got to sit on those
eggs and keep them warm."
CHAPTER VI An Old Friend In a New Home.
Every day brought newcomers to the Old Orchard, and early in the
morning there were so many voices to be heard that perhaps it is
no wonder if for some time Peter Rabbit failed to miss that of
one of his very good friends. Most unexpectedly he was reminded
of this as very early one morning he scampered, lipperty-
lipperty-lip, across a little bridge over the Laughing Brook.
"Dear me! Dear me! Dear me!" cried rather a plaintive voice.
Peter stopped so suddenly that he all but fell heels over head.
Sitting on the top of a tall, dead, mullein stalk was a very
soberly dressed but rather trim little fellow, a very little
larger than Bully the English Sparrow. Above, his coat was of a
dull olive-brown, while underneath he was of a grayish-white,
with faint tinges of yellow in places. His head was dark, and his
bill black. The feathers on his head were lifted just enough to
make the tiniest kind of crest. His wings and tail were dusky,
little bars of white showing very faintly on his wings, while the
outer edges of his tail were distinctly white. He sat with his
tail hanging straight down, as if he hadn't strength enough to
hold it up.
"Hello, Dear Me!" cried Peter joyously. "What are you doing way
down here? I haven't seen you since you first arrived, just after
Winsome Bluebird got here." Peter started to say that he had
wondered what had become of Dear Me, but checked himself, for
Peter is very honest and he realized now that in the excitement
of greeting so many friends he hadn't missed Dear Me at all.
Dear Me the Phoebe did not reply at once, but darted out into the
air, and Peter heard a sharp click of that little black bill.
Making a short circle, Dear Me alighted on the mullein stalk
again.
"Did you catch a fly then?" asked Peter.
"Dear me! Dear me! Of course I did," was the prompt reply. And
with each word there was a jerk of that long hanging tail. Peter
almost wondered if in some way Dear Me's tongue and tail were
connected. "I suppose," said he, "that it is the habit of
catching flies and bugs in the air that has given your family the
name of Flycatchers."
Dear Me nodded and almost at once started into the air again.
Once more Peter heard the click of that little black bill, then
Dear Me was back on his perch. Peter asked again what he was
doing down there.
"Mrs. Phoebe and I are living down here," replied Dear Me. "We've
made our home down here and we like it very much."
Peter looked all around, this way, that way, every way, with the
funniest expression on his face. He didn't see anything of Mrs.
Phoebe and he didn't see any place in which he could imagine Mr.
and Mrs. Phoebe building a nest. "What are you looking for?"
asked Dear Me.
"For Mrs. Phoebe and your home, declared Peter quite frankly. "I
didn't suppose you and Mrs. Phoebe ever built a nest on the
ground, and I don't see any other place around here for one."
Dear Me chuckled. "I wouldn't tell any one but you, Peter," said
he, "but I've known you so long that I'm going to let you into a
little secret. Mrs. Phoebe and our home are under the very bridge
you are sitting on."
"I don't believe it!" cried Peter.
But Dear Me knew from the way Peter said it that he really didn't
mean that. "Look and see for yourself," said Dear Me.
So Peter lay flat on his stomach and tried to stretch his head
over the edge of the bridge so as to see under it. But his neck
wasn't long enough, or else he was afraid to lean over as far as
he might have. Finally he gave up and at Mr. Phoebe's suggestion
crept down the bank to the very edge of the Laughing Brook. Dear
Me darted out to catch another fly, then flew right in under the
bridge and alighted on a little ledge of stone just beneath the
floor. There, sure enough, was a nest, and Peter could see Mrs.
Phoebe's bill and the top of her head above the edge of it. It
was a nest with a foundation of mud covered with moss and lined
with feathers.
"That's perfectly splendid!" cried Peter, as Dear Me resumed his
perch on the old mullein stalk. "How did you ever come to think
of such a place? And why did you leave the shed up at Farmer
Brown's where you have build your home for the last two or three
years?"
"Oh," replied Dear Me, "we Phoebes always have been fond of
building under bridges. You see a place like this is quite safe.
Then, too, we like to be near water. Always there are many
insects flying around where there is water, so it is an easy
matter to get plenty to eat. I left the shed at Farmer Brown's
because that pesky cat up there discovered our nest last year,
and we had a dreadful time keeping our babies out of her
clutches. She hasn't found us down here, and she wouldn't be able
to trouble us if she should find us."
"I suppose," said Peter, "that as usual you were the first of
your family to arrive."
"Certainly. Of course," replied Dear Me. "We always are the
first. Mrs. Phoebe and I don't go as far south in winter as the
other members of the family do. They go clear down into the
Tropics, but we manage to pick up a pretty good living without
going as far as that. So we get back here before the rest of
them, and usually have begun housekeeping by the time they
arrive. My cousin, Chebec the Least Flycatcher, should be here by
this time. Haven't you heard anything of him up in the Old
Orchard?"
"No," replied Peter, "but to tell the truth I haven't looked for
him. I'm on my way to the Old Orchard now, and I certainly shall
keep my ears and eyes open for Chebec. I'll tell you if I find
him. Good-by."
"Dear me! Dear me! Good-by Peter. Dear me!" replied Mr. Phoebe as
Peter started off for the Old Orchard.
Perhaps it was because Peter was thinking of him that almost the
first voice he heard when he reached the Old Orchard was that of
Chebec, repeating his own name over and over as if he loved the
sound of it. It didn't take Peter long to find him. He was
sitting out on the up of one of the upper branches of an
apple-tree where he could watch for flies and other winged insects.
He looked so much like Mr. Phoebe, save that he was smaller, that
any one would have know they were cousins. "Chebec! Chebec!
Chebec!" he repeated over and over, and with every note jerked
his tail. Now and then he would dart out into the air and snap up
something so small that Peter, looking up from the ground,
couldn't see it at all.
"Hello, Chebec!" cried Peter. "I'm glad to see you back again.
Are you going to build in the Old Orchard this year?"
"Of course I am," replied Chebec promptly. "Mrs. Chebec and I
have built here for the last two or three years, and we wouldn't
think of going anywhere else. Mrs. Chebec is looking for a place
now. I suppose I ought to be helping her, but I learned a long
time ago, Peter Rabbit, that in matters of this kind it is just
as well not to have any opinion at all. When Mrs. Chebec has
picked out just the place she wants, I'll help her build the
nest. It certainly is good to be back here in the Old Orchard and
planning a home once more. We've made a terribly long journey,
and I for one am glad it's over."
"I just saw your cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Phoebe, and they already
have a nest and eggs," said Peter.
"The Phoebes are a funny lot," replied Chebec. "They are the only
members of the family that can stand cold weather. What pleasure
they get out of it I don't understand. They are queer anyway, for
they never build their nests in trees as the rest of us do."
"Are you the smallest in the family?" asked Peter, for it had
suddenly struck him that Chebec was a very little fellow indeed.
Chebec nodded. "I'm the smallest," said he. "That's why they call
me Least Flycatcher. I may be least in size, but I can tell you
one thing, Peter Rabbit, and that is that I can catch just as
many bugs and flies as any of them." Suiting action to the word,
he darted out into the air. His little bill snapped and with a
quick turn he was back on his former perch, jerking his tail and
uttering his sharp little cry of, "Chebec! Chebec! Chebec!"
until Peter began to wonder which he was the most fond of,
catching flies, or the sound of his own voice.
Presently they both heard Mrs. Chebec calling from somewhere in
the middle of the Old Orchard. "Excuse me, Peter," said Chebec,
"I must go at once. Mrs. Chebec says she has found just the place
for our nest, and now we've got a busy time ahead of us. We are
very particular how we build a nest."
"Do you start it with mud the way Welcome Robin and your cousins,
the Phoebes, do?" asked Peter.
"Mud!" cried Chebec scornfully. "Mud! I should say not! I would
have you understand, Peter, that we are very particular about
what we use in our nest. We use only the finest of rootlets,
strips of soft bark, fibers of plants, the brown cotton that
grows on ferns, and perhaps a little hair when we can find it. We
make a dainty nest, if I do say it, and we fasten it securely in
the fork made by two or three upright little branches. Now I must
go because Mrs. Chebec is getting impatient. Come see me when I'm
not so busy Peter."
CHAPTER VII The Watchman of the Old Orchard.
A few days after Chebec and his wife started building their nest
in the Old Orchard Peter dropped around as usual for a very early
call. He found Chebec very busy hunting for materials for that
nest, because, as he explained to Peter, Mrs. Chebec is very
particular indeed about what her nest is made of. But he had time
to tell Peter a bit of news.
"My fighting cousin and my handsomest cousin arrived together
yesterday, and now our family is very well represented in the Old
Orchard," said Chebec proudly.
Slowly Peter reached over his back with his long left hind foot
and thoughtfully scratched his long right ear. He didn't like to
admit that he couldn't recall those two cousins of Chebec's. "Did
you say your fighting cousin?" he asked in a hesitating way.
"That's what I said," replied Chebec. "He is Scrapper the
Kingbird, as of course you know. The rest of us always feel safe
when he is about."
"Of course I know him," declared Peter, his face clearing. "Where
is he now?"
At that very instant a great racket broke out on the other side
of the Old Orchard and in no time at all the feathered folks were
hurrying from every direction, screaming at the top of their
voices. Of course, Peter couldn't be left out of anything like
that, and he scampered for the scene of trouble as fast as his
legs could take him. When he got there he saw Redtail the Hawk
flying up and down and this way and that way, as if trying to get
away from something or somebody.
For a minute Peter couldn't think what was the trouble with
Redtail, and then he saw. A white-throated, white-breasted bird,
having a black cap and back, and a broad white band across the
end of his tail, was darting at Redtail as if he meant to pull
out every feather in the latter's coat.
He was just a little smaller than Welcome Robin, and in
comparison with him Redtail was a perfect giant. But this seemed
to make no difference to Scrapper, for that is who it was. He
wasn't afraid, and he intended that everybody should know it,
especially Redtail. It is because of his fearlessness that he is
called Kingbird. All the time he was screaming at the top of his
lungs, calling Redtail a robber and every other bad name he could
think of. All the other birds joined him in calling Redtail bad
names. But none, not even Bully the English Sparrow, was brave
enough to join him in attacking big Redtail.
When he had succeeded in driving Redtail far enough from the Old
Orchard to suit him, Scrapper flew back and perched on a dead
branch of one of the trees, where he received the congratulations
of all his feathered neighbors. He took them quite modestly,
assuring them that he had done nothing, nothing at all, but that
he didn't intend to have any of the Hawk family around the Old
Orchard while he lived there. Peter couldn't help but admire
Scrapper for his courage.
As Peter looked up at Scrapper he saw that, like all the rest of
the flycatchers, there was just the tiniest of hooks on the end
of his bill. Scrapper's slightly raised cap seemed all black, but
if Peter could have gotten close enough, he would have found that
hidden in it was a patch of orange-red. While Peter sat staring
up at him Scrapper suddenly darted out into the air, and his bill
snapped in quite the same way Chebec's did when he caught a fly.
But it wasn't a fly that Scrapper had. It was a bee. Peter saw it
very distinctly just as Scrapper snapped it up. It reminded Peter
that he had often heard Scrapper called the Bee Martin, and now
he understood why.
"Do you live on bees altogether?" asked Peter.
"Bless your heart, Peter, no," replied Scrapper with a chuckle.
"There wouldn't be any honey if I did. I like bees. I like them
first rate. But they form only a very small part of my food.
Those that I do catch are mostly drones, and you know the drones
are useless. They do no work at all. It is only by accident that
I now and then catch a worker. I eat all kinds of insects that
fly and some that don't. I'm one of Farmer Brown's best friends,
if he did but know it. You can talk all you please about the
wonderful eyesight of the members of the Hawk family, but if any
one of them has better eyesight than I have, I'd like to know who
it is. There's a fly 'way over there beyond that old apple-tree;
watch me catch it."
Peter knew better than to waste any effort trying to see that
fly. He knew that he couldn't have seen it had it been only one
fourth that distance away. But if he couldn't see the fly he
could hear the sharp click of Scrapper's bill, and he knew by the
way Scrapper kept opening and shutting his mouth after his return
that he had caught that fly and it had tasted good.
"Are you going to build in the Old Orchard this year?" asked
Peter.
"Of course I am," declared Scrapper. "I--"
Just then he spied Blacky the Crow and dashed out to meet him.
Blacky saw him coming and was wise enough to suddenly appear to
have no interest whatever in the Old Orchard, turning away toward
the Green Meadows instead.
Peter didn't wait for Scrapper to return. It was getting high
time for him to scamper home to the dear Old Briar-patch and so
he started along, lipperty-lipperty-lip. Just as he was leaving
the far corner of the Old Orchard some one called him. "Peter!
Oh, Peter Rabbit!" called the voice. Peter stopped abruptly, sat
up very straight, looked this way, looked that way and looked the
other way, every way but the right way.
"Look up over your head," cried the voice, rather a harsh voice.
Peter looked, then all in a flash it came to him who it was
Chebec had meant by the handsomest member of his family. It was
Cresty the Great Crested Flycatcher. He was a wee bit bigger than
Scrapper the Kingbird, yet not quite so big as Welcome Robin, and
more slender. His throat and breast were gray, shading into
bright yellow underneath. His back and head were of a
grayish-brown with a tint of olive-green. A pointed cap was all
that was needed to make him quite distinguished looking. He
certainly was the handsomest as well as the largest of the
Flycatcher family.
"You seem to be in a hurry, so don't let me detain you, Peter,"
said Cresty, before Peter could find his tongue. "I just want to
ask one little favor of you."
"What is it?" asked Peter, who is always glad to do any one a
favor.
"If in your roaming about you run across an old cast-off suit of
Mr. Black Snake, or of any other member of the Snake family, I
wish you would remember me and let me know. Will you, Peter?"
said Cresty.
"A--a--a--what?" stammered Peter.
"A cast-off suit of clothes from any member of the Snake family,"
replied Cresty somewhat impatiently. "Now don't forget, Peter.
I've got to go house hunting, but you'll find me there or
hereabouts, if it happens that you find one of those cast-off
Snake suits."
Before Peter could say another word Cresty had flown away. Peter
hesitated, looking first towards the dear Old Briar-patch and
then towards Jenny Wren's house. He just couldn't understand
about those cast-off suits of the Snake family, and he felt sure
that Jenny Wren could tell him. Finally curiosity got the best of
him, and back he scampered, lipperty-lipperty-lip, to the foot of
the tree in which Jenny Wren had her home.
"Jenny!" called Peter. "Jenny Wren! Jenny Wren!" No one answered
him. He could hear Mr. Wren singing in another tree, but he
couldn't see him. "Jenny! Jenny Wren! Jenny Wren!" called Peter
again. This time Jenny popped her head out, and her little eyes
fairly snapped. "Didn't I tell you the other day, Peter Rabbit,
that I'm not to be disturbed? Didn't I tell you that I've got
seven eggs in here, and that I can't spend any time gossiping?
Didn't I, Peter Rabbit? Didn't I? Didn't I?"
"You certainly did, Jenny. You certainly did, and I'm sorry to
disturb you," replied Peter meekly. "I wouldn't have thought of
doing such a thing, but I just didn't know who else to go to."
"Go to for what?" snapped Jenny Wren. "What is it you've come to
me for?"
"Snake skins," replied Peter.
"Snake skins! Snake skins!" shrieked Jenny Wren. "What are you
talking about, Peter Rabbit? I never have anything to do with
Snake skins and don't want to. Ugh! It makes me shiver just to
think of it."
"You don't understand," cried Peter hurriedly. "What I want to
know is, why should Cresty the Flycatcher ask me to please let
him know if I found any cast-off suits of the Snake family? He
flew away before I could ask him why he wants them, and so I came
to you, because I know you know everything, especially everything
concerning your neighbors."
Jenny Wren looked as if she didn't know whether to feel flattered
or provoked. But Peter looked so innocent that she concluded he
was trying to say something nice.
CHAPTER VIII Old Clothes and Old Houses.
"I can't stop to talk to you any longer now, Peter Rabbit," said
Jenny Wren, "but if you will come over here bright and early
to-morrow morning, while I am out to get my breakfast, I will
tell you about Cresty the Flycatcher and why he wants the
cast-off clothes of some of the Snake family. Perhaps I should
say WHAT he wants of them instead of WHY he wants them, for why
any one should want anything to do with Snakes is more then I can
understand."
With this Jenny Wren disappeared inside her house, and there was
nothing for Peter to do but once more start for the dear Old
Briar-patch. On his way he couldn't resist the temptation to run
over to the Green Forest, which was just beyond the Old Orchard.
He just HAD to find out if there was anything new over there.
Hardly had he reached it when he heard a plaintive voice crying,
"Pee-wee! Pee-wee! Pee-wee!" Peter chuckled happily. "I declare,
there's Pee-wee," he cried. "He usually is one of the last of the
Flycatcher family to arrive. I didn't expect to find him yet. I
wonder what has brought him up so early."
It didn't take Peter long to find Pewee. He just followed the
sound of that voice and presently saw Pewee fly out and make the
same kind of a little circle as the other members of the family
make when they are hunting flies. It ended just where it had
started, on a dead twig of a tree in a shady, rather lonely part
of the Green Forest. Almost at once he began to call his name in
a rather sad, plaintive tone, "Pee-wee! Pee-wee! Pee-wee!" But he
wasn't sad, as Peter well knew. It was his way of expressing how
happy he felt. He was a little bigger than his cousin, Chebec,
but looked very much like him. There was a little notch in the
end of his tail. The upper half of his bill was black, but the
lower half was light. Peter could see on each wing two whitish
bars, and he noticed that Pewee's wings were longer than his
tail, which wasn't the case with Chebec. But no one could ever
mistake Pewee for any of his relatives, for the simple reason
that he keeps repeating his own name over and over.
"Aren't you here early?" asked Peter.
Pewee nodded. "Yes," said he. "It has been unusually warm this
spring, so I hurried a little and came up with my cousins,
Scrapper and Cresty. That is something I don't often do."
"If you please," Peter inquired politely, "why do folks call you
Wood Pewee?"
Pewee chuckled happily. "It must be," said he, "because I am so
very fond of the Green Forest. It is so quiet and restful that I
love it. Mrs. Pewee and I are very retiring. We do not like too
many near neighbors."
"You won't mind if I come to see you once in a while, will you?"
asked Peter as he prepared to start on again for the dear Old
Briar-patch.
"Come as often as you like," replied Pewee. "The oftener the
better."
Back in the Old Briar-patch Peter thought over all he had learned
about the Flycatcher family, and as he recalled how they were
forever catching all sorts of flying insects it suddenly struck
him that they must be very useful little people in helping Old
Mother Nature take care of her trees and other growing things
which insects so dearly love to destroy.
But most of all Peter thought about that queer request of
Cresty's, and a dozen times that day he found himself peeping
under old logs in the hope of finding a cast-off coat of Mr.
Black Snake. It was such a funny thing for Cresty to ask for that
Peter's curiosity would allow him no peace, and the next morning
he was up in the Old Orchard before jolly Mr. Sun had kicked his
bedclothes off.
Jenny Wren was as good as her word. While she flitted and hopped
about this way and that way in that fussy way of hers, getting
her breakfast, she talked. Jenny couldn't keep her tongue still
if she wanted to.
"Did you find any old clothes of the Snake family?" she demanded.
Then as Peter shook his head her tongue ran on without waiting
for him to reply. "Cresty and his wife always insist upon having
a piece of Snake skin in their nest," said she. "Why they want
it, goodness knows! But they do want it and never can seem to
settle down to housekeeping unless they have it. Perhaps they
think it will scare robbers away. As for me, I should have a cold
chill every time I got into my nest if I had to sit on anything
like that. I have to admit that Cresty and his wife are a
handsome couple, and they certainly have good sense in choosing a
house, more sense than any other member of their family to my way
of thinking. But Snake skins! Ugh!"
"By the way, where does Cresty build?" asked Peter.
"In a hole in a tree, like the rest of us sensible people,"
retorted Jenny Wren promptly.
Peter looked quite as surprised as he felt. "Does Cresty make the
hole?" he asked.
"Goodness gracious, no!" exclaimed Jenny Wren. "Where are your
eyes, Peter? Did you ever see a Flycatcher with a bill that
looked as if it could cut wood?" She didn't wait for a reply, but
rattled on. "It is a good thing for a lot of us that the
Woodpecker family are so fond of new houses. Look! There is Downy
the Woodpecker hard at work on a new house this very minute.
That's good. I like to see that. It means that next year there
will be one more house for some one here in the Old Orchard.
For myself I prefer old houses. I've noticed there are a number
of my neighbors who feel the same way about it. There is something
settled about an old house. It doesn't attract attention the way
a new one does. So long as it has got reasonably good walls, and
the rain and the wind can't get in, the older it is the better it
suits me. But the Woodpeckers seem to like new houses best,
which, as I said before, is a very good thing for the rest of
us."
"Who is there besides you and Cresty and Bully the English
Sparrow who uses these old Woodpecker houses?" asked Peter.
"Winsome Bluebird, stupid!" snapped Jenny Wren.
Peter grinned and looked foolish. "Of course," said he. "I forgot
all about Winsome."
"And Skimmer the Tree Swallow," added Jenny.
"That's so; I ought to have remembered him," exclaimed Peter.
"I've noticed that he is very fond of the same house year after
year. Is there anybody else?"
Again Jenny Wren nodded. "Yank-Yank the Nuthatch uses an old
house, I'm told, but he usually goes up North for his nesting,"
said she. "Tommy Tit the Chickadee sometimes uses an old house.
Then again he and Mrs. Chickadee get fussy and make a house for
themselves. Yellow Wing the flicker, who really is a Woodpecker,
often uses an old house, but quite often makes a new one. Then
there are Killy the Sparrow Hawk and Spooky the Screech Owl."
Peter looked surprised. "I didn't suppose THEY nested in holes in
trees!" he exclaimed.
"They certainly do, more's the pity!" snapped Jenny. "It would be
a good thing for the rest of us if they didn't nest at all. But
they do, and an old house of Yellow Wing the Flicker suits either
of them. Killy always uses one that is high up, and comes back to
it year after year. Spooky isn't particular so long as the house
is big enough to be comfortable. He lives in it more or less the
year around. Now I must get back to those eggs of mine. I've
talked quite enough for one morning."
"Oh, Jenny," cried Peter, as a sudden thought struck him.
Jenny paused and jerked her tail impatiently. "Well, what is it
now?" she demanded.
"Have you got two homes?" asked Peter.
"Goodness gracious, no!" exclaimed Jenny. "What do you suppose I
want of two homes? One is all I can take care of."
"Then why," demanded Peter triumphantly, "does Mr. Wren work all
day carrying sticks and straws into a hole in another tree? It
seems to me that he has carried enough in there to build two or
three nests."
Jenny Wren's eyes twinkled, and she laughed softly. "Mr. Wren
just has to be busy about something, bless his heart," said she.
"He hasn't a lazy feather on him. He's building that nest to take
up his time and keep out of mischief. Besides, if he fills that
hollow up nobody else will take it, and you know we might want to
move some time. Good-by, Peter." With a final jerk of her tail
Jenny Wren flew to the little round doorway of her house and
popped inside.
CHAPTER IX Longbill and Teeter.
>From the decided way in which Jenny Wren had popped into the
little round doorway of her home, Peter knew that to wait in the
hope of more gossip with her would be a waste of time. He wasn't
ready to go back home to the dear Old Briar-patch, yet there
seemed nothing else to do, for everybody in the Old Orchard was
too busy for idle gossip. Peter scratched a long ear with a long
hind foot, trying to think of some place to go. Just then he
heard the clear "peep, peep, peep" of the Hylas, the sweet
singers of the Smiling Pool.
"That's where I'll go!" exclaimed Peter. "I haven't been to the
Smiling Pool for some time. I'll just run over and pay my
respects to Grandfather Frog, and to Redwing the Blackbird.
Redwing was one of the first birds to arrive, and I've neglected
him shamefully."
When Peter thinks of something to do he wastes no time. Off he
started, lipperty-lipperty-lip, for the Smiling Pool. He kept
close to the edge of the Green Forest until he reached the place
where the Laughing Brook comes out of the Green Forest on its way
to the Smiling Pool in the Green Meadows. Bushes and young trees
grow along the banks of the Laughing Brook at this point. The
ground was soft in places, quite muddy. Peter doesn't mind
getting his feet damp, so he hopped along carelessly. From
right under his very nose something shot up into the air with a
whistling sound. It startled Peter so that he stopped short with
his eyes popping out of his head. He had just a glimpse of a
brown form disappearing over the tops of some tall bushes. Then
Peter chuckled. "I declare," said he, "I had forgotten all about
my old friend, Longbill the Woodcock. He scared me for a second."
"Then you are even," said a voice close at hand. "You scared him.
I saw you coming, but Longbill didn't."
Peter turned quickly. There was Mrs. Woodcock peeping at him from
behind a tussock of grass.
"I didn't mean to scare him," apologized Peter. "I really didn't
mean to. Do you think he was really very much scared?"
"Not too scared to come back, anyway," said Longbill himself,
dropping down just in front of Peter. "I recognized you just as I
was disappearing over the tops of the bushes, so I came right
back. I learned when I was very young that when startled it is
best to fly first and find out afterwards whether or not there is
real danger. I am glad it is no one but you, Peter, for I was
having a splendid meal here, and I should have hated to leave it.
You'll excuse me while I go on eating, I hope. We can talk
between bites."
"Certainly I'll excuse you," replied Peter, staring around very
hard to see what it could be Longbill was making such a good meal
of. But Peter couldn't se a thing that looked good to eat. There
wasn't even a bug or a worm crawling on the ground. Longbill took
two or three steps in rather a stately fashion. Peter had to hide
a smile, for Longbill had such an air of importance, yet at the
same time was such an odd looking fellow. He was quite a little
bigger than Welcome Robin, his tail was short, his legs were
short, and his neck was short. But his bill was long enough
to make up. His back was a mixture of gray, brown, black and
buff, while his breast and under parts were a beautiful
reddish-buff. It was his head that made him look queer. His eyes
were very big and they were set so far back that Peter wondered
if it wasn't easier for him to look behind him than in front of
him.
Suddenly Longbill plunged his bill into the ground. He plunged it
in for the whole length. Then he pulled it out and Peter caught a
glimpse of the tail end of a worm disappearing down Longbill's
throat. Where that long bill had gone into the ground was a neat
little round hole. For the first time Peter noticed that there
were many such little round holes all about. "Did you make all
those little round holes?" exclaimed Peter.
"Not at all," replied Longbill. "Mrs. Woodcock made some of
them."
"And was there a worm in every one?" asked Peter, his eyes very
wide with interest.
Longbill nodded. "Of course," said he. "You don't suppose we
would take the trouble to bore one of them if we didn't know that
we would get a worm at the end of it, do you?"
Peter remembered how he had watched Welcome Robin listen and then
suddenly plunge his bill into the ground and pull out a worm. But
the worms Welcome Robin got were always close to the surface,
while these worms were so deep in the earth that Peter couldn't
understand how it was possible for any one to know that they were
there. Welcome Robin could see when he got hold of a worm, but
Longbill couldn't. "Even if you know there is a worm down there
in the ground, how do you know when you've reached him? And how
is it possible for you to open your bill down there to take him
in?" asked Peter.
Longbill chuckled. "That's easy," said he. "I've got the handiest
bill that ever was. See here!" Longbill suddenly thrust his bill
straight out in front of him and to Peter's astonishment he
lifted the end of the upper half without opening the rest of his
bill at all. "That's the way I get them," said he. "I can feel
them when I reach them, and then I just open the top of my bill
and grab them. I think there is one right under my feet now;
watch me get him." Longbill bored into the ground until his head
was almost against it. When he pulled his bill out, sure enough,
there was a worm. "Of course," explained Longbill, "it is only in
soft ground that I can do this. That is why I have to fly away
south as soon as the ground freezes at all."
"It's wonderful," sighed Peter. "I don't suppose any one else can
find hidden worms that way."
"My cousin, Jack Snipe, can," replied Longbill promptly. "He
feeds the same way I do, only he likes marshy meadows instead of
brushy swamps. Perhaps you know him."
Peter nodded. "I do," said he. "Now you speak of it, there is a
strong family resemblance, although I hadn't thought of him as a
relative of yours before. Now I must be running along. I'm ever
so glad to have seen you, and I'm coming over to call again the
first chance I get."
So Peter said good-by and kept on down the Laughing Brook to the
Smiling Pool. Right where the Laughing Brook entered the Smiling
Pool there was a little pebbly beach. Running along the very edge
of the water was a slim, trim little bird with fairly long legs,
a long slender bill, brownish-gray back with black spots and
markings, and a white waistcoat neatly spotted with black. Every
few steps he would stop to pick up something, then stand for a
second bobbing up and down in the funniest way, as if his body
was so nicely balanced on his legs that it teetered back and
forth like a seesaw. It was Teeter the Spotted Sandpiper, an old
friend of Peter's. Peter greeted him joyously.
"Peet-weet! Peet-weet!" cried Teeter, turning towards Peter and
bobbing and bowing as only Teeter can. Before Peter could say
another word Teeter came running towards him, and it was plain to
see that Teeter was very anxious about something. "Don't move,
Peter Rabbit! Don't move!" he cried.
"Why not?" demanded Peter, for he could see no danger and could
think of no reason why he shouldn't move. Just then Mrs. Teeter
came hurrying up and squatted down in the sand right in front of
Peter.
"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Teeter, still bobbing and bowing. "If
you had taken another step, Peter Rabbit, you would have stepped
right on our eggs. You gave me a dreadful start."
Peter was puzzled. He showed it as he stared down at Mrs. Teeter
just in front of him. "I don't see any nest or eggs or anything,"
said he rather testily.
Mrs. Teeter stood up and stepped aside. Then Peter saw right in a
little hollow in the sand, with just a few bits of grass for a
lining, four white eggs with big dark blotches on them. They
looked so much like the surrounding pebbles that he never would
have seen them in the world but for Mrs. Teeter. Peter hastily
backed away a few steps. Mrs. Teeter slipped back on the eggs and
settled herself comfortably. It suddenly struck Peter that if he
hadn't seen her do it, he wouldn't have known she was there. You
see she looked so much like her surroundings that he never would
have noticed her at all.
"My!" he exclaimed. "I certainly would have stepped on those eggs
if you hadn't warned me," said he. "I'm so thankful I didn't. I
don't see how you dare lay them in the open like this."
Mrs. Teeter chuckled softly. "It's the safest place in the world,
Peter," said she. "They look so much like these pebbles around
here that no one sees them. The only time they are in danger is
when somebody comes along, as you did, and is likely to step on
them without seeing them. But that doesn't happen often."
CHAPTER X Redwing and Yellow Wing.
Peter had come over to the Smiling Pool especially to pay his
respects to Redwing the Blackbird, so as soon as he could,
without being impolite, he left Mrs. Teeter sitting on her eggs,
and Teeter himself bobbing and bowing in the friendliest way, and
hurried over to where the bulrushes grow. In the very top of the
Big Hickory-tree, a little farther along on the bank of the
Smiling Pool, sat some one who at that distance appeared to be
dressed all in black. He was singing as if there were nothing but
joy in all the great world. "Quong-ka-reee! Quong-ka-reee!
Quong-ka-reee!" he sang. Peter would have known from this song
alone that it was Redwing the Blackbird, for there is no other
song quite like it.
As soon as Peter appeared in sight Redwing left his high perch
and flew down to light among the broken-down bulrushes. As he
flew, Peter saw the beautiful red patch on the bend of each wing,
from which Redwing gets his name. "No one could ever mistake him
for anybody else," thought Peter, "For there isn't anybody else
with such beautiful shoulder patches."
"What's the news, Peter Rabbit?" cried Redwing, coming over to
sit very near Peter.
"There isn't much," replied Peter, "excepting that Teeter the
Sandpiper has four eggs just a little way from here."
Redwing chuckled. "That is no news, Peter," said he. "Do you
suppose that I live neighbor to Teeter and don't know where his
nest is and all about his affairs? There isn't much going on
around the Smiling Pool that I don't know, I can tell you that."
Peter looked a little disappointed, because there is nothing he
likes better than to be the bearer of news. "I suppose," said he
politely, "that you will be building a nest pretty soon yourself,
Redwing."
Redwing chuckled softly. It was a happy, contented sort of
chuckle. "No, Peter," said he. "I am not going to build a nest."
"What?" exclaimed Peter, and his two long ears stood straight up
with astonishment.
"No," replied Redwing, still chuckling. "I'm not going to build a
nest, and if you want to know a little secret, we have four as
pretty eggs as ever were laid."
Peter fairly bubbled over with interest and curiosity. "How
splendid!" he cried. "Where is your nest, Redwing? I would just
love to see it. I suppose it is because she is sitting on those
eggs that I haven't seen Mrs. Redwing. It was very stupid of me
not to guess that folks who come as early as you do would be
among the first to build a home. Where is it, Redwing? Do tell
me."
Redwing's eyes twinkled.
"A secret which is known by three
Full soon will not a secret be,"
said he. "It isn't that I don't trust you, Peter. I know that you
wouldn't intentionally let my secret slip out. But you might do
it by accident. What you don't know, you can't tell."
"That's right, Redwing. I am glad you have so much sense," said
another voice, and Mrs. Redwing alighted very near to Redwing.
Peter couldn't help thinking that Old Mother Nature had been very
unfair indeed in dressing Mrs. Redwing. She was, if anything, a
little bit smaller than her handsome husband, and such a plain,
not to say homely, little body that it was hard work to realize
that she was a Blackbird at all. In the first place she wasn't
black. She was dressed all over in grayish-brown with streaks of
darker brown which in places were almost black. She wore no
bright-colored shoulder patches. In fact, there wasn't a bright
feather on her anywhere. Peter wanted to ask why it was that she
was so plainly dressed, but he was too polite and decided to wait
until he should see Jenny Wren. She would be sure to know.
Instead, he exclaimed, "How do you do, Mrs. Redwing? I'm ever so
glad to see you. I was wondering where you were. Where did you
come from?"
"Straight from my home," replied Mrs. Redwing demurely. "And if I
do say it, it is the best home we've ever had."
Redwing chuckled. He was full of chuckles. You see, he had
noticed how eagerly Peter was looking everywhere.
"This much I will tell you, Peter," said Redwing; "our nest is
somewhere in these bulrushes, and if you can find it we won't say
a word, even if you don't keep the secret."
Then Redwing chuckled again and Mrs. Redwing chuckled with him.
You see, they knew that Peter doesn't like water, and that nest
was hidden in a certain clump of brown, broken-down rushes, with
water all around. Suddenly Redwing flew up in the air with a
harsh cry. "Run, Peter! Run!" he screamed. "Here comes Reddy
Fox!"
Peter didn't wait for a second warning. He knew by the sound of
Redwing's voice that Redwing wasn't joking. There was just one
place of safety, and that was an old hole of Grandfather Chuck's
between the roots of the Big Hickory-tree. Peter didn't waste any
time getting there, and he was none too soon, for Reddy was so
close at his heels that he pulled some white hairs out of Peter's
tail as Peter plunged headfirst down that hole. It was a lucky
thing for Peter that that hole was too small for Reddy to follow
and the roots prevented Reddy from digging it any bigger.
For a long time Peter sat in Grandfather Chuck's old house,
wondering how soon it would be safe for him to come out. For a
while he heard Mr. and Mrs. Redwing scolding sharply, and by this
he knew that Reddy Fox was still about. By and by they stopped
scolding, and a few minutes later he heard Redwing's happy song.
"That means," thought Peter, "that Reddy Fox has gone away, but I
think I'll sit here a while longer to make sure."
Now Peter was sitting right under the Big Hickory-tree. After a
while he began to hear faint little sounds, little taps, and
scratching sounds as of claws. They seemed to come from right
over his head, but he knew that there was no one in that hole but
himself. He couldn't understand it at all.
Finally Peter decided it would be safe to peek outside. Very
carefully he poked his head out. Just as he did so, a little chip
struck him right on the nose. Peter pulled his head back
hurriedly and stared at the little chip which lay just in front
of the hole. Then two or three more little chips fell. Peter knew
that they must come from up in the Big Hickory-tree, and right
away his curiosity was aroused. Redwing was singing so happily
that Peter felt sure no danger was near, so he hopped outside and
looked up to find out where those little chips had come from.
Just a few feet above his head he saw a round hole in the trunk
of the Big Hickory-tree. While he was looking at it, a head with a
long stout bill was thrust out and in that bill were two or three
little chips. Peter's heart gave a little jump of glad surprise.
"Yellow Wing!" he cried. "My goodness, how you startled me!"
The chips were dropped and the head was thrust farther out. The
sides and throat were a soft reddish-tan and on each side at the
beginning of the bill was a black patch. The top of the head was
gray and just at the back was a little band of bright red. There
was no mistaking that head. It belonged to Yellow Wing the
Flicker beyond a doubt.
"Hello, Peter!" exclaimed Yellow Wing, his eyes twinkling. "What
are you doing here?"
"Nothing," replied Peter, "but I want to know what you are doing.
What are all those chips?"
"I'm fixing up this old house of mine," replied Yellow Wing
promptly. "It wasn't quite deep enough to suit me, so I am making
it a little deeper. Mrs. Yellow Wing and I haven't been able to
find another house to suit us, so we have decided to live here
again this year." He came wholly out and flew down on the ground
near Peter. When his wings were spread, Peter saw that on the
under sides they were a beautiful golden-yellow, as were the
under sides of his tail feathers. Around his throat was a broad,
black collar. From this, clear to his tail, were black dots. When
his wings were spread, the upper part of his body just above the
tail was pure white.
"My," exclaimed Peter, "you are a handsome fellow! I never
realized before how handsome you are."
Yellow Wing looked pleased. Perhaps he felt a little flattered.
"I am glad you think so, Peter," said he. "I am rather proud of
my suit, myself. I don't know of any member of my family with
whom I would change coats."
A sudden thought struck Peter. "What family do you belong to?" He
asked abruptly.
"The Woodpecker family," replied Yellow Wing proudly.
CHAPTER XI Drummers and Carpenters.
Peter Rabbit was so full of questions that he hardly knew which
one to ask first. But Yellow Wing the Flicker didn't give him a
chance to ask any. From the edge of the Green forest there came a
clear, loud call of, "Pe-ok! Pe-ok! Pe-ok!"
"Excuse me, Peter, there's Mrs. Yellow Wing calling me,"
exclaimed Yellow Wing, and away he went. Peter noticed that as he
flew he went up and down. It seemed very much as if he bounded
through the air just as Peter bounds over the ground. "I would
know him by the way he flies just as far as I could see him,"
thought Peter, as he started for home in the dear Old
Briar-patch. "Somehow he doesn't seem like a Woodpecker because
he is on the ground so much. I must ask Jenny Wren about him."
It was two or three days before Peter had a chance for a bit of
gossip with Jenny Wren. When he did the first thing he asked was
if Yellow Wing is a true Woodpecker.
"Certainly he is," replied Jenny Wren. "Of course he is. Why
under the sun should you think he isn't?"
"Because it seems to me he is on the ground more than he's in the
trees," retorted Peter. "I don't know any other Woodpeckers who
come down on the ground at all."
"Tut, tut, tut, tut!" scolded Jenny. "Think a minute, Peter!
Think a minute! Haven't you ever seen Redhead on the ground?"
Peter blinked his eyes. "Ye-e-s," he said slowly. "Come to think
of it, I have. I've seen him picking up beechnuts in the fall.
The Woodpeckers are a funny family. I don't understand them."
Just then a long, rolling rat-a-tat-tat rang out just over their
heads. "There's another one of them," chuckled Jenny. "That's
Downy, the smallest of the whole family. He certainly makes an
awful racket for such a little fellow. He is a splendid drummer
and he's just as good a carpenter. He made the very house I am
occupying now."
Peter was sitting with his head tipped back trying to see Downy.
At first he couldn't make him out. Then he caught a little
movement on top of a dead limb. It was Downy's head flying back
and forth as he beat his long roll. He was dressed all in black
and white. On the back of his head was a little scarlet patch. He
was making a tremendous racket for such a little chap, only a
little bigger than one of the Sparrow family.
"Is he making a hole for a nest up there?" asked Peter eagerly.
"Gracious, Peter, what a question! What a perfectly silly
question!" exclaimed Jenny Wren scornfully. "Do give us birds
credit for a little common sense. If he were cutting a hole for a
nest, everybody within hearing would know just where to look for
it. Downy has too much sense in that little head of his to do
such a silly thing as that. When he cuts a hole for a nest he
doesn't make any more noise than is absolutely necessary. You
don't see any chips flying, do you?"
"No-o," replied Peter slowly. "Now you speak of it, I don't. Is--
is he hunting for worms in the wood?"
Jenny laughed right out. "Hardly, Peter, hardly," said she. "He's
just drumming, that's all. That hollow limb makes the best kind
of a drum and Downy is making the most of it. Just listen to
that! There isn't a better drummer anywhere."
But Peter wasn't satisfied. Finally he ventured another question.
"What's he doing it for?"
"Good land, Peter!" cried Jenny. "What do you run and jump for in
the spring? What is Mr. Wren singing for over there? Downy is
drumming for precisely the same reason--happiness. He can't run
and jump and he can't sing, but he can drum. By the way, do you
know that Downy is one of the most useful birds in the Old
Orchard?"
Just then Downy flew away, but hardly had he disappeared when
another drummer took his place. At first Peter thought Downy had
returned until he noticed that the newcomer was just a bit bigger
than Downy. Jenny Wren's sharp eyes spied him at once.
"Hello!" she exclaimed. "There's Hairy. Did you ever see two
cousins look more alike? If it were not that Hairy is bigger than
Downy it would be hard work to tell them apart. Do you see any
other difference, Peter?"
Peter stared and blinked and stared again, then slowly shook his
head. "No," he confessed, "I don't."
"That shows you haven't learned to use your eyes, Peter," said
Jenny rather sharply. "Look at the outside feathers of his tail;
they are all white. Downy's outside tail feathers have little
bars of black. Hairy is just as good a carpenter as is Downy, but
for that matter I don't know of a member of the Woodpecker family
who isn't a good carpenter. Where did you say Yellow Wing the
Flicker is making his home this year?"
"Over in the Big Hickory-tree by the Smiling Pool," replied
Peter. "I don't understand yet why Yellow Wing spends so much
time on the ground."
"Ants," replied Jenny Wren. "Just ants. He's as fond of ants as
is Old Mr. Toad, and that is saying a great deal. If Yellow Wing
keeps on he'll become a ground bird instead of a tree bird. He
gets more than half his living on the ground now. Speaking of
drumming, did you ever hear Yellow Wing drum on a tin roof?"
Peter shook his head.
"Well, if there's a tin roof anywhere around, and Yellow Wing can
find it, he will be perfectly happy. He certainly does love to
make a noise, and tin makes the finest kind of a drum."
Just then Jenny was interrupted by the arrival, on the trunk of
the very next tree to the one on which she was sitting, of a bird
about the size of Sammy Jay. His whole head and neck were a
beautiful, deep red. His breast was pure white, and his back was
black to nearly the beginning of his tail, where it was white.
"Hello, Redhead!" exclaimed Jenny Wren. "How did you know we were
talking about your family?"
"Hello, chatterbox," retorted Redhead with a twinkle in his eyes.
"I didn't know you were talking about my family, but I could have
guessed that you were talking about some one's family. Does your
tongue ever stop, Jenny?"
Jenny Wren started to become indignant and scold, then thought
better of it. "I was talking for Peter's benefit," said she,
trying to look dignified, a thing quite impossible for any member
of the Wren family to do. "Peter has always had the idea that
true Woodpeckers never go down on the ground. I was explaining to
him that Yellow Wing is a true Woodpecker, yet spends half his
time on the ground."
Redhead nodded. "It's all on account of ants," said he. "I don't
know of any one quite so fond of ants unless it is Old Mr. Toad.
I like a few of them myself, but Yellow Wing just about lives on
them when he can. You may have noticed that I go down on the
ground myself once in a while. I am rather fond of beetles, and
an occasional grasshopper tastes very good to me. I like a
variety. Yes, sir, I certainly do like a variety--cherries,
blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, grapes. In fact most
kinds of fruit taste good to me, not to mention beechnuts and
acorns when there is no fruit."
Jenny Wren tossed her head. "You didn't mention the eggs of some
of your neighbors," said she sharply.
Redhead did his best to look innocent, but Peter noticed that he
gave a guilty start and very abruptly changed the subject, and a
moment later flew away.
"Is it true," asked Peter, "that Redhead does such a dreadful
thing?"
Jenny bobbed her head rapidly and jerked her tail. "So I an
told," said she. "I've never seen him do it, but I know others
who have. They say he is no better than Sammy Jay or Blacky the
Crow. But gracious, goodness! I can't sit here gossiping
forever." Jenny twitched her funny little tail, snapped her
bright eyes at Peter, and disappeared in her house.
CHAPTER XII Some Unlikely Relatives.
Having other things to attend to, or rather having other things
to arouse his curiosity, Peter Rabbit did not visit the Old
Orchard for several days. When he did it was to find the entire
neighborhood quite upset. There was an indignation meeting in
progress in and around the tree in which Chebec and his modest
little wife had their home. How the tongues did clatter! Peter
knew that something had happened, but though he listened with all
his might he couldn't make head or tail of it.
Finally Peter managed to get the attention of Jenny Wren. "What's
happened?" demanded Peter. "What's all this fuss about?"
Jenny Wren was so excited that she couldn't keep still an
instant. Her sharp little eyes snapped and her tail was carried
higher than ever. "It's a disgrace! It's a disgrace to the whole
feathered race, and something ought to be done about it!"
sputtered Jenny. "I'm ashamed to think that such a contemptible
creature wears feathers! I am so!"
"But what's it all about?" demanded Peter impatiently. "Do keep
still long enough to tell me. Who is this contemptible creature?"
"Sally Sly," snapped Jenny Wren. "Sally Sly the Cowbird. I hoped
she wouldn't disgrace the Old Orchard this year, but she has.
When Mr. and Mrs. Chebec returned from getting their breakfast
this morning they found one of Sally Sly's eggs in their nest.
They are terribly upset, and I don't blame them. If I were in
their place I simply would throw that egg out. That's what I'd
do, I'd throw that egg out!"
Peter was puzzled. He blinked his eyes and stroked his whiskers
as he tried to understand what it all meant. "Who is Sally Sly,
and what did she do that for?" he finally ventured.
"For goodness' sake, Peter Rabbit, do you mean to tell me you
don't know who Sally Sly is?" Then without waiting for Peter to
reply, Jenny rattled on. "She's a member of the Blackbird family
and she's the laziest, most good-for-nothing, sneakiest, most
unfeeling and most selfish wretch I know of!" Jenny paused long
enough to get her breath. "She laid that egg in Chebec's nest
because she is too lazy to build a nest of her own and too
selfish to take care of her own children. Do you know what will
happen, Peter Rabbit? Do you know what will happen?"
Peter shook his head and confessed that he didn't. "When that egg
hatches out, that young Cowbird will be about twice as big as
Chebec's own children," sputtered Jenny. "He'll be so big that
he'll get most of the food. He'll just rob those little Chebecs
in spite of all their mother and father can do. And Chebec and
his wife will be just soft-hearted enough to work themselves to
skin and bone to feed the young wretch because he is an orphan
and hasn't anybody to look after him. The worst of it is, Sally
Sly is likely to play the same trick on others. She always
chooses the nest of some one smaller than herself. She's terribly
sly. No one has seen her about. She just sneaked into the Old
Orchard this morning when everybody was busy, laid that egg and
sneaked out again."
"Did you say that she is a member of the Blackbird family?" asked
Peter.
Jenny Wren nodded vigorously. "That's what she is," said she.
"Thank goodness, she isn't a member of MY family. If she were I
never would be able to hold my head up. Just listen to Goldy the
Oriole over in that big elm. I don't see how he can sing like
that, knowing that one of his relatives has just done such a
shameful deed. It's a queer thing that there can be two members
of the same family so unlike. Mrs. Goldy builds one of the most
wonderful nests of any one I know, and Sally Sly is too lazy to
build any. If I were in Goldy's place I--"
"Hold on!" cried Peter. "I thought you said Sally Sly is a member
of the Blackbird family. I don't see what she's got to do with
Goldy the Oriole."
"You don't, eh?" exclaimed Jenny. "Well, for one who pokes into
other people's affairs as you do, you don't know much. The
Orioles and the Meadow Larks and the Grackles and the Bobolinks
all belong to the Blackbird family. They're all related to
Redwing the Blackbird, and Sally Sly the Cowbird belongs in the
same family."
Peter gasped. "I--I-- hadn't the least idea that any of these
folks were related," stammered Peter.
"Well, they are," retorted Jenny Wren. "As I live, there's Sally
Sly now!"
Peter caught a glimpse of a brownish-gray bird who reminded him
somewhat of Mrs. Redwing. She was about the same size and looked
very much like her. It was plain that she was trying to keep out
of sight, and the instant she knew that she had been discovered
she flew away in the direction of the Old Pasture. It happened
that late that afternoon Peter visited the Old Pasture and saw
her again. She and some of her friends were busily walking about
close to the feet of the cows, where they seemed to be picking up
food. One had a brown head, neck and breast; the rest of his coat
was glossy black. Peter rightly guessed that this must be Mr.
Cowbird. Seeing them on such good terms with the cows he
understood why they are called Cowbirds.
Sure that Sally Sly had left the Old Orchard, the feathered folks
settled down to their personal affairs and household cares, Jenny
Wren among them. Having no one to talk to, Peter found a shady
place close to the old stone wall and there sat down to think
over the surprising things he had learned. Presently Goldy the
Baltimore Oriole alighted in the nearest apple-tree, and it
seemed to Peter that never had he seen any one more beautifully
dressed. His head, neck, throat and upper part of his back were
black. The lower part of his back and his breast were a beautiful
deep orange color. There was a dash of orange on his shoulders,
but the rest of his wings were black with an edging of white. His
tail was black and orange. Peter had heard him called the
Firebird, and now he understood why. His song was quite as rich
and beautiful as his coat.
Shortly he was joined by Mrs. Goldy. Compared with her handsome
husband she was very modestly dressed. She wore more brown than
black, and where the orange color appeared it was rather dull.
She wasted no time in singing. Almost instantly her sharp eyes
spied a piece of string caught in the bushes almost over Peter's
head. With a little cry of delight she flew down and seized it.
But the string was caught, and though she tugged and pulled with
all her might she couldn't get it free. Goldy saw the trouble
she was having and cutting his song short, flew down to help
her. Together they pulled and tugged and tugged and pulled, until
they had to stop to rest and get their breath.
"We simply must have this piece of string," said Mrs. Goldy.
"I've been hunting everywhere for a piece, and this is the first
I've found. It is just what we need to bind our nest fast to the
twigs. With this I won't have the least bit of fear that that
nest will ever tear loose, no matter how hard the wind blows."
Once more they tugged and pulled and pulled and tugged until at
last they got it free, and Mrs. Goldy flew away in triumph with
the string in her bill. Goldy himself followed. Peter watched
them fly to the top of a long, swaying branch of a big elm-tree
up near Farmer Brown's house. He could see something which looked
like a bag hanging there, and he knew that this must be the nest.
"Gracious!" said Peter. "They must get terribly tossed about when
the wind blows. I should think their babies would be thrown out."
"Don't you worry about them," said a voice.
Peter looked up to find Welcome Robin just over him. "Mrs. Goldy
makes one of the most wonderful nests I know of," continued
Welcome Robin. "It is like a deep pocket made of grass, string,
hair and bark, all woven together like a piece of cloth. It is so
deep that it is quite safe for the babies, and they seem to enjoy
being rocked by the wind. I shouldn't care for it myself because
I like a solid foundation for my home, but the Goldies like it.
It looks dangerous but it really is one of the safest nests I
know of. Snakes and cats never get 'way up there and there are
few feathered nest-robbers who can get at those eggs so deep down
in the nest. Goldy is sometimes called Golden Robin. He isn't a
Robin at all, but I would feel very proud if he were a member of
my family. He's just as useful as he is handsome, and that's
saying a great deal. He just dotes on caterpillars. There's Mrs.
Robin calling me. Good-by, Peter."
With this Welcome Robin flew away and Peter once more settled
himself to think over all he had learned.
CHAPTER XIII More of the Blackbird Family.
Peter Rabbit was dozing. Yes, sir, Peter was dozing. He didn't
mean to doze, but whenever Peter sits still for a long time and
tries to think, he is pretty sure to go to sleep. By and by he
wakened with a start. At first he didn't know what had wakened
him, but as he sat there blinking his eyes, he heard a few
rich notes from the top of the nearest apple-tree. "It's Goldy
the Oriole," thought Peter, and peeped out to see.
But though he looked and looked he couldn't see Goldy anywhere,
but he did see a stranger. It was some one of about Goldy's size
and shape. In fact he was so like Goldy, but for the color of his
suit, that at first Peter almost thought Goldy had somehow changed his clothes.
Of course he knew that this couldn't be, but
it seemed as if it must be, for the song the stranger was singing
was something like that of Goldy. The stranger's head and throat
and back were black, just like Goldy's, and his wings were
trimmed with white in just the same way. But the rest of his
suit, instead of being the beautiful orange of which Goldy is so
proud, was a beautiful chestnut color.
Peter blinked and stared very hard. "Now who can this be?" said
he, speaking aloud without thinking.
"Don't you know him?" asked a sharp voice so close to Peter that
it made him jump. Peter whirled around. There sat Striped
Chipmunk grinning at him from the top of the old stone wall.
"That's Weaver the Orchard Oriole," Striped Chipmunk rattled on.
"If you don't know him you ought to, because he is one of the
very nicest persons in the Old Orchard. I just love to hear him
sing."
"Is--is--he related to Goldy?" asked Peter somewhat doubtfully.
"Of course," retorted Striped Chipmunk. "I shouldn't think you
would have to look at him more than once to know that. He's first
cousin to Goldy. There comes Mrs. Weaver. I do hope they've
decided to build in the Old Orchard this year."
"I'm glad you told me who she is because I never would have
guessed it," confessed Peter as he studied the newcomer. She did
not look at all like Weaver. She was dressed in olive-green and
dull yellow, with white markings on her wings.
Peter couldn't help thinking how much easier it must be for her
than for her handsome husband to hide among the green leaves.
As he watched she flew down to the ground and picked up a long
piece of grass. "They are building here, as sure as you live!"
cried Striped Chipmunk. "I'm glad of that. Did you ever see
their nest, Peter? Of course you haven't, because you said you
had never seen them before. Their nest is a wonder, Peter. It
really is. It is made almost wholly of fine grass and they weave
it together in the most wonderful way."
"Do they have a hanging nest like Goldy's?" asked Peter a bit
timidly.
"Not such a deep one," replied Striped Chipmunk. "They hang it
between the twigs near the end of a branch, but they bind it more
closely to the branch and it isn't deep enough to swing as
Goldy's does."
Peter had just opened his mouth to ask another question when
there was a loud sniffing sound farther up along the old stone
wall. He didn't wait to hear it again. He knew that Bowser the
Hound was coming.
"Good-by, Striped Chipmunk! This is no place for me," whispered
Peter and started for the dear Old Briar-patch. He was in such a
hurry to get there that on his way across the Green Meadows he
almost ran into Jimmy Skunk before he saw him.
"What's your hurry, Peter?" demanded Jimmy
"Bowser the Hound almost found me up in the Old Orchard," panted
Peter. "It's a wonder he hasn't found my tracks. I expect he will
any minute. I'm glad to see you, Jimmy, but I guess I'd better be
moving along."
"Don't be in such a hurry, Peter. Don't be in such a hurry,"
replied Jimmy, who himself never hurries. "Stop and talk a bit.
That old nuisance won't bother you as long as you are with me."
Peter hesitated. He wanted to gossip, but he still felt nervous
about Bowser the Hound. However, as he heard nothing of Bowser's
great voice, telling all the world that he had found Peter's
tracks, he decided to stop a few minutes. "What are you doing
down here on the Green Meadows?" he demanded.
Jimmy grinned. "I'm looking for grasshoppers and grubs, if you
must know," said he. "And I've just got a notion I may find some
fresh eggs. I don't often eat them, but once in a while one
tastes good."
"If you ask me, it's a funny place to be looking for eggs down
here on the Green Meadows," replied Peter. "When I want a thing;
I look for it where it is likely to be found."
"Just so, Peter; just so," retorted Jimmy Skunk, nodding his
head with approval. "That's why I am here."
Peter looked puzzled. He was puzzled. But before he could ask
another question a rollicking song caused both of them to look
up. There on quivering wings in mid-air was the singer. He was
dressed very much like Jimmy Skunk himself, in black and white,
save that in places the white had a tinge of yellow, especially
on the back of his neck. It was Bubbling Bob the Bobolink. And
how he did sing! It seemed as if the notes fairly tumbled over
each other.
Jimmy Skunk raised himself on his hind-legs a little to see
just where Bubbling Bob dropped down in the grass. Then Jimmy
began to move in that direction. Suddenly Peter understood. He
remembered that Bubbling Bob's nest is always on the ground.
It was his eggs that Jimmy Skunk was looking for.
"You don't happen to have seen Mrs. Bob anywhere around here,
do you, Peter?" asked Jimmy, trying to speak carelessly.
"No," replied Peter. "If I had I wouldn't tell you where. You
ought to be ashamed, Jimmy Skunk, to think of robbing such a
beautiful singer as Bubbling Bob."
"Pooh!" retorted Jimmy. "What's the harm? If I find those eggs
he and Mrs. Bob could simply build another nest and lay some
more. They won't be any the worse off, and I will have had a good
breakfast."
"But think of all the work they would have to do to build another
nest," replied Peter.
"I should worry," retorted Jimmy Skunk. "Any one who can spend so
much time singing can afford to do a little extra work."
"You're horrid, Jimmy Skunk. You're just horrid," said Peter. "I
hope you won't find a single egg, so there!"
With this, Peter once more headed for the dear Old Briar-patch,
while Jimmy Skunk continued toward the place where Bubbling Bob
had disappeared in the long grass. Peter went only a short
distance and then sat up to watch Jimmy Skunk. Just before Jimmy
reached the place where Bubbling Bob had disappeared, the latter
mounted into the air again, pouring out his rollicking song as if
there were no room in his heart for anything but happiness. Then
he saw Jimmy Shrunk and became very much excited. He flew down in
the grass a little farther on and then up again, and began to
scold.
It looked very much as if he had gone down in the grass to warn
Mrs. Bob. Evidently Jimmy thought so, for he at once headed
that way. When Bubbling Bob did the same thing all over again.
Peter grew anxious. He knew just how patient Jimmy Skunk could
be, and he very much feared that Jimmy would find that nest.
Presently he grew tired of watching and started on for the dear
Old Briar-patch. Just before he reached it a brown bird, who
reminded him somewhat of Mrs. Redwing and Sally Sly the Cowbird,
though she was smaller, ran across the path in front of him and
then flew up to the top of a last year's mullein stalk. It was
Mrs. Bobolink. Peter knew her well, for he and she were very good
friends.
"Oh!" cried Peter. "What are you doing here? Don't you know that
Jimmy Skunk, is hunting for your nest over there? Aren't you
worried to death? I would be if I were in your place."
Mrs. Bob chuckled. "Isn't he a dear? And isn't he smart?" said
she, meaning Bubbling Bob, of course, and not Jimmy Skunk. "Just
see him lead that black-and-white robber away."
Peter stared at her for a full minute. "Do you mean to say,"
said he "that your nest isn't over there at all?"
Mrs. Bob chuckled harder than ever. "Of course it isn't over
there," said she.
"Then where is it?" demanded Peter.
"That's telling," replied Mrs. Bob. "It isn't over there, and it
isn't anywhere near there. But where it is is Bob's secret and
mine, and we mean to keep it. Now I must go get something to
eat," and with a hasty farewell Mrs. Bobolink flew over to the
other side of the dear Old Briar-patch.
Peter remembered that he had seen Mrs. Bob running along the
ground before she flew up to the old mullein stalk. He went back
to the spot where he had first seen her and hunted all around in
the grass, but without success. You see, Mrs. Bobolink had been
quite as clever in fooling Peter as Bubbling Bob had been in
fooling Jimmy Skunk.
CHAPTER XIV Bob White and Carol the Meadow Lark.
"Bob--Bob White! Bob--Bob White! Bob--Bob White!" clear and
sweet, that call floated over to the dear Old Briar-patch until
Peter could stand it no longer. He felt that he just had to go
over and pay an early morning call on one of his very best
friends, who at this season of the year delights in whistling
his own name--Bob White.
"I suppose," muttered Peter, "that Bob White has got a nest. I
wish he would show it to me. He's terribly secretive about it.
Last year I hunted for his nest until my feet were sore, but it
wasn't the least bit of use. Then one morning I met Mrs. Bob
White with fifteen babies out for a walk. How she could hide a
nest with fifteen eggs in it is more than I can understand."
Peter left the Old Briar-patch and started off over the Green
Meadows towards the Old Pasture. As he drew near the fence
between the Green Meadows and the Old Pasture he saw Bob White
sitting on one of the posts, whistling with all his might. On
another post near him sat another bird very near the size of
Welcome Robin. He also was telling all the world of his
happiness. It was Carol the Meadow Lark.
Peter was so intent watching these two friends of his that he
took no heed to his footsteps. Suddenly there was a whirr from
almost under his very nose and he stopped short, so startled that
he almost squealed right out. In a second he recognized Mrs.
Meadow Lark. He watched her fly over to where Carol was singing.
Her stout little wings moved swiftly for a moment or two, then
she sailed on without moving them at all. Then they fluttered
rapidly again until she was flying fast enough to once more sail
on them outstretched. The white outer feathers of her tail
showed clearly and reminded Peter of the tail of Sweetvoice the
Vesper Sparrow, only of course it was ever so much bigger.
Peter sat still until Mrs. Meadow Lark had alighted on the fence
near Carol. Then he prepared to hurry on, for he was anxious for
a bit of gossip with these good friends of his. But just before
he did this he just happened to glance down and there, almost at
his very feet, he caught sight of something that made him squeal
right out. It was a nest with four of the prettiest eggs Peter
ever had seen. They were white with brown spots all over them.
Had it not been for the eggs he never would have seen that nest,
never in the world. It was made of dry, brown grass and was
cunningly hidden is a little clump of dead grass which fell over
it so as to almost completely hide it. But the thing that
surprised Peter most was the clever way in which the approach to
it was hidden. It was by means of a regular little tunnel of
grass.
"Oh!" cried Peter, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure. "This
must be the nest of Mrs. Meadow Lark. No wonder I have never been
able to find it, when I have looked for it. It is just luck and
nothing else that I have found it this time. I think it is
perfectly wonderful that Mrs. Meadow Lark can hide her home in
such a way. I do hope Jimmy Skunk isn't anywhere around."
Peter sat up straight and anxiously looked this way and that way.
Jimmy Skunk was nowhere to be seen and Peter gave a little sigh
of relief. Very carefully he walked around that nest and its
little tunnel, then hurried over toward the fence as fast as he
could go.
"It's perfectly beautiful, Carol!" he cried, just as soon as he
was near enough. "And I won't tell a single soul!"
"I hope not. I certainly hope not," cried Mrs. Meadow Lark in an
anxious tone. "I never would have another single easy minute if I
thought you would tell a living soul about my nest. Promise that
you won't, Peter. Cross your heart and promise that you won't."
Peter promptly crossed his heart and promised that he wouldn't
tell a single soul. Mrs. Meadow Lark seemed to feel better. Right
away she flew back and Peter turned to watch her. He saw her
disappear in the grass, but it wasn't where he had found the
nest. Peter waited a few minutes, thinking that he would see her
rise into the air again and fly over to the nest. But he waited
in vain. Then with a puzzled look on his face, he turned to look
up at Carol.
Carol's eyes twinkled. "I know what you're thinking, Peter," he
chuckled. "You are thinking that it is funny Mrs. Meadow Lark
didn't go straight hack to our nest when she seemed so anxious
about it. I would have you to know that she is too clever to do
anything so foolish as that. She knows well enough that somebody
might see her and so find our secret. She has walked there from
the place where yon saw her disappear in the grass. That is the
way we always do when we go to our nest. One never can be too
careful these days."
Then Carol began to pour out his happiness once more, quite as if
nothing had interrupted his song.
Somehow Peter never before had realized how handsome Carol the
Meadow Lark was. As he faced Peter, the latter saw a beautiful
yellow throat and waistcoat, with a broad black crescent on his
breast. There was a yellow line above each eye. His back was of
brown with black markings. His sides were whitish, with spats and
streaks of black. The outer edges of his tail were white.
Altogether he was really handsome, far handsomer than one would
suspect, seeing him at a distance.
Having found out Carol's secret, Peter was doubly anxious to find
Bob White's home, so he hurried over to the post where Bob was
whistling with all his might. "Bob!" cried Peter. "I've just
found Carol's nest and I've promised to keep it a secret. Won't
you show me your nest, too, if I'll promise to keep THAT a
secret?"
Rob threw back his head and laughed joyously. "You ought to know,
Peter, by this time," said he, "that there are secrets never to
be told to anybody. My nest is one of these. If you find it, all
right; but I wouldn't show it to my very best friend, and I guess
I haven't any better friend than you, Peter." Then from sheer
happiness he whistled, "--Bob White! Bob--Bob White!" with all
his might.
Peter was disappointed and a little put out. "I guess", said he,
"I could find it if I wanted to. I guess it isn't any better
hidden than Mrs. Meadow Lark's, and I found that. Some folks
aren't as smart as they think they are."
Bob White, who is sometimes called Quail and sometimes called
Partridge, and who is neither, chuckled heartily. "Go ahead, old
Mr. Curiosity, go ahead and hunt all you please," said he. "It's
funny to me how some folks think themselves smart when the truth
is they simply have been lucky. You know well enough that you
just happened to find Carol's nest. If you happen to find mine, I
won't have a word to say."
Bob White took a long breath, tipped his head back until his
bill was pointing right up in the blue, blue sky, and with all
his might whistled his name, "Bob--Bob White! Bob--Bob White!"
As Peter looked at him it came over him that Bob White was the
plumpest bird of his acquaintance. He was so plump that his body
seemed almost round. The shortness of his tail added to this
effect, for Bob has a very short tail. The upper part of his coat
was a handsome reddish-brown with dark streaks and light edgings.
His sides and the upper part of his breast were of the same
handsome reddish-brown, while underneath he was whitish with
little bars of black. His throat was white, and above each eye
was a broad white stripe. His white throat was bordered with
black, and a band of black divided the throat from the white line
above each eye. The top of his head was mixed black and brown.
Altogether he was a handsome little fellow in a modest way.
Suddenly Bob White stopped whistling and looked down at Peter
with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you go hunt for that nest,
Peter?" said he.
"I'm going," replied Peter rather shortly, for he knew that Bob
knew that he hadn't the least idea where to look. It might be
somewhere on the Green Meadows or it might be in the Old Pasture;
Bob hadn't given the least hint. Peter had a feeling that the
nest wasn't far away and that it was on the Green Meadows, so he
began to hunt, running aimlessly this way and that way, all the
time feeling very foolish, for of course he knew that Bob White
was watching him and chuckling down inside.
It was very warm down there on the Green Meadows, and Peter grew
hot and tired. He decided to run up in the Old Pasture in the
shade of an old bramble-tangle there. Just the other side of the
fence was a path made by the cows and often used by Farmer
Brown's boy and Reddy Fox and others who visited the Old Pasture.
Along this Peter scampered, lipperty-lipperty-lip, on his way to
the bramble-tangle. He didn't look either to right or left. It
didn't occur to him that there would be any use at all, for of
course no one would build a nest near a path where people passed
to and fro every day.
And so it was that in his happy-go-lucky way Peter scampered
right past a clump of tall weeds close beside the path without
the least suspicion that cleverly hidden in it was the very thing
he was looking for. With laughter in her eyes, shrewd little
Mrs. Bob White, with sixteen white eggs under her, watched him
pass. She had chosen that very place for her nest because she
knew that it was the last place anyone would expect to find it.
The very fact that it seemed the most dangerous place she could
have chosen made it the safest.
CHAPTER XV A Swallow and One Who Isn't.
Johnny and Polly Chuck had made their home between the roots of
an old apple-tree in the far corner of the Old Orchard. You know
they have their bedroom way down in the ground, and it is reached
by a long hall. They had dug their home between the roots of that
old apple-tree because they had discovered that there was just
room enough between those spreading roots for them to pass in and
out, and there wasn't room to dig the entrance any larger. So
they felt quite safe from Reddy Fox; and Bowser the Hound, either
of whom would have delighted to dig them out but for those roots.
Right in front of their doorway was a very nice doorstep of
shining sand where Johnny Chuck delighted to sit when he had a
full stomach and nothing else to do. Johnny's nearest neighbors
had made their home only about five feet above Johnny's head when
he sat up on his doorstep. They were Skimmer the Tree Swallow
and his trim little wife, and the doorway of their home was a
little round hole in the trunk of that apple-tree, a hole which
had been cut some years before by one of the Woodpeckers.
Johnny and Skimmer were the best of friends. Johnny used to
delight in watching Skimmer dart out from beneath the branches of
the trees and wheel and turn and glide, now sometimes high in the
blue, blue sky, and again just skimming the tops of the grass, on
wings which seemed never to tire. But he liked still better the
bits of gossip when Skimmer would sit in his doorway and chat
about his neighbors of the Old Orchard and his adventures out in
the Great World during his long journeys to and from the far-away
South.
To Johnny Chuck's way of thinking, there was no one quite so trim
and neat appearing as Skimmer with his snowy white breast and
blue-green back and wings. Two things Johnny always used to
wonder at, Skimmer's small bill and short legs. Finally he
ventured to ask Skimmer about them.
"Gracious, Johnny!" exclaimed Skimmer. "I wouldn't have a big
bill for anything. I wouldn't know what to do with it; it would
be in the way. You see, I get nearly all my food in the air when
I am flying, mosquitoes and flies and all sorts of small insects
with wings. I don't have to pick them off trees and bushes or
from the ground and so I don't need any more of a bill than I
have. It's the same way with my legs. Have you ever seen me
walking on the ground?"
Johnny thought a moment. "No," said he, "now you speak of it, I
never have."
"And have you ever seen me hopping about in the branches of a
tree?" persisted Skimmer.
Again Johnny Chuck admitted that he never had.
"The only use I have for feet," continued Skimmer, "is for
perching while I rest. I don't need long legs for walking or
hopping about, so Mother Nature has made my legs very short. You
see I spend most of my time in the air."
"I suppose it's the same with your cousin; Sooty the Chimney
Swallow," said Johnny.
"That shows just how much some people know!" twittered Skimmer
indignantly. "The idea of calling Sooty a Swallow! The very idea!
I'd leave you to know, Johnny Chuck, that Sooty isn't even
related to me. He's a Swift, and not a Swallow."
"He looks like a Swallow," protested Johnny Chuck.
"He doesn't either. You just think he does because he happens to
spend most of his time in the air the way we Swallows do,"
sputtered Skimmer. "The Swallow family never would admit such a
homely looking fellow as he is as a member.
"Tut, tut, tut, tut! I do believe Skimmer is jealous," cried
Jenny Wren, who had happened along just in time to hear Skimmer's
last remarks.
"Nothing of the sort," declared Skimmer, growing still more
indignant. "I'd like to know what there is about Sooty the
Chimney Swift that could possibly make a Swallow jealous."
Jenny Wren cocked her tail up in that saucy way of hers and
winked at Johnny Chuck. "The way he can fly," said she softly.
"The way he can fly!" sputtered Skimmer, "The way he can fly!
Why, there never was a day in his life that he could fly like a
Swallow. There isn't any one more graceful on the wing than I am,
if I do say so. And there isn't any one more ungraceful than
Sooty."
Just then there was a shrill chatter overhead and all looked up
to see Sooty the Chimney Swift racing through the sky as if
having the very best time in the world. His wings would beat
furiously and then he would glide very much as you or I would on
skates. It was quite true that he wasn't graceful. But he could
twist and turn and cut up all sorts of antics, such as Skimmer
never dreamed of doing.
"He can use first one wing and then the other, while you have to
use both wings at once," persisted Jenny Wren. "You couldn't, to
save your life, go straight down into a chimney, and you know it,
Skimmer. He can do things with his wings which yon can't do, nor
any other bird."
"That may be true, but just the same I'm not the least teeny
weeny bit jealous of him," said Skimmer, and darted away to get
beyond the reach of Jenny's sharp tongue.
"Is it really true that he and Sooty are not related?" asked
Johnny Chuck, as they watched Skimmer cutting airy circles high
up in the slay.
Jenny nodded. "It's quite true, Johnny," said site. "Sooty
belongs to another family altogether. He's a funny fellow. Did
yon ever in your life see such narrow wings? And his tail is
hardly worth calling a tail."
Johnny Chuck laughed. "Way up there in the air he looks almost
alike at both ends," said he. "Is he all black?"
"He isn't black at all," declared Jenny. "He is sooty-brown,
rather grayish on the throat and breast. Speaking of that tail of
his, the feathers end in little, sharp, stiff points. He uses
them in the same way that Downy the Woodpecker uses his tail
feathers when he braces himself with them on the trunk of a
tree."
"But I've never seen Sooty on the trunk of a tree," protested
Johnny Chuck. "In fact, I've never seen him anywhere but in the
air."
"And you never will," snapped Jenny. "The only place he ever
alights is inside a chimney or inside a hollow tree. There he
clings to the side just as Downy the Woodpecker clings to the
trunk of a tree."
Johnny looked as if he didn't quite believe this. "If that's the
case where does he nest?" he demanded. "And where does he sleep?"
"In a chimney, stupid. In a chimney, of course," retorted Jenny
Wren. "He fastens his nest right to the inside of a chimney. He
makes a regular little basket of twigs and fastens it to the side
of the chimney."
"Are you trying to stuff me with nonsense?" asked Johnny Chuck
indignantly. "How can he fasten his nest to the side of a chimney
unless there's a little shelf to put it on? And if be never
alights, how does he get the little sticks to make a nest of? I'd
just like to know how you expect me to believe any such story as
that."
Jenny Wren's sharp little eyes snapped. "If you half used your
eyes you wouldn't have to ask me how he gets those little
sticks," she sputtered. "If you had watched him when he was
flying close to the tree tops you would have seen him clutch
little dead twigs in his claws and snap them off without
stopping. That's the way he gets his little sticks, Mr. Smarty,
He fastens them together with a sticky substance he has in his
mouth, and he fastens the nest to the side of the chimney in the
same way. You can believe it or not, but it's so."
"I believe it, Jenny, I believe it," replied Johnny Chuck very
humbly. "If you please, Jenny, does Sooty get all his food in the
air too?"
"Of course," replied Jenny tartly. "He eats nothing but insects,
and he catches them flying. Now I must get back to my duties at
home."
"Just tell me one more thing," cried Johnny Chuck hastily.
"Hasn't Sooty any near relatives as most birds have?"
"He hasn't any one nearer than some sort of second cousins,
Boomer the Nighthawk, Whippoorwill, and Hummer the Hummingbird."
"What?" cried Johnny Chuck, quite as if he couldn't believe he
had heard aright. "Did you say Hummer the Hummingbird?" But he
got no reply, for Jenny Wren was already beyond hearing.
CHAPTER XVI A Robber in the Old Orchard.
"I don't believe it," muttered Johnny Chuck out loud. "I don't
believe Jenny Wren knows what she's talking about."
"What is it Jenny Wren has said that you don't believe?" demanded
Skimmer the Tree Swallow, as he once more settled himself in his
doorway.
"She said that Hummer the Hummingbird is a sort of second cousin
to Sooty the Chimney Swift," replied Johnny Chuck.
"Well, it's so, if you don't believe it," declared Skimmer. "I
don't see that that is any harder to believe than that you are
cousin to Striped Chipmunk and Nappy Jack the Gray Squirrel. To
look at you no one would ever think you are a member of the
Squirrel family, but you must admit that you are."
Johnny Chuck nodded his head thoughtfully. "Yes," said he, "I am,
even if I don't look it. This is a funny world, isn't it? You
can't always tell by a person's looks who he may be related to.
Now that I've found out that Sooty isn't related to you and is
related to Hummer, I'll never dare guess again about anybody's
relatives. I always supposed Twitter the Martin to be a relative
of yours, but now that I've learned that Sooty isn't, I suspect
that Twitter isn't either."
"Oh, yes, he is," replied Skimmer promptly. "He's the largest of
the Swallow family, and we all feel very proud of him. Everybody
loves him."
"Is he as black as he looks, flying round up in the air?" asked
Johnny Chuck. "He never comes down here as you do where a fellow
can get a good look at him."
"Yes," replied Skimmer, "he dresses all in black, but it is a
beautiful blue-black, and when the sun shines on his back it
seems to be almost purple. That is why some folks call him the
Purple Martin. He is one of the most social fellows I know of. I
like a home by myself, such as I've got here, but Twitter loves
company. He likes to live in an apartment house with a lot of his
own kind. That is why he always looks for one of those houses
with a lot of rooms in it, such as Farmer Brown's boy has put up
on the top of that tall pole out in his back yard. He pays for
all the trouble Farmer Brown's boy took to put that house up. If
there is anybody who catches more flies and winged insects than
Twitter, I don't know who it is."
"How about me?" demanded a new voice, as a graceful form skimmed
over Johnny Chuck's head, and turning like a flash, came back. It
was Forktail the Barn Swallow, the handsomest and one of the most
graceful of all the Swallow family. He passed so close to Johnny
that the latter had a splendid chance to see and admire his
glistening steel-blue back and the beautiful chestnut-brown of
his forehead and throat with its narrow black collar, and the
brown to buff color of his under parts. But the thing that was
most striking about him was his tail, which was so deeply forked
as to seem almost like two tails.
"I would know him as far as I could see him just by his tail
alone," exclaimed Johnny. "I don't know of any other tail at all
like it."
"There isn't any other like it," declared Skimmer. "If Twitter
the Martin is the largest of our family, Forktail is the
handsomest."
"How about my usefulness?" demanded Forktail, as he came skimming
past again. "Cousin Twitter certainly does catch a lot of flies
and insects but I'm willing to go against him any day to see who
can catch the most."
With this he darted away. Watching him they saw him alight on the
top of Farmer Brown's barn. "It's funny," remarked Johnny Chuck,
"but as long as I've known Forktail, and I've known him ever
since I was big enough to know anybody, I've never found out how
he builds his nest. I've seen him skimming over the Green Meadows
times without number, and often he comes here to the Old Orchard
as he did just now, but I've never seen him stop anywhere except
over on that barn."
"That's where he nests," chuckled Skimmer.
"What?" cried Johnny Chuck. "Do you mean to say he nests on Farmer
Brown's barn?"
"No," replied Skimmer. "He nests in it. That's why he is called
the Barn Swallow, and why you never have seen his nest. If you'll
just go over to Farmer Brown's barn and look up in the roof,
you'll see Forktail's nest there somewhere."
"Me go over to Farmer Brown's barn!" exclaimed Johnny Chuck. "Do
you think I'm crazy?"
Skimmer chuckled. "Forktail isn't crazy," said he, "and he goes
in and out of that barn all day long. I must say I wouldn't care
to build in such a place myself, but he seems to like it. There's
one thing about it, his home is warm and dry and comfortable, no
matter what the weather is. I wouldn't trade with him, though.
No, sir, I wouldn't trade with him for anything. Give me a hollow
in a tree well lined with feathers to a nest made of mud and
straw, even if it is feather-lined."
"Do you mean that such a neat-looking, handsome fellow as
Forktail uses mud in his nest?" cried Johnny.
Skimmer bobbed his head. "He does just that," said he. "He's
something like Welcome Robin in this respect. I--"
But Johnny Chuck never knew what Skimmer was going to say next,
for Skimmer happened at that instant to glance up. For an instant
he sat motionless with horror, then with a shriek he darted out
into the air. At the sound of that shriek Mrs. Skimmer, who all
the time had been sitting on her eggs inside the hollow of the
tree, darted out of her doorway, also shrieking. For a moment
Johnny Chuck couldn't imagine what could be the trouble. Then a
slight rustling drew his eyes to a crotch in the tree a little
above the doorway of Skimmer's home. There, partly coiled around
a branch, with head swaying to and fro, eyes glittering and
forked tongue darting out and in, as he tried to look down into
Skimmer's nest, was Mr. Blacksnake.
It seemed to Johnny as if in a minute every bird in the Old
Orchard had arrived on the scene. Such a shrieking and screaming
as there was! First one and then another would dart at Mr.
Blacksnake, only to lose courage at the last second and turn
aside. Poor Skimmer and his little wife were frantic. They did
their utmost to distract Mr. Blacksnake's attention, darting
almost into his very face and then away again before he could
strike. But Mr. Blacksnake knew that they were powerless to hurt
him, and he knew that there were eggs in that nest. There is
nothing he loves better than eggs unless it is a meal of baby
birds. Beyond hissing angrily two or three times he paid no
attention to Skimmer or his friends, but continued to creep
nearer the entrance to that nest.
At last he reached a position where he could put his head in the
doorway. As he did so, Skimmer and Mrs. Skimmer each gave a
little cry of hopelessness and despair. But no sooner had his
head disappeared in the hole in the old apple-tree than Scrapper
the Kingbird struck him savagely. Instantly Mr. Blacksnake
withdrew his head, hissing fiercely, and struck savagely at the
birds nearest him. Several times the same thing happened. No
sooner would his head disappear in that hole than Scrapper or one
or the other of Skimmer's friends, braver than the rest, would
dart in and peck at him viciously, and all the time all the birds
were screaming as only excited feathered folk can. Johnny Chuck
was quite as excited as his feathered friends, and so intent
watching the hated black robber that he had eyes for nothing
else. Suddenly he heard a step just behind him. He turned his
head and then frantically dived head first down into his hole. He
had looked right up into the eyes of Farmer Brown's boy!
"Ha, ha!" cried Farmer Brown's boy, "I thought as much!" And
with a long switch he struck Mr. Blacksnake just as the latter
had put his head in that doorway, resolved to get those eggs this
time. But when he felt that switch and heard the voice of Farmer
Brown's boy he changed his mind in a flash. He simply let go his
hold on that tree and dropped. The instant he touched the ground
he was off like a shot for the safety of the old stone wall,
Farmer Brown's boy after him. Farmer Brown's boy didn't intend to
kill Mr. Blacksnake, but he did want to give him such a fright
that he wouldn't visit the Old Orchard again in a hurry, and this
he quite succeeded in doing.
No sooner had Mr. Blacksnake disappeared than all the birds set
up such a rejoicing that you would have thought they, and not
Farmer Brown's boy, had saved the eggs of Mr. and Mrs. Skimmer.
Listening to them, Johnny Chuck just had to smile.
CHAPTER XVII More Robbers.
By the sounds of rejoicing among the feathered folks of the Old
Orchard Johnny Chuck knew that it was quite safe for him to come
out. He was eager to tell Skimmer the Tree Swallow how glad he
was that Mr. Blacksnake had been driven away before he could get
Skimmer's eggs. As he poked his head out of his doorway he became
aware that something was still wrong in the Old Orchard. Into the
glad chorus there broke a note of distress and sorrow. Johnny
instantly recognized the voices of Welcome Robin and Mrs. Robin.
There is not one among his feathered neighbors who can so express
worry and sorrow as can the Robins.
Johnny was just in time to see all the birds hurrying over to
that part of the Old Orchard where the Robins had built their
home. The rejoicing suddenly gave way to cries of indignation and
anger, and Johnny caught the words, "Robber! Thief! Wretch!" It
appeared that there was just as much excitement over there as
there had been when Mr. Blacksnake had been discovered trying to
rob Skimmer and Mrs. Skimmer. It couldn't be Mr. Blacksnake
again, because Farmer Brown's boy had chased him in quite another
direction.
"What is it now?" asked Johnny of Skimmer, who was still
excitedly discussing with Mrs. Skimmer their recent fright.
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," replied Skimmer and
darted away.
Johnny Chuck waited patiently. The excitement among the birds
seemed to increase, and the chattering and angry cries grew
louder. Only the voices of Welcome and Mrs. Robin were not angry.
They were mournful, as if Welcome and Mrs. Robin were
heartbroken. Presently Skimmer came back to tell Mrs. Skimmer the
news.
"The Robins have lost their eggs!" he cried excitedly. "All four
have been broken and eaten. Mrs. Robin left them to come over
here to help drive away Mr. Blacksnake, and while she was here
some one ate those eggs. Nobody knows who it could have been,
because all the birds of the Old Orchard were over here at that
time. It might leave been Chatterer the Red Squirrel, or it might
have been Sammy Jay, or it might have been Creaker the Grackle,
or it might have been Blacky the Crow. Whoever it was just took
that chance to sneak over there and rob that nest when there was
no one to see him."
Just then from over towards the Green Forest sounded a mocking
"Caw, caw, caw!" Instantly the noise in the Old Orchard ceased
for a moment. Then it broke out afresh. There wasn't a doubt now
in any one's mind. Blacky the Crow was the robber. How those
tongues did go! There was nothing too bad to say about Blacky.
And such dreadful things as those birds promised to do to Blacky
the Crow if ever they should catch him in the Old Orchard.
"Caw, caw, caw!" shouted Blacky from the distance, and his voice
sounded very much as if he thought he had done something very
smart. It was quite clear that at least he was not sorry for what
he had done.
All the birds were so excited and so angry, as they gathered
around Welcome and Mrs. Robin trying to comfort them, that it was
some time before their indignation meeting broke up and they
returned to their own homes and duties. Almost at once there was
another cry of distress. Mr. and Mrs. Chebec had been robbed of
their eggs! While they had been attending the indignation meeting
at the home of the Robins, a thief had taken the chance to steal
their eggs and get away.
Of course right away all the birds hurried over to sympathize
with the Chebecs and to repeat against the unknown thief all the
threats they had made against Blacky the Crow. They knew it
couldn't have been Blacky this time because they had heard Blacky
cawing over on the edge of the Green Forest. In the midst of the
excited discussion as to who the thief was, Weaver the Orchard
Oriole spied a blue and white feather on the ground just below
Chebec's nest.
"It was Sammy Jay! There is no doubt about it, it was Sammy Jay!"
he cried.
At the sight of that telltale feather all the birds knew that
Weaver was right, and led by Scrapper the Kingbird they began a
noisy search of the Old Orchard for the sly robber. But Sammy
wasn't to be found, and they soon gave up the search, none daring
to stay longer away from his own home lest something should
happen there. Welcome and Mrs. Robin continued to cry mournfully,
but little Mr. and Mrs. Chebec bore their trouble almost
silently.
"There is one thing about it," said Mr. Chebec to his sorrowful
little wife, "that egg of Sally Sly's went with the rest, and we
won't have to raise that bothersome orphan."
"That's true," said she. "There is no use crying over what can't
be helped. It is a waste of time to sit around crying. Come on,
Chebec, let's look for a place to build another nest. Next time I
won't leave the eggs unwatched for a minute."
Meanwhile Jenny Wren's tongue was fairly flying as she chattered
to Peter Rabbit, who had come up in the midst of the excitement
and of course had to know all about it.
"Blacky the Crow has a heart as black as his coat, and his cousin
Sammy Jay isn't much better," declared Jenny. "They belong to a
family of robbers."
"Wait a minute," cried Peter. "Do you mean to say that Blacky the
Crow and Sammy Jay are cousins?"
"For goodness' sake, Peter!" exclaimed Jenny, "do you mean to say
that you don't know that? Of course they're cousins. They don't
look much alike, but they belong to the same family. I would
expect almost anything bad of any one as black as Blacky the
Crow. But how such a handsome fellow as Sammy Jay can do such
dreadful things I don't understand. He isn't as bad as Blacky,
because he does do a lot of good. He destroys a lot of
caterpillars and other pests.
"There are no sharper eyes anywhere than those of Sammy Jay, and
I'll have to say this for him, that whenever he discovers any
danger he always gives us warning. He has saved the lives of a
good many of us feathered folks in this way. If it wasn't for
this habit of stealing our eggs I wouldn't have a word to say
against him, but at that, he isn't as bad as Blacky the Crow.
They say Blacky does some good by destroying white grubs and some
other harmful pests, but he's a regular cannibal, for he is just
as fond of young birds as he is of eggs, and the harm he does in
this way is more than the good he does in other ways. He's bold,
black, and bad, if you ask me.
Remembering her household duties, Jenny Wren disappeared inside
her house in her usual abrupt fashion. Peter hung around for a
while but finding no one who would take the time to talk to him
he suddenly decided to go over to the Green Forest to look for
some of his friends there. He had gone but a little way in the
Green Forest when he caught a glimpse of a blue form stealing
away through the trees. He knew it in an instant, for there is no
one with such a coat but Sammy Jay. Peter glanced up in the tree
from which Sammy had flown and there he saw a nest in a crotch
halfway up. "I wonder," thought Peter, "if Sammy was stealing
eggs there, or if that is his own nest." Then he started after
Sammy as fast as he could go, lipperty-lipperty-lip. As he ran he
happened to look back and was just in time to see Mrs. Jay slip
on to the nest. Then Peter knew that he had discovered Sammy's
home. He chuckled as he ran.
"I've found out your secret, Sammy Jay!" cried Peter when at last
he caught up with Sammy.
"Then I hope you'll be gentleman enough to keep it," grumbled
Sammy, looking not at all pleased.
"Certainly," replied Peter with dignity. "I wouldn't think of
telling any one. My, what a handsome fellow you are, Sammy."
Sammy looked pleased. He is a little bit vain, is Sammy Jay.
There is no denying that he is handsome. He is just a bit bigger
than Welcome Robin. His back is grayish-blue. His tail is a
bright blue crossed with little black bars and edged with white.
His wings are blue with white and black bars. His throat and
breast are a soft grayish-white, and he wears a collar of black.
On his head he wears a pointed cap, a very convenient cap, for at
times he draws it down so that it is not pointed at all.
"Why did you steal Mrs. Chebec's eggs?" demanded Peter abruptly.
Sammy didn't look the least bit put out. "Because I like eggs,"
he replied promptly. "If people will leave their eggs unguarded
they must expect to lose them. How did you know I took those
eggs?"
"Never mind, Sammy; never mind. A little bird told me," retorted
Peter mischievously.
Sammy opened his mouth for a sharp reply, but instead he uttered
a cry of warning. "Run, Peter! Run! Here comes Reddy Fox!" he
cried.
Peter dived headlong under a great pile of brush. There he was
quite safe. While he waited for Reddy Fox to go away he thought
about Sammy Jay. "It's funny," he mused, "how so much good and so
much bad can be mixed together. Sammy Jay stole Chebec's eggs,
and then he saved my life. I just know he would have done as much
for Mr. and Mrs. Chebec, or for any other feathered neighbor. He
can only steal eggs for a little while in the spring. I guess on
the whole he does more good than harm. I'm going to think so
anyway."
Peter was quite right. Sammy Jay does do more good than harm.
CHAPTER XVIII Some Homes in the Green Forest.
Reddy Fox wasted very little time waiting for Peter Rabbit to
come out from under that pile of brush where he had hidden at
Sammy Jay's warning. After making some terrible threats just to
try to frighten Peter, he trotted away to look for some Mice.
Peter didn't mind those threats at all. He was used to them. He
knew that he was safe where he was, and all he had to do was to
stay there until Reddy should be so far away that it would be
safe to come out.
Just to pass away the time Peter took a little nap. When he awoke
he sat for a few minutes trying to make up his mind where to go
and what to do next. From 'way over in the direction of the Old
Pasture the voice of Blacky the Crow reached him. Peter pricked
up his ears, then chuckled.
"Reddy Fox has gone back to the Old Pasture and Blacky has
discovered him there," he thought happily. You see, he understood
what Blacky was saying. To you or me Blacky would have been
saying simply, "Caw! Caw!" But to all the little people of the
Green Forest and Green Meadows within hearing he was shouting,
"Fox! Fox!"
"I wonder," thought Peter, "where Blacky is nesting this year.
Last year his nest was in a tall pine-tree not far from the edge
of the Green Forest. I believe I'll run over there and see if he
has a new nest near the old one."
So Peter scampered over to the tall pine in which was Blacky's
old nest. As he sat with his head tipped back, staring up at it,
it struck him that that nest didn't look so old, after all. In
fact, it looked as if it had recently been fixed up quite like
new. He was wondering about this and trying to guess what it
meant, when Blacky himself alighted close to the edge of it.
There was something in his bill, though what it was Peter
couldn't see. Almost at once a black head appeared above the edge
of the nest and a black bill seized the thing which Blacky had
brought. Then the head disappeared and Blacky silently flew away.
"As sure as I live," thought Peter, "that was Mrs. Blacky, and
Blacky brought her some food so that she would not have to leave
those eggs she must have up there. He may be the black-hearted
robber every one says he is, but he certainly is a good husband.
He's a better husband than some others I know, of whom nothing
but good is said. It just goes to show that there is some good in
the very worst folks. Blacky is a sly old rascal. Usually he is
as noisy as any one I know, but he came and went without making a
sound. Now I think of it, I haven't once heard his voice near
here this spring. I guess if Farmer Brown's boy could find this
nest he would get even with Blacky for pulling up his corn. I
know a lot of clever people, but no one quite so clever as Blacky
the Crow. With all his badness I can't help liking him."
Twice, while Peter watched, Blacky returned with food for Mrs.
Blacky. Then, tired of keeping still so long, Peter decided to
run over to a certain place farther in the Green Forest which was
seldom visited by any one. It was a place Peter usually kept away
from. It was pure curiosity which led him to go there now. The
discovery that Blacky the Crow was using his old nest had
reminded Peter that Redtail the Hawk uses his old nest year after
year, and he wanted to find out if Redtail had come back to it
this year.
Halfway over to that lonesome place in the Green Forest a trim
little bird flew up from the ground, hopped from branch to branch
of a tree, walked along a limb, then from pure happiness threw
back his head and cried, "Teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher,
teacher! " each time a little louder than before. It was Teacher
the Oven Bird.
In his delight at seeing this old friend, Peter quite forgot
Redtail the Hawk. "Oh, Teacher!" cried Peter. "I'm so glad to see
you again!"
Teacher stopped singing and looked down at Peter. "If you are so
glad why haven't you been over to see me before?" he demanded.
"I've been here for some time."
Peter looked a little foolish. "The truth is, Teacher," said he
very humbly, "I have been visiting the Old Orchard so much and
learning so many things that this is the first chance I have had
to come 'way over here in the Green Forest. You see, I have been
learning a lot of things about you feathered folks, things I
hadn't even guessed. There is something I wish you'd tell me,
Teacher; will you?"
"That depends on what it is," replied Teacher, eyeing Peter a
little suspiciously.
"It is why you are called Oven Bird," said Peter.
"Is that all?" asked Teacher. Then without waiting for a reply he
added, "It is because of the way Mrs. Teacher and I build our
nest. Some people think it is like an oven and so they call us
Oven Birds. I think that is a silly name myself, quite as silly as
Golden Crowned Thrush, which is what some people call me. I'm not
a Thrush. I'm not even related to the Thrush family. I'm a
Warbler, a Wood Warbler."
"I suppose," said Peter, looking at Teacher thoughtfully,
"they've given you that name because you are dressed something
like the Thrushes. That olive-green coat, and white waistcoat all
streaked and spotted with black, certainly does remind me of the
Thrush family. If you were not so much smaller than any of the
Thrushes I should almost think you were one myself. Why, you are
not very much bigger than Chippy the Chipping Sparrow, only
you've got longer legs. I suppose that's because you spend so
much time on the ground. I think that just Teacher is the best
name for you. No one who has once heard you could ever mistake
you for any one else. By the way, Teacher, where did you say your
nest is?"
"I didn't say," retorted Teacher. "What's more, I'm not going to
say."
"Won't you at least tell me if it is in a tree?" begged Peter.
Teacher's eyes twinkled. "I guess it won't do any harm to tell
you that much," said he. "No, it isn't in a tree. It is on the
ground and, if I do say it, it is as well hidden a nest as
anybody can build. Oh, Peter, watch your step! Watch your step!"
Teacher fairly shrieked this warning.
Peter, who had just started to hop off to his right, stopped
short in sheer astonishment. Just in front of him was a tiny
mound of dead leaves, and a few feet beyond Mrs. Teacher was
fluttering about on the ground as if badly hurt. Peter simply
didn't know what to make of it. Once more he made a movement as
if to hop. Teacher flew right down in front of him. "You'll step
on my nest!" he cried.
Peter stared, for he didn't see any nest. He said as much.
"It's under that little mound of leaves right in front of your
feet!" cried Teacher. "I wasn't going to tell you, but I just had
to or you certainly would have stepped on it."
Very carefully Peter walked around the little bunch of leaves and
peered under them from the other side. There, sure enough, was a
nest beneath them, and in it four speckled eggs. "I won't tell a
soul, Teacher. I promise you I won't tell a soul," declared Peter
very earnestly. "I understand now why you are called Oven Bird,
but I still like the name Teacher best."
Feeling that Mr. and Mrs. Teacher would feel easier in their
minds if he left them, Peter said good-by and started on for the
lonesome place in the Green Forest where he knew the old nest of
Redtail the Hawk had been. As he drew near the place he kept
sharp watch through the treetops for a glimpse of Redtail.
Presently he saw him high in the blue sky, sailing lazily in big
circles. Then Peter became very, very cautious. He tiptoed
forward, keeping under cover as much as possible. At last,
peeping out from beneath a little hemlock-tree, he could see
Redtail's old nest. He saw right away that it was bigger than it
had been when he saw it last. Suddenly there was a chorus of
hungry cries and Peter saw Mrs. Redtail approaching with a Mouse
in her claws. From where he sat he could see four funny heads
stretched above the edge of the nest.
"Redtail is using his old nest again and has got a family
already," exclaimed Peter. "I guess this is no place for me. The
sooner I get away from here the better."
Just then Redtail himself dropped down out of the blue, blue sky
and alighted on a tree close at hand. Peter decided that the best
thing he could do was to sit perfectly still where he was. He had
a splendid view of Redtail, and he couldn't help but admire this
big member of the Hawk family. The upper parts of his coat were a
dark grayish-brown mixed with touches of chestnut color. The
upper part of his breast was streaked with grayish-brown and
buff, the lower part having but few streaks. Below this were
black spots and bars ending in white. But it was the tail which
Peter noticed most of all. It was a rich reddish-brown with a
narrow black band near its end and a white tip. Peter understood
at once why this big Hawk is called Redtail.
It was not until Mr. and Mrs. Redtail had gone in quest of more
food for their hungry youngsters that Peter dared steal away. As
soon as he felt it safe to do so, he headed for home as fast as
he could go, lipperty-lipperty-lip. He knew that he wouldn't feel
safe until that lonesome place in the Green Forest was far
behind.
Yet if the truth be known, Peter had less cause to worry than
would have been the case had it been some other member of the
Hawk family instead of Redtail. And while Redtail and his wife do
sometimes catch some of their feathered and furred neighbors, and
once in a while a chicken, they do vastly more good than harm.
CHAPTER XIX A Maker of Thunder and a Friend in Black.
Peter Rabbit's intentions were of the best. Once safely away from
that lonesome part of the Green Forest where was the home of
Redtail the Hawk, he intended to go straight back to the dear Old
Briar-patch. But he was not halfway there when from another
direction in the Green Forest there came a sound that caused him
to stop short and quite forget all about home. It was a sound
very like distant thunder. It began slowly at first and then went
faster and faster. Boom--Boom--Boom--Boom-Boom-Boom Boo-Boo-B-B-
B-B-b-b-b-b-boom! It was like the long roll on a bass drum.
Peter laughed right out. "That's Strutter the Stuffed Grouse!" he
cried joyously. "I had forgotten all about him. I certainly must
go over and pay him a call and find out where Mrs. Grouse is. My,
how Strutter can drum!"
Peter promptly headed towards that distant thunder. As he drew
nearer to it, it sounded louder and louder. Presently Peter
stopped to try to locate exactly the place where that sound,
which now was more than ever like thunder, was coming from.
Suddenly Peter remembered something. "I know just where he is,"
said he to himself. "There's a big, mossy, hollow log over
yonder, and I remember that Mrs. Grouse once told me that that is
Strutter's thunder log."
Very, very carefully Peter stole forward, making no sound at all.
At last he reached a place where he could peep out and see that
big, mossy, hollow log. Sure enough, there was Strutter the
Ruffed Grouse. When Peter first saw him he was crouched on one
end of the log, a fluffy ball of reddish-brown, black and gray
feathers. He was resting. Suddenly he straightened up to his full
height, raised his tail and spread it until it was like an open
fan above his back. The outer edge was gray, then came a broad
band of black, followed by bands of gray, brown and black. Around
his neck was a wonderful ruff of black. His reddish-brown wings
were dropped until the tips nearly touched the log. His full
breast rounded out and was buff color with black markings. He
was of about the size of the little Bantam hens Peter had seen in
Farmer Brown's henyard.
In the most stately way you can imagine Strutter walked the
length of that mossy log. He was a perfect picture of pride as he
strutted very much like Tom Gobbler the big Turkey cock. When he
reached the end of the log he suddenly dropped his tail,
stretched himself to his full height and his wings began to beat,
first slowly then faster and faster, until they were just a blur.
They seemed to touch above his back but when they came down they
didn't quite strike his sides. It was those fast moving wings
that made the thunder. It was so loud that Peter almost wanted to
stop his ears. When it ended Strutter settled down to rest and
once more appeared like a ball of fluffy feathers. His ruff was
laid flat.
Peter watched him thunder several times and then ventured to show
himself. "Strutter, you are wonderful! simply wonderful!" cried
Peter, and he meant just what he said.
Strutter threw out his chest proudly. "That is just what Mrs.
Grouse says," he replied. "I don't know of any better thunderer
if I do say it myself."
"Speaking of Mrs. Grouse, where is she?" asked Peter eagerly.
"Attending to her household affairs, as a good housewife should,"
retorted Strutter promptly.
"Do you mean she has a nest and eggs?" asked Peter.
Strutter nodded. "She has twelve eggs," he added proudly.
"I suppose," said Peter artfully, "her nest is somewhere near
here on the ground."
"It's on the ground, Peter, but as to where it is I am not saying
a word. It may or it may not be near here. Do you want to hear me
thunder again?"
Of course Peter said he did, and that was sufficient excuse for
Strutter to show off. Peter stayed a while longer to gossip, but
finding Strutter more interested in thundering than in talking,
he once more started for home.
"I really would like to know where that nest is," said he to
himself as he scampered along. "I suppose Mrs. Grouse has hidden
it so cleverly that it is quite useless to look for it."
On his way he passed a certain big tree. All around the ground
was carpeted with brown, dead leaves. There were no bushes or
young trees there. Peter never once thought of looking for a
nest. It was the last place in the world he would expect to find
one. When he was well past the big tree there was a soft chuckle
and from among the brown leaves right at the foot of that big
tree a head with a pair of the brightest eyes was raised a
little. Those eyes twinkled as they watched Peter out of sight.
"He didn't see me at all," chuckled Mrs. Grouse, as she settled
down once more. "That is what comes of having a cloak so like the
color of these nice brown leaves. He isn't the first one who has
passed me without seeing me at all. It is better than trying to
hide a nest, and I certainly am thankful to Old Mother Nature for
the cloak she gave me. I wonder if every one of these twelve eggs
will hatch. If they do, I certainly will have a family to be
proud of."
Meanwhile Peter hurried on in his usual happy-go-lucky fashion
until he came to the edge of the Green Forest. Out on the Green
Meadows just beyond he caught sight of a black form walking about
in a stately way and now and then picking up something. It
reminded him of Blacky the Crow, but he knew right away that it
wasn't Blacky, because it was so much smaller, being not more
than half as big.
"It's Creaker the Grackle. He was one of the first to arrive this
spring and I'm ashamed of myself for not having called on him,"
thought Peter, as he hopped out and started across the Green
Meadows towards Creaker. "What a splendid long tail he has. I
believe Jenny Wren told me that he belongs to the Blackbird
family. He looks so much like Blacky the Crow that I suppose this
is why they call him Crow Blackbird."
Just then Creaker turned in such a way that the sun fell full on
his head and back. "Why! Why-ee!" exclaimed Peter, rubbing his
eyes with astonishment. "He isn't just black! He's beautiful,
simply beautiful, and I've always supposed he was just plain,
homely black."
It was true. Creaker the Grackle with the sun shining on him was
truly beautiful. His head and neck, his throat and upper breast,
were a shining blue-black, while his back was a rich, shining
brassy-green. His wings and tail were much like his head and
neck. As Peter watched it seemed as if the colors were constantly
changing. This changing of colors is called iridescence. One
other thing Peter noticed and this was that Creaker's eyes were
yellow. Just at the moment Peter couldn't remember any other bird
with yellow eyes.
"Creaker," cried Peter, "I wonder if you know how handsome you
are!"
"I'm glad you think so," replied Creaker. "I'm not at all vain,
but there are mighty few birds I would change coats with."
"Is--is--Mrs. Creaker dressed as handsomely as you are?" asked
Peter rather timidly.
Creaker shook his head. "Not quite," said he. "She likes plain
black better. Some of the feathers on her back shine like mine,
but she says that she has no time to show off in the sun and to
take care of fine feathers."
"Where is she now?" asked Peter.
"Over home," replied Creaker, pulling a white grub out of the
roots of the grass. "We've got a nest over there in one of those
pine-trees on the edge of the Green Forest and I expect any day
now we will have four hungry babies to feed. I shall have to get
busy then. You know I am one of those who believe that every
father should do his full share in taking care of his family."
"I'm glad to hear you say it," declared Peter, nodding his head
with approval quite as if he was himself the best of fathers,
which he isn't at all.
"May I ask you a very personal question, Creaker?"
"Ask as many questions as you like. I don't have to answer them
unless I want to," retorted Creaker.
"Is it true that you steal the eggs of other birds?" Peter
blurted the question out rather hurriedly.
Creaker's yellow eyes began to twinkle. "That is a very personal
question," said he. "I won't go so far as to say I steal eggs,
but I've found that eggs are very good for my constitution and if
I find a nest with nobody around I sometimes help myself to the
eggs. You see the owner might not come back and then those eggs
would spoil, and that would be a pity."
"That's no excuse at all," declared Peter. "I believe you're no
better than Sammy Jay and Blacky the Crow."
Creaker chuckled, but he did not seem to be at all offended. Just
then he heard Mrs. Creaker calling him and with a hasty farewell
he spread his wings and headed for the Green Forest. Once in the
air he seemed just plain black. Peter watched him out of sight
and then once more headed for the dear Old Briar-patch.
CHAPTER XX A Fisherman Robbed.
Just out of curiosity, and because he possesses what is called
the wandering foot, which means that he delights to roam about,
Peter Rabbit had run over to the bank of the Big River. There
were plenty of bushes, clumps of tall grass, weeds and tangles of
vines along the bank of the Big River, so that Peter felt quite
safe there. He liked to sit gazing out over the water and wonder
where it all came from and where it was going and what, kept it
moving.
He was doing this very thing on this particular morning when he
happened to glance up in the blue, blue sky. There he saw a
broad-winged bird sailing in wide, graceful circles. Instantly
Peter crouched a little lower in his hiding-place, for he knew
this for a member of the Hawk family and Peter has learned by
experience that the only way to keep perfectly safe when one of
these hook-clawed, hook-billed birds is about is to keep out
of sight.
So now he crouched very close to the ground and kept his eyes
fixed on the big bird sailing so gracefully high up in the blue,
blue sky over the Big River. Suddenly the stranger paused in his
flight and for a moment appeared to remain in one place, his
great wings heating rapidly to hold him there. Then those wings
were closed and with a rush he shot down straight for the water,
disappearing with a great splash. Instantly Peter sat up to his
full height that he might see better.
"It's Plunger the Osprey fishing, and I've nothing to fear from
him," he cried happily.
Out of the water, his great wings flapping, rose Plunger. Peter
looked eagerly to see if he had caught a fish, but there was
nothing in Plunger's great, curved claws. Either that fish had
been too deep or had seen Plunger and darted away just in the
nick of time. Peter had a splendid view of Plunger. He was just a
little bigger than Redtail the Hawk. Above he was dark brown, his
head and neck marked with white. His tail was grayish, crossed by
several narrow dark bands and tipped with white. His under parts
were white with some light brown spots on his breast. Peter could
see clearly the great, curved claws which are Plunger's
fishhooks.
Up, up, up he rose, going round and round in a spiral. When he
was well up in the blue, blue sky, he began to sail again in wide
circles as when Peter had first seen him. It wasn't long before
he again paused and then shot down towards the water. This time
he abruptly spread his great wings just before reaching the water
so that he no more than wet his feet. Once more a fish had
escaped him. But Plunger seemed not in the least discouraged. He
is a true fisherman and every true fisherman possesses patience.
Up again he spiraled until he was so high that Peter wondered how
he could possibly see a fish so far below. You see, Peter didn't
know that it is easier to see down into the water from high above
it than from close to it. Then, too, there are no more wonderful
eyes than those possessed by the members of the Hawk family. And
Plunger the Osprey is a Hawk, usually called Fish Hawk.
A third time Plunger shot down and this time, as in his first
attempt, he struck the water with a great splash and
disappeared. In an instant he reappeared, shaking the water from
him in a silver spray and flapping heavily. This time Fetes could
gee a great shining fish in his claws. It was heavy, as Peter
could tell by the way in which Plunger flew. He headed towards a
tall tree on the other bank of the Big River, there to enjoy his
breakfast. He was not more than halfway there when Peter was
startled by a harsh scream.
He looked up to see a great bird, with wonderful broad wings,
swinging in short circles about Plunger. His body and wings were
dark brown, and his head was snowy white, as was his tail. His
great hooked beak was yellow and his legs were yellow. Peter knew
in an instant who it was. There could be no mistake. It was King
Eagle, commonly known as Bald Head, though his head isn't bald
at all.
Peter's eyes looked as if they would pop out of his head, for it
was quite plain to him that King Eagle was after Plunger, and
Peter didn't understand this at all. You see, he didn't
understand what King Eagle was screaming. But Plunger did. King
Eagle was screaming, "Drop that fish! Drop that fish!"
Plunger didn't intend to drop that fish if he could help
himself. It was his fish. Hadn't he caught it himself? He didn't
intend to give it up to any robber of the air, even though that
robber was King Eagle himself, unless he was actually forced to.
So Plunger began to dodge and twist and turn in the air, all the
time mounting higher and higher, and all the time screaming
harshly, "Robber! Thief! I won't drop this fish! It's mine! It's
mine!"
Now the fish was heavy, so of course Plunger couldn't fly as
easily and swiftly as if he were carrying nothing. Up, up he
went, but all the time King Eagle went up with him, circling
round him, screaming harshly, and threatening to strike him with
those great cruel, curved claws. Peter watched them, so excited
that he fairly danced. "O, I do hope Plunger will get away from
that big robber," cried Peter. "He may be king of the air, but he
is a robber just the same."
Plunger and King Eagle were now high in the air above the Big
River. Suddenly King Eagle swung above Plunger and for an instant
seemed to hold himself still there, just as Plunger had done
before he had shot down into the water after that fish. There
was a still harsher note in King Eagle's scream. If Peter had
been near enough he would have seen a look of anger and
determination in King Eagle's fierce, yellow eyes. Plunger saw it
and knew what it meant. He knew that King Eagle would stand for
no more fooling. With a cry of bitter disappointment and anger
he let go of the big fish.
Down, down, dropped the fish, shining in the sun like a bar of
silver. King Eagle's wings half closed and he shot down like a
thunderbolt. Just before the fish reached the water King Eagle
struck it with his great claws, checked himself by spreading his
broad wings and tail, and then in triumph flew over to the very
tree towards which Plunger had started when he had caught the
fish. There he Hisurely made his breakfast, apparently enjoying
it as much as if he had come by it honestly.
As for poor Plunger, he shook himself, screamed angrily once or
twice, then appeared to think that it was wisest to make the best
of a bad matter and that there were more fish where that one had
come from, for he once more began to sail in circles over the Big
River, searching for a fish near the surface. Peter watched him
until he saw him catch another fish and fly away with it in
triumph. King Eagle watched him, too, but having had a good
breakfast he was quite willing to let Plunger enjoy his catch in
peace.
Late that afternoon Peter visited the Old Orchard, for he just
had to tell Jenny Wren all about what he had seen that morning.
"King Eagle is king simply because he is so big and fierce and
strong," sputtered Jenny. "He isn't kingly in his habits, not the
least bit. He never hesitates to rob those smaller than himself,
just as you saw him rob Plunger. He is very fond of fish, and
once in a while he catches one for himself when Plunger isn't
around to be robbed, but he isn't a very good fisherman, and he
isn't the least bit fussy about his fish. Plunger eats only fresh
fish which he catches himself, but King Eagle will eat dead fish
which he finds on the shore. He doesn't seem to care how long
they have been dead either."
"Doesn't he eat anything but fish?" asked Peter innocently.
"Well," retorted Jenny Wren, her eyes twinkling, "I wouldn't
advise you to run across the Green Meadows in sight of King
Eagle. I am told he is very fond of Rabbit. In fact he is very
fond of fresh meat of any kind. He even catches the babies of
Lightfoot the Deer when he gets a chance. He is so swift of wing
that even the members of the Duck family fear him, for he is
especially fond of fat Duck. Even Honker the Goose is not safe
from him. King he may he, but he rules only through fear. He is
a white-headed old robber. The best thing I can say of him is
that he takes a mate for life and is loyal and true to her as
long as she lives, and that is a great many years. By the way,
Peter, did you know that she is bigger than he is, and that the
young during the first year after leaving their nest, are bigger
than their parents and do not have white heads? By the time they
get white heads they are the same size as their parents."
"That's queer and its hard to believe," said Peter.
"It is queer, but it is true just the same, whether you believe
it or not," retorted Jenny Wren, and whisked out of sight into
her home.
CHAPTER XXI A Fishing Party.
Peter Rabbit sat on the edge of the Old Briar-patch trying to
make up his mind whether to stay at home, which was the wise and
proper thing to do, or to go call on some of the friends he had
not yet visited. A sharp, harsh rattle caused him to look up to
see a bird about a third larger than Welcome Robin, and with a
head out of all proportion to the size of his body. He was
flying straight towards the Smiling Pool, rattling harshly as he
flew. The mere sound of his voice settled the matter for Peter.
"It's Rattles the Kingfisher," he cried. "I think I'll run over
to the Smiling Pool and pay him my respects."
So Peter started for the Smiling Pool as fast as his long legs
could take him, lipperty-lipperty-lip. He had lost sight of
Rattles the Kingfisher, and when he reached the back of the
Smiling Pool he was in doubt which way to turn. It was very early
in the morning and there was not so much as a ripple on the
surface of the Smiling Pool. As Peter sat there trying to make up
his mind which way to go, he saw coming from the direction of the
Big River a great, broad-winged bird, flying slowly. He seemed to
have no neck at all, but carried straight out behind him were
two long legs.
"Longlegs the Great Blue Heron! I wonder if he is coming here,"
exclaimed Peter. "I do hope so."
Peter stayed right where he was and waited. Nearer and nearer
came Longlegs. When he was right opposite Peter he suddenly
dropped his long legs, folded his great wings, and alighted right
on the edge of the Smiling Pool across from where Peter was
sitting. If he seemed to have no neck at all when he was flying,
now he seemed to be all neck as he stretched it to its full
length. The fact is, his neck was so long that when he was flying
he carried it folded back on his shoulders. Never before had
Peter had such an opportunity to see Longlegs.
He stood quite four feet high. The top of his head and throat
were white. From the base of his great bill and over his eye was
a black stripe which ended in two long, slender, black feathers
hanging from the back of his head. His bill was longer than his
head, stout and sharp like a spear and yellow in color. His long
neck was a light brownish-gray. His back and wings were of a
bluish color. The bend of each wing and the feathered parts of
his legs were a rusty-red. The remainder of his legs and his feet
were black. Hanging down over his breast were beautiful long
pearly-gray feathers quite unlike any Peter had seen on any of
his other feathered friends. In spite of the length of his legs
and the length of his neck he was both graceful and handsome.
"I wonder what has brought him over to the Smiling Pool," thought
Peter.
He didn't have to wait long to find out. After standing perfectly
still with his neck stretched to its full height until he was
sure that no danger was near, Longlegs waded into the water a few
steps, folded his neck back on his shoulders until his long bill
seemed to rest on his breast, and then remained as motionless as
if there were no life in him. Peter also sat perfectly still. By
and by he began to wonder if Longlegs had gone to sleep. His own
patience was reaching an end and he was just about to go on in
search of Rattles the Kingfisher when like a flash the
dagger-like bill of Longlegs shot out and down into the water.
When he withdrew it Peter saw that Longlegs had caught a little
fish which he at once proceeded to swallow head-first. Peter
almost laughed right out as he watched the funny efforts of
Longlegs to gulp that fish down his long throat. Then Longlegs
resumed his old position as motionless as before.
It was no trouble now for Peter to sit still, for he was too
interested in watching this lone fisherman to think of leaving.
It wasn't long before Longlegs made another catch and this time
it was a fat Pollywog. Peter thought of how he had watched
Plunger the Osprey fishing in the Big River and the difference in
the ways of the two fishermen.
"Plunger hunts for his fish while Longlegs waits for his fish to
come to him," thought Peter. "I wonder if Longlegs never goes
hunting."
As if in answer to Peter's thought Longlegs seemed to conclude
that no more fish were coming his way. He stretched himself up to
his full height, looked sharply this way and that way to make
sure that all was safe, then began to walk along the edge of the
Smiling Pool. He put each foot down slowly and carefully so as
to make no noise. He had gone but a few steps when that great
bill darted down like a flash, and Peter saw that he had caught a
careless young Frog. A few steps farther on he caught another
Pollywog. Then coming to a spot that suited him, he once more
waded in and began to watch for fish.
Peter was suddenly reminded of Rattles the Kingfisher, whom he
had quite forgotten. From the Big Hickory-tree on the bank,
Rattles flew out over the Smiling Pool, hovered for an instant,
then plunged down head-first. There was a splash, and a second
later Rattles was in the air again, shaking the water from him in
a silver spray. In his long, stout, black bill was a little fish.
He flew back to a branch of the Big Hickory-tree that hung out
over the water and thumped the fish against the branch until it
was dead. Then he turned it about so he could swallow it
head-first. It was a big fish for the size of the fisherman and
he had a dreadful time getting it down. But at last it was down,
and Rattles set himself to watch for another. The sun shone full
on him, and Peter gave a little gasp of surprise.
"I never knew before how handsome Rattles is," thought Peter. He
was about the size of Yellow Wing the Flicker, but his head made
him look bigger than he really was. You see, the feathers on top
of his head stood up in a crest, as if they had been brushed the
wrong way. His head, back, wings and tail were a bluish-gray. His
throat was white and he wore a white collar. In front of each eye
was a little white spot. Across his breast was a belt of
bluish-gray, and underneath he was white. There were tiny spots
of white on his wings, and his tail was spotted with white. His
bill was black and, like that of Longlegs, was long, and
stout, and sharp. It looked almost too big for his size.
Presently Rattles flew out and plunged into the Smiling Pool
again, this time, very near to where Longlegs was patiently
waiting. He caught a fish, for it is not often that Rattles
misses. It was smaller than the first one Peter had seen him
catch, and this time as soon as he got back to the Big
Hickory-tree, he swallowed it without thumping it against the
branch. As for Longlegs, he looked thoroughly put out. For a
moment or two he stood glaring angrily up at Rattles. You see,
when Rattles had plunged so close to Longlegs he had frightened
all the fish. Finally Longlegs seemed to make up his mind that
there was room for but one fisherman at a time at the Smiling
Pool. Spreading his great wings, folding his long neck back on
his shoulders, and dragging his long legs out behind him, he flew
heavily away in the direction of the Big River.
Rattles remained long enough to catch another little fish, and
then with a harsh rattle flew off down the Laughing Brook. "I
would know him anywhere by that rattle," thought Peter. "There
isn't any one who can make a noise anything like it. I wonder
where he has gone to now. He must have a nest, but I haven't the
least idea what kind of a nest he builds. Hello! There's
Grandfather Frog over on his green lily pad. Perhaps he can tell
me."
So Peter hopped along until he was near enough to talk to
Grandfather Frog. "What kind of a nest does Rattles the
Kingfisher build?" repeated Grandfather Frog. "Chug-arum, Peter
Rabbit! I thought everybody knew that Rattles doesn't build a
nest. At least I wouldn't call it a nest. He lives in a hole in
the ground."
"What!" cried Peter, and looked as if he couldn't believe his own
ears.
Grandfather Frog grinned and his goggly eyes twinkled. "Yes,"
said he, "Rattles lives in a hole in the ground."
"But--but--but what kind of a hole?" stammered Peter.
"Just plain hole," retorted Grandfather Frog, grinning more
broadly than ever. Then seeing how perplexed and puzzled Peter
looked, he went on to explain. "He usually picks out a high
gravelly bank close to the water and digs a hole straight in just
a little way from the top. He makes it just big enough for
himself and Mrs. Rattles to go in and out of comfortably, and he
digs it straight in for several feet. I'm told that at the end of
it he makes a sort of bedroom, because he usually has a
good-sized family."
"Do you mean to say that he digs it himself?" asked Peter.
Grandfather Frog nodded. "If he doesn't, Mrs. Kingfisher does,"
he replied. "Those big bills of theirs are picks as well as fish
spears. They loosen the sand with those and scoop it out with
their feet. I've never seen the inside of their home myself, but
I'm told that their bedroom is lined with fish bones. Perhaps you
may call that a nest, but I don't."
"I'm going straight down the Laughing Brook to look for that
hole," declared Peter, and left in such a hurry that he forgot to
be polite enough to say thank you to Grandfather Frog.
CHAPTER XXII Some Feathered Diggers.
Peter Rabbit scampered along down one bank of the Laughing Brook,
eagerly watching for a high, gravelly bank such as Grandfather
Frog had said that Rattles the Kingfisher likes to make his home
in. If Peter had stopped to do a little thinking, he would have
known that he was simply wasting time. You see, the Laughing
Brook was flowing through the Green Meadows, so of course there
would be no high, gravelly bank, because the Green Meadows are
low. But Peter Rabbit, in his usual heedless way, did no
thinking. He had seen Rattles fly down the Laughing Brook, and so
he had just taken it for granted that the home of Rattles must be
somewhere down there.
At last Peter reached the place where the Laughing Brook entered
the Big River. Of course he hadn't found the home of Rattles. But
now he did find something that for the time being made him quite
forget Rattles and his home. Just before it reached the Big River
the Laughing Brook wound through a swamp in which were many tall
trees and a great number of young trees. A great many big ferns
grew there and were splendid to hide under. Peter always did like
that swamp.
He had stopped to rest in a clump of ferns when he was startled
by seeing a great bird alight in a tree just a little way from
him. His first thought was that it was a Hawk, so you can imagine
how surprised and pleased he was to discover that it was Mrs.
Longlegs. Somehow Peter had always thought of Longlegs the Blue
Heron as never alighting anywhere except on the ground. But here
was Mrs. Longlegs in a tree. Having nothing to fear, Peter crept
out from his hiding place that he might see better.
In the tree in which Mrs. Longlegs was perched and just below her
he saw a little platform of sticks. He didn't suspect that it was
a nest, because it looked too rough and loosely put together to
be a nest. Probably he wouldn't have thought about it at all had
not Mrs. Longlegs settled herself on it right while Peter was
watching. It didn't seem big enough or strong enough to hold her,
but it did.
"As I live," thought Peter, "I've found the nest of Longlegs! He
and Mrs. Longlegs may be good fishermen but they certainly are
mighty poor nest-builders. I don't see how under the sun Mrs.
Longlegs ever gets on and off that nest without kicking the eggs
out."
Peter sat around for a while, but as he didn't care to let his
presence be known, and as there was no one to talk to, he
presently made up his mind that being so near the Big River he
would go over there to see if Plunger the Osprey was fishing
again on this day.
When he reached the Big River, Plunger was not in sight. Peter
was disappointed. He had just about made up his mind to return
the way he had come, when from beyond the swamp, farther up the
Big River, he heard the harsh, rattling cry of Rattles the
Kingfisher. It reminded him of what he had come for, and he at
once began to hurry in that direction.
Peter came out of the swamp on a little sandy beach. There he
squatted for a moment, blinking his eyes, for out there the sun
was very bright. Then a little way beyond him he discovered
something that in his eager curiosity made him quite forget that
he was out in the open where it was anything but safe for a
Rabbit to be. What he saw was a high sandy bank. With a hasty
glance this way and that way to make sure that no enemy was in
sight, Peter scampered along the edge of the water till he was
right at the foot of that sandy bank. Then he squatted down and
looked eagerly for a hole such as he imagined Rattles the
Kingfisher might make. Instead of one hole he saw a lot of holes,
but they were very small holes. He knew right away that Rattles
couldn't possibly get in or out of a single one of those holes.
In fact, those holes in the bank were no bigger than the holes
Downy the Woodpecker makes in trees. Peter couldn't imagine who
or what had made them.
As Peter sat there staring and wondering a trim little head
appeared at the entrance to one of those holes. It was a trim
little head with a very small bill and a snowy white throat. At
first glance Peter thought it was his old friend, Skimmer the
Tree Swallow, and he was just on the point of asking what under
the sun Skimmer was doing in such a place as that, when with a
lively twitter of greeting the owner of that little hole in the
bank flew out and circled over Peter's head. It wasn't Skimmer at
all. It was Banker the Bank Swallow, own cousin to Skimmer the
Tree Swallow. Peter recognized him the instant he got a full view
of him.
In the first place Banker was a little smaller than Skimmer. Then
too, he was not nearly so handsome. His back, instead of being
that beautiful rich steel-blue which makes Skimmer so handsome,
was a sober grayish-brown. He was a little darker on his wings
and tail. His breast, instead of being all snowy white, was
crossed with a brownish band. His tail was more nearly square
across the end than is the case with other members of the Swallow
family.
"Wha--wha--what were you doing there?" stuttered Peter, his eyes
popping right out with curiosity and excitement.
"Why, that's my home," twittered Banker.
"Do--do--do you mean to say that you live in a hole in the
ground?" cried Peter.
"Certainly; why not?" twittered Banker as he snapped up a fly
just over Peter's head.
"I don't know any reason why you shouldn't," confessed Peter.
"But somehow it is hard for me to think of birds as living in
holes in the ground. I've only just found out that Rattles the
Kingfisher does. But I didn't suppose there were any others. Did
you make that hole yourself, Banker?"
"Of course," replied Banker. "That is, I helped make it. Mrs.
Banker did her share. 'Way in at the end of it we've got the
nicest little nest of straw and feathers. What is more, we've got
four white eggs in there, and Mrs. Banker is sitting on them
now."
By this time the air seemed to be full of Banker's friends,
skimming and circling this way and that, and going in and out of
the little holes in the bank.
"I am like my big cousin, Twitter the Purple Martin, fond of
society," explained Banker. "We Bank Swallows like our homes
close together. You said that you had just learned that Rattles
the Kingfisher has his home in a bank. Do you know where it is?"
"No, replied Peter. "I was looking for it when I discovered your
home. Can you tell me where it is?"
"I'll do better than that;" replied Banker. "I'll show you where
it is."
He darted some distance up along the bank and hovered for an
instant close to the top. Peter scampered over there and looked
up. There, just a few inches below the top, was another hole, a
very much larger hole than those he had just left. As he was
staring up at it a head with a long sharp bill and a crest which
looked as if all the feathers on the top of his head had been
brushed the wrong way, was thrust out. It was Rattles himself. He
didn't seem at all glad to see Peter. In fact, he came out and
darted at Peter angrily. Peter didn't wait to feel that sharp
dagger-like bill. He took to his heels. He had seen what he
started out to find and he was quite content to go home.
Peter took a short cut across the Green Meadows. It took him past
a certain tall, dead tree. A sharp cry of "Kill-ee, kill-ee,
kill-ee!" caused Peter to look up just in time to see a trim,
handsome bird whose body was about the size of Sammy Jay's but
whose longer wings and longer tail made him look bigger. One
glance was enough to tell Peter that this was a member of the
Hawk family, the smallest of the family. It was Killy the Sparrow
Hawk. He is too small for Peter to fear him, so now Peter was
possessed of nothing more than a very lively curiosity, and sat
up to watch.
Out over the meadow grass Killy sailed. Suddenly, with beating
wings, he kept himself in one place in the air and then dropped
down into the grass. He was up again in an instant, and Peter
could see that he had a fat grasshopper in his claws. Back to the
top of the tall, dead tree he flew and there ate the grasshopper.
When it was finished he sat up straight and still, so still that
he seemed a part of the tree itself. With those wonderful eyes of
his he was watching for another grasshopper or for a careless
Meadow Mouse.
Very trim and handsome was Killy. His back was reddish-brown
crossed by bars of black. His tail was reddish-brown with a band
of black near its end and a white tip. His wings were slaty-blue
with little bars of black, the longest feathers leaving white
bars. Underneath he was a beautiful buff, spotted with black. His
head was bluish with a reddish patch right on top. Before and
behind each ear was a black mark. His rather short bill, like the
bills of all the rest of his family, was hooked.
As Peter sat there admiring Killy, for he was handsome enough for
any one to admire, he noticed for the first time a hole high up
in the trunk of the tree, such a hole as Yellow Wing the Flicker
might have made and probably did make. Right away Peter
remembered what Jenny Wren had told him about Killy's making his
nest in just such a hole. "I wonder," thought Peter, "if that is
Killy's home."
Just then Killy flew over and dropped in the grass just in front
of Peter, where he caught another fat grasshopper. "Is that your
home up there?" asked Peter hastily.
"It certainly is, Peter," replied Killy. "This is the third
summer Mrs. Killy and I have had our home there."
"You seem to be very fond of grasshoppers," Peter ventured.
"I am," replied Killy. "They are very fine eating when one can
get enough of them."
"Are they the only kind of food you eat?" ventured Peter.
Killy laughed. It was a shrill laugh. "I should say not," said
he. "I eat spiders and worms and all sorts of insects big enough
to give a fellow a decent bite. But for real good eating give me
a fat Meadow Mouse. I don't object to a Sparrow or some other
small bird now and then, especially when I have a family of
hungry youngsters to feed. But take it the season through, I live
mostly on grasshoppers and insects and Meadow Mice. I do a lot of
good in this world, I'd have you know."
Peter said that he supposed that this was so, but all the time he
kept thinking what a pity it was that Killy ever killed his
feathered neighbors. As soon as he conveniently could he politely
bade Killy good-by and hurried home to the dear Old Briar-patch,
there to think over how queer it seemed that a member of the hawk
family should nest in a hollow tree and a member of the Swallow
family should dig a hole in the ground.
CHAPTER XXIII Some Big Mouths.
Boom! Peter Rabbit jumped as if he had been shot. It was all so
sudden and unexpected that Peter jumped before he had time to
think. Then he looked foolish. He felt foolish. He had been
scared when there was nothing to be afraid of.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha" tittered Jenny Wren. "What are you jumping for,
Peter Rabbit? That was only Boomer the Nighthawk."
"I know it just as well as you do, Jenny Wren," retorted Peter
rather crossly. "You know being suddenly startled is apt to make
people feel cross. If I had seen him anywhere about he wouldn't
have made me jump. It was the unexpectedness of it. I don't see
what he is out now for, anyway, It isn't even dusk yet, and I
thought him a night bird."
"So he is," retorted Jenny Wren. "Anyway, he is a bird of the
evening, and that amounts to the same thing. But just because he
likes the evening best isn't any reason why he shouldn't come out
in the daylight, is it?"
"No-o," replied Peter rather slowly. "I don't suppose it is."
"Of course it isn't," declared Jenny Wren. "I see Boomer late in
the afternoon nearly every day. On cloudy days I often see him
early in the afternoon. He's a queer fellow, is Boomer. Such a
mouth as he has! I suppose it is very handy to have a big mouth
if one must catch all one's food in the air, but it certainly
isn't pretty when it is wide open."
"I never saw a mouth yet that was pretty when it was wide open,"
retorted Peter, who was still feeling a little put out. "I've
never noticed that Boomer has a particularly big mouth."
"Well he has, whether you've noticed it or not," retorted Jenny
Wren sharply. "He's got a little bit of a bill, but a great big
mouth. I don't see what folks call him a Hawk for when he isn't a
Hawk at all. He is no more of a Hawk than I am, and goodness
knows I'm not even related to the Hawk family."
"I believe you told me the other day that Boomer is related to
Sooty the Chimney Swift," said Peter.
Jenny nodded vigorously. "So I did, Peter," she replied. "I'm
glad you have such a good memory. Boomer and Sooty are sort of
second cousins. There is Boomer now, way up in the sky. I do wish
he'd dive and scare some one else."
Peter tipped his head 'way back. High up in the blue, blue sky
was a bird which at that distance looked something like a much
overgrown Swallow. He was circling and darting about this way and
that. Even while Peter watched he half closed his wings and shot
down with such speed that Peter actually held his breath. It
looked very, very much as if Boomer would dash himself to pieces.
Just before he reached the earth he suddenly opened those wings
and turned upward. At the instant he turned, the booming sound
which had so startled Peter was heard. It was made by the rushing
of the wind through the larger feathers of his wings as he
checked himself.
In this dive Boomer had come near enough for Peter to get a good
look at him. His coat seemed to be a mixture of brown and gray,
very soft looking. His wings were brown with a patch of white on
each. There was a white patch on his throat and a band of white
near the end of his tail.
"He's rather handsome, don't you think?" asked Jenny Wren.
"He certainly is," replied Peter. "Do you happen to know what
kind of a nest the Nighthawks build, Jenny?"
"They don't build any." Jenny Wren was a picture of scorn as she
said this. "They don't built any nests at all. It can't be
because they are lazy for I don't know of any birds that hunt
harder for their living than do Boomer and Mrs. Boomer."
"But if there isn't any nest where does Mrs. Boomer lay her
eggs?" cried Peter. "I think you must be mistaken, Jenny Wren.
They must have some kind of a nest. Of course they must."
"Didn't I say they don't have a nest?" sputtered Jenny. "Mrs.
Nighthawk doesn't lay but two eggs, anyway. Perhaps she thinks it
isn't worth while building a nest for just two eggs. Anyway, she
lays them on the ground or on a flat rock and lets it go at that.
She isn't quite as bad as Sally Sly the Cowbird, for she does sit
on those eggs and she is a good mother. But just think of those
Nighthawk children never having any home! It doesn't seem to me
right and it never will. Did you ever see Boomer in a tree?"
Peter shook his head. "I've seen him on the ground," said he,
"but I never have seen him in a tree. Why did you ask, Jenny
Wren?"
"To find out how well you have used your eyes," snapped Jenny. "I
just wanted to see if you had noticed anything peculiar about the
way he sits in a tree. But as long as you haven't seen him in a
tree I may as well tell you that he doesn't sit as most birds do.
He sits lengthwise of a branch. He never sits across it as the
rest of us do."
"How funny!" exclaimed Peter. "I suppose that is Boomer making
that queer noise we hear."
"Yes," replied Jenny. "He certainly does like to use his voice.
They tell me that some folks call him Bullbat, though why they
should call him either Bat or Hawk is beyond me. I suppose you
know his cousin, Whip-poor-will."
"I should say I do," replied Peter. "He's enough to drive one
crazy when he begins to shout 'Whip poor Will' close at hand.
That voice of his goes through me so that I want to stop both
ears. There isn't a person of my acquaintance who can say a thing
over and over, over and over, so many times without stopping for
breath. Do I understand that he is cousin to Boomer?"
"He is a sort of second cousin, the same as Sooty the Chimney
Swift," explained Jenny Wren. "They look enough alike to be own
cousins. Whip-poor-will has just the same kind of a big mouth and
he is dressed very much like Boomer, save that there are no white
patches on his wings."
"I've noticed that," said Peter. "That is one way I can tell them
apart."
"So you noticed that much, did you?" cried Jenny. "It does you
credit, Peter. It does you credit. I wonder if you also noticed
Whip-poor-will's whiskers."
"Whiskers!" cried Peter. "Who ever heard of a bird having
whiskers? You can stuff a lot down me, Jenny Wren, but there are
some things I cannot swallow, and bird whiskers is one of them."
"Nobody asked you to swallow them. Nobody wants you to swallow
them," snapped Jenny. "I don't know why a bird shouldn't have
whiskers just as well as you, Peter Rabbit. Anyway,
Whip-poor-will has them and that is all there is to it. It doesn't
make any difference whether you believe in them or not, they are
there. And I guess Whip-poor-will finds them just as useful as you
find yours, and a little more so. I know this much, that if I had
to catch all my food in the air I'd want whiskers and lots of them
so that the insects would get tangled in them. I suppose that's
what Whip-poor-will's are for."
"I beg your pardon, Jenny Wren," said Peter very humbly. "Of
course Whip-poor-will has whiskers if you say so. By the way, do
the Whip-poor-wills do any better in the matter of a nest than
the Nighthawks?"
"Not a bit," replied Jenny Wren. "Mrs. Whip-poor-will lays her
eggs right on the ground, but usually in the Green Forest where
it is dark and lonesome. Like Mrs. Nighthawk, she lays only two.
It's the same way with another second cousin, Chuck-will's-widow."
"Who?" cried Peter, wrinkling his brows.
"Chuck-will's-widow," Jenny Wren fairly shouted it. "Don't you
know Chuck-will's-widow?"
Peter shook his head. "I never heard of such a bird," he
confessed.
"That's what comes of never having traveled," retorted Jenny
Wren. "If you'd ever been in the South the way I have you would
know Chuck-will's-widow. He looks a whole lot like the other two
we've been talking about, but has even a bigger mouth. What's
more, he has whiskers with branches. Now you needn't look as if
you doubted that, Peter Rabbit; it's so. In his habits he's just
like his cousins, no nest and only two eggs. I never saw people
so afraid to raise a real family. If the Wrens didn't do better
than that, I don't know what would become of us." You know Jenny
usually has a family of six or eight.
CHAPTER XXIV The Warblers Arrive.
If there is one family of feathered friends which perplexes Peter
Rabbit more than another, it is the Warbler family.
"So many of them come together and they move about so constantly
that a fellow doesn't have a chance to look at one long enough
to recognize him," complained Peter to Jenny Wren one morning
when the Old Orchard was fairly alive with little birds no bigger
than Jenny Wren herself.
And such restless little folks as they were!
They were not still an instant, flitting from tree to tree, twig
to twig, darting out into the air and all the time keeping up an
endless chattering mingled with little snatches of song. Peter
would no sooner fix his eyes on one than another entirely
different in appearance would take its place. Occasionally he
would see one whom he recognized, one who would stay for the
nesting season. But the majority of them would stop only for a
day or two, being bound farther north to make their summer homes.
Apparently, Jenny Wren did not look upon them altogether with
favor. Perhaps Jenny was a little bit envious, for compared with
the bright colors of some of them Jenny was a very homely small
person indeed. Then, too, there were so many of them and they
were so busy catching all kinds of small insects that it may be
Jenny was a little fearful they would not leave enough for her to
get her own meals easily.
"I don't see what they have to stop here for," scolded Jenny.
"They could just as well go somewhere else where they would not
be taking the food out of the mouths of honest folk who are here
to stay all summer. Did you ever in your life see such uneasy
people? They don't keep still an instant. It positively makes me
tired just to watch them."
Peter couldn't help but chuckle, for Jenny Wren herself is a very
restless and uneasy person. As for Peter, he was thoroughly
enjoying this visit of the Warblers, despite the fact that he was
having no end of trouble trying to tell who was who. Suddenly one
darted down and snapped up a fly almost under Peter's very nose
and was back up in a tree before Peter could get his breath.
"It's Zee Zee the Redstart!" cried Peter joyously. "I would know
Zee Zee anywhere. Do you know who he reminds me of, Jenny Wren?"
"Who?" demanded Jenny.
"Goldy the Oriole," replied Peter promptly. "Only of course he's
ever and ever so much smaller. He's all black and orange-red and
white something as Goldy is, only there isn't quite so much
orange on him."
For just an instant Zee Zee sat still with his tail spread. His
head, throat and back were black and there was a black band
across the end of his tail and a black stripe down the middle of
it. The rest was bright orange-red. On each wing was a band of
orange-red and his sides were the same color. Underneath he was
white tinged more or less with orange.
It was only for an instant that Zee Zee sat still; then he was in
the air, darting, diving, whirling, going through all sorts of
antics as he caught tiny insects too small for Peter to see.
Peter began to wonder how he kept still long enough to sleep at
night. And his voice was quite as busy as his wings. "Zee, zee,
zee, zee!" he would cry. But this was only one of many notes. At
times he would sing a beautiful little song and then again it
would seem as if he were trying to imitate other members of the
Warbler family.
"I do hope Zee Zee is going to stay here," said Peter. "I just
love to watch him."
"He'll stay fast enough," retorted Jenny Wren. "I don't imagine
he'll stay in the Old Orchard and I hope he won't, because if he
does it will make it just that much harder for me to catch enough
to feed my big family. Probably he and Mrs. Redstart will make
their home on the edge of the Green Forest. They like it better
over there, for which I am thankful. There's Mrs Redstart now.
Just notice that where Zee Zee is bright orange-y red she is
yellow, and instead of a black head she has a gray head and her
back is olive-green with a grayish tinge. She isn't nearly as
handsome as Zee Zee, but then, that's not to be expected. She
lets Zee Zee do the singing and the showing off and she does the
work. I expect she'll build that nest with almost no help at all
from him. But Zee Zee is a good father, I'll say that much for
him. He'll do his share in feeding their babies."
Just then Peter caught sight of a bird all in yellow. He was
about the same size as Zee Zee and was flitting about among the
bushes along the old stone wall. "There's Sunshine!" cried
Peter, and without being polite enough to even bid Jenny Wren
farewell, he scampered over to where he could see the one he
called Sunshine flitting about from bush to bush.
"Oh, Sunshine!" he cried, as he came within speaking distance,
"I'm ever and ever so glad to see you back. I do hope you and
Mrs. Sunshine are going to make your home somewhere near here
where I can see you every day."
"Hello, Peter! I am just as glad to see you as you are to see
me," cried Sunshine the Yellow Warbler. "Yes, indeed, we
certainly intend to stay here if we can find just the right place
for our nest. It is lovely to be back here again. We've journeyed
so far that we don't want to go a bit farther if we can help it.
Have you seen Sally Sly the Cowbird around here this spring?"
Peter nodded. "Yes," said he, "I have."
"I'm sorry to hear it," declared Sunshine. "She made us a lot of
trouble last year. But we fooled her."
"How did you fool her?" asked Peter.
Sunshine paused to pick a tiny worm from a leaf. "Well," said he,
"she found our nest just after we had finished it and before Mrs.
Sunshine had had a chance to lay an egg. Of course you know what
she did."
"I can guess," replied Peter. "She laid one of her own eggs in
your nest."
Sunshine stopped to pick two or three more worms from the leaves.
"Yes," said he. "She did just that, the lazy good-for-nothing
creature! But it didn't do her a bit of good, not a bit. That egg
never hatched. We fooled her and that's what we'll do again if
she repeats that trick this year."
"What did you do, throw that egg out?" asked Peter.
"No," replied Sunshine. "Our nest was too deep for us to get that
egg out. We just made a second bottom in our nest right over that
egg and built the sides of the nest a little higher. Then we took
good care that she didn't have a chance to lay another egg in
there."
"Then you had a regular two-story nest, didn't you?" cried Peter,
opening his eyes very wide.
Sunshine nodded. "Yes, sir," said he, "and it was a mighty fine
nest, if I do say it. If there's anything Mrs. Sunshine and I
pride ourselves on it is our nest. There are no babies who have a
softer, cozier home than ours."
"What do you make your nest of?" asked Peter.
"Fine grasses and soft fibers from plants, some hair when we can
find it, and a few feathers. But we always use a lot of that nice
soft fern-cotton. There is nothing softer or nicer that I know
of."
All the time Peter had been admiring Sunshine and thinking how
wonderfully well he was named. At first glance he seemed to be
all yellow, as if somehow he had managed to catch and hold the
sunshine in his feathers. There wasn't a white feather on him.
When he came very close Peter could see that on his breast and
underneath were little streaks of reddish brown and his wings and
tail were a little blackish. Otherwise he was all yellow.
Presently he was joined by Mrs. Sunshine. She was not such a
bright yellow as was Sunshine, having an olive-green tint on her
back. But underneath she was almost clear yellow without the
reddish-brown streaks. She too was glad to see Peter but
couldn't stop to gossip, for already, as she informed Sunshine,
she had found just the place for their nest. Of course Peter
begged to be told where it was. But the two little folks in
yellow snapped their bright eyes at him and told him that that
was their secret and they didn't propose to tell a living soul.
Perhaps if Peter had not been so curious and eager to get
acquainted with other members of the Warbler family he would have
stayed and done a little spying. As it was, he promised himself
to come back to look for that nest after it had been built; then
he scurried back among the trees of the Old Orchard to look for
other friends among the busy little Warblers who were making the
Old Orchard such a lively place that morning.
"There's one thing about it," cried Peter. "Any one can tell Zee
Zee the Redstart by his black and flame colored suit. There is no
other like it. And any one can tell Sunshine the Yellow Warbler
because there isn't anybody else who seems to be all yellow. My,
what a lively, lovely lot these Warblers are!"
CHAPTER XXV Three Cousins Quite Unlike.
As Peter Rabbit passed one of the apple-trees in the Old Orchard,
a thin, wiry voice hailed him. "It's a wonder you wouldn't at
least say you're glad to see me back, Peter Rabbit," said the
voice.
Peter, who had been hopping along rather fast, stopped abruptly
to look up. Running along a limb just over his head, now on top
and now underneath, was a little bird with a black and white
striped coat and a white waistcoat. Just as Peter looked it flew
down to near the base of the tree and began to run straight up
the trunk, picking things from the bark here and there as it ran.
Its way of going up that tree trunk reminded Peter of one of his
winter friends, Seep Seep the Brown Creeper.
"It strikes me that this is a mighty poor welcome for one who has
just come all the way from South America," said the little black
and white bird with twinkling eyes.
"Oh, Creeper, I didn't know you were here!" cried Peter. "You
know I'm glad to see you. I'm just as glad as glad can be. You
are such a quiet fellow I'm afraid I shouldn't have seen you at
all if you hadn't spoken. You know it's always been hard work for
me to believe that you are really and truly a Warbler."
"Why so?" demanded Creeper the Black and White Warbler, for that
is the name by which he is commonly known. "Why so? Don't I look
like a Warbler?"
"Ye-es," said Peter slowly. "You do look like one but you don't
act like one."
"In what way don't I act like one I should like to know?"
demanded Creeper.
"Well," replied Peter, "all the rest of the Warblers are the
uneasiest folks I know of. They can't seem to keep still a
minute. They are everlastingly flitting about this way and that
way and the other way. I actually get tired watching them. But
you are not a bit that way. Then the way you run up tree trunks
and along the limbs isn't a bit Warbler-like. Why don't you flit
and dart about as the others do?"
Creeper's bright eyes sparkled.
"I don't have to," said he. "I'm going to let you into a little
secret, Peter. The rest of them get their living from the leaves
and twigs and in the air, but I've discovered an easier way. I've
found out that there are lots of little worms and insects and
eggs on the trunks and big limbs of the trees and that I can get
the best kind of a living there without flitting about
everlastingly. I don't have to share them with anybody but the
Woodpeckers, Nuthatches, and Tommy Tit the Chickadee."
"That reminds me," said Peter. "Those folks you have mentioned
nest in holes in trees; do you?"
"I should say not," retorted Creeper. "I don't know of any
Warbler who does. I build on the ground, if you want to know. I
nest in the Green Forest. Sometimes I make my nest in a little
hollow at the base of a tree; sometimes I put it under a stump or
rock or tuck it in under the roots of a tree that has been blown
over. But there, Peter Rabbit, I've talked enough. I'm glad
you're glad that I'm back, and I'm glad I'm back too."
Creeper continued on up the trunk of the tree, picking here and
picking there. Just then Peter caught sight of another friend
whom he could always tell by the black mask he wore. It was
Mummer the Yellow-throat. He had just darted into the thicket of
bushes along the old stone wall. Peter promptly hurried over
there to look for him.
When Peter reached the place where he had caught a glimpse of
Mummer, no one was to be seen. Peter sat down, uncertain which
way to go. Suddenly Mummer popped out right in front of Peter,
seemingly from nowhere at all. His throat and breast were bright
yellow and his back wings and tail a soft olive-green. But the
most remarkable thing about him was the mask of black right
across his cheeks, eyes and forehead. At least it looked like a
mask, although it really wasn't one.
"Hello, Mummer!" cried Peter.
"Hello yourself, Peter Rabbit!" retorted Mummer and then
disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.
Peter blinked and looked in vain all about.
"Looking for some one?" asked Mummer, suddenly popping into view
where Peter least expected him.
"For goodness' sake, can't you sit still a minute?" cried Peter.
"How do you expect a fellow can talk to you when he can't keep
his eyes on you more than two seconds at a time."
"Who asked you to talk to me?" responded Mummer, and popped out
of sight. Two seconds later he was back again and his bright
little eyes fairly shone with mischief. Then before Peter could
say a word Mummer burst into a pleasant little song. He was so
full of happiness that Peter couldn't be cross with him.
"There's one thing I like about you, Mummer," declared Peter,
"and that is that I never get you mixed up with anybody else. I
should know you just as far as I could see you because of that
black mask across your face. Has Mrs. Yellow-throat arrived yet?"
"Certainly," replied another voice, and Mrs. Yellow-throat
flitted across right in front of Peter. For just a second she sat
still, long enough for him to have one good look at her. She was
dressed very like Mummer save that she did not wear the black
mask.
Peter was just about to say something polite and pleasant when
from just back of him there sounded a loud, very emphatic, "Chut!
Chut!" Peter whirled about to find another old friend. It was
Chut-Chut the Yellow-breasted Chat, the largest of the Warbler
family. He was so much bigger than Mummer that it was hard to
believe that they were own cousins. But Peter knew they were, and
he also knew that he could never mistake Chut-Chut for any other
member of the family because of his big size, which was that of
some of the members of the Sparrow family. His back was a dark
olive-green, but his throat and breast were a beautiful bright
yellow. There was a broad white line above each eye and a little
white line underneath. Below his breast he was all white.
To have seen him you would have thought that he suspected Peter
might do him some harm. He acted that way. If Peter hadn't known
him so well he might have been offended. But Peter knew that
there is no one among his feathered friends more cautious than
Chut-Chut the Chat. He never takes anything for granted. He
appears to be always on the watch for danger, even to the extent
of suspecting his very best friends.
When he had decided in his own mind that there was no danger,
Chut-Chut came out for a little gossip. But like all the rest of
the Warblers he couldn't keep still. Right in the middle of the
story of his travels from far-away Mexico he flew to the top of a
little tree, began to sing, then flew out into the air with his
legs dangling and his tail wagging up and down in the funniest
way, and there continued his song as he slowly dropped down into
the thicket again. It was a beautiful song and Peter hastened to
tell him so.
Chut-Chut was pleased. He showed it by giving a little concert
all by himself. It seemed to Peter that he never had heard such a
variety of whistles and calls and songs as came from that yellow
throat. When it was over Chut-Chut abruptly said good-by and
disappeared. Peter could hear his sharp "Chut! Chut!" farther
along in the thicket as he hunted for worms among the bushes.
"I wonder," said Peter, speaking out loud without thinking,
"where he builds his nest. I wonder if he builds it on the
ground, the way Creeper does."
"No," declared Mummer, who all the time had been darting about
close at hand. "He doesn't, but I do. Chut-Chut puts his nest
near the ground, however, usually within two or three feet. He
builds it in bushes or briars. Sometimes if I can find a good
tangle of briars I build my nest in it several feet from the
ground, but as a rule I would rather have it on the ground under
a bush or in a clump of weeds. Have you seen my cousin Sprite the
Parula Warbler, yet?"
"Not yet," said Peter, as he started for home.
CHAPTER XXVI Peter Gets a Lame Neck.
For several days it seemed to Peter Rabbit that everywhere he
went he found members of the Warbler family. Being anxious to
know all of them he did his best to remember how each one looked,
but there were so many and some of them were dressed so nearly
alike that after awhile Peter became so mixed that he gave it up
as a bad job. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the
Warblers disappeared. That is to say, most of them disappeared.
You see they had only stopped for a visit, being on their way
farther north.
In his interest in the affairs of others of his feathered
friends, Peter had quite forgotten the Warblers. Then one day
when he was in the Green Forest where the spruce-trees grow, he
stopped to rest. This particular part of the Green Forest was low
and damp, and on many of the trees gray moss grew, hanging down
from the branches and making the trees look much older than they
really were. Peter was staring at a hanging branch of this moss
without thinking anything about it when suddenly a little bird
alighted on it and disappeared in it. At least, that is what
Peter thought. But it was all so unexpected that he couldn't be
sure his eyes hadn't fooled him.
Of course, right away he became very much interested in that
bunch of moss. He stared at it very hard. At first it looked no
different from a dozen other bunches of moss, but presently he
noticed that it was a little thicker than other bunches, as if
somehow it had been woven together. He hopped off to one side so
he could see better. It looked as if in one side of that bunch of
moss was a little round hole. Peter blinked and looked very hard
indeed to make sure. A minute later there was no doubt at all,
for a little feathered head was poked out and a second later a
dainty mite of a bird flew out and alighted very close to Peter.
It was one of the smaller members of the Warbler family.
"Sprite!" cried Peter joyously. "I missed you when your cousins
passed through here, and I thought you had gone to the Far North
with the rest of them."
"Well, I haven't, and what's more I'm not going to go on to the
Far North. I'm going to stay right here," declared Sprite the
Parula Warbler, for that is who it was.
As Peter looked at Sprite he couldn't help thinking that there
wasn't a daintier member in the whole Warbler family. His coat
was of a soft bluish color with a yellowish patch in the very
center of his back. Across each wing were two bars of white. His
throat was yellow. Just beneath it was a little band of
bluish-black. His breast was yellow and his sides were grayish
and brownish-chestnut.
"Sprite, you're just beautiful," declared Peter in frank
admiration. "What was the reason I didn't see you up in the Old
Orchard with your cousins?"
"Because I wasn't there," was Sprite's prompt reply as he flitted
about, quite unable to sit still a minute. "I wasn't there
because I like the Green Forest better, so I came straight here."
"What were you doing just now in that bunch of moss?" demanded
Peter, a sudden suspicion of the truth hopping into his head.
"Just looking it over," replied Sprite, trying to look innocent.
At that very instant Peter looked up just in time to see a tail
disappearing in the little round hole in the side of the bunch of
moss. He knew that that tail belonged to Mrs. Sprite, and just
that glimpse told him all he wanted to know.
"You've got a nest in there!" Peter exclaimed excitedly. "There's
no use denying it, Sprite; you've got a nest in there! What a
perfectly lovely place for a nest."
Sprite saw at once that it would be quite useless to try to
deceive Peter. "Yes," said he, "Mrs. Sprite and I have a nest in
there. We've just finished it. I think myself it is rather nice.
We always build in moss like this. All we have to do is to find a
nice thick bunch and then weave it together at the bottom and
line the inside with fine grasses. It looks so much like all the
rest of the bunches of moss that it is seldom any one finds it. I
wouldn't trade nests with anybody I know."
"Isn't it rather lonesome over here by yourselves?" asked Peter.
"Not at all," replied Sprite. "You see, we are not as much alone
as you think. My cousin, Fidget the Myrtle Warbler, is nesting
not very far away, and another cousin Weechi the Magnolia Warbler
is also quite near. Both have begun housekeeping already."
Of course Peter was all excitement and interest at once. "Where
are their homes?" he asked eagerly. "Tell me where they are and
I'll go straight over and call."
"Peter," said Sprite severely, "you ought to know better than to
ask me to tell you anything of this kind. You have been around
enough to know that there is no secret so precious as the secret
of a home. You happened to find mine, and I guess I can trust you
not to tell anybody where it is. If you can find the homes of
Fidget and Weechi, all right, but I certainly don't intend to
tell you where they are."
Peter knew that Sprite was quite right in refusing to tell the
secrets of his cousins, but he couldn't think of going home
without at least looking for those homes. He tried to look very
innocent as he asked if they also were in hanging bunches of
moss. But Sprite was too smart to be fooled and Peter learned
nothing at all.
For some time Peter hopped around this way and that way, thinking
every bunch of moss he saw must surely contain a nest. But though
he looked and looked and looked, not another little round hole
did he find, and there were so many bunches of moss that finally
his neck ached from tipping his head back so much. Now Peter
hasn't much patience as he might have, so after a while he gave
up the search and started on his way home. On higher ground, just
above the low swampy place where grew the moss-covered trees, he
came to a lot of young hemlock-trees. These had no moss on them.
Having given up his search Peter was thinking of other things
when there flitted across in front of him a black and gray bird
with a yellow cap, yellow sides, and a yellow patch at the root
of his tail. Those yellow patches were all Peter needed to see to
recognize Fidget the Myrtle Warbler, one of the two friends he
had been so long looking for down among the moss-covered trees.
"Oh, Fidget!" cried Peter, hurrying after the restless little
bird. "Oh, Fidget! I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Well, here I am," retorted Fidget. "You didn't look everywhere
or you would have found me before. What can I do for you?" All
the time Fidget was hopping and flitting about, never still an
instant.
"Yon can tell me where your nest is," replied Peter promptly.
"I can, but I won't," retorted Fidget. "Now honestly, Peter, do
yon think you have any business to ask such a question?"
Peter hung his head and then replied quite honestly, "No I don't,
Fidget. But you see Sprite told me that you had a nest not very
far from his and I've looked at bunches of moss until I've got a
crick in the back of my neck."
"Bunches of moss!" exclaimed Fidget. "What under the sun do you
think I have to do with bunches of moss?"
"Why--why--I just thought you probably had your nest in one, the
same as your cousin Sprite."
Fidget laughed right out. "I'm afraid you would have a worse
crick in the back of your neck than you've got now before ever
you found my nest in a bunch of moss," said he. "Moss may suit my
cousin Sprite, but it doesn't suit me at all. Besides, I don't
like those dark places where the moss grows on the trees. I build
my nest of twigs and grass and weed-stalks and I line it with
hair and rootlets and feathers. Sometimes I bind it together with
spider silk, and if you really want to know, I like a little
hemlock-tree to put it in. It isn't very far from here, but where
it is I'm not going to tell you. Have you seen my cousin, Weechi?"
"No," replied Peter. "Is he anywhere around here?"
"Right here," replied another voice and Weechi the Magnolia
Warbler dropped down on the ground for just a second right in
front of Peter.
The top of his head and the back of his neck were gray. Above his
eye was a white stripe and his cheeks were black. His throat was
clear yellow, just below which was a black band. From this black
streaks ran down across his yellow breast. At the root of his
tail he was yellow. His tail was mostly black on top and white
underneath.
His wings were black and gray with two white bars. He was a
little smaller than Fidget the Myrtle Warbler and quite as
restless.
Peter fairly itched to ask Weechi where his nest was, but by this
time he had learned a lesson, so wisely kept his tongue still.
"What were you fellows talking about?" asked Weechi.
"Nests," replied Fidget. "I've just been telling Peter that while
Cousin Sprite may like to build in that hanging moss down there,
it wouldn't suit me at all."
"Nor me either," declared Weechi promptly. "I prefer to build a
real nest just as you do. By the way, Fidget, I stopped to look
at your nest this morning. I find we build a good deal alike and
we like the same sort of a place to put it. I suppose you know
that I am a rather near neighbor of yours?"
"Of course I know it," replied Fidget. "In fact I watched you
start your nest. Don't you think you have it rather near the
ground?"
"Not too near, Fidget; not too near. I am not as high-minded as
some people. I like to be within two or three feet of the
ground."
"I do myself," replied Fidget.
Fidget and Weechi became so interested in discussing nests and
the proper way of building them they quite forgot Peter Rabbit.
Peter sat around for a while listening, but being more interested
in seeing those nests than hearing about them, he finally stole
away to look for them.
He looked and looked, but there were so many young hemlock-trees
and they looked so much alike that finally Peter lost patience
and gave it up as a bad job.
CHAPTER XXVII A New Friend and an Old One.
Peter Rabbit never will forget the first time he caught a glimpse
of Glory the Cardinal, sometimes called Redbird. He had come up
to the Old Orchard for his usual morning visit and just as he
hopped over the old stone wall he heard a beautiful clear, loud
whistle which drew his eyes to the top of an apple-tree. Peter
stopped short with a little gasp of sheer astonishment and
delight. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked again. He couldn't
quite believe that he saw what he thought he saw. He hadn't
supposed that any one, even among the feathered folks, could be
quite so beautiful.
The stranger was dressed all in red, excepting a little black
around the base of his bill. Even his bill was red. He wore a
beautiful red crest which made him still more distinguished
looking, and how he could sing! Peter had noticed that quite
often the most beautifully dressed birds have the poorest songs.
But this stranger's song was as beautiful as his coat, and that
was one of the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful, that
Peter ever had seen. Of course he lost no time in hunting up
Jenny Wren. "Who is it, Jenny? Who is that beautiful stranger
with such a lovely song?" cried Peter, as soon as he caught sight
of Jenny.
"It's Glory the Cardinal," replied Jenny Wren promptly. "Isn't he
the loveliest thing you've ever seen? I do hope he is going to
stay here. As I said before, I don't often envy any one's fine
clothes, but when I see Glory I'm sometimes tempted to be
envious. If I were Mrs. Cardinal I'm afraid I should be jealous.
There she is in the very same tree with him. Did you ever see
such a difference?"
Peter looked eagerly. Instead of the glorious red of Glory, Mrs.
Cardinal wore a very dull dress. Her back was a brownish-gray.
Her throat was a grayish-black. Her breast was a dull buff with a
faint tinge of red. Her wings and tail were tinged with dull red.
Altogether she was very soberly dressed, but a trim, neat looking
little person. But if she wasn't handsomely dressed she could
sing. In fact she was almost as good a singer as her handsome
husband.
"I've noticed," said Peter, "that people with fine clothes spend
most of their time thinking about them and are of very little use
when it comes to real work in life."
"Well, you needn't think that of Glory," declared Jenny in her
vigorous way. "He's just as fine as he is handsome. He's a model
husband. If they make their home around here you'll find him
doing his full share in the care of their babies. Sometimes they
raise two families. When they do that, Glory takes charge of the
first lot of youngsters as soon as they are able to leave the
nest so that Mrs. Cardinal has nothing to worry about while she
is sitting on the second lot of eggs. He fusses over them as if
they were the only children in the world. Everybody loves Glory.
Excuse me, Peter, I'm going over to find out if they are really
going to stay."
When Jenny returned she was so excited she couldn't keep still a
minute. "They like here, Peter!" she cried. "They like here so
much that if they can find a place to suit them for a nest
they're going to stay. I told them that it is the very best place
in the world. They like an evergreen tree to build in, and I
think they've got their eyes on those evergreens up near Farmer
Brown's house. My, they will add a lot to the quality of this
neighborhood."
Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal whistled and sang as if their hearts were
bursting with joy, and Peter sat around listening as if he had
nothing else in the world to do. Probably he would have sat there
the rest of the morning had he not caught sight of an old friend
of whom he is very fond, Kitty the Catbird. In contrast with
Glory, Kitty seemed a regular little Quaker, for he was dressed
almost wholly in gray, a rather dark, slaty-gray. The top of his
head and tail were black, and right at the base of his tail was a
patch of chestnut color. He was a little smaller than Welcome
Robin. There was no danger of mistaking him for anybody else, for
there is no one dressed at all like him.
Peter forgot all about Glory in his pleasure at discovering the
returned Kitty and hurried over to welcome him. Kitty had
disappeared among the bushes along the old stone wall, but Peter
had no trouble in finding him by the queer cries he was uttering,
which were very like the meow of Black Pussy the Cat. They were
very harsh and unpleasant and Peter understood perfectly why
their maker is called the Catbird. He did not hurry in among the
bushes at once but waited expectantly. In a few minutes the harsh
cries ceased and then there came from the very same place a song
which seemed to be made up of parts of the songs of all the other
birds of the Old Orchard. It was not loud, but it was charming.
It contained the clear whistle of Glory, and there was even the
tinkle of Little Friend the Song Sparrow. The notes of other
friends were in that song, and with them were notes of southern
birds whose songs Kitty had learned while spending the winter in
the South. Then there were notes all his own.
Peter listened until the song ended, then scampered in among the
bushes. At once those harsh cries broke out again. You would have
thought that Kitty was scolding Peter for coming to see him
instead of being glad. But that was just Kitty's way. He is
simply brimming over with fun and mischief, and delights to
pretend.
When Peter found him, he was sitting with all his feathers puffed
out until he looked almost like a ball with a head and tail. He
looked positively sleepy. Then as he caught sight of Peter he
drew those feathers down tight, cocked his tail up after the
manner of Jenny Wren, and was as slim and trim looking as any
bird of Peter's acquaintance. He didn't look at all like the same
bird of the moment before. Then he dropped his tail as if he
hadn't strength enough to hold it up at all. It hung straight
down. He dropped his wings and all in a second made himself look
fairly disreputable. But all the time his eyes were twinkling and
snapping, and Peter knew that these changes in appearance were
made out of pure fun and mischief.
"I've been wondering if you were coming hack," cried Peter. "I
don't know of any one of my feathered friends I would miss so
much as you."
"Thank you," responded Kitty. "It's very nice of you to say that,
Peter. If you are glad to see me I am still more glad to get
back."
"Did you pass a pleasant winter down South?" asked Peter.
"Fairly so. Fairly so," replied Kitty. "By the way, Peter, I
picked up some new songs down there. Would you like to hear
them?"
"Of course," replied Peter, "but I don't think you need any new
songs. I've never seen such a fellow for picking up other
people's songs excepting Mocker the Mockingbird."
At the mention of Mocker a little cloud crossed Kitty's face for
just an instant. "There's a fellow I really envy," said he. "I'm
pretty good at imitating others, but Mocker is better. I'm hoping
that, if I practice enough, some day I can be as good. I saw a
lot of him in the South and he certainly is clever."
"Huh! You don't need to envy him," retorted Peter. "You are some
imitator yourself. How about those new notes you got when you
were in the South?"
Kitty's face cleared, his throat swelled and he began to sing. It
was a regular medley. It didn't seem as if so many notes could
come from one throat. When it ended Peter had a question all
ready.
"Are you going to build somewhere near here?" he asked.
"I certainly am," replied Kitty. "Mrs. Catbird was delayed a day
or two. I hope she'll get here to-day and then we'll get busy at
once. I think we shall build in these bushes here somewhere. I'm
glad Farmer Brown has sense enough to let them grow. They are
just the kind of a place I like for a nest. They are near enough
to Farmer Brown's garden, and the Old Orchard is right here.
That's just the kind of a combination that suits me."
Peter looked somewhat uncertain. "Why do you want to be near
Farmer Brown's garden?" he asked.
"Because that is where I will get a good part of my living,"
Kitty responded promptly. "He ought to be glad to have me about.
Once in a while I take a little fruit, but I pay for it ten times
over by the number of bugs and worms I get in his garden and the
Old Orchard. I pride myself on being useful. There's nothing like
being useful in this world, Peter."
Peter nodded as if he quite agreed. Though, as you know and I
know, Peter himself does very little except fill his own big
stomach.
CHAPTER XXVIII Peter Sees Rosebreast and Finds Redcoat.
"Who's that?" Peter Rabbit pricked up his long ears and stared up
at the tops of the trees of the Old Orchard.
Instantly Jenny Wren popped her head out of her doorway. She
cocked her head on one side to listen, then looked down at Peter,
and her sharp little eyes snapped.
"I don't hear any strange voice," said she. "The way you are
staring, Peter Rabbit, one would think that you had really heard
something new and worth while."
Just then there were two or three rather sharp, squeaky notes
from the top of one of the trees. "There!" cried Peter. "There!
Didn't you hear that, Jenny Wren?"
"For goodness' sake, Peter Rabbit, you don't mean to say you
don't know whose voice that is," she cried. "That's Rosebreast.
He and Mrs. Rosebreast have been here for quite a little while.
I didn't suppose there was any one who didn't know those sharp,
squeaky voices. They rather get on my nerves. What anybody wants
to squeak like that for when they can sing as Rosebreast can, is
more than I can understand."
At that very instant Mr. Wren began to scold as only he and Jenny
can. Peter looked up at Jenny and winked slyly. "And what anybody
wants to scold like that for when they can sing as Mr. Wren can,
is too much for me," retorted Peter. "But you haven't told me who
Rosebreast is."
"The Grosbeak, of course, stupid," sputtered Jenny. "If you don't
know Rosebreast the Grosbeak, Peter Rabbit, you certainly must
have been blind and deaf ever since you were born. Listen to
that! Just listen to that song!"
Peter listened. There were many songs, for it was a very
beautiful morning and all the singers of the Old Orchard were
pouring out the joy that was within them. One song was a little
louder and clearer than the others because it came from a tree
very close at hand, the very tree from which those squeaky notes
had come just a few minutes before. Peter suspected that that
must be the song Jenny Wren meant. He looked puzzled. He was
puzzled. "Do you mean Welcome Robin's song?" he asked rather
sheepishly, for he had a feeling that he would be the victim of
Jenny Wren's sharp tongue.
"No, I don't mean Welcome Robin's song," snapped Jenny. "What
good are a pair of long ears if they can't tell one song from
another? That song may sound something like Welcome Robin's, but
if your ears were good for anything at all you'd know right away
that that isn't Welcome Robin singing. That's a better song than
Welcome Robin's. Welcome Robin's song is one of good cheer, but
this one is of pure happiness. I wouldn't have a pair of ears
like yours for anything in the world, Peter Rabbit."
Peter laughed right out as he tried to picture to himself Jenny
Wren with a pair of long ears like his. "What are you laughing
at?" demanded Jenny crossly. "Don't you dare laugh at me! If
there is any one thing I can't stand it is being laughed at."
"I wasn't laughing at you," replied Peter very meekly. "I was
just laughing, at the thought of how funny you would look with a
pair of long ears like mine. Now you speak of it, Jenny, that
song IS quite different from Welcome Robin's."
"Of course it is," retorted Jenny. "That is Rosebreast singing up
there, and there he is right in the top of that tree. Isn't he
handsome?"
Peter looked up to see a bird a little smaller than Welcome
Robin. His head, throat and back were black. His wings were black
with patches of white on them. But it was his breast that made
Peter catch his breath with a little gasp of admiration, for that
breast was a beautiful rose-red. The rest of him underneath was
white. It was Rosebreast the Grosbeak.
"Isn't he lovely!"' cried Peter, and added in the next breath,
"Who is that with him?"
"Mrs. Grosbeak, of course. Who else would it be?" sputtered Jenny
rather crossly, for she was still a little put out because she
had been laughed at.
"I would never have guessed it," said Peter. "She doesn't look
the least bit like him."
This was quite true. There was no beautiful rose color about Mrs.
Grosbeak. She was dressed chiefly in brown and grayish colors
with a little buff here and there and with dark streaks on her
breast. Over each eye was a whitish line. Altogether she looked
more as if she might be a big member of the Sparrow family than
the wife of handsome Rosebreast. While Rosebreast sang, Mrs.
Grosbeak was very busily picking buds and blossoms from the tree.
"What is she doing that for?" inquired Peter.
"For the same reason that you bite off sweet clover blossoms and
leaves," replied Jenny Wren tartly.
"Do you mean to say that they live on buds and blossoms?" cried
Peter. "I never heard of such a thing."
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut! You can ask more silly questions than
anybody of my acquaintance," retorted Jenny Wren. "Of course they
don't live on buds and blossoms. If they did they would soon
starve to death, for buds and blossoms don't last long. They eat
a few just for variety, but they live mostly on bugs and insects.
You ask Farmer Brown's boy who helps him most in his potato
patch, and he'll tell you it's the Grosbeaks. They certainly do
love potato bugs. They eat some fruit, but on the whole they are
about as useful around a garden as any one I know. Now run along,
Peter Rabbit, and don't bother me any more.
Seeing Farmer Brown's boy coming through the Old Orchard Peter
decided that it was high time for him to depart. So he scampered
for the Green Forest, lipperty-lipperty-lip. Just within the edge
of the Green Forest he caught sight of something which for the
time being put all thought of Farmer Brown's boy out of his head.
Fluttering on the ground was a bird than whom not even Glory the
Cardinal was more beautiful. It was about the size of Redwing the
Blackbird. Wings and tail were pure black and all the rest was a
beautiful scarlet. It was Redcoat the Tanager. At first Peter had
eyes only for the wonderful beauty of Redcoat. Never before had
he seen Redcoat so close at hand. Then quite suddenly it came
over Peter that something was wrong with Redcoat, and he hurried
forward to see what the trouble might be.
Redcoat heard the rustle of Peter's feet among the dry leaves and
at once began to flap and flutter in an effort to fly away, but
he could not get off the ground. "What is it, Redcoat? Has
something happened to you? It is just Peter Rabbit. You don't
have anything to fear from me," cried Peter.
The look of terror which had been in the eyes of Redcoat died
out, and he stopped fluttering and simply lay panting.
"Oh, Peter," he gasped, "you don't know how glad I am that it is
only you. I've had a terrible accident, and I don't know what I
am to do. I can't fly, and if I have to stay on the ground some
enemy will be sure to get me. What shall I do, Peter? What shall
I do?"
Right away Peter was full of sympathy. "What kind of an accident
was it, Redcoat, and how did it happen?" he asked.
"Broadwing the Hawk tried to catch me," sobbed Redcoat. "In
dodging him among the trees I was heedless for a moment and did
not see just where I was going. I struck a sharp-pointed dead
twig and drove it right through my right wing."
Redcoat held up his right wing and sure enough there was a little
stick projecting from both sides close up to the shoulder. The
wing was bleeding a little.
"Oh, dear, whatever shall I do, Peter Rabbit? Whatever shall I
do?" sobbed Redcoat.
"Does it pain you dreadfully?" asked Peter.
Redcoat nodded. "But I don't mind the pain," he hastened to say.
"It is the thought of what MAY happen to me."
Meanwhile Mrs. Tanager was flying about in the tree tops near at
hand and calling anxiously. She was dressed almost wholly in
light olive-green and greenish-yellow. She looked no more like
beautiful Redcoat than did Mrs. Grosbeak like Rosebreast.
"Can't you fly up just a little way so as to get off the ground?"
she cried anxiously. "Isn't it dreadful, Peter Rabbit, to have
such an accident? We've just got our nest half built, and I don't
know what I shall do if anything happens to Redcoat. Oh, dear,
here comes somebody! Hide, Redcoat! Hide!" Mrs. Tanager flew off
a short distance to one side and began to cry as if in the
greatest distress. Peter knew instantly that she was crying to
get the attention of whoever was coming.
Poor Redcoat, with the old look of terror in his eyes, fluttered
along, trying to find something under which to hide. But there
was nothing under which he could crawl, and there was no hiding
that wonderful red coat. Peter heard the sound of heavy
footsteps, and looking back, saw that Farmer Brown's boy was
coming. "Don't be afraid, Redcoat," he whispered. "It's Farmer
Brown's boy and I'm sure he won't hurt you. Perhaps he can help
you." Then Peter scampered off for a short distance and sat up to
watch what would happen.
Of coarse Farmer Brown's boy saw Redcoat. No one with any eyes at
all could have helped seeing him, because of that wonderful
scarlet coat. He saw, too, by the way Redcoat was acting, that he
was in great trouble. As Farmer Brown's boy drew near and Redcoat
saw that he was discovered, he tried his hardest to flutter away.
Farmer Brown's boy understood instantly that something was wrong
with one wing, and running forward, he caught Redcoat.
"You poor little thing. You poor, beautiful little creature,"
said Farmer Brown's boy softly as he saw the cruel twig sticking
through Redcoats' shoulder. "We'll have to get that out right
away," continued Farmer Brown's boy, stroking Redcoat ever so
gently.
Somehow at that gentle touch Redcoat lost much of his fear, and a
little hope sprang in his heart. He saw, too, this was no enemy,
but a friend. Farmer Brown's boy took out his knife and carefully
cut off the twig on the upper side of the wing. Then, doing his
best to be careful and to hurt as little as possible, he worked
the other part of the twig out from the under side. Carefully he
examined the wing to see if any bones were broken. None were, and
after holding Redcoat a few minutes he carefully set him up in a
tree and withdrew a short distance. Redcoat hopped from branch to
branch until he was halfway up the tree. Then he sat there for
some time as if fearful of trying that injured wing. Meanwhile
Mrs. Tanager came and fussed about him and talked to him and
coaxed him and made as much of him as if he were a baby.
Peter remained right where he was until at last he saw Redcoat
spread his black wings and fly to another tree. From tree to tree
he flew, resting a bit in each until he and Mrs. Tanager
disappeared in the Green Forest.
"I knew Farmer Brown's boy would help him, and I'm so glad he
found him," cried Peter happily and started for the dear Old
Briar-patch.
CHAPTER XXIX The Constant Singers.
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.
CHAPTER XXX Jenny Wren's Cousins.
Peter Rabbit never will forget his surprise when Jenny Wren asked
him one spring morning if he had seen anything of her big cousin.
Peter hesitated. As a matter of fact, he couldn't think of any
big cousin of Jenny Wren. All the cousins he knew anything about
were very nearly Jenny's own size.
Now Jenny Wren is one of the most impatient small persons in the
world. "Well, well, well, Peter, have you lost your tongue?" she
chattered. "Can't you answer a simple question without talking
all day about it? Have you seen anything of my big cousin? It is
high time for him to be here."
"You needn't be so cross about it if I am slow," replied Peter.
"I'm just trying to think who your big cousin is. I guess, to be
quite honest, I don't know him."
"Don't know him! Don't know him!" Sputtered Jenny. "Of course you
know him. You can't help but know him. I mean Brownie the
Thrasher."
In his surprise Peter fairly jumped right off the ground. "What's
that?" he exclaimed. "Since when was Brownie the Thrasher related
to the Wren family?"
"Ever since there have been any Wrens and Thrashers," retorted
Jenny. "Brownie belongs to one branch of the family and I belong
to another, and that makes him my second cousin. It certainly is
surprising how little some folks know."
"But I have always supposed he belonged to the Thrush family,"
protested Peter. "He certainly looks like a Thrush."
"Looking like one doesn't make him one," snapped Jenny. "By this
time you ought to leave learned that you never can judge anybody
just by looks. It always makes me provoked to hear Brownie called
the Brown Thrush. There isn't a drop of Thrush blood in him. But
you haven't answered my question yet, Peter Rabbit. I want to
know if he has got here yet."
"Yes," said Peter. "I saw him only yesterday on the edge of the
Old Pasture. He was fussing around in the bushes and on the
ground and jerking that long tail of his up and down and sidewise
as if he couldn't decide what to do with it. I've never seen
anybody twitch their tail around the way he does."
Jenny Wren giggled. "That's just like him," said she. "It is
because he thrashes his tail around so much that he is called a
Thrasher. I suppose he was wearing his new spring suit."
"I don't know whether it was a new suit or not, but it was mighty
good looking," replied Peter. "I just love that beautiful
reddish-brown of his back, wings and tail, and it certainly does
set off his white and buff waistcoat with those dark streaks and
spots. You must admit, Jenny Wren, that any one seeing him
dressed so much like the Thrushes is to be excused for thinking
him a Thrush."
"I suppose so," admitted Jenny rather grudgingly. "But none of
the Thrushes have such a bright brown coat. Brownie is handsome,
if I do say so. Did you notice what a long bill he has?"
Peter nodded. "And I noticed that he had two white bars on each
wing," said he.
"I'm glad you're so observing," replied Jenny dryly. "Did you
hear him sing?"
"Did I hear him sing!" cried Peter, his eyes shining at the
memory. "He sang especially for me. He flew up to the top of a
tree, tipped his head back and sang as few birds I know of can
sing. He has a wonderful voice, has Brownie. I don't know of
anybody I enjoy listening to more. And when he's singing he acts
as if he enjoyed it himself and knows what a good singer he is. I
noticed that long tail of his hung straight down the same way Mr.
Wren's does when he sings."
"Of course it did," replied Jenny promptly. "That's a family
trait. The tails of both my other big cousins do the same thing."
"Wha-wha-what's that? Have you got more big cousins?" cried
Peter, staring up at Jenny as if she were some strange person he
never had seen before.
"Certainly," retorted Jenny. "Mocker the Mockingbird and Kitty
the Catbird belong to Brownie's family, and that makes them
second cousins to me."
Such a funny expression as there was on Peter's face. He felt
that Jenny Wren was telling the truth, but it was surprising news
to him and so hard to believe that for a few minutes he couldn't
find his tongue to ask another question. Finally he ventured to
ask very timidly, "Does Brownie imitate the songs of other birds
the way Mocker and Kitty do?"
Jenny Wren shook her head very decidedly. "No," said she. "He's
perfectly satisfied with his own song." Before she could add
anything further the clear whistle of Glory the Cardinal sounded
from a tree just a little way off. Instantly Peter forgot all
about Jenny Wren's relatives and scampered over to that tree. You
see Glory is so beautiful that Peter never loses a chance to see
him.
As Peter sat staring up into the tree, trying to get a glimpse of
Glory's beautiful red coat, the clear, sweet whistle sounded once
more. It drew Peter's eyes to one of the upper branches, but
instead of the beautiful, brilliant coat of Glory the Cardinal he
saw a bird about the size of Welcome Robin dressed in sober
ashy-gray with two white bars on his wings, and white feathers on
the outer edges of his tail. He was very trim and neat and his
tail hung straight down after the manner of Brownie's when he
was singing. It was a long tail, but not as long as Brownie's.
Even as Peter blinked and stared in surprise the stranger opened
his mouth and from it came Glory's own beautiful whistle. Then
the stranger looked down at Peter, and his eyes twinkled with
mischief.
"Fooled you that time, didn't I, Peter?" he chuckled. "You
thought you were going to see Glory the Cardinal, didn't you?"
Then without waiting for Peter to reply, this sober-looking
stranger gave such a concert as no one else in the world could
give. From that wonderful throat poured out song after song and
note after note of Peter's familiar friends of the Old Orchard,
and the performance wound up with a lovely song which was all the
stranger's own. Peter didn't have to be told who the stranger
was. It was Mocker the Mockingbird.
"Oh!" gasped Peter. "Oh, Mocker, how under the sun do you do it?
I was sure that it was Glory whom I heard whistling. Never again
will I be able to believe my own ears."
Mocker chuckled. "You're not the only one I've fooled, Peter,"
said he. "I flatter myself that I can fool almost anybody if I
set out to. It's lots of fun. I may not be much to look at, but
when it comes to singing there's no one I envy.
"I think you are very nice looking indeed," replied Peter
politely. "I've just been finding out this morning that you can't
tell much about folks just by their looks."
"And now you've learned that you can't always recognize folks by
their voices, haven't you?" chuckled Mocker.
"Yes," replied Peter. "Hereafter I shall never be sure about any
feathered folks unless I can both see and hear them. Won't you
sing for me again, Mocker?"
Mocker did. He sang and sang, for he clearly loves to sing. When
he finished Peter had another question ready. "Somebody told me
once that down in the South you are the best loved of all the
birds. Is that so?"
"That's not for me to say," replied Mocker modestly. "But I can
tell you this, Peter, they do think a lot of me down there. There
are many birds down there who are very beautifully dressed, birds
who don't come up here at all. But not one of them is loved as I
am, and it is all on account of my voice. I would rather have a
beautiful voice than a fine coat."
Peter nodded as if he quite agreed, which, when you think of it,
is rather funny, for Peter has neither a fine coat nor a fine
voice. A glint of mischief sparkled in Mocker's eyes. "There's
Mrs. Goldy the Oriole over there," said he. "Watch me fool her."
He began to call in exact imitation of Goldy's voice when he is
anxious about something. At once Mrs. Goldy came hurrying over to
find out what the trouble was. When she discovered Mocker she
lost her temper and scolded him roundly; then she flew away a
perfect picture of indignation. Mocker and Peter laughed, for
they thought it a good joke.
Suddenly Peter remembered what Jenny Wren had told him. "Was
Jenny Wren telling you the truth when she said that you are a
second cousin of hers?" he asked.
Mocker nodded. "Yes," said he, "we are relatives. We each belong
to a branch of the same family." Then he burst into Mr. Wren's
own song, after which he excused himself and went to look for
Mrs. Mocker. For, as he explained, it was time for them to he
thinking of a nest.
CHAPTER XXXI Voices of the Dusk.
Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun was just going to bed behind the Purple
Hills and the Black Shadows had begun to creep all through the
Green Forest and out across the Green Meadows. It was the hour of
the day Peter Rabbit loves best. He sat on the edge of the Green
Forest watching for the first little star to twinkle high up in
the sky. Peter felt at peace with all the Great World, for it was
the hour of peace, the hour of rest for those who had been busy
all through the shining day.
Most of Peter's feathered friends had settled themselves for the
coming night, the worries and cares of the day over and
forgotten. All the Great World seemed hushed. In the distance
Sweetvoice the Vesper Sparrow was pouring out his evening song,
for it was the hour when he dearly loves to sing. Far back in the
Green Forest Whip-poor-will was calling as if his very life
depended on the number of times he could say, "Whip poor Will,"
without taking a breath. From overhead came now and then the
sharp, rather harsh cry of Boomer the Nighthawk, as he hunted his
supper in the air.
For a time it seemed as if these were the only feathered friends
still awake, and Peter couldn't help thinking that those who went
so early to bed missed the most beautiful hour of the whole day.
Then, from a tree just back of him, there poured forth a song so
clear, so sweet, so wonderfully suited to that peaceful hour,
that Peter held his breath until it was finished. He knew that
singer and loved him. It was Melody the Wood Thrush.
When the song ended Peter hopped over to the tree from which it
had come. It was still light enough for him to see the sweet
singer. He sat on a branch near the top, his head thrown back and
his soft, full throat throbbing with the flute-like notes he was
pouring forth. He was a little smaller than Welcome Robin. His
coat was a beautiful reddish-brown, not quite so bright as that
of Brownie the Thrasher. Beneath he was white with large, black
spots thickly dotting his breast and sides. He was singing as if
he were trying to put into those beautiful notes all the joy of
life. Listening to it Peter felt steal over him a wonderful
feeling of peace and pure happiness. Not for the world would he
have interrupted it.
The Black Shadows crept far across the Green Meadows and it
became so dusky in the Green Forest that Peter could barely make
out the sweet singer above his head. Still Melody sang on and the
hush of eventide grew deeper, as if all the Great World were
holding its breath to listen. It was not until several little
stars had begun to twinkle high up in the sky that Melody stopped
singing and sought the safety of his hidden perch for the night.
Peter felt sure that somewhere near was a nest and that one thing
which had made that song so beautiful was the love Melody lad
been trying to express to the little mate sitting on the eggs
that nest must contain. "I'll just run over here early in the
morning," thought Peter.
Now Peter is a great hand to stay out all night, and that is just
what he did that night. Just before it was time for jolly, round,
red Mr. Sun to kick off his rosy blankets and begin his daily
climb up in the blue, blue sky, Peter started for home in the
dear Old Briar-patch. Everywhere in the Green Forest, in the Old
Orchard, on the Green Meadows, his feathered friends were
awakening. He had quite forgotten his intention to visit Melody
and was reminded of it only when again he heard those beautiful
flute-like notes. At once he scampered over to where he had spent
such a peaceful hour the evening before. Melody saw him at once
and dropped down on the ground for a little gossip while he
scratched among the leaves in search of his breakfast.
"I just love to hear you sing, Melody," cried Peter rather
breathlessly. "I don't know of any other song that makes me feel
quite as yours does, so sort of perfectly contented and free of
care and worry."
"Thank you," replied Melody. "I'm glad you like to hear me sing
for there is nothing I like to do better. It is the one way in
which I can express my feelings. I love all the Great World and I
just have to tell it so. I do not mean to boast when I say that
all the Thrush family have good voices."
"But you have the best of all," cried Peter.
Melody shook his brown head. "I wouldn't say that," said he
modestly. "I think the song of my cousin Hermit, is even more
beautiful than mine. And then there is my other cousin, Veery.
His song is wonderful, I think."
But just then Peter's curiosity was greater than his interest in
songs. "Have you built your nest yet?" he asked.
Melody nodded. "It is in a little tree not far from here," said
he, "and Mrs. Wood Thrush is sitting on five eggs this blessed
minute. Isn't that perfectly lovely?"
It was Peter's turn to nod. "What is your nest built of?" he
inquired.
"Rootlets and tiny twigs and weed stalks and leaves and mud,"
replied Melody.
"Mud!" exclaimed Peter. "Why, that's what Welcome Robin uses in
his nest."
"Well, Welcome Robin is my own cousin, so I don't know as there's
anything so surprising in that," retorted Melody.
"Oh," said Peter. "I had forgotten that he is a member of the
Thrush family."
"Well, he is, even if he is dressed quite differently from the
rest of us," replied Melody.
"You mentioned your cousin, Hermit. I don't believe I know him,"
said Peter.
"Then it's high time you got acquainted with him," replied Melody
promptly. "He is rather fond of being by himself and that is why
he is called the Hermit Thrush. He is smaller than I and his coat
is not such a bright brown. His tail is brighter than his coat.
He has a waistcoat spotted very much like mine. Some folks
consider him the most beautiful singer of the Thrush family. I'm
glad you like my song, but you must hear Hermit sing. I really
think there is no song so beautiful in all the Green Forest."
"Does he build a nest like yours?" asked Peter.
"No," replied Melody. "He builds his nest on the ground, and he
doesn't use any mud. Now if you'll excuse me, Peter, I must get
my breakfast and give Mrs. Wood Thrush a chance to get hers."
So Peter continued on his way to the dear Old Briar-patch and
there he spent the day. As evening approached he decided to go
back to hear Melody sing again. Just as he drew near the Green
Forest he heard from the direction of the Laughing Brook a song
that caused him to change his mind and sent him hurrying in that
direction. It was a very different song from that of Melody the
Wood Thrush, yet, if he had never heard it before, Peter would
have known that such a song could come from no throat except that
of a member of the Thrush family. As he drew near the Laughing
Brook the beautiful notes seemed to ring through the Green Forest
like a bell. As Melody's song had filled Peter with a feeling of
peace, so this song stirred in him a feeling of the wonderful
mystery of life. There was in it the very spirit of the Green
Forest.
It didn't take Peter long to find the singer. It was Veery, who
has been named Wilson's Thrush; and by some folks is known as the
Tawny Thrush.
At the sound of the patter of Peter's feet the song stopped
abruptly and he was greeted with a whistled "Wheeu! wheeu!" Then,
seeing that it was no one of whom he need be afraid, Veery came
out from under some ferns to greet Peter. He was smaller than
Melody the Wood Thrush, being about one-fourth smaller than
Welcome Robin. He wore a brown coat but it was not as bright as
that of his cousin, Melody. His breast was somewhat faintly
spotted with brown, and below he was white. His sides were
grayish-white and not spotted like the sides of Melody.
"I heard you singing and I just had to come over to see you,"
cried Peter.
"I hope you like my song," said Veery. "I love to sing just at
this hour and I love to think that other people like to hear me."
"They do," declared Peter most emphatically. "I can't imagine how
anybody could fail to like to hear you. I came 'way over here
just to sit a while and listen. Won't you sing some more for me,
Veery?"
"I certainly will, Peter," replied Veery. "I wouldn't feel that I
was going to bed right if I didn't sing until dark. There is no
part of the day I love better than the evening, and the only way
I can express my happiness and my love of the Green Forest and
the joy of just being back here at home is by singing."
Veery slipped out of sight, and almost at once his bell-like
notes began to ring through the Green Forest. Peter sat right
where he was, content to just listen and feel within himself the
joy of being alive and happy in the beautiful spring season which
Veery was expressing so wonderfully. The B1ack Shadows grew
blacker. One by one the little stars came out and twinkled down
through the tree tops. Finally from deep in the Green Forest
sounded the hunting call of Hooty the Owl. Veery's song stopped.
"Good night, Peter," he called softly.
"Good night, Veery," replied Peter and hopped back towards the
Green Meadows for a feast of sweet clover.
CHAPTER XXXII Peter Saves a Friend and Learns Something.
Peter Rabbit sat in a thicket of young trees on the edge of the
Green Forest. It was warm and Peter was feeling lazy. He had
nothing in particular to do, and as he knew of no cooler place he
had squatted there to doze a bit and dream a bit. So far as he
knew, Peter was all alone. He hadn't seen anybody when he entered
that little thicket, and though he had listened he hadn't heard a
sound to indicate that he didn't have that thicket quite to
himself. It was very quiet there, and though when he first
entered he hadn't the least intention in the world of going to
sleep, it wasn't long before he was dozing.
Now Peter is a light sleeper, as all little people who never know
when they may have to run for their lives must be. By and by he
awoke with a start, and he was very wide awake indeed. Something
had wakened him, though just what it was he couldn't say. His
long ears stood straight up as he listened with all his might for
some little sound which might mean danger. His wobbly little nose
wobbled very fast indeed as it tested the air for the scent of a
possible enemy. Very alert was Peter as he waited.
For a few minutes he heard nothing and saw nothing. Then, near
the outer edge of the thicket, he heard a great rustling of dry
leaves. It must have been this that had wakened him. For just an
instant Peter was startled, but only for an instant. His long
ears told him at once that that noise was made by some one
scratching among the leaves, and he knew that no one who did not
wear feathers could scratch like that.
"Now who can that be?" thought Peter, and stole forward very
softly towards the place from which the sound came. Presently, as
he peeped between the stems of the young trees, he saw the brown
leaves which carpeted the ground fly this way and that, and in
the midst of them was an exceedingly busy person, a little
smaller than Welcome Robin, scratching away for dear life. Every
now and then he picked up something.
His head, throat, back and breast were black. Beneath he was
white. His sides were reddish-brown. His tail was black and
white, and the longer feathers of his wings were edged with
white. It was Chewink the Towhee, sometimes called Ground Robin.
Peter chuckled, but it was a noiseless chuckle. He kept perfectly
still, for it was fun to watch some one who hadn't the least idea
that he was being watched. It was quite clear that Chewink was
hungry and that under those dry leaves he was finding a good
meal. His feet were made for scratching and he certainly knew how
to use them. For some time Peter sat there watching. He had just
about made up his mind that he would make his presence known and
have a bit of morning gossip when, happening to look out beyond
the edge of the little thicket, he saw something red. It was
something alive, for it was moving very slowly and cautiously
towards the place where Chewink was so busy and forgetful of
everything but his breakfast. Peter knew that there was only one
person with a coat of that color. It was Reddy Fox, and quite
plainly Reddy was hoping to catch Chewink.
For a second or two Peter was quite undecided what to do. He
couldn't warn Chewink without making his own presence known to
Reddy Fox. Of course he could sit perfectly still and let Chewink
be caught, but that was such a dreadful thought that Peter didn't
consider it for more than a second or two. He suddenly thumped
the ground with his feet. It was his danger signal which all his
friends know. Then he turned and scampered lipperty-lipperty-lip
to a thick bramble-tangle not far behind him.
At the sound of that thump Chewink instantly flew up in a little
tree. Then he saw Reddy Fox and began to scold. As for Reddy, he
looked over towards the bramble-tangle and snarled. "I'll get you
one of these days, Peter Rabbit," said he. "I'll get you one of
these days and pay you up for cheating me out of a breakfast."
Without so much as a glance at Chewink, Reddy turned and trotted
off, trying his best to look dignified and as if he had never
entertained such a thought as trying to catch Chewink.
>From his perch Chewink watched until he was sure that Reddy Fox
had gone away for good. Then he called softly, "Towhee! Towhee!
Chewink! Chewink! All is safe now, Peter Rabbit. Come out and
talk with me and let me tell you how grateful to you I am for
saving my life."
Chewink flew down to the ground and Peter crept out of the
bramble-tangle. "It wasn't anything," declared Peter. "I saw
Reddy and I knew you didn't, so of course I gave the alarm. You
would have done the same thing for me. Do you know, Chewink, I've
wondered a great deal about you."
"What have you wondered about me?" asked Chewink.
"I've wondered what family you belong to," replied Peter.
Chewink chuckled. "I belong to a big family," said he. "I belong
to the biggest family among the birds. It is the Finch and
Sparrow family. There are a lot of us and a good many of us don't
look much alike, but still we belong to the same family. I
suppose you know that Rosebreast the Grosbeak and Glory the
Cardinal are members of my family."
"I didn't know it," replied Peter, "but if you say it is so I
suppose it must be so. It is easier to believe than it is to
believe that you are related to the Sparrows."
"Nevertheless I am," retorted Chewink.
"What were you scratching for when I first saw you?" asked Peter.
"Oh, worms and bugs that hide under the leaves," replied Chewink
carelessly. "You have no idea how many of them hide under dead
leaves."
"Do you eat anything else?" asked Peter.
"Berries and wild fruits in season," replied Chewink. "I'm very
fond of them. They make a variety in the bill of fare."
"I've noticed that I seldom see you up in the tree tops,"
remarked Peter.
"I like the ground better," replied Chewink. "I spend more of my
time on the ground than anywhere else."
"I suppose that means that you nest on the ground," ventured
Peter.
Chewink nodded. "Of course," said he. "As a matter of fact, I've
got a nest in this very thicket. Mrs. Towhee is on it right now,
and I suspect she's worrying and anxious to know what happened
over here when you warned me about Reddy Fox. I think I must go
over and set her mind at rest."
Peter was just about to ask if he might go along and see that
nest when a new voice broke in.
"What are you fellows talking about?" it demanded, and there
flitted just in front of Peter a little bird the size of a
Sparrow but lovelier than any Sparrow of Peter's acquaintance. At
first glance he seemed to be all blue, and such a lovely bright
blue. But as he paused for an instant Peter saw that his wings
and tail were mostly black and that the lovely blue was brightest
on his head and back. It was Indigo the Bunting.
"We were talking about our family," replied Chewink. "I was
telling Peter that we belong to the largest family among the
birds."
"But you didn't say anything about Indigo," interrupted Peter.
"Do you mean to say that he belongs to the same family?"
"I surely do," replied Indigo. "I'm rather closely related to the
Sparrow branch. Don't I look like a Sparrow?"
Peter looked at Indigo closely. "In size and shape you do," he
confessed, "but just the same I should never in the world have
thought of connecting you with the Sparrows."
"How about me?" asked another voice, and a little brown bird flew
up beside Indigo, twitching her tail nervously. She looked very
Sparrow-like indeed, so much so, that if Peter had not seen her
with her handsome mate, for she was Mrs. Indigo, he certainly
would have taken her for a Sparrow.
Only on her wings and tail was there any of the blue which made
Indigo's coat so beautiful, and this was only a faint tinge.
"I'll have to confess that so far as you are concerned it isn't
hard to think of you as related to the Sparrows," declared Peter.
"Don't you sometimes wish you were as handsomely dressed as
Indigo?"
Mrs. Indigo shook her head in a most decided way. "Never!" she
declared. "I have worries enough raising a family as it is, but
if I had a coat like his I wouldn't have a moment of peace. You
have no idea how I worry about him sometimes. You ought to be
thankful, Peter Rabbit, that you haven't a coat like his. It
attracts altogether too much attention."
Peter tried to picture himself in a bright blue coat and laughed
right out at the mere thought, and the others joined with him.
Then Indigo flew up to the top of a tall tree not far away and
began to sing. It was a lively song and Peter enjoyed it
thoroughly. Mrs. Indigo took this opportunity to slip away
unobserved, and when Peter looked around for Chewink, he too had
disappeared. He had gone to tell Mrs. Cbewink that he was quite
safe and that she bad nothing to worry about.
CHAPTER XXXIII A Royal Dresser and a Late Nester.
Jenny and Mr. Wren were busy. If there were any busier little
folks anywhere Peter Rabbit couldn't imagine who they could be.
You see, everyone of those seven eggs in the Wren nest had
hatched, and seven mouths are a lot to feed, especially when
every morsel of food must be hunted for and carried from a
distance. There was little time for gossip now. Just as soon as
it was light enough to see Jenny and Mr. Wren began feeding those
always hungry babies, and they kept at it with hardly time for an
occasional mouthful themselves, until the Black Shadows came
creeping out from the Purple Hills. Wren babies, like all other
bird babies, grow very fast, and that means that each one of them
must have a great deal of food every day. Each one of them often
ate its own weight in food in a day and all their food had to be
hunted for and when found carried back and put into the gaping
little mouths. Hardly would Jenny Wren disappear in the little
round doorway of her home with a caterpillar in her bill than she
would hop out again, and Mr. Wren would take her place with a
spider or a fly and then hurry away for something more.
Peter tried to keep count of the number of times they came and
went but soon gave it up as a bad job. He began to wonder where
all the worms and bugs and spiders came from, and gradually he
came to have a great deal of respect for eyes sharp enough to
find them so quickly. Needless to say Jenny was shorter-tempered
than ever. She had no time to gossip and said so most
emphatically. So at last Peter gave up the idea of trying to find
out from her certain things he wanted to know, and hopped off to
look for some one who was less busy. He had gone but a short
distance when his attention was caught by a song so sweet and so
full of little trills that he first stopped to listen, then went
to look for the singer.
It didn't take long to find him, for he was sitting on the very
tiptop of a fir-tree in Farmer Brown's yard. Peter didn't dare go
over there, for already it was broad daylight, and he had about
made up his mind that he would have to content himself with just
listening to that sweet singer when the latter flew over in the
Old Orchard and alighted just over Peter's head. "Hello, Peter!"
he cried.
"Hello, Linnet!" cried Peter. "I was wondering who it could be
who was singing like that. I ought to have known, but you see
it's so long since I've heard you sing that I couldn't just
remember your song. I'm so glad you came over here for I'm just
dying to talk to somebody."
Linnet the Purple Finch, for this is who it was, laughed right
out. "I see you're still the same old Peter," said he. "I suppose
you're just as full of curiosity as ever and just as full of
questions. Well, here I am, so what shall we talk about?"
"You," replied Peter bluntly. "Lately I've found out so many
surprising things about my feathered friends that I want to know
more. I'm trying to get it straight in my head who is related to
who, and I've found out some things which have begun to make me
feel that I know very little about my feathered neighbors. It's
getting so that I don't dare to even guess who a person's
relatives are. If you please, Linnet, what family do you belong
to?"
Linnet flew down a little nearer to Peter. "Look me over, Peter,"
said he with twinkling eyes. "Look me over and see if you can't
tell for yourself."
Peter stared solemnly at Linnet. He saw a bird of Sparrow size
most of whose body was a rose-red, brightest on the head, darkest
on the back, and palest on the breast. Underneath he was whitish.
His wings and tail were brownish, the outer parts of the feathers
edged with rose-red. His bill was short and stout.
Before Peter could reply, Mrs. Linnet appeared. There wasn't so
much as a touch of that beautiful rose-red about her. Her
grayish-brown back was streaked with black, and her white breast
and sides were spotted and streaked with brown. If Peter hadn't
seen her with Linnet he certainly would have taken her for a
Sparrow. She looked so much like one that he ventured to say, "I
guess you belong to the Sparrow family."
"That's pretty close, Peter. That's pretty close," declared
Linnet. "We belong to the Finch branch of the family, which makes
the sparrows own cousins to us. Folks may get Mrs. Linnet mixed
with some of our Sparrow cousins, but they never can mistake me.
There isn't anybody else my size with a rose-red coat like mine.
If you can't remember my song, which you ought to, because there
is no other song quite like it, you can always tell me by the
color of my coat. Hello! Here comes Cousin Chicoree. Did you ever
see a happier fellow than he is? I'll venture to say that he has
been having such a good time that he hasn't even yet thought of
building a nest, and here half the people of the Old Orchard have
grown families. I've a nest and eggs myself, but that madcap
is just roaming about having a good time. Isn't that so,
Chicoree?"
"Isn't what so?" demanded Chicoree the Goldfinch, perching very
near to where Linnet was sitting.
"Isn't it true that you haven't even begun thinking about a
nest?" demanded Linnet. Chicoree flew down in the grass almost
under Peter's nose and began to pull apart a dandelion which had
gone to seed. He snipped the seeds from the soft down to which
they were attached and didn't say a word till he was quite
through. Then he flew up in the tree near Linnet, and while he
dressed his feathers, answered Linnet's question.
"It's quite true, but what of it?" said he. "There's time enough
to think about nest-building and household cares later. Mrs.
Goldfinch and I will begin to think about them about the first of
July. Meanwhile we are making the most of this beautiful season
to roam about and have a good time. For one thing we like
thistledown to line our nest, and there isn't any thistledown
yet. Then, there is no sense in raising a family until there is
plenty of the right kind of food, and you know we Goldfinches
live mostly on seeds. I'll venture to say that we are the
greatest seed-eaters anywhere around. Of course when the babies
are small they have to have soft food, but one can find plenty of
worms and bugs any time during the summer. Just as soon as the
children are big enough to hunt their own food they need seeds,
so there is no sense in trying to raise a family until there are
plenty of seeds for them when needed. Meanwhile we are having a
good time. How do you like my summer suit, Peter?"
"It's beautiful," cried Peter. "I wouldn't know you for the same
bird I see so often in the late fall and sometimes in the winter.
I don't know of anybody who makes a more complete change. That
black cap certainly is very smart and becoming."
Chicoree cocked his head on one side, the better to show off that
black cap. The rest of his head and his whole body were bright
yellow. His wings were black with two white bars on each. His
tail also was black, with some white on it. In size he was a
little smaller than Linnet and altogether one of the smartest
appearing of all the little people who wear feathers. It was a
joy just to look at him. If Peter had known anything about
Canaries, which of course he didn't, because Canaries are always
kept in cages, he would have understood why Chicoree the
Goldfinch is often called the Wild Canary.
Mrs. Goldfinch now joined her handsome mate and it was plain to
see that she admired him quite as much as did Peter. Her wings
and tail were much like his but were more brownish than black.
She wore no cap it all and her back and head were a grayish-brown
with an olive tinge. Underneath she was lighter, with a tinge of
yellow. All together she was a very modestly dressed small
person. As Peter recalled Chicoree's winter suit, it was very
much like that now worn by Mrs. Goldfinch, save that his wings
and tail were as they now appeared.
All the time Chicoree kept up a continual happy twittering,
breaking out every few moments into song. It was clear that he
was fairly bubbling over with joy.
"I suppose," said Peter, "it sounds foolish of me to ask if you
are a member of the same family as Linnet."
"Very foolish, Peter. Very foolish," laughed Chicoree. "Isn't my
name Goldfinch, and isn't his name Purple Finch? We belong to the
same family and a mighty fine family it is. Now I must go over to
the Old Pasture to see how the thistles are coming on."
Away he flew calling, "Chic-o-ree, per-chic-o-ree, chic-o-ree!"
Mrs. Goldfinch followed. As they flew, they rose and fell in the
air in very much the same way that Yellow Wing the Flicker does.
"I'd know them just by that, even if Chicoree didn't keep calling
his own name," thought Peter. "It's funny how they often stay
around all winter yet are among the last of all the birds to set
up housekeeping. As I once said to Jenny Wren, birds certainly
are funny creatures."
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut! It's no such thing, Peter Rabbit. It's
no such thing," scolded Jenny Wren as she flew last Peter on her
way to hunt for another worm for her hungry babies.
CHAPTER, XXXIV Mourner the Dove and Cuckoo.
A long lane leads from Farmer Brown's barnyard down to his
cornfield on the Green Meadows. It happened that very early one
morning Peter Rabbit took it into his funny little head to run
down that long lane to see what he might see. Now at a certain
place beside that long lane was a gravelly bank into which Farmer
Brown had dug for gravel to put on the roadway up near his house.
As Peter was scampering past this place where Farmer Brown had
dug he caught sight of some one very busy in that gravel pit.
Peter stopped short, then sat up to stare.
It was Mourner the Dove whom Peter saw, an old friend of whom
Peter is very fond. His body was a little bigger than that of
Welcome Robin, but his long slender neck, and longer tail and
wings made him appear considerably larger. In shape he reminded
Peter at once of the Pigeons up at Farmer Brown's. His back was
grayish-brown, varying to bluish-gray. The crown and upper parts
of his head were bluish-gray. His breast was reddish-buff,
shading down into a soft buff. His bill was black and his feet
red. The two middle feathers of his tail were longest and of the
color of his back. The other feathers were slaty-gray with little
black bands and tipped with white. On his wings were a few
scattered black spots. Just under each ear was a black spot. But
it was the sides of his slender neck which were the most
beautiful part of Mourner. When untouched by the Jolly Little
Sunbeams the neck feathers appeared to be in color very like his
breast, but the moment they were touched by the Jolly Little
Sunbeams they seemed to be constantly changing, which, as you
know, is called iridescence. Altogether Mourner was lovely in a
quiet way.
But it was not his appearance which made Peter stare; it was what
he was doing. He was walking about and every now and then picking
up something quite as if he were getting his breakfast in that
gravel pit, and Peter couldn't imagine anything good to eat down
there. He knew that there were not even worms there. Besides,
Mourner is not fond of worms; he lives almost altogether on seeds
and grains of many kinds. So Peter was puzzled. But as yon know
he isn't the kind to puzzle long over anything when he can use
his tongue.
"Hello, Mourner!" he cried. "What under the sun are you doing in
there? Are you getting your breakfast?"
"Hardly, Peter; hardly," cooed Mourner in the softest of voices.
"I've had my breakfast and now I'm picking up a little gravel for
my digestion." He picked up a tiny pebble and swallowed it.
"Well, of all things!" cried Peter. "You must be crazy. The idea
of thinking that gravel is going to help your digestion. I should
say the chances are that it will work just the other way."
Mourner laughed. It was the softest of little cooing laughs, very
pleasant to hear. "I see that as usual you are judging others by
yourself," said he. "You ought to know by this time that you can
do nothing more foolish. I haven't the least doubt that a
breakfast of gravel would give you the worst kind of a
stomach-ache. But you are you and I am I, and there is all the
difference in the world. You know I eat grain and hard seeds. Not
having any teeth I have to swallow them whole. One part of my
stomach is called a gizzard and its duty is to grind and crush my
food so that it may be digested. Tiny pebbles and gravel help
grind the food and so aid digestion. I think I've got enough now
for this morning, and it is time for a dust bath. There is a
dusty spot over in the lane where I take a dust bath every day."
"If you don't mind," said Peter, "I'll go with you."
Mourner said he didn't mind, so Peter followed him over to the
dusty place in the long lane. There Mourner was joined by Mrs.
Dove, who was dressed very much like him save that she did not
have so beautiful a neck. While they thoroughly dusted themselves
they chatted with Peter.
"I see you on the ground so much that I've often wondered if you
build your nest on the ground," said Peter.
"No," replied Mourner. "Mrs. Dove builds in a tree, but usually
not very far above the ground. Now if you'll excuse us we must
get back home. Mrs. Dove has two eggs to sit on and while she is
siting I like to be close at hand to keep her company and make
love to her."
The Doves shook the loose dust from their feathers and flew away.
Peter watched to see where they went, but lost sight of them
behind some trees, so decided to run up to the Old Orchard. There
he found Jenny and Mr. Wren as busy as ever feeding that growing
family of theirs. Jenny wouldn't stop an instant to gossip. Peter
was so brimful of what he had found out about Mr. and Mrs. Dove
that he just had to tell some one. He heard Kitty the Catbird
meowing among the bushes along the old stone wall, so hurried
over to look for him. As soon as he found him Peter began to tell
what he had learned about Mourner the Dove.
"That's no news, Peter," interrupted Kitty. "I know all about
Mourner and his wife. They are very nice people, though I must
say Mrs. Dove is one of the poorest housekeepers I know of. I
take it you never have seen her nest."
Peter shook his head. "No," said he, "I haven't. What is it
like?"
Kitty the Catbird laughed. "It's about the poorest apology for a
nest I know of," said he. "It is made of little sticks and mighty
few of them. How they hold together is more than I can understand.
I guess it is a good thing that Mrs. Dove doesn't lay more than
two eggs, and it's a wonder to me that those two stay in the
nest. Listen! There's Mourner's voice now. For one who is so
happy he certainly does have the mournfullest sounding voice. To
hear him you'd think he was sorrowful instead of happy. It always
makes me feel sad to hear him."
"That's true," replied Peter, "but I like to hear him just the
same. Hello! Who's that?"
>From one of the trees in the Old Orchard sounded a long, clear,
"Kow-kow-kow-kow-kow-kow!" It was quite unlike any voice Peter
had heard that spring.
"That's Cuckoo," said Kitty. "Do you mean to say you don't know
Cuckoo?"
"Of course I know him," retorted Peter. "I had forgotten the
sound of his voice, that's all." Tell me, Kitty, is it true that
Mrs. Cuckoo is no better than Sally Sly the Cowbird and goes
about laying her eggs in the nests of other birds? I've heard
that said of her."
"There isn't a word of truth in it," declared Kitty emphatically.
"She builds a nest, such as it is, which isn't much, and she
looks after her own children. The Cuckoos have been given a bad
name because of some good-for-nothing cousins of theirs who live
across the ocean where Bully the English Sparrow belongs, and
who, if all reports are true, really are no better than Sally Sly
the Cowbird. It's funny how a bad name sticks. The Cuckoos have
been accused of stealing the eggs of us other birds, but I've
never known them to do it and I've lived neighbor to them for a
long time, I guess they get their bad name because of their
habit of slipping about silently and keeping out of sight as much
as possible, as if they were guilty of doing something wrong and
trying to keep from being seen. As a matter of fact, they are
mighty useful birds. Farmer Brown ought to be tickled to death
that Mr. and Mrs. Cuckoo have come back to the Old Orchard this
year."
"Why?" demanded Peter.
"Do you see that cobwebby nest with all those hairy caterpillars
on it and around it up in that tree?" asked Kitty.
Peter replied that he did and that he had seen a great many nests
just like it, and had noticed how the caterpillars ate all the
leaves near them.
"I'll venture to say that you won't see very many leaves eaten
around that nest," replied Kitty. "Those are called
tent-caterpillars, and they do an awful lot of damage. I can't
bear them myself because they are so hairy, and very few birds
will touch them. But Cuckoo likes them. There he comes now; just
watch him."
A long, slim Dove-like looking bird alighted close to the
caterpillar's nest. Above he was brownish-gray with just a little
greenish tinge. Beneath he was white. His wings were
reddish-brown. His tail was a little longer than that of Mourner
the Dove. The outer feathers were black tipped with white, while
the middle feathers were the color of his back. The upper half of
his bill was black, but the under half was yellow, and from this
he is called the Yellow-billed Cuckoo. He has a cousin very much
like himself in appearance, save that his bill is all black and
he is listed the Black-billed Cuckoo.
Cuckoo made no sound but began to pick off the hairy caterpillars
and swallow them. When he had eaten all those in sight he made
holes in the silken web of the nest and picked out the
caterpillars that were inside. Finally, having eaten his fill, he
flew off as silently as he had come and disappeared among the
bushes farther along the old stone wall. A moment later they
heard his voice, "Kow-kow-how-kow-kow-kow-kow-kow!"
"I suppose some folks would think that it is going to rain,"
remarked Kitty the Catbird. "They have the silly notion that
Cuckoo only calls just before rain, and so they call him the Rain
Crow. But that isn't so at all. Well, Peter, I guess I've
gossiped enough for one morning. I must go see how Mrs. Catbird
is getting along."
Kitty disappeared and Peter, having no one to talk to, decided
that the best thing he could do would be to go home to the dear
Old Briar-patch.
CHAPTER XXXV A Butcher and a Hummer.
Not far from the Old Orchard grew a thorn-tree which Peter Rabbit
often passed. He never had paid particular attention to it. One
morning he stopped to rest under it. Happening to look up, he saw
a most astonishing thing. Fastened on the sharp thorns of one of
the branches were three big grasshoppers, a big moth, two big
caterpillars, a lizard, a small mouse and a young English
Sparrow. Do you wonder that Peter thought he must be dreaming? He
couldn't imagine how those creatures could have become fastened
on those long sharp thorns. Somehow it gave him an uncomfortable
feeling and he hurried on to the Old Orchard, bubbling over with
desire to tell some one of the strange and dreadful thing he had
seen in the thorn-tree.
As he entered the Old Orchard in the far corner he saw Johnny
Chuck sitting on his doorstep and hurried over to tell him the
strange news. Johnny listened until Peter was through, then told
him quite frankly that never had he heard of such a thing, and
that he thought Peter must have been dreaming and didn't know it.
"You're wrong, Johnny Chuck. Peter hasn't been dreaming at all,"
said Skimmer the Swallow, who, you remember, lived in a hole in a
tree just above the entrance to Johnny Chuck's house. He had been
sitting where he could hear all that Peter had said.
"Well, if you know so much about it, please explain," said Johnny
Chuck rather crossly.
"It's simple enough," replied Skimmer. "Peter just happened to
find the storehouse of Butcher the Loggerhead Shrike. It isn't a
very pleasant sight, I must admit, but one must give Butcher
credit for being smart enough to lay up a store of food when it
is plentiful."
"And who is Butcher the Shrike?" demanded Peter. "He's a new one
to me.
"He's new to this location," replied Skimmer, "and you probably
haven't noticed him. I've seen him in the South often. There he
is now, on the tiptop of that tree over yonder."
Peter and Johnny looked eagerly. They saw a bird who at first
glance appeared not unlike Mocker the Mockingbird. He was dressed
wholly in black, gray and white. When he turned his head they
noticed a black stripe across the side of his face and that the
tip of his bill was hooked. These are enough to make them forget
that otherwise he was like Mocker. While they were watching him
he flew down into the grass and picked up a grasshopper. Then he
flew with a steady, even flight, only a little above the ground,
for some distance, suddenly shooting up and returning to the
perch where they had first seen him. There he ate the grasshopper
and resumed his watch for something else to catch.
"He certainly has wonderful eyes," said Skimmer admiringly. "He
mast have seen that grasshopper way over there in the grass
before he started after it, for he flew straight there. He
doesn't waste time and energy hunting aimlessly. He sits on a
high perch and watches until he sees something he wants. Many
times I've seen him sitting on top of a telegraph pole. I
understand that Bully the English Sparrow has become terribly
nervous since the arrival of Butcher. He is particularly fond of
English Sparrows. I presume it was one of Bully's children you
saw in the thorn-tree, Peter. For my part I hope he'll frighten
Bully into leaving the Old Orchard. It would he a good thing for
the rest of us."
"But I don't understand yet why he fastens his victims on those
long thorns," said Peter.
"For two reasons," replied Skimmer. "When he catches more
grasshoppers and other insects than he can eat, he sticks them on
those thorns so that later he may be sure of a good meal if it
happens there are no more to be caught when he is hungry. Mice,
Sparrows, and things too big for him to swallow he sticks on the
thorns so that he can pull them to pieces easier. You see his
feet and claws are not big and stout enough to hold his victims
while he tears them to pieces with his hooked bill. Sometimes,
instead of sticking them on thorns, he sticks them on the barbed
wire of a fence and sometimes he wedges them into the fork of two
branches."
"Does he kill many birds?" asked Peter.
"Not many," replied Skimmer, "and most of those he does kill are
English Sparrows. The rest of us have learned to keep out of his
way. He feeds mostly on insects, worms and caterpillars, but he
is very fond of mice and he catches a good many. He is a good
deal like Killy the Sparrow Hawk in this respect. He has a
cousin, the Great Northern Shrike, who sometimes comes down in
the winter, and is very much like him. Hello! Now what's
happened?"
A great commotion had broken out not far away in the Old Orchard.
Instantly Skimmer flew over to see what it was all about and
Peter followed. He got there just in time to see Chatterer the
Red Squirrel dodging around the trunk of a tree, first on one
side, then on the other, to avoid the sharp bills of the angry
feathered folk who had discovered him trying to rob a nest of its
young.
Peter chuckled. "Chatterer is getting just what is due him, I
guess," he muttered. "It reminds me of the time I got into a
Yellow Jacket's nest. My, but those birds are mad!"
Chatterer continued to dodge from side to side of the tree while
the birds darted down at him, all screaming at the top of their
voices. Finally Chatterer saw his chance to run for the old stone
wall. Only one bird was quick enough to catch up with him and
that one was such a tiny fellow that he seemed hardly bigger than
a big insect. It was Hammer the Hummingbird. He followed
Chatterer clear to the old stone wall. A moment later Peter heard
a humming noise just over his head and looked up to see Hummer
himself alight on a twig, where he squeaked excitedly for a few
minutes, for his voice is nothing but a little squeak.
Often Peter had seen Hummer darting about from flower to flower
and holding himself still in mid-air in front of each as he
thrust his long bill into the heart of the blossom to get the
tiny insects there and the sweet juices he is so fond of. But
this was the first time Peter had ever seen him sitting still. He
was such a mite of a thing that it was hard to realize that he
was a bird. His back was a bright, shining green. His wings and
tail were brownish with a purplish tinge. Underneath he was
whitish, But it was his throat on which Peter fixed his eyes. It
was a wonderful ruby-red that glistened and shone in the sun like
a jewel.
Hummer lifted one wing and with his long needle-like bill
smoothed the feathers under it. Then he darted out into the air,
his wings moving so fast that Peter couldn't see them at all. But
if he couldn't see them he could hear them. You see they moved so
fast that they made a sound very like the humming of Bumble the
Bee. It is because of this that he is called the Hummingbird. A
fey' minutes later he was back again and now he was joined by
Mrs. Hummer. She was dressed very much like Hummer but did not
have the beautiful ruby throat. She stopped only a minute or two,
then darted over to what looked for all the world like a tiny cup
of moss. It was their nest.
Just then Jenny Wren came along, and being quite worn out with
the work of feeding her seven babies, she was content to rest for
a few moments and gossip. Peter told her what he had discovered.
"I know all about that," retorted Jenny. "You don't suppose I
hunt these trees over for food without knowing where my neighbors
are living, do you? I'd have you to understand, Peter, that that
is the daintiest nest in the Old Orchard. It is made wholly of
plant down and covered on the outside with bits of that gray
moss-like stuff that grows on the bark of the trees and is called
lichens. That is what makes that nest look like nothing more than
a knot on the branch. Chatterer made a big mistake when he
visited this tree. Hummer may he a tiny fellow but he isn't
afraid of anybody under the sun. That bill of his is so sharp and
he is so quick that few folks ever bother him more than once.
Why, there isn't a single member of the Hawk family that Hummer
won't attack. There isn't a cowardly feather on him."
"Does he go very far south for the winter?" asked Peter. "He is
such a tiny fellow I don't see how he can stand a very long
journey."
"Huh!" exclaimed Jenny Wren. "Distance doesn't bother Hummer any.
You needn't worry about those wings of his. He goes clear down to
South America. He has ever so many relatives down there. You
ought to see his babies when they first hatch out. They are no
bigger than bees. But they certainly do grow fast. Why, they are
flying three weeks from the time they hatch. I'm glad I don't
have to pump food down the throats of my youngsters the way Mrs.
Hummingbird has to down hers."
Peter looked perplexed. "What do you mean by pumping food down
their throats?" he demanded.
"Just what I say," retorted Jenny Wren. "Mrs. Hummer sticks her
bill right down their throats and then pumps up the food she has
already swallowed. I guess it is a good thing that the babies
have short bills."
"Do they?" asked Peter, opening his eyes very wide with surprise.
"Yes," replied Jenny. "When they hatch out they have short bills,
but it doesn't take them a great while to grow long."
"How many babies does Mrs. Hummer usually have?" asked Peter.
"Just two," replied Jenny. "Just two. That's all that nest will
hold. But goodness gracious, Peter, I can't stop gossiping here
any longer. You have no idea what a care seven babies are."
With a jerk of her tail off flew Jenny Wren, and Peter hurried
back to tell Johnny Chuck all he had found out about Hummer the
Hummingbird.
CHAPTER XXXVI A Stranger and a Dandy.
Butcher the Shrike was not the only newcomer in the Old Orchard.
There was another stranger who, Peter Rabbit soon discovered, was
looked on with some suspicion by all the other birds of the Old
Orchard. The first time Peter saw him, he was walking about on
the ground some distance off. He didn't hop but walked, and at
that distance he looked all black. The way he carried himself and
his movements as he walked made Peter think of Creaker the
Grackle. In fact, Peter mistook him for Creaker. That was because
he didn't really look at him. If he had he would have seen at
once that the stranger was smaller than Creaker.
Presently the stranger flew up in a tree and Peter saw that his
tail was little more than half as long as that of Creaker. At
once it came over Peter that this was a stranger to him, and of
course his curiosity was aroused. He didn't have any doubt
whatever that this was a member of the Blackbird family, but
which one it could be he hadn't the least idea. "Jenny Wren will
know," thought Peter and scampered off to hunt her up.
"Who is that new member of the Blackbird family who has come
to live in the Old Orchard?" Peter asked as soon as he found
Jenny Wren.
"There isn't any new member of the Blackbird family living in
the Old Orchard," retorted Jenny Wren tartly.
"There is too," contradicted Peter. "I saw him with my own
eyes. I can see him now. He's sitting in that tree over yonder
this very minute. He's all black, so of course he must be a
member of the Blackbird family."
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!" scolded Jenny Wren. "Tut, tut,
tut, tut, tut! That fellow isn't a member of the Blackbird
family at all, and what's more, he isn't black. Go over there
and take a good look at him; then come back and tell me if you
still think he is black."
Jenny turned her back on Peter and went to hunting worms. There
being nothing else to do, Peter hopped over where he could get
a good look at the stranger. The sun was shining full on him, and
he wasn't black at all. Jenny Wren was right. For the most part
he was very dark green. At least, that is what Peter thought at
first glance. Then, as the stranger moved, he seemed to be a
rich purple in places. In short he changed color as he turned.
His feathers were like those of Creaker the Grackle--iridescent.
All over he was speckled with tiny light spots. Underneath he
was dark brownish-gray. His wings and tail were of the same color,
with little touches of buff. His rather large bill was yellow.
Peter hurried back to Jenny Wren and it must be confessed he
looked sheepish. "You were right, Jenny Wren; he isn't black at
all," confessed Peter. "Of course I was right. I usually am,"
retorted Jenny. "He isn't black, he isn't even related to the
Blackbird family, and he hasn't any business in the Old Orchard.
In fact, if you ask me, he hasn't any business in this country
anyway. He's a foreigner. That's what he is--a foreigner."
"But you haven't told me who he is," protested Peter.
"He is Speckles the Starling, and he isn't really an American at
all," replied Jenny. "He comes from across the ocean the same as
Bully the English Sparrow. Thank goodness he hasn't such a
quarrelsome disposition as Bully. Just the same, the rest of us
would be better satisfied if he were not here. He has taken
possession of one of the old homes of Yellow Wing the Flicker,
and that means one less house for birds who really belong here.
If his family increases at the rate Bully's family does, I'm
afraid some of us will soon be crowded out of the Old Orchard.
Did you notice that yellow bill of his?"
Peter nodded. "I certainly did," said he. "I couldn't very well
help noticing it."
"Well, there's a funny thing about that bill," replied Jenny.
"In winter it turns almost black. Most of us wear a different
colored suit in winter, but our bills remain the same."
"Well, he seems to be pretty well fixed here, and I don't see
but what the thing for the rest of you birds to do is to make
the best of the matter," said Peter. "What I want to know is
whether or not he is of any use."
"I guess he must do some good," admitted Jenny Wren rather
grudgingly. "I've seen him picking up worms and grubs, but he
likes grain, and I have a suspicion that if his family becomes
very numerous, and I suspect it will, they will eat more of
Farmer Brown's grain than they will pay for by the worms and bugs
they destroy. Hello! There's Dandy the Waxwing and his friends."
A flock of modestly dressed yet rather distinguished looking
feathered folks had alighted in a cherry-tree and promptly began
to help themselves to Farmer Brown's cherries. They were about
the size of Winsome Bluebird, but did not look in the least like
him, for they were dressed almost wholly in beautiful, rich, soft
grayish-brown. Across the end of each tail was a yellow band. On
each, the forehead, chin and a line through each eye was
velvety-black. Each wore a very stylish pointed cap, and on the
wings of most of them were little spots of red which looked like
sealing-wax, and from which they get the name of Waxwings. They
were slim and trim and quite dandified, and in a quiet way were
really beautiful.
As Peter watched them he began to wonder if Farmer Brown would
have any cherries left. Peter himself can do pretty well in the
matter of stuffing his stomach, but even he marvelled at the way
those birds put the cherries out of sight. It was quite clear to
him why they are often called Cberrybirds.
"If they stay long, Farmer Brown won't have any cherries left,"
remarked Peter.
"Don't worry," replied Jenny Wren. "They won't stay long. I
don't know anybody equal to them for roaming about. Here are most
of us with families on our hands and Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird with a
second family and Mr. and Mrs. Robin with a second set of eggs,
while those gadabouts up there haven't even begun to think about
housekeeping yet. They certainly do like those cherries, but I
guess Farmer Brown can stand the loss of what they eat. He may
have fewer cherries, but he'll have more apples because of them."
"Bow's that?" demanded Peter.
"Oh," replied Jenny Wren, "they were over here a while ago when
those little green cankerworms threatened to eat up the whole
orchard, and they stuffed themselves on those worms just the same
as they are stuffing themselves on cherries now. They are very
fond of small fruits but most of those they eat are the wild kind
which are of no use at all to Farmer Brown or anybody else. Now
just look at that performance, will you?"
There were five of the Waxwings and they were now seated side by
side on a branch of the cherry tree. One of them had a plump
cherry which he passed to the next one. This one passed it on to
the next, and so it went to the end of the row and halfway back
before it was finally eaten. Peter laughed right out. "Never in
my life have I seen such politeness," said he.
"Huh!" exclaimed Jenny Wren. "I don't believe it was politeness
at all. I guess if you got at the truth of the matter you would
find that each one was stuffed so full that he thought he didn't
have room for that cherry and so passed it along."
"Well, I think that was politeness just the same," retorted
Peter. "The first one might have dropped the cherry if he
couldn't eat it instead of passing it along." Just then the
Waxwings flew away.
It was the very middle of the summer before Peter Rabbit again
saw Dandy the Waxwing. Quite by chance he discovered Dandy
sitting on the tiptop of an evergreen tree, as if on guard. He
was on guard, for in that tree was his nest, though Peter didn't
know it at the time. In fact, it was so late in the summer that
most of Peter's friends were through nesting and he had quite
lost interest in nests. Presently Dandy flew down to a lower
branch and there he was joined by Mrs. Waxwing. Then Peter was
treated to one of the prettiest sights he ever had seen. They
rubbed their bills together as if kissing. They smoothed each
other's feathers and altogether were a perfect picture of two
little lovebirds. Peter couldn't think of another couple who
appeared quite so gentle and loving.
Late in the fall Peter saw Mr. and Mrs. Waxwing and their family
together. They were in a cedar tree and were picking off and
eating the cedar berries as busily as the five Waxwings had picked
Farmer Brown's cherries in the early summer. Peter didn't know it
but because of their fondness for cedar berries the Waxwings were
often called Cedarbirds or Cedar Waxwings.
CHAPTER XXXVII Farewells and Welcomes.
All through the long summer Peter Rabbit watched his feathered
friends and learned things in regard to their ways he never had
suspected. As he saw them keeping the trees of the Old Orchard
free of insect pests working in Farmer Brown's garden, and
picking up the countless seeds of weeds everywhere, he began to
understand something of the wonderful part these feathered
folks have in keeping the Great World beautiful and worth while
living in.
He had many a hearty laugh as he watched the bird babies learn
to fly and to find their own food. All summer long they were
going to school all about him, learning how to watch out for
danger, to use their eyes and ears, and all the things a bird
must know who would live to grow up.
As autumn drew near Peter discovered that his friends were
gathering in flocks, roaming here and there. It was one of the
first signs that summer was nearly over, and it gave him just a
little feeling of sadness. He heard few songs now, for the
singing season was over. Also he discovered that many of the most
beautifully dressed of his feathered friends had changed their
finery for sober traveling suits in preparation for the long
journey to the far South where they would spend the winter. In
fact he actually failed to recognize some of them at first.
September came, and as the days grew shorter, some of Peter's
friends bade him good-by. They were starting on the long journey,
planning to take it in easy stages for the most part. Each day
saw some slip away. As Peter thought of the dangers of the long
trip before them he wondered if he would ever see them again. But
some there were who lingered even after Jack Frost's first visit.
Welcome and Mrs. Robin, Winsome and Mrs. Bluebird. Little Friend
the Song Sparrow and his wife were among these. By and by even
they were forced to leave.
Sad indeed and lonely would these days have been for Peter had it
not been that with the departure of the friends he had spent so
many happy hours with came the arrival of certain other friends
from the Far North where they had made their summer homes. Some
of these stopped for a few days in passing. Others came to stay,
and Peter was kept busy looking for and welcoming them.
A few old friends there were who would stay the year through.
Sammy Jay was one. Downy and Hairy the Woodpeckers were others.
And one there was whom Peter loves dearly. It was Tommy Tit the
Chickadee.
Now Tommy Tit had not gone north in the spring. In fact, he had
made his home not very far from the Old Orchard. It just happened
that Peter hadn't found that home, and had caught only one or two
glimpses of Tommy Tit. Now, with household cares ended and his
good-sized family properly started in life, Tommy Tit was no
longer interested in the snug little home he had built in a
hollow birch-stub, and he and Mrs. Chickadee spent their time
flitting about hither, thither, and yon, spreading good cheer.
Every time Peter visited the Old Orchard he found him there, and
as Tommy was always ready for a bit of merry gossip, Peter soon
ceased to miss Jenny Wren.
"Don't you dread the winter, Tommy Tit?" asked Peter one day,
as he watched Tommy clinging head down to a twig as he picked
some tiny insect eggs from the under side.
"Not a bit," replied Tommy. "I like winter. I like cold weather.
It makes a fellow feel good from the tips of his claws to the
tip of his bill. I'm thankful I don't have to take that long
journey most of the birds have to. I discovered a secret a long
time ago, Peter; shall I tell it to you?"
"Please, Tommy," cried Peter. "You know how I love secrets."
"Well," replied Tommy Tit, "this is it: If a fellow keeps his
stomach filled he will beep his toes warm."
Peter looked a, little puzzled. "I--I--don't just see what your
stomach has to do with your toes," said he.
Tommy Tit chuckled. It was a lovely throaty little chuckle. "Dee,
dee, dee!" said he. "What I mean is, if a fellow has plenty to
eat he will keep the cold out, and I've found that if a fellow
uses his eyes and isn't afraid of a little work, he can find
plenty to eat. At least I can. The only time I ever get really
worried is when the trees are covered with ice. If it were not
that Farmer Brown's boy is thoughtful enough to hang a piece of
suet in a tree for me, I should dread those ice storms more than
I do. As I said before, plenty of food keeps a fellow warm."
"I thought it was your coat of feathers that kept you warm," said
Peter.
"Oh, the feathers help," replied Tommy Tit. "Food makes heat and
a warm coat keeps the heat in the body. But the heat has got to
be there first, or the feathers will do no good. It's just the
same way with your own self, Peter. You know you are never really
warm in winter unless you have plenty to eat..."
"That's so," replied Peter thoughtfully. "I never happened to
think of it before. Just the same, I don't see how you find food
enough on the trees when they are all bare in winter."
"Dee, Dee, Chickadee!
Leave that matter just to me,"
Chuckled Tommy Tit. "You ought to know by this time Peter Rabbit,
that a lot of different kinds of bugs lay eggs on the twigs and
trunks of trees. Those eggs would stay there all winter and in
the spring hatch out into lice and worms if it were not for me.
Why, sometimes in a single day I find and eat almost five hundred
eggs of those little green plant lice that do so much damage in
the spring and summer. Then there are little worms that bore in
just under the bark, and there are other creatures who sleep the
winter away in little cracks in the bark. Oh, there is plenty for
me to do in the winter. I am one of the policemen of the trees.
Downy and Hairy the Woodpeckers, Seep-Seep the Brown Creeper and
Yank-Yank the Nuthatch are others. If we didn't stay right here
on the job all winter, I don't know what would become of the Old
Orchard."
Tommy Tit hung head downward from a twig while he picked some tiny
insect eggs from the under side of it. It didn't seem to make the
least difference to Tommy whether he was right side up or upside
down. He was a little animated bunch of black and white feathers,
not much bigger than Jenny Wren. The top of his head, back of his
neck and coat were shining black. The sides of his head and neck
were white. His back was ashy. His sides were a soft cream-buff,
and his wing and tail feathers were edged with white. His tiny
bill was black, and his little black eyes snapped and twinkled in
a way good to see. Not one among all Peter's friends is such a
merry-hearted little fellow as Tommy Tit the Chickadee. Merriment
and happiness bubble out of him all the time, no matter what the
weather is. He is the friend of everyone and seems to feel that
everyone is his friend.
"I've noticed," said Peter, "that birds who do not sing at any
other time of year sing in the spring. Do you have a spring song,
Tommy Tit?"
"Well, I don't know as you would call it a song, Peter," chuckled
Tommy. "No, I hardly think you would call it a song. But I have a
little love call then which goes like this: Phoe-be! Phoe-be!"
It was the softest, sweetest little whistle, and Tommy had
rightly called it a love call. "Why, I've often heard that in the
spring and didn't know it was your voice at all," cried Peter.
"You say Phoebe plainer than does the bird who is named Phoebe,
and it is ever so much softer and sweeter. I guess that is
because you whistle it."
"I guess you guess right," replied Tommy Tit. "Now I can't stop
to talk any longer. These trees need my attention. I want Farmer
Brown's boy to feel that I have earned that suet I am sure he
will put out for me as soon as the snow and ice come. I'm not the
least bit afraid of Farmer Brown's boy. I had just as soon take
food from his hand as from anywhere else. He knows I like
chopped-up nut-meats, and last winter I used to feed from his
hand every day." Peter's eyes opened very wide with surprise.
"Do you mean to say," said he, "that you and Farmer Brown's boy
are such friends that you dare sit on his hand?"
Tommy Tit nodded his little black-capped head vigorously.
"Certainly," said he. "Why not? What's the good of having friends
if you can't trust them? The more you trust them the better
friends they'll be."
Just the same, I don't see how you dare to do it," Peter replied.
"I know Farmer Brown's boy is the friend of all the little
people, and I'm not much afraid of him myself, but just the same
I wouldn't dare go near enough for him to touch me."
"Pooh!" retorted Tommy Tit. "That's no way of showing true
friendship. You've no idea, Peter, what a comfortable feeling it
is to know that you can trust a friend, and I feel that Farmer
Brown's boy is one of the best friends I've got. I wish more boys
and girls were like him."
CHAPTER XXXVIII Honker and Dippy Arrive.
The leaves of the trees turned yellow and red and brown and then
began to drop, a few at first, then more and more every day until
all but the spruce-trees and the pine-trees and the hemlock-trees
and the fir-trees and the cedar-trees were bare. By this time
most of Peter's feathered friends of the summer had departed, and
there were days when Peter had oh, such a lonely feeling. The fur
of his coat was growing thicker. The grass of the Green Meadows
had turned brown. All these things were signs which Peter knew
well. He knew that rough Brother North Wind and Jack Frost were
on their way down from the Far North.
Peter had few friends to visit now. Johnny Chuck had gone to
sleep for the winter 'way down in his little bedroom under
ground. Grandfather Frog had also gone to sleep. So had Old Mr.
Toad. Peter spent a great deal of time in the dear Old
Briar-patch just sitting still and listening. What he was
listening for he didn't know. It just seemed to him that there
was something he ought to hear at this time of year, and so he
sat listening and listening and wondering what he was listening
for. Then, late one afternoon, there came floating down to him
from high up in the sky, faintly at first but growing louder, a
sound unlike any Peter had heard all the long summer through. The
sound was a voice. Rather it was many voices mingled "Honk, honk,
honk, honk, honk, honk, honk!" Peter gave a little jump.
"That's what I've been listening for!" he cried. "Honker the
Goose and his friends are coming. Oh, I do hope they will stop
where I can pay them a call."
He hopped out to the edge of the dear Old Briar-patch that he
might see better, and looked up in the sky. High up, flying in
the shape of a letter V, he saw a flock of great birds flying
steadily from the direction of the Far North. By the sound of
their voices he knew that they had flown far that day and were
tired. One bird was in the lead and this he knew to be his old
friend, Honker. Straight over his head they passed and as Peter
listened to their voices he felt within him the very spirit of
the Far North, that great, wild, lonely land which he had never
seen but of which he had so often heard.
As Peter watched, Honker suddenly turned and headed in the
direction of the Big River. Then he began to slant down, his
flock following him. And presently they disappeared behind the
trees along the bank of the Great River. Peter gave a happy
little sigh. "They are going to spend the night there," thought
he. "When the moon comes up, I will run over there, for they will
come ashore and I know just where. Now that they have arrived I
know that winter is not far away. Honker's voice is as sure a
sign of the coming of winter as is Winsome Bluebird's that spring
will soon be here."
Peter could hardly wait for the coming of the Black Shadows, and
just as soon as they had crept out over the Green Meadows he
started for the Big River. He knew just where to go, because he
knew that Honker and his friends would rest and spend the night
in the same place they had stopped at the year before. He knew
that they would remain out in the middle of the Big River until
the Black Shadows had made it quite safe for them to swim in. He
reached the bank of the Big River just as sweet Mistress Moon was
beginning to throw her silvery light over the Great World. There
was a sandy bar in the Great River at this point, and Peter
squatted on the bank just where this sandy bar began.
It seemed to Peter that he had sat there half the night, but
really it was only a short time, before he heard a low signal out
in the Black Shadows which covered the middle of the Big River.
It was the voice of Honker. Then Peter saw little silvery lines
moving on the water and presently a dozen great shapes appeared
in the moonlight. Honker and his friends were swimming in. The
long neck of each of those great birds was stretched to its full
height, and Peter knew that each bird was listening for the
slightest suspicious sound. Slowly they drew near, Honker in the
lead. They were a picture of perfect caution. When they reached
the sandy bar they remained quiet, looking and listening for some
time. Then, sure that all was safe, Honker gave a low signal and
at once a low gabbling began as the big birds relaxed their
watchfulness and came out on the sandy bar, all save one. That
one was the guard, and he remained with neck erect on watch. Some
swam in among the rushes growing in the water very near to where
Peter was sitting and began to feed. Others sat on the sandy bar
and dressed their feathers. Honker himself came ashore close to
where Peter was sitting.
"Oh, Honker," cried Peter, "I'm so glad you're back here safe and
sound."
Honker gave a little start, but instantly recognizing Peter, came
over close to him. As he stood there in the moonlight he was
truly handsome. His throat and a large patch on each side of his
head were white. The rest of his head and long, slim neck were
black. His short tail was also black. His back, wings, breast and
sides were a soft grayish-brown. He was white around the base of
his tail and he wore a white collar.
"Hello, Peter," said he. "It is good to have an old friend greet
me. I certainly am glad to be back safe and sound, for the
hunters with terrible guns have been at almost every one of our
resting places, and it has been hard work to get enough to eat.
It is a relief to find one place where there are no terrible
guns."
"Have you come far?" asked Peter.
"Very far, Peter; very far," replied Honker. "And we still have
very far to go. I shall be thankful when the journey is over, for
on me depends the safety of all those with me, and it is a great
responsibility."
"Will winter soon be here?" asked Peter eagerly.
"Rough Brother North Wind and Jack Frost were right behind us,"
replied Honker. "You know we stay in the Far North just as long
as we can. Already the place where we nested is frozen and
covered with snow. For the first part of the journey we kept only
just ahead of the snow and ice, but as we drew near to where men
make their homes we were forced to make longer journeys each day,
for the places where it is safe to feed and rest are few and far
between. Now we shall hurry on until we reach the place in the
far-away South where we will make our winter home."
Just then Honker was interrupted by wild, strange sounds from the
middle of the Great River. It sounded like crazy laughter. Peter
jumped at the sound, but Honker merely chuckled. "It's Dippy the
Loon," said he. "He spent the summer in the Far North not far
from us. He started south just before we did."
"I wish he would come in here so that I can get a good look at
him and make his acquaintance," said Peter.
"He may, but I doubt it," replied Honker. "He and his mate are
great people to keep by themselves. Then, too, they don't have
to come ashore for food. You know Dippy feeds altogether on fish.
He really has an easier time on the long journey than we do,
because he can get his food without running so much risk of being
shot by the terrible hunters. He practically lives on the water.
He's about the most awkward fellow on land of any one I know."
"Why should he be any more awkward on land then you?" asked
Peter, his curiosity aroused at once.
"Because," replied Honker, "Old Mother Nature has given him very
short legs and has placed them so far back on his body that he
can't keep his balance to walk, and has to use his wings and bill
to help him over the ground. On shore he is about the most
helpless thing you can imagine. But on water he is another fellow
altogether. He's just as much at home under water as on top. My,
how that fellow can dive! When he sees the flash of a gun he will
get under water before the shot can reach him. That's where he
has the advantage of us Geese. You know we can't dive. He could
swim clear across this river under water if he wanted to, and he
can go so fast under water that he can catch a fish. It is
because his legs have been placed so far back that he can swim so
fast. You know his feet are nothing but big paddles. Another
funny thing is that he can sink right down in the water when he
wants to, with nothing but his head out. I envy him that. It
would be a lot easier for us Geese to escape the dreadful hunters
if we could sink down that way."
"Has he a bill like yours?" asked Peter innocently.
"Of course not," replied Honker. "Didn't I tell you that he lives
on fish? How do you suppose he would hold on to his slippery fish
if he had a broad bill like mine? His bill is stout, straight and
sharp pointed. He is rather a handsome fellow. He is pretty
nearly as big as I am, and his back, wings, tail and neck are
black with bluish or greenish appearance in the sun. His back and
wings are spotted with white, and there are streaks of white on
his throat and the sides of his neck. On his breast and below he
is all white. You certainly ought to get acquainted with Dippy,
Peter, for there isn't anybody quite like him."
"I'd like to," replied Peter. "But if he never comes to shore,
how can I? I guess I will have to be content to know him just by
his voice. I certainly never will forget that. It's about as
crazy sounding as the voice of Old Man Coyote, and that is saying
a great deal."
"There's one thing I forgot to tell you," said Honker. "Dippy
can't fly from the land; he must be on the water in order to get
up in the air."
"You can, can't you?" asked Peter.
"Of course I can," replied Honker. "Why, we Geese get a lot of
our food on land. When it is safe to do so we visit the grain
fields and pick up the grain that has been shaken out during
harvest. Of course we couldn't do that if we couldn't fly from
the land. We can rise from either land or water equally well. Now
if you'll excuse me, Peter, I'll take a nap. My, but I'm tired!
And I've got a long journey to-morrow."
So Peter politely bade Honker and his relatives good-night and
left them in peace on the sandy bar in the Big River.
CHAPTER XXXIX Peter Discovers Two Old Friends.
Rough Brother North Wind and Jack Frost were not far behind
Honker the Goose. In a night Peter Rabbit's world was
transformed. It had become a new world, a world of pure white.
The last laggard among Peter's feathered friends who spend the
winter in the far-away South had hurried away. Still Peter was
not lonely. Tommy Tit's cheery voice greeted Peter the very first
thing that morning after the storm. Tommy seemed to be in just as
good spirits as ever he had been in summer.
Now Peter rather likes the snow. He likes to run about in it, and
so he followed Tommy Tit up to the Old Orchard. He felt sure that
he would find company there besides Tommy Tit, and he was not
disappointed. Downy and Hairy the Woodpeckers were getting their
breakfast from a piece of suet Farmer Brown's boy had
thoughtfully fastened in one of the apple-trees for them. Sammy
Jay was there also, and his blue coat never had looked better
than it did against the pure white of the snow.
These were the only ones Peter really had expected to find in the
Old Orchard, and so you can guess how pleased he was as he hopped
over the old stone wall to hear the voice of one whom he had
almost forgotten. It was the voice of Yank-Yank the Nuthatch, and
while it was far from being sweet there was in it something of
good cheer and contentment. At once Peter hurried in the
direction from which it came.
On the trunk of an apple-tree he caught sight of a gray and black
and white bird about the size of Downy the Woodpecker. The top of
his head and upper part of his back were shining black. The rest
of his back was bluish-gray. The sides of his head and his breast
were white. The outer feathers of his tail were black with white
patches near their tips.
But Peter didn't need to see how Yank-Yank was dressed in order
to recognize him. Peter would have known him if he had been so
far away that the colors of his coat did not show at all. You
see, Yank-Yank was doing a most surprising thing, something no
other bird can do. He was walking head first down the trunk of
that tree, picking tiny eggs of insects from the bark and
seemingly quite as much at home and quite as unconcerned in that
queer position as if he were right side up.
As Peter approached, Yank-Yank lifted his head and called a
greeting which sounded very much like the repetition of his own
name. Then he turned around and began to climb the tree as easily
as he had come down it.
"Welcome home, Yank-Yank!" cried Peter, hurrying up quite out of
breath.
Yank-Yank turned around so that he was once more head down, and
his eyes twinkled as he looked down at Peter. "You're mistaken
Peter," said he. "This isn't home. I've simply come down here for
the winter. You know home is where you raise your children, and
my home is in the Great Woods farther north. There is too much
ice and snow up there, so I have come down here to spend the
winter."
"Well anyway, it's a kind of home; it's your winter home,"
protested Peter, "and I certainly am glad to see you back. The
Old Orchard wouldn't be quite the same without you. Did you have
a pleasant summer? And if you please, Yank-Yank, tell me where
you built your home and what it was like."
"Yes, Mr. Curiosity, I had a very pleasant summer," replied
Yank-Yank. "Mrs. Yank-Yank and I raised a family of six and that
is doing a lot better than some folks I know, if I do say it. As
to our nest, it was made of leaves and feathers and it was in a
hole in a certain old stump that not a soul knows of but Mrs.
Yank-Yank and myself. Now is there anything else you want to
know?"
"Yes," retorted Peter promptly. "I want to know how it is that
you can walk head first down the trunk of a tree without losing
your balance and tumbling off."
Yank-Yank chuckled happily. "I discovered a long time ago,
Peter," said he, "that the people who get on best in this world
are those who make the most of what they have and waste no time
wishing they could have what other people have. I suppose you
have noticed that all the Woodpecker family have stiff tail
feathers and use them to brace themselves when they are climbing
a tree. They have become so dependent on them that they don't
dare move about on the trunk of a tree without using them. If
they want to come down a tree they have to back down.
"Now Old Mother Nature didn't give me stiff tail feathers, but
she gave me a very good pair of feet with three toes in front and
one behind and when I was a very little fellow I learned to make
the most of those feet. Each toe has a sharp claw. When I go up a
tree the three front claws on each foot hook into the bark. When
I come down a tree I simply twist one foot around so that I can
use the claws of this foot to keep me from falling. It is just as
easy for me to go down a tree as it is to go up, and I can go
right around the trunk just as easily and comfortably." Suiting
action to the word, Yank-Yank ran around the trunk of the
apple-tree just above Peter's head. When he reappeared Peter had
another question ready.
"Do you live altogether on grubs and worms and insects and their
eggs?" he asked.
"I should say not!" exclaimed Yank-Yank. "I like acorns and
beechnuts and certain kinds of seeds."
"I don't see how such a little fellow as you can eat such hard
things as acorns and beechnuts," protested Peter a little
doubtfully.
Yank-Yank laughed right out. "Sometime when I see you over in the
Green Forest I'll show you," said he. "When I find a fat beechnut
I take it to a little crack in a tree that will just hold it;
then with this stout bill of mine I crack the shell. It really is
quite easy when you know how. Cracking a nut open that way is
sometimes called hatching, and that is how I come by the name of
Nuthatch. Hello! There's Seep-Seep. I haven't seen him since we
were together up North. His home was not far from mine."
As Yank-Yank spoke, a little brown bird alighted at the very foot
of the next tree. He was just a trifle bigger than Jenny Wren but
not at all like Jenny, for while Jenny's tail usually is cocked
up in the sauciest way, Seep-Seep's tail is never cocked up at
all. In fact, it bends down, for Seep-Seep uses his tail just as
the members of the Woodpecker family use theirs. He was dressed
in grayish-brown above and grayish-white beneath. Across each
wing was a little band of buffy-white, and his bill was curved
just a little.
Seep-Seep didn't stop an instant but started up the trunk of that
tree, going round and round it as he climbed, and picking out
things to eat from under the bark. His way of climbing that tree
was very like creeping, and Peter thought to himself that
Seep-Seep was well named the Brown Creeper. He knew it was quite
useless to try to get Seep-Seep to talk, He knew that Seep-Seep
wouldn't waste any time that way.
Round and round up the trunk of the tree he went, and when he
reached the top at once flew down to the bottom of the next tree
and without a pause started up that. He wasted no time exploring
the branches, but stuck to the trunk. Once in a while he would
cry in a thin little voice, "Seep! Seep!" but never paused to
rest or look around. If he had felt that on him alone depended
the job of getting all the insect eggs and grubs on those trees
he could not have been more industrious.
"Does he build his nest in a hole in a tree?" asked Peter of
Yank-Yank. Yank-Yank shook his head. "No," he replied. "He hunts
for a tree or stub with a piece of loose bark hanging to it. In
behind this he tucks his nest made of twigs, strips of bark and
moss. He's a funny little fellow and I don't know of any one in
all the great world who more strictly attends to his own business
than does Seep-Seep the Brown Creeper. By the way, Peter, have
you seen anything of Dotty the Tree Sparrow?"
"Not yet," replied Peter, "but I think he must be here. I'm glad
you reminded me of him. I'll go look for him.
CHAPTER XL Some Merry Seed-Eaters.
Having been reminded of Dotty the Tree Sparrow, Peter Rabbit
became possessed of a great desire to find this little friend of
the cold months and learn how he had fared through the summer.
He was at a loss just where to look for Dotty until he remembered
a certain weedy field along the edge of which the bushes had been
left growing. "Perhaps I'll find him there," thought Peter, for
he remembered that Dotty lives almost wholly on seeds, chiefly
weed seeds, and that he dearly loves a weedy field with bushes
not far distant in which he can hide.
So Peter hurried over to the weedy field and there, sure enough,
he found Dotty with a lot of his friends. They were very busy
getting their breakfast. Some were clinging to the weed-stalks
picking the seeds out of the tops, while others were picking up
the seeds from the ground. It was cold. Rough Brother North Wind
was doing his best to blow up another snow-cloud. It wasn't at
all the kind of day in which one would expect to find anybody in
high spirits. But Dotty was. He was even singing as Peter came
up, and all about Dotty's friends and relatives were twittering
as happily and merrily as if it were the beginning of spring
instead of winter.
Dotty was very nearly the size of Little Friend the Song Sparrow
and looked somewhat like him, save that his breast was clear
ashy-gray, all but a little dark spot in the middle, the little
dot from which he gets his name. He wore a chestnut cap, almost
exactly like that of Chippy the Chipping Sparrow. It reminded
Peter that Dotty is often called the Winter Chippy.
"Welcome back, Dotty!" cried Peter. "It does my heart good to see
you."
"Thank you, Peter," twittered Dotty happily. "In a way it is
good to be back. Certainly, it is good to know that an old friend
is glad to see me."
"Are you going to stay all winter, Dotty?" asked Peter.
"I hope so," replied Dotty. "I certainly shall if the snow does
not get so deep that I cannot get enough to eat. Some of these
weeds are so tall that it will take a lot of snow to cover them,
and as long as the tops are above the snow I will have nothing to
worry about. You know a lot of seeds remain in these tops all
winter. But if the snow gets deep enough to cover these I shall
have to move along farther south."
"Then I hope there won't be much snow," declared Peter very
emphatically. "There are few enough folks about in winter at
best, goodness knows, and I don't know of any one I enjoy having
for a neighbor more than I do you."
"Thank you again, Peter," cried Dotty, "and please let me return
the compliment. I like cold weather. I like winter when there
isn't too much ice and bad weather. I always feel good in cold
weather. That is one reason I go north to nest."
"Speaking of nests, do you build in a tree?" inquired Peter.
"Usually on or near the ground," replied Dotty. "You know I am
really a ground bird although I am called a Tree Sparrow. Most of
us Sparrows spend our time on or near the ground."
"I know," replied Peter. "Do you know I'm very fond of the
Sparrow family. I just love your cousin Chippy, who nests in the
Old Orchard every spring. I wish he would stay all winter. I
really don't see why he doesn't. I should think he could if you
can."
Dotty laughed. It was a tinkling little laugh, good to hear.
"Cousin Chippy would starve to death," he declared. "It is all a
matter of food. You ought to know that by this time, Peter.
Cousin Chippy lives chiefly on worms and bugs and I live almost
wholly on seeds, and that is what makes the difference. Cousin
Chippy must go where he can get plenty to eat. I can get plenty
here and so I stay."
"Did you and your relatives come down from the Far North alone?"
asked Peter.
"No," replied Dotty promptly. "Slaty the Junco and his relatives
came along with us and we had a very merry party."
Peter pricked up his ears. "Is Slaty here now?" he asked
eagerly.
"Very much here," replied a voice right behind Peter's back. It
was so unexpected that it made Peter jump. He turned to find
Slaty himself chuckling merrily as he picked up seeds. He was
very nearly the same size as Dotty but trimmer. In fact he was
one of the trimmest, neatest appearing of all of Peter's
friends. There was no mistaking Slaty the Junco for any other
bird. His head, throat and breast were clear slate color.
Underneath he was white. His sides were grayish. His outer tail
feathers were white. His bill was flesh color. It looked almost
white.
"Welcome! Welcome!" cried Peter. "Are you here to stay all
winter?"
I certainly am," was Slaty's prompt response. "It will take
pretty bad weather to drive me away from here. If the snow gets
too deep I'll just go up to Farmer Brown's barnyard. I can always
pick up a meal there, for Farmer Brown's boy is a very good
friend of mine. I know he won't let me starve, no matter what the
weather is. I think it is going to snow some more. I like the
snow. You know I am sometimes called the Snowbird."
Peter nodded. "So I have heard," said he, "though I think that
name really belongs to Snowflake the Snow Bunting."
"Quite right, Peter, quite right," replied Slaty. "I much prefer
my own name of Junco. My, these seeds are good!" All the time he
was busily picking up seeds so tiny that Peter didn't even see
them.
"If you like here so much why don't you stay all the year?"
inquired Peter.
"It gets too warm," replied Slaty promptly,
"I hate hot weather. Give me cold weather every time."
"Do you mean to tell me that it is cold all summer where you
nest in the Far North?" demanded Peter.
"Not exactly cold," replied Slaty, "but a lot cooler than it is
down here. I don't go as far north to nest as Snowflake does, but
I go far enough to be fairly comfortable. I don't see how some
folks can stand hot weather."
"It is a good thing they can," interrupted Dotty. "If everybody
liked the same things it wouldn't do at all. Just suppose all the
birds ate nothing but seeds. There wouldn't be seeds enough to go
around, and a lot of us would starve. Then, too, the worms and
the bugs would eat up everything. So, take it all together, it is
a mighty good thing that some birds live almost wholly on worms
and bugs and such things, leaving the seeds to the rest of us. I
guess Old Mother Nature knew what she was about when she gave us
different tastes."
Peter nodded his head in approval. "You can always trust Old
Mother Nature to know what is best," said he sagely. "By the
way, Slaty, what do you make your nest of and where do you put
it?"
"My nest is usually made of grasses, moss and rootlets. Sometimes
it is lined with fine grasses, and when I am lucky enough to find
them I use long hairs. Often I put my nest on the ground, and
never very far above it. I am like my friend Dotty in this
respect. It always seems to me easier to hide a nest on the
ground than anywhere else. There is nothing like having a nest
well hidden. It takes sharp eyes to find my nest, I can tell you
that, Peter Rabbit."
Just then Dotty, who had been picking seeds out of the top of a
weed, gave a cry of alarm and instantly there was a flit of many
wings as Dotty and his relatives and Slaty sought the shelter of
the bushes along the edge of the field. Peter sat up very
straight and looked this way and looked that way. At first
he saw nothing suspicious. Then, crouching flat among the weeds,
he got a glimpse of Black Pussy, the cat from Farmer Brown's
house. She had been creeping up in the hope of catching one of
those happy little seedeaters. Peter stamped angrily. Then with
long jumps he started for the dear Old Briar-patch,
lipperty-lipperty-lip, for truth to tell, big as he was, he was a
little afraid of Black Pussy.
CHAPTER XLI More Friends Come With the Snow.
Slaty the Junco had been quite right in thinking it was going
to snow some more. Rough Brother North Find hurried up one big
cloud after another, and late that afternoon the white feathery
flakes came drifting down out of the sky.
Peter Rabbit sat tight in the dear Old Briar-patch. In fact
Peter did no moving about that night, but remained squatting just
inside the entrance to an old hole Johnny Chuck's grandfather had
dug long ago in the middle of the clear Old Briar-patch. Some
time before morning the snow stopped falling and then rough
Brother North Wind worked as hard to blow away the clouds as he
had done to bring them.
When jolly, round, bright Mr. Sun began his daily climb up in the
blue, blue sky he looked down on a world of white. It seemed as
if every little snowflake twinkled back at every little sunbeam.
It was all very lovely, and Peter Rabbit rejoiced as he
scampered forth in quest of his breakfast.
He started first for the weedy field where the day before he had
found Dotty the Tree Sparrow and Slaty the Junco. They were there
before him, having the very best time ever was as they picked
seeds from the tops of the weeds which showed above the snow.
Almost at once Peter discovered that they were not the only
seekers for seeds. Walking about on the snow, and quite as busy
seeking seeds as were Dotty and Slaty, was a bird very near their
size the top of whose head, neck and back were a soft
rusty-brown. There was some black on his wings, but the latter were
mostly white and the outer tail feathers were white. His breast
and under parts were white. It was Snowflake the Snow Bunting in
his winter suit. Peter knew him instantly. There was no mistaking
him, for, as Peter well knew, there is no other bird of his size
and shape who is so largely white. He had appeared so
unexpectedly that it almost seemed as if he must have come out of
the snow clouds just as had the snow itself. Peter had his usual
question ready.
"Are you going to spend the winter here, Snowflake?" he cried.
Snowflake was so busy getting his breakfast that he did not reply
at once. Peter noticed that he did not hop, but walked or ran.
Presently he paused long enough to reply to Peter's question. "If
the snow has come to stay all winter, perhaps I'll stay," said
he.
"What has the snow to do with it?" demanded Peter.
"Only that I like the snow and I like cold weather. When the snow
begins to disappear, I just naturally fly back farther north,"
replied Snowflake. "It isn't that I don't like bare ground,
because I do, and I'm always glad when the snow is blown off in
places so that I can hunt for seeds on the ground. But when the
snow begins to melt everywhere I feel uneasy. I can't understand
how folks can be contented where there is no snow and ice. You
don't catch me going 'way down south. No, siree, you don't catch
me going 'way down south. Why, when the nesting season comes
around, I chase Jack Frost clear 'way up to where he spends the
summer. I nest 'way up on the shore of the Polar Sea, but of
course you don't know where that is, Peter Rabbit."
"If you are so fond of the cold in the Far North, the snow and
the ice, what did you come south at all for? Why don't you stay
up there all the year around?" demanded Peter.
"Because, Peter," replied Snowflake, twittering merrily, "like
everybody else, I have to eat in order to live. When you see me
down here you may know that the snows up north are so deep that
they have covered all the seeds. I always keep a weather eye out,
as the saying is, and the minute it looks as if there would be
too much snow for me to get a living, I move along. I hope I will
not have to go any farther than this, but if some morning you
wake up and find the snow so deep that all the heads of the weeds
are buried, don't expect to find me."
"That's what I call good, sound common sense," said another
voice, and a bird a little bigger than Snowflake, and who at
first glance seemed to be dressed almost wholly in soft chocolate
brown, alighted in the snow close by and at once began to run
about in search of seeds. It was Wanderer the Horned Lark.
Peter hailed him joyously, for there was something of mystery
about Wanderer, and Peter, as you know, loves mystery.
Peter had known him ever since his first winter, yet did not feel
really acquainted, for Wanderer seldom stayed long enough for a
real acquaintance. Every winter he would come, sometimes two or
three times, but seldom staying more than a few days at a time.
Quite often he and his relatives appeared with the Snowflakes,
for they are the best of friends and travel much together.
Now as Wanderer reached up to pick seeds from a weed-top, Peter
had a good look at him. The first things he noticed were the two
little horn-like tufts of black feathers above and behind the
eyes. It is from these that Wanderer gets the name of Horned
Lark. No other bird has anything quite like them. His
forehead, a line over each eye, and his throat were yellow.
There was a black mark from each corner of the bill curving
downward just below the eye and almost joining a black
crescent-shaped band across the breast. Beneath this he was
soiled white with dusky spots showing here and there. His back
was brown, in places having almost a pinkish tinge. His tail was
black, showing a little white on the edges when he flew. All
together he was a handsome little fellow.
"Do all of your family have those funny little horns?" asked
Peter.
"No," was Wanderer's prompt reply. "Mrs. Lark does not have
them."
"I think they are very becoming," said Peter politely.
"Thank you," replied Wanderer. "I am inclined to agree with you.
You should see me when I have my summer suit."
"Is it so very different from this?" asked Peter. "I think your
present suit is pretty enough."
"Well said, Peter, well said," interrupted Snowflake. "I quite
agree with you. I think Wanderer's present suit is pretty enough
for any one, but it is true that his summer suit is even
prettier. It isn't so very different, but it is brighter, and
those black markings are much stronger and show up better. You
see, Wanderer is one of my neighbors in the Far North, and I know
all about him."
"And that means that you don't know anything bad about me,
doesn't it?" chuckled Wanderer.
Snowflake nodded. "Not a thing," he replied. "I wouldn't ask for
a better neighbor. You should hear him sing, Peter. He sings up
in the air, and it really is a very pretty song."
"I'd just love to hear him," replied Peter. "Why don't you sing
here, Wanderer?"
"This isn't the singing season," replied Wanderer promptly.
"Besides, there isn't time to sing when one has to keep busy
every minute in order to get enough to eat."
"I don't see," said Peter, "why, when you get here, you don't
stay in one place."
"Because it is easier to get a good living by moving about,"
replied Wanderer promptly. "Besides, I like to visit new places.
I shouldn't enjoy being tied down in just one place like some
birds I know. Would you, Snowflake?"
Snowflake promptly replied that he wouldn't. Just then Peter
discovered something that he hadn't known before. "My goodness,"
he exclaimed, "what a long claw you have on each hind toe!"
It was true. Each hind claw was about twice as long as any other
claw. Peter couldn't see any special use for it and he was just
about to ask more about it when Wanderer suddenly spied a flock
of his relatives some distance away and flew to join them.
Probably this saved him some embarrassment, for it is doubtful if
he himself knew why Old Mother Nature had given him such long
hind claws.
CHAPTER XLII Peter Learns Something About Spooky.
Peter Rabbit likes winter. At least he doesn't mind it so very
much, even though he has to really work for a living. Perhaps it
is a good thing that he does, for he might grow too fat to keep
out of the way of Reddy Fox. You see when the snow is deep Peter
is forced to eat whatever he can, and very often there isn't
much of anything for him but the bark of young trees. It is at
such times that Peter gets into mischief, for there is no bark he
likes better than that of young fruit trees. Now you know what
happens when the bark is taken off all the way around the trunk
of a tree. That tree dies. It dies for the simple reason that it
is up the inner layer of bark that the life-giving sap travels in
the spring and summer. Of course, when a strip of bark has been
taken off all the way around near the base of a tree, the sap
cannot go up and the tree must die.
Now up near the Old Orchard Farmer Brown had set out a young
orchard. Peter knew all about that young orchard, for he had
visited it many times in the summer. Then there had been plenty
of sweet clover and other green things to eat, and Peter had
never been so much as tempted to sample the bark of those young
trees. But now things were very different, and it was very seldom
that Peter knew what it was to have a full stomach. He kept
thinking of that young orchard. He knew that if he were wise
he would keep away from there. But the more he thought of it
the more it seemed to him that he just must have some of that
tender young bark. So just at dusk one evening, Peter started for
the young orchard.
Peter got there in safety and his eyes sparkled as he hopped over
to the nearest young tree. But when he reached it, Peter had a
dreadful disappointment. All around the trunk of that young
tree was wire netting. Peter couldn't get even a nibble of that
bark. He tried the next tree with no better result. Then he
hurried on from tree to tree, always with the same result. You
see Farmer Brown knew all about Peter's liking for the bark
of young fruit trees, and he had been wise enough to protect his
young orchard.
At last Peter gave up and hopped over to the Old Orchard. As he
passed a certain big tree he was startled by a voice. "What's
the matter, Peter?" said the voice. "You don't look happy."
Peter stopped short and stared up in the big apple-tree. Look as
he would he couldn't see anybody. Of course there wasn't a leaf
on that tree, and he could see all through it. Peter blinked and
felt foolish. He knew that had there been any one sitting on any
one of those branches he couldn't have helped seeing him.
"Don't look so high, Peter; don't look so high," said the voice
with a chuckle. This time it sounded as if it came right out of
the trunk of the tree. Peter stared at the trunk and then
suddenly laughed right out. Just a few feet above the ground was
a good sized hole in the tree, and poking his head out of it was
a funny little fellow with big eyes and a hooked beak.
"You certainly did fool me that time, Spooky," cried Peter. "I
ought to have recognized your voice, but I didn't."
Spooky the Screech Owl, for that is who it was, came out of the
hole in the tree and without a sound from his wings flew over
and perched just above Peter's head. He was a little fellow, not
over eight inches high, but there was no mistaking the family to
which he belonged. In fact he looked very much like a small copy
of Hooty the Great Horned Owl, so much so that Peter felt a
little cold shiver run over him, although he had nothing in the
world to fear from Spooky.
His head seemed to be almost as big around as his body, and he
seemed to leave no neck at all. He was dressed in bright
reddish-brown, with little streaks and bars of black. Underneath
he was whitish, with little streaks and bars of black and brown.
On each side of his head was a tuft of feathers. They looked like
ears and some people think they are ears, which is a mistake. His
eyes were round and yellow with a fierce hungry look in them. His
bill was small and almost hidden among the feathers of his face,
but it was hooked just like the bill of Hooty. As he settled
himself he turned his head around until he could look squarely
behind him, then brought it back again so quickly that to Peter
it looked as if it had gone clear around. You see Spooky's eyes
are fixed in their sockets and he cannot move them from side to
side. He has to turn his whole head in order to see to one side
or the other.
"You haven't told me yet why you look so unhappy, Peter," said
Spooky.
"Isn't an empty stomach enough to make any fellow unhappy?"
retorted Peter rather shortly.
Spooky chuckled. "I've got an empty stomach myself, Peter," said
he, "but it isn't making me unhappy. I have a feeling that
somewhere there is a fat Mouse waiting for me."
Just then Peter remembered what Jenny Wren had told him early in
the spring of how Spooky the Screech Owl lives all the year
around in a hollow tree, and curiosity made him forget for the
time being that he was hungry. "Did you live in that hole all
summer, Spooky?" he asked.
Spooky nodded solemnly. "I've lived in that hollow summer and
winter for three years," said he.
Peter's eyes opened very wide. "And till now I never even guessed
it," he exclaimed. "Did you raise a family there?"
"I certainly did," replied Spooky. "Mrs. Spooky and I raised a
family of four as fine looking youngsters as you ever have seen.
They've gone out into the Great World to make their own living
now. Two were dressed just like me and two were gray."
"What's that?" exclaimed Peter.
"I said that two were dressed just like me and two were gray,"
replied Spooky rather sharply.
"That's funny," Peter exclaimed.
"What's funny?" snapped Spooky rather crossly.
"Why that all four were not dressed alike," said Peter.
"There's nothing funny about it," retorted Spooky, and snapped
his bill sharply with a little cracking sound. "We Screech Owls
believe in variety. Some of us are gray and some of us are
reddish-brown. It is a case of where you cannot tell a person
just by the color of his clothes."
Peter nodded as if he quite understood, although he couldn't
understand at all. "I'm ever so pleased to find you living here,"
said he politely. "You see, in winter the Old Orchard is rather a
lonely place. I don't see how you get enough to eat when there
are so few birds about."
"Birds!" snapped Spooky. "What have birds to do with it?"
"Why, don't you live on birds?" asked Peter innocently.
"I should say not. I guess I would starve if I depended on birds
for my daily food," retorted Spooky. "I catch a Sparrow now and
then, to be sure, but usually it is an English Sparrow, and I
consider that I am doing the Old Orchard a good turn every time I
am lucky enough to catch one of the family of Bully the English
Sparrow. But I live mostly on Mice and Shrews in winter and in
summer I eat a lot of grasshoppers and other insects. If it
wasn't for me and my relatives I guess Mice would soon overrun
the Great World. Farmer Brown ought to be glad I've come to live
in the Old Orchard and I guess he is, for Farmer Brown's boy
knows all about this house of mine and never disturbs me. Now if
you'll excuse me I think I'll fly over to Farmer Brown's young
orchard. I ought to find a fat Mouse or two trying to get some of
the bark from those young trees."
"Huh!" exclaimed Peter. They can try all they want to, but they
won't get any; I can tell you that."
Spooky's round yellow eyes twinkled. "It must be you have been
trying to get some of that bark yourself," said he.
Peter didn't say anything but he looked guilty, and Spooky once
more chuckled as he spread his wings and flew away so soundlessly
that he seemed more like a drifting shadow than a bird. Then
Peter started for a certain swamp he knew of where he would be
sure to find enough bark to stay his appetite.
CHAPTER XLIII Queer Feet and a Queerer Bill.
Peter Rabbit had gone over to the Green Forest to call on his
cousin, Jumper the Hare, who lives there altogether. He had no
difficulty in finding Jumper's tracks in the snow, and by
following these he at length came up with Jumper. The fact is,
Peter almost bumped into Jumper before he saw him, for Jumper was
wearing a coat as white as the snow itself. Squatting under a
little snow-covered hemlock-tree he looked like nothing more
than a little mound of snow.
"Oh!" cried Peter. "How you startled me! I wish I had a winter
coat like yours. It must be a great help in avoiding your
enemies."
"It certainly is, Cousin Peter," cried Jumper. "Nine times out
of ten all I have to do is to sit perfectly still when there
was no wind to carry my scent. I have had Reddy Fox pass within
a few feet of me and never suspect that I was near. I hope this
snow will last all winter. It is only when there isn't any snow
that I am particularly worried. Then I am not easy for a minute,
because my white coat can be seen a long distance against the
brown of the dead leaves."
Peter chuckled. "that is just when I feel safest," he replied.
"I like the snow, but this brown-gray coat of mine certainly
does show up against it. Don't you find it pretty lonesome over
here in the Green Forest with all the birds gone, Cousin
Jumper?"
Jumper shook his head. "Not all have gone, Peter, you know,"
said he. "Strutter the Grouse and Mrs. Grouse are here, and I see
them every day. They've got snowshoes now."
Peter blinked his eyes and looked rather perplexed. "Snowshoes!"
he exclaimed. "I don't understand what you mean."
"Come with me," replied Jumper, "and I'll show you."
So Jumper led the way and Peter followed close at his heels.
Presently they came to some tracks in the snow. At first
glance they reminded Peter of the queer tracks Farmer Brown's
ducks made in the mud on the edge of the Smiling Pool in summer.
"What funny tracks those are!" he exclaimed. "Who made them?"
"Just keep on following me and you'll see," retorted Jumper.
So they continued to follow the tracks until presently, just
ahead of them, they saw Strutter the Grouse. Peter opened his
eyes with surprise when he discovered that those queer tracks
were made by Strutter.
"Cousin Peter wants to see your snowshoes, Strutter," said Jumper
as they came up with him.
Strutter's bright eyes sparkled. "He's just as curious as ever,
isn't he?" said he. "Well, I don't mind showing him my
snowshoes because I think myself that they are really quite
wonderful." He held up one foot with the toes spread apart and
Peter saw that growing out from the sides of each toe were
queer little horny points set close together. They quite filled
the space between his toes. Peter recalled that when he had
seen Strutter in the summer those toes had been smooth and that
his tracks on soft ground had shown the outline of each toe
clearly. "How funny!" exclaimed Peter.
"There's nothing funny about them," retorted Strutter. "If Old
Mother Nature hadn't given me something of this kind I
certainly would have a hard time of it when there is snow on the
ground. If my feet were just the same as in summer I would sink
right down in when the snow is soft and wouldn't be able to walk
about at all. Now, with these snowshoes I get along very nicely.
You see I sink in but very little."
He took three or four steps and Peter saw right away how very
useful those snowshoes were. "My!" he exclaimed. "I wish Old
Mother Nature would give me snowshoes too." Strutter and Jumper
both laughed and after a second Peter laughed with them, for he
realized how impossible it would be for him to have anything like
those snowshoes of Strutter's.
"Cousin Peter was just saying that he should think I would find
it lonesome over here in the Green Forest. He forgot that you and
Mrs. Grouse stay all winter, and he forgot that while most of the
birds who spent the summer here have left, there are others who
come down from the Far North to take their place."
"Who, for instance?" demanded Peter.
"Snipper the Crossbill," replied Jumper promptly. "I haven't seen
him yet this winter, but I know he is here because only this
morning I found some pine seeds on the snow under a certain
tree."
"Huh!" Peter exclaimed. "That doesn't prove anything. Those
seeds might have just fallen, or Chatterer the Red Squirrel might
have dropped them."
"This isn't the season for seeds to just fall, and I know by the
signs that Chatterer hasn't been about," retorted Jumper. "Let's
go over there now and see what we will see."
Once more he led the way and Peter followed. As they drew near
that certain pine-tree, a short whistled note caused them to look
up. Busily at work on a pine cone near the top of a tree was a
bird about the size of Bully the English Sparrow. He was dressed
wholly in dull red with brownish-black wings and tail.
"What did I tell you?" cried Jumper. "There's Snipper this very
minute, and over in that next tree are a lot of his family
and relatives. See in what a funny way they climb about among the
branches. They don't flit or hop, but just climb around. I don't
know of any other bird anywhere around here that does that."
Just then a seed dropped and landed on the snow almost in front
of Peter's nose. Almost at once Snipper himself followed it,
picking it up and eating it with as much unconcern as if Peter
and Jumper were a mile away instead of only a foot or so. The
very first thing Peter noticed was Snipper's bill. The upper and
lower halves crossed at the tips. That bill looked very much as
if Snipper had struck something hard and twisted the tips over.
"Have--have--you met with an accident?" he asked a bit
hesitatingly.
Snipper looked surprised. "Are you talking to me?" he asked.
"Whatever put such an idea into your head?"
"Your bill," replied Peter promptly. "How did it get twisted
like that?"
Snipper laughed. "It isn't twisted," said he. "It is just the way
Old Mother Nature made it, and I really don't know what I'd do if
it were any different."
Peter scratched one long ear, as is his way when he is puzzled.
"I don't see," said he, "how it is possible for you to pick
up food with a bill like that."
"And I don't see how I would get my food if I didn't have a bill
like this," retorted Snipper. Then, seeing how puzzled Peter
really was, he went on to explain. "You see, I live very largely
on the seeds that grow in pine cones and the cones of other
trees. Of course I eat some other food, such as seeds and buds of
trees. But what I love best of all are the seeds that grow in the
cones of evergreen trees. If you've ever looked at one of those
cones, you will understand that those seeds are not very easy to
get at. But with this kind of a bill it is no trouble at all. I
can snip them out just as easily as birds with straight bills can
pick up seeds. You see my bill is very much like a pair of
scissors."
"It really is very wonderful," confessed Peter. "Do you mind
telling me, Snipper, why I never have seen you here in summer?"
"For the same reason that in summer you never see Snowflake and
Wanderer the Horned Lark and some others I might name," replied
Snipper. "Give me the Far North every time. I would stay there
the year through but that sometimes food gets scarce up there.
That is why I am down here now. If you'll excuse me, I'll go
finish my breakfast."
Snipper flew up in the tree where the other Crossbills were at
work and Peter and Jumper watched them.
"I suppose you know," said Jumper, "that Snipper has a cousin who
looks almost exactly like him with the exception of two white
bars on each wing. He is called the White-winged Crossbill."
"I didn't know it," replied Peter, "but I'm glad you've told me.
I certainly shall watch out for him. I can't get over those
funny bills. No one could ever mistake it for any other bird.
Is there anyone else now from the Far North whom I haven't seen?"
CHAPTER XLIV More Folks in Red.
Jumper the Hare didn't have time to reply to Peter Rabbit's
question when Peter asked if there was any one else besides the
Crossbills who had come down from the Far North.
"I have," said a voice from a tree just back of them.
It was so unexpected that it made both Peter and Jumper hop in
startled surprise. Then they turned to see who had spoken. There
sat a bird just a little smaller than Welcome Robin, who at first
glance seemed to be dressed in strawberry-red. However, a closer
look showed that there were slate-gray markings about his head,
under his wings and on his legs. His tail was brown. His wings
were brown, marked with black and white and slate. His bill was
thick and rather short.
"Who are you?" demanded Peter very bluntly and impolitely.
"I'm Piny the Pine Grosbeak," replied the stranger, seemingly not
at all put out by Peter's bluntness.
"Oh," said Peter. "Are you related to Rosebreast the Grosbeak who
nested last summer in the Old Orchard?"
"I certainly am," replied Piny. "He is my very own cousin. I've
never seen him because he never ventures up where I live and I
don't go down where he spends the winter, but all members of the
Grosbeak family are cousins."
"Rosebreast is very lovely and I'm very fond of him," said
Peter. "We are very good friends."
"Then I know we are going to be good friends," replied Piny. As
he said this he turned and Peter noticed that his tail was
distinctly forked instead of being square across like that of
Welcome Robin. Piny whistled, and almost at once he was joined by
another bird who in shape was just like him, but who was dressed
in slaty-gray and olive-yellow, instead of the bright red that he
himself wore. Piny introduced the newcomer as Mrs. Grosbeak.
"Lovely weather, isn't it?" said she. "I love the snow. I
wouldn't feel at home with no snow about. Why, last spring I
even built my nest before the snow was gone in the Far North.
We certainly hated to leave up there, but food was getting so
scarce that we had to. We have just arrived. Can you tell me if
there are any cedar-trees or ash-trees or sumacs near here?"
Peter hastened to tell her just where she would find these trees
and then rather timidly asked why she wanted to find them.
"Because they hold their berries all winter," replied Mrs.
Grosbeak promptly, "and those berries make very good eating.
I rather thought there must be some around here. If there are
enough of them we certainly shall stay a while."
"I hope you will," replied Peter. "I want to get better
acquainted with you. You know, if it were not for you folks who
come down from the Far North the Green Forest would be rather a
lonely place in winter. There are times when I like to be alone,
but I like to feel that there is someone I can call on when I
feel lonesome. Did you and Piny come down alone?"
"No, indeed," replied Mrs. Grosbeak. "There is a flock of our
relatives not far away. We came down with the Crossbills. A11
together we made quite a party."
Peter and Jumper stayed a while to gossip with the Grosbeaks.
Then Peter bethought him that it was high time for him to return
to the dear Old Briar-patch, and bidding his new friends good-by,
he started off through the Green Forest, lipperty-lipperty-lip.
When he reached the edge of the Green Forest he decided to run
over to the weedy field to see if the Snowflakes and the Tree
Sparrows and the Horned Larks were there. They were, but almost
at once Peter discovered that they had company. Twittering
cheerfully as he busily picked seeds out of the top of a weed
which stood above the snow, was a bird very little bigger than
Chicoree the Goldfinch. But when Peter looked at him he just
had to rub his eyes.
"Gracious goodness!" he muttered, "it must be something is
wrong with my eyes so that I am seeing red. I've already seen two
birds dressed in red and now there's another. It certainly must
be my eyes. There's Dotty the Tree Sparrow over there; I hear his
voice. I wonder if he will look red."
Peter hopped near enough to get a good look at Dotty and found
him dressed just as he should be. That relieved Peter's mind. His
eyes were quite as they should be. Then he returned to look at
the happy little stranger still busily picking seeds from that
weed-top.
The top of his head was bright red. There was no doubt about it.
His back was toward Peter at the time and but for that bright red
cap Peter certainly would have taken him for one of his friends
among the Sparrow family. You see his back was grayish-brown.
Peter could think of several Sparrows with backs very much like
it. But when he looked closely he saw that just above his tail
this little stranger wore a pinkish patch, and that was something
no Sparrow of Peter's acquaintance possesses.
Then the lively little stranger turned to face Peter and a pair
of bright eyes twinkled mischievously. "Well," said he, "how do
you like my appearance? Anything wrong with me? I was taught that
it is very impolite to stare at any one. I guess your mother
forgot to teach you manners."
Peter paid no attention to what was said but continued to stare.
"My, how pretty you are!" he exclaimed.
The little stranger WAS pretty. His breast was PINK. Below this
he was white. The middle of his throat was black and his sides
were streaked with reddish-brown. He looked pleased at Peter's
exclamation.
"I'm glad you think I'm pretty," said he. "I like pink myself. I
like it very much indeed. I suppose you've already seen my
friends, Snipper the Crossbill and Piny the Grosbeak."
Peter promptly bobbed his head. "I've just come from making their
acquaintance," said he. "By the way you speak, I presume you also
are from the Far North. I am just beginning to learn that there
are more folks who make their homes in the Far North than I
had dreamed of. If you please, I don't believe I know you at
all."
"I'm Redpoll," was the prompt response. "I am called that because
of my red cap. Yes, indeed, I make my home in the Far North.
There is no place like it. You really ought to run up there and
get acquainted with the folks who make their homes there and love
it."
Redpoll laughed at his own joke, but Peter didn't see the joke at
all. "Is it so very far?" he asked innocently; then added, "I'd
dearly love to go."
Redpoll laughed harder than ever. "Yes," said he, "it is. I am
afraid you would be a very old and very gray Rabbit by the time
you got there. I guess the next thing is for you to make the
acquaintance of some of us who get down here once in awhile."
Redpoll called softly and almost at once was joined by another
red-capped bird but without the pink breast, and with sides more
heavily streaked. "This is Mrs. Redpoll," announced her lively
little mate. Then he turned to her and added, "I've just been
telling Peter Rabbit that as long as he cannot visit our
beautiful Far North he must become acquainted with those of us
who come down here in the winter. I'm sure he'll find us very
friendly folks."
"I'm sure I shall," said Peter. "If you please, do you live
altogether on these weed seeds?"
Redpoll laughed his usual happy laugh. "Hardly, Peter," replied
he. "We like the seeds of the birches and the alders, and we eat
the seeds of the evergreen trees when we get them. Sometimes we
find them in cones Snipper the Crossbill has opened but hasn't
picked all the seeds out of. Sometimes he drops some for us. Oh,
we always manage to get plenty to eat. There are some of our
relatives over there and we must join them. We'll see you again,
Peter."
Peter said he hoped they would and then watched them fly over to
join their friends. Suddenly, as if a signal had been given, all
spread their wings at the same instant and flew up in a
birch-tree not far away. All seemed to take wing at precisely the
same instant. Up in the birch-tree they sat for a minute or so and
then, just as if another signal had been given, all began to pick
out the tiny seeds from the birch tassels. No one bird seemed to
be first. It was quite like a drill, or as if each had thought of
the same thing at the same instant. Peter chuckled over it all
the way home. And somehow he felt better for having made the
acquaintance of the Redpolls. It was the feeling that everybody
so fortunate as to meet them on a gold winter's day is sure to
have.
CHAPTER XLV Peter Sees Two Terrible Feathered Hunters.
While it is true that Peter Rabbit likes winter, it is also true
that life is anything but easy for him that season. In the
first place he has to travel about a great deal to get sufficient
food, and that means that he must run more risks. There isn't a
minute of day or night that he is outside of the dear Old
Briar-patch when he can afford not to watch and listen for
danger. You see, at this season of the year, Reddy Fox often finds
it difficult to get a good meal. He is hungry most of the time,
and he is forever hunting for Peter Rabbit. With snow on the
ground and no leaves on the bushes and young trees, it is not
easy for Peter to hide. So, as he travels about, the thought of
Reddy Fox is always in his mind.
But there are others whom Peter fears even more, and these wear
feathers instead of fur coats. One of these is Terror the
Goshawk. Peter is not alone in his fear of Terror. There is not
one among his feathered friends who will not shiver at the
mention of Terror's name. Peter will not soon forget the day he
discovered that Terror had come down from the Far North, and was
likely to stay for the rest of the winter. Peter went hungry all
the rest of that day.
You see it was this way: Peter had gone over to the Green Forest
very early that morning in the hope of getting breakfast in a
certain swamp. He was hopping along, lipperty-lipperty-lip, with
his thoughts chiefly on that breakfast he hoped to get, but at
the same time with ears and eyes alert for possible danger, when
a strange feeling swept over him. It was a feeling that great
danger was very near, though he saw nothing and heard nothing to
indicate it. It was just a feeling, that was all.
Now Peter has learned that the wise thing to do when one has such
a feeling as that is to seek safety first and investigate
afterwards. At the instant he felt that strange feeling of fear
he was passing a certain big, hollow log. Without really knowing
why he did it, because, you know, he didn't stop to do any
thinking, he dived into that hollow log, and even as he did so
there was the sharp swish of great wings. Terror the Goshawk had
missed catching Peter by the fraction of a second.
With his heart thumping as if it were trying to pound its way
through his ribs, Peter peeped out of that hollow log. Terror had
alighted on a tall stump only a few feet away. To Peter in his
fright he seemed the biggest bird he ever had seen. Of course he
wasn't. Actually he was very near the same size as Redtail the
Hawk, whom Peter knew well. He was handsome. There was no denying
the fact that he was handsome.
His back was bluish. His head seemed almost black. Over and
behind each eye was a white line. Underneath he was beautifully
marked with wavy bars of gray and white. On his tail were four
dark bands. Yes, he was handsome. But Peter had no thought for
his beauty. He could see nothing but the fierceness of the eyes
that were fixed on the entrance to that hollow log. Peter
shivered as if with a cold chill. He knew that in Terror was no
pity or gentleness.
"I hope," thought Peter, "that Mr. and Mrs. Grouse are nowhere
about." You see he knew that there is no one that Terror would
rather catch than a member of the Grouse family.
Terror did not sit on that stump long. He knew that Peter was
not likely to come out in a hurry. Presently he flew away, and
Peter suspected from the direction in which he was headed that
Terror was going over to visit Farmer Brown's henyard. Of all the
members of the Hawk family there is none more bold than Terror
the Goshawk. He would not hesitate to seize a hen from almost
beneath Farmer Brown's nose. He is well named, for the mere
suspicion that he is anywhere about strikes terror to the heart
of all the furred and feathered folks. He is so swift of wing
that few can escape him, and he has no pity, but kills for the
mere love of killing. In this respect he is like Shadow the
Weasel. To kill for food is forgiven by the little people of the
Green Forest and the Green Meadows, but to kill needlessly is
unpardonable. This is why Terror the Goshawk is universally hated
and has not a single friend.
All that day Peter remained hidden in that hollow log. He did not
dare put foot outside until the Black Shadows began to creep
through the Green Forest. Then he knew that there was nothing
more to fear from Terror the Goshawk, for he hunts only by day.
Once more Peter's thoughts were chiefly of his stomach, for it
was very, very empty.
But it was not intended that Peter should fill his stomach at
once. He had gone but a little way when from just ahead of
him the silence of the early evening was broken by a terrifying
sound--"Whooo-hoo-hoo, whooo-hoo!" It was so sudden and there was
in it such a note of fierceness that Peter had all he could do to
keep from jumping and running for dear life. But he knew that
voice and he knew, too, that safety lay in keeping perfectly
still. So with his heart thumping madly, as when he had escaped
from Terror that morning, Peter sat as still as if he could not
move.
It was the hunting call of Hooty the Great Horned Owl, and it
had been intended to frighten some one into jumping and running,
or at least into moving ever so little. Peter knew all about that
trick of Hooty's. He knew that in all the Green Forest there are
no ears so wonderful as those of Hooty the Owl, and that the
instant he had uttered that fierce hunting call he had strained
those wonderful ears to catch the faintest sound which some
startled little sleeper of the night might make. The rustle of a
leaf would be enough to bring Hooty to the spot on his great
silent wings, and then his fierce yellow eyes, which are made for
seeing in the dusk, would find the victim.
So Peter sat still, fearful that the very thumping of his heart
might reach those wonderful ears. Again that terrible hunting cry
rang out, and again Peter had all he could do to keep from
jumping. But he didn't jump, and a few minutes later, as he sat
staring at a certain tall, dead stub of a tree, wondering just
where Hooty was, the top of that stub seemed to break off, and a
great, broad-winged bird flew away soundlessly like a drifting
shadow. It was Hooty himself. Sitting perfectly straight on the
top of that tall, dead stub he had seemed a part of it. Peter
waited some time before he ventured to move. Finally he heard
Hooty's hunting call in a distant part of the Green Forest, and
knew that it was safe for him to once more think of his empty
stomach.
Later in the winter while the snow still lay in the Green Forest,
and the ice still bound the Laughing Brook, Peter made a
surprising discovery. He was over in a certain lonely part of
the Green Forest when he happened to remember that near there was
an old nest which had once belonged to Redtail the Hawk. Out of
idle curiosity Peter ran over for a look at that old nest.
Imagine how surprised he was when just as he came within sight of
it, he saw a great bird just settling down on it. Peter's heart
jumped right up in his throat. At least that is the way it
seemed, for he recognized Mrs. Hooty.
Of course Peter stopped right where he was and took the greatest
care not to move or make a sound. Presently Hooty himself
appeared and perched in a tree near at hand. Peter has seen Hooty
many times before, but always as a great, drifting shadow in the
moonlight. Now he could see him clearly. As he sat bolt upright
he seemed to be of the same height as Terror the Goshawk, but
with a very much bigger body. If Peter had but known it, his
appearance of great size was largely due to the fluffy feathers
in which Hooty was clothed. Like his small cousin, Spooky the
Screech Owl, Hooty seemed to have no neck at all. He looked as if
his great head was set directly on his shoulders. From each side
of his head two great tufts of feathers stood out like ears or
horns. His bill was sharply hooked. He was dressed wholly in
reddish-brown with little buff and black markings, and on his
throat was a white patch. His legs were feathered, and so were
his feet clear to the great claws
But it was on the great, round, fierce, yellow eyes that Peter
kept his own eyes. He had always thought of Hooty as being able
to see only in the dusk of evening or on moonlight nights, but
somehow he had a feeling that even now in broad daylight Hooty
could see perfectly well, and he was quite right.
For a long time Peter sat there without moving. He dared not do
anything else. After he had recovered from his first fright he
began to wonder what Hooty and Mrs. Hooty were doing at that old
nest. His curiosity was aroused. He felt that he simply must find
out. By and by Hooty flew away very carefully, so as not to
attract the attention of Mrs. Hooty. Peter stole back the way he
had come.
When he was far enough away to feel reasonably safe, he
scampered as fast as ever he could. He wanted to get away from
that place, and he wanted to find some one of whom he could ask
questions.
Presently he met his cousin, Jumper the Hare, and at once in a
most excited manner told him all he had seen.
Jumper listened until Peter was through. "If you'll take my
advice," said he, "you'll keep away from that part of the Green
Forest, Cousin Peter. From what you tell me it is quite clear to
me that the Hooties have begun nesting."
"Nesting!" exclaimed Peter. "Nesting! Why, gentle Mistress Spring
will not get here for a month yet!"
"I said NESTING," retorted Jumper, speaking rather crossly, for
you see he did not like to have his word doubted. "Hooty the
Great Horned Owl doesn't wait for Mistress Spring. He and Mrs.
Hooty believe in getting household cares out of the way early.
Along about this time of year they hunt up an old nest of Redtail
the Hawk or Blacky the Crow or Chatterer the Red Squirrel, for
they do not take the trouble to build a nest themselves. Then
Mrs. Hooty lays her eggs while there is still snow and ice. Why
their youngsters don't catch their death from cold when they
hatch out is more than I can say. But they don't. I'm sorry to
hear that the Hooties have a nest here this year. It means a bad
time for a lot of little folks in feathers and fur. I certainly
shall keep away in from that part of the Green Forest, and I advise
you to."
Peter said that he certainly should, and then started on for the
dear Old Briar-patch to think things over. The discovery that
already the nesting season of a new year had begun turned Peter's
thoughts towards the coming of sweet Mistress Spring and the
return of his many feathered friends who had left for the far-away
South so long before. A great longing to hear the voices of Welcome
Robin and Winsome Bluebird and Little Friend the Song Sparrow swept
over him, and a still greater longing for a bit of friendly gossip
with Jenny Wren. In the past year he had learned much about his
feathered neighbors, but there were still many things he wanted
to know, things which only Jenny Wren could tell him. He was only
just beginning to find out that no one knows all there is to know,
especially about the birds. And no one ever will.
The End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Burgess Bird Book
for Children, by Thornton W. Burgess.