The Burgess Bird Book for Children
by Thornton W. Burgess · English · Gutenberg #3074 · 417,702 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Burgess Bird Book for Children
Author: Thornton W. Burgess
Release date: February 1, 2002 [eBook #3074]
Most recently updated: March 10, 2018
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3074
Credits: Produced by Eve Sobol, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BURGESS BIRD BOOK FOR CHILDREN ***
Produced by Eve Sobol
THE BURGESS BIRD BOOK FOR CHILDREN
By 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
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 see 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 you 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 you 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 you 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 he 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 leisurely 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 in
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