The Burgess Bird Book for Children

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"You probably couldn't see it, anyway," declared Jenny Wren.
"They have placed it rather high up from the ground and those
leaves are so thick that they hide it. It's a regular little
basket fastened in a fork near the end of a branch and it is
woven almost as nicely as is the nest of Goldy the Oriole. How
anybody has the patience to weave a nest like that is beyond me."

"What's it made of?" asked Peter.

"Strips of bark, plant down, spider's web, grass, and pieces of
paper!" replied Jenny. "That's a funny thing about Redeye; he
dearly loves a piece of paper in his nest. What for, I can't
imagine. He's as fussy about having a scrap of paper as Cresty
the Flycatcher is about having a piece of Snakeskin. I had just a
peep into that nest a few days ago and unless I am greatly
mistaken Sally Sly the Cowbird has managed to impose on the
Redeyes. I am certain I saw one of her eggs in that nest."

A few mornings after this talk with Jenny Wren about Redeye the
Vireo Peter once more visited the Old Orchard. No sooner did he
come in sight than Jenny Wren's tongue began to fly. "What did I
tell you, Peter Rabbit? What did I tell you? I knew it was so,
and it is!" cried Jenny.

"What is so?" asked Peter rather testily, for he hadn't the least
idea what Jenny Wren was talking about.

"Sally Sly DID lay an egg in Redeye's nest, and now it has
hatched and I don't know whatever is to become of Redeye's own
children. It's perfectly scandalous! That's what it is, perfectly
scandalous!" cried Jenny, and hopped about and jerked her tail
and worked herself into a small brown fury.

"The Redeyes are working themselves to feathers and bone feeding
that ugly young Cowbird while their own babies aren't getting
half enough to eat," continued Jenny. "One of them has died
already. He was kicked out of the nest by that young brute."

"How dreadful!" cried Peter. "If he does things like that I
should think the Redeyes would throw HIM out of the nest."

"They're too soft-hearted," declared Jenny. "I can tell you I
wouldn't be so soft-hearted if I were in their place. No, sir-ee,
I wouldn't! But they say it isn't his fault that he's there, and
that he's nothing but a helpless baby, and so they just take care
of him."

"Then why don't they feed their own babies first and give him
what's left?" demanded Peter.

"Because he's twice as big as any of their own babies and so
strong and greedy that he simply snatches the food out of the
very mouths of the others. Because he gets most of the food, he's
growing twice as fast as they are. I wouldn't be surprised if he
kicks all the rest of them out before he gets through. Mr. and
Mrs. Redeye are dreadfully distressed about it, but they will
feed him because they say it isn't his fault. It's a dreadful
affair and the talk of the whole Orchard. I suppose his mother is
off gadding somewhere, having a good time and not caring a flip
of her tail feathers what becomes of him. I believe in being
goodhearted, but there is such a thing as overdoing the matter.
Thank goodness I'm not so weak-minded that I can be imposed on in
any such way as that."

"Speaking of the Vireos, Redeye seems to be the only member of
his family around here," remarked Peter.

"Listen!" commanded Jenny Wren. "Don't you hear that warbling
song 'way over in the big elm in front of Farmer Brown's house
where Goldy the oriole has his nest?"

Peter listened. At first he didn't hear it, and as usual Jenny
Wren made fun of him for having such big ears and not being able
to make better use of them. Presently he did hear it. The voice
was not unlike that of Redeye, but the song was smoother, more
continuous and sweeter. Peter's face lighted up. "I hear it," he
cried.

"That's Redeye's cousin, the Warbling Vireo," said Jenny. "He's a
better singer than Redeye and just as fond of hearing his own
voice. He sings from the time jolly Mr. Sun gets up in the
morning until he goes to bed at night. He sings when it is so hot
that the rest of us are glad to keep still for comfort's sake. I
don't know of anybody more fond of the tree tops than he is. He
doesn't seem to care anything about the Old Orchard, but stays
over in those big trees along the road. He's got a nest over in
that big elm and it is as high up as that of Goldy the Oriole; I
haven't seen it myself, but Goldy told me about it. Why any one
so small should want to live so high up in the world I don't
know, any more than I know why any one wants to live anywhere but
in the Old Orchard."

"Somehow I don't remember just what Warble looks like," Peter
confessed.

"He looks a lot like his cousin, Redeye," replied Jenny. His coat
is a little duller olive-green and underneath he is a little bit
yellowish instead of being white. Of course he doesn't have red
eyes, and he is a little smaller than Redeye. The whole family
looks pretty much alike anyway."

"You said something then, Jenny Wren," declared Peter. "They
get me all mixed up. If only some of them had some bright colors
it would be easier to tell them apart."

"One has," replied Jenny Wren. "He has a bright yellow throat and
breast and is called the Yellow-throated Vireo. There isn't the
least chance of mistaking him."

"Is he a singer, too?" asked Peter.

"Of course," replied Jenny. "Every one of that blessed family
loves the sound of his own voice. It's a family trait. Sometimes
it just makes my throat sore to listen to them all day long. A
good thing is good, but more than enough of a good thing is too
much. That applies to gossiping just as well as to singing and
I've wasted more time on you than I've any business to. Now hop
along, Peter, and don't bother me any more to-day."

Peter hopped.

CHAPTER XXX Jenny Wren's Cousins.

Peter Rabbit never will forget his surprise when Jenny Wren asked
him one spring morning if he had seen anything of her big cousin.
Peter hesitated. As a matter of fact, he couldn't think of any
big cousin of Jenny Wren. All the cousins he knew anything about
were very nearly Jenny's own size.

Now Jenny Wren is one of the most impatient small persons in the
world. "Well, well, well, Peter, have you lost your tongue?" she
chattered. "Can't you answer a simple question without talking
all day about it? Have you seen anything of my big cousin? It is
high time for him to be here."

"You needn't be so cross about it if I am slow," replied Peter.
"I'm just trying to think who your big cousin is. I guess, to be
quite honest, I don't know him."

"Don't know him! Don't know him!" Sputtered Jenny. "Of course you
know him. You can't help but know him. I mean Brownie the
Thrasher."

In his surprise Peter fairly jumped right off the ground. "What's
that?" he exclaimed. "Since when was Brownie the Thrasher related
to the Wren family?"

"Ever since there have been any Wrens and Thrashers," retorted
Jenny. "Brownie belongs to one branch of the family and I belong
to another, and that makes him my second cousin. It certainly is
surprising how little some folks know."

"But I have always supposed he belonged to the Thrush family,"
protested Peter. "He certainly looks like a Thrush."

"Looking like one doesn't make him one," snapped Jenny. "By this
time you ought to leave learned that you never can judge anybody
just by looks. It always makes me provoked to hear Brownie called
the Brown Thrush. There isn't a drop of Thrush blood in him. But
you haven't answered my question yet, Peter Rabbit. I want to
know if he has got here yet."

"Yes," said Peter. "I saw him only yesterday on the edge of the
Old Pasture. He was fussing around in the bushes and on the
ground and jerking that long tail of his up and down and sidewise
as if he couldn't decide what to do with it. I've never seen
anybody twitch their tail around the way he does."

Jenny Wren giggled. "That's just like him," said she. "It is
because he thrashes his tail around so much that he is called a
Thrasher. I suppose he was wearing his new spring suit."

"I don't know whether it was a new suit or not, but it was mighty
good looking," replied Peter. "I just love that beautiful
reddish-brown of his back, wings and tail, and it certainly does
set off his white and buff waistcoat with those dark streaks and
spots. You must admit, Jenny Wren, that any one seeing him
dressed so much like the Thrushes is to be excused for thinking
him a Thrush."

"I suppose so," admitted Jenny rather grudgingly. "But none of
the Thrushes have such a bright brown coat. Brownie is handsome,
if I do say so. Did you notice what a long bill he has?"

Peter nodded. "And I noticed that he had two white bars on each
wing," said he.

"I'm glad you're so observing," replied Jenny dryly. "Did you
hear him sing?"

"Did I hear him sing!" cried Peter, his eyes shining at the
memory. "He sang especially for me. He flew up to the top of a
tree, tipped his head back and sang as few birds I know of can
sing. He has a wonderful voice, has Brownie. I don't know of
anybody I enjoy listening to more. And when he's singing he acts
as if he enjoyed it himself and knows what a good singer he is. I
noticed that long tail of his hung straight down the same way Mr.
Wren's does when he sings."

"Of course it did," replied Jenny promptly. "That's a family
trait. The tails of both my other big cousins do the same thing."

"Wha-wha-what's that? Have you got more big cousins?" cried
Peter, staring up at Jenny as if she were some strange person he
never had seen before.

"Certainly," retorted Jenny. "Mocker the Mockingbird and Kitty
the Catbird belong to Brownie's family, and that makes them
second cousins to me."

Such a funny expression as there was on Peter's face. He felt
that Jenny Wren was telling the truth, but it was surprising news
to him and so hard to believe that for a few minutes he couldn't
find his tongue to ask another question. Finally he ventured to
ask very timidly, "Does Brownie imitate the songs of other birds
the way Mocker and Kitty do?"

Jenny Wren shook her head very decidedly. "No," said she. "He's
perfectly satisfied with his own song." Before she could add
anything further the clear whistle of Glory the Cardinal sounded
from a tree just a little way off. Instantly Peter forgot all
about Jenny Wren's relatives and scampered over to that tree. You
see Glory is so beautiful that Peter never loses a chance to see
him.

As Peter sat staring up into the tree, trying to get a glimpse of
Glory's beautiful red coat, the clear, sweet whistle sounded once
more. It drew Peter's eyes to one of the upper branches, but
instead of the beautiful, brilliant coat of Glory the Cardinal he
saw a bird about the size of Welcome Robin dressed in sober
ashy-gray with two white bars on his wings, and white feathers on
the outer edges of his tail. He was very trim and neat and his
tail hung straight down after the manner of Brownie's when he
was singing. It was a long tail, but not as long as Brownie's.
Even as Peter blinked and stared in surprise the stranger opened
his mouth and from it came Glory's own beautiful whistle. Then
the stranger looked down at Peter, and his eyes twinkled with
mischief.

"Fooled you that time, didn't I, Peter?" he chuckled. "You
thought you were going to see Glory the Cardinal, didn't you?"

Then without waiting for Peter to reply, this sober-looking
stranger gave such a concert as no one else in the world could
give. From that wonderful throat poured out song after song and
note after note of Peter's familiar friends of the Old Orchard,
and the performance wound up with a lovely song which was all the
stranger's own. Peter didn't have to be told who the stranger
was. It was Mocker the Mockingbird.

"Oh!" gasped Peter. "Oh, Mocker, how under the sun do you do it?
I was sure that it was Glory whom I heard whistling. Never again
will I be able to believe my own ears."

Mocker chuckled. "You're not the only one I've fooled, Peter,"
said he. "I flatter myself that I can fool almost anybody if I
set out to. It's lots of fun. I may not be much to look at, but
when it comes to singing there's no one I envy.

"I think you are very nice looking indeed," replied Peter
politely. "I've just been finding out this morning that you can't
tell much about folks just by their looks."

"And now you've learned that you can't always recognize folks by
their voices, haven't you?" chuckled Mocker.

"Yes," replied Peter. "Hereafter I shall never be sure about any
feathered folks unless I can both see and hear them. Won't you
sing for me again, Mocker?"

Mocker did. He sang and sang, for he clearly loves to sing. When
he finished Peter had another question ready. "Somebody told me
once that down in the South you are the best loved of all the
birds. Is that so?"

"That's not for me to say," replied Mocker modestly. "But I can
tell you this, Peter, they do think a lot of me down there. There
are many birds down there who are very beautifully dressed, birds
who don't come up here at all. But not one of them is loved as I
am, and it is all on account of my voice. I would rather have a
beautiful voice than a fine coat."

Peter nodded as if he quite agreed, which, when you think of it,
is rather funny, for Peter has neither a fine coat nor a fine
voice. A glint of mischief sparkled in Mocker's eyes. "There's
Mrs. Goldy the Oriole over there," said he. "Watch me fool her."

He began to call in exact imitation of Goldy's voice when he is
anxious about something. At once Mrs. Goldy came hurrying over to
find out what the trouble was. When she discovered Mocker she
lost her temper and scolded him roundly; then she flew away a
perfect picture of indignation. Mocker and Peter laughed, for
they thought it a good joke.

Suddenly Peter remembered what Jenny Wren had told him. "Was
Jenny Wren telling you the truth when she said that you are a
second cousin of hers?" he asked.

Mocker nodded. "Yes," said he, "we are relatives. We each belong
to a branch of the same family." Then he burst into Mr. Wren's
own song, after which he excused himself and went to look for
Mrs. Mocker. For, as he explained, it was time for them to he
thinking of a nest.

CHAPTER XXXI Voices of the Dusk.

Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun was just going to bed behind the Purple
Hills and the Black Shadows had begun to creep all through the
Green Forest and out across the Green Meadows. It was the hour of
the day Peter Rabbit loves best. He sat on the edge of the Green
Forest watching for the first little star to twinkle high up in
the sky. Peter felt at peace with all the Great World, for it was
the hour of peace, the hour of rest for those who had been busy
all through the shining day.

Most of Peter's feathered friends had settled themselves for the
coming night, the worries and cares of the day over and
forgotten. All the Great World seemed hushed. In the distance
Sweetvoice the Vesper Sparrow was pouring out his evening song,
for it was the hour when he dearly loves to sing. Far back in the
Green Forest Whip-poor-will was calling as if his very life
depended on the number of times he could say, "Whip poor Will,"
without taking a breath. From overhead came now and then the
sharp, rather harsh cry of Boomer the Nighthawk, as he hunted his
supper in the air.

For a time it seemed as if these were the only feathered friends
still awake, and Peter couldn't help thinking that those who went
so early to bed missed the most beautiful hour of the whole day.
Then, from a tree just back of him, there poured forth a song so
clear, so sweet, so wonderfully suited to that peaceful hour,
that Peter held his breath until it was finished. He knew that
singer and loved him. It was Melody the Wood Thrush.

When the song ended Peter hopped over to the tree from which it
had come. It was still light enough for him to see the sweet
singer. He sat on a branch near the top, his head thrown back and
his soft, full throat throbbing with the flute-like notes he was
pouring forth. He was a little smaller than Welcome Robin. His
coat was a beautiful reddish-brown, not quite so bright as that
of Brownie the Thrasher. Beneath he was white with large, black
spots thickly dotting his breast and sides. He was singing as if
he were trying to put into those beautiful notes all the joy of
life. Listening to it Peter felt steal over him a wonderful
feeling of peace and pure happiness. Not for the world would he
have interrupted it.

The Black Shadows crept far across the Green Meadows and it
became so dusky in the Green Forest that Peter could barely make
out the sweet singer above his head. Still Melody sang on and the
hush of eventide grew deeper, as if all the Great World were
holding its breath to listen. It was not until several little
stars had begun to twinkle high up in the sky that Melody stopped
singing and sought the safety of his hidden perch for the night.
Peter felt sure that somewhere near was a nest and that one thing
which had made that song so beautiful was the love Melody lad
been trying to express to the little mate sitting on the eggs
that nest must contain. "I'll just run over here early in the
morning," thought Peter.

Now Peter is a great hand to stay out all night, and that is just
what he did that night. Just before it was time for jolly, round,
red Mr. Sun to kick off his rosy blankets and begin his daily
climb up in the blue, blue sky, Peter started for home in the
dear Old Briar-patch. Everywhere in the Green Forest, in the Old
Orchard, on the Green Meadows, his feathered friends were
awakening. He had quite forgotten his intention to visit Melody
and was reminded of it only when again he heard those beautiful
flute-like notes. At once he scampered over to where he had spent
such a peaceful hour the evening before. Melody saw him at once
and dropped down on the ground for a little gossip while he
scratched among the leaves in search of his breakfast.

"I just love to hear you sing, Melody," cried Peter rather
breathlessly. "I don't know of any other song that makes me feel
quite as yours does, so sort of perfectly contented and free of
care and worry."

"Thank you," replied Melody. "I'm glad you like to hear me sing
for there is nothing I like to do better. It is the one way in
which I can express my feelings. I love all the Great World and I
just have to tell it so. I do not mean to boast when I say that
all the Thrush family have good voices."

"But you have the best of all," cried Peter.

Melody shook his brown head. "I wouldn't say that," said he
modestly. "I think the song of my cousin Hermit, is even more
beautiful than mine. And then there is my other cousin, Veery.
His song is wonderful, I think."

But just then Peter's curiosity was greater than his interest in
songs. "Have you built your nest yet?" he asked.

Melody nodded. "It is in a little tree not far from here," said
he, "and Mrs. Wood Thrush is sitting on five eggs this blessed
minute. Isn't that perfectly lovely?"

It was Peter's turn to nod. "What is your nest built of?" he
inquired.

"Rootlets and tiny twigs and weed stalks and leaves and mud,"
replied Melody.

"Mud!" exclaimed Peter. "Why, that's what Welcome Robin uses in
his nest."

"Well, Welcome Robin is my own cousin, so I don't know as there's
anything so surprising in that," retorted Melody.

"Oh," said Peter. "I had forgotten that he is a member of the
Thrush family."

"Well, he is, even if he is dressed quite differently from the
rest of us," replied Melody.

"You mentioned your cousin, Hermit. I don't believe I know him,"
said Peter.

"Then it's high time you got acquainted with him," replied Melody
promptly. "He is rather fond of being by himself and that is why
he is called the Hermit Thrush. He is smaller than I and his coat
is not such a bright brown. His tail is brighter than his coat.
He has a waistcoat spotted very much like mine. Some folks
consider him the most beautiful singer of the Thrush family. I'm
glad you like my song, but you must hear Hermit sing. I really
think there is no song so beautiful in all the Green Forest."

"Does he build a nest like yours?" asked Peter.

"No," replied Melody. "He builds his nest on the ground, and he
doesn't use any mud. Now if you'll excuse me, Peter, I must get
my breakfast and give Mrs. Wood Thrush a chance to get hers."

So Peter continued on his way to the dear Old Briar-patch and
there he spent the day. As evening approached he decided to go
back to hear Melody sing again. Just as he drew near the Green
Forest he heard from the direction of the Laughing Brook a song
that caused him to change his mind and sent him hurrying in that
direction. It was a very different song from that of Melody the
Wood Thrush, yet, if he had never heard it before, Peter would
have known that such a song could come from no throat except that
of a member of the Thrush family. As he drew near the Laughing
Brook the beautiful notes seemed to ring through the Green Forest
like a bell. As Melody's song had filled Peter with a feeling of
peace, so this song stirred in him a feeling of the wonderful
mystery of life. There was in it the very spirit of the Green
Forest.

It didn't take Peter long to find the singer. It was Veery, who
has been named Wilson's Thrush; and by some folks is known as the
Tawny Thrush.

At the sound of the patter of Peter's feet the song stopped
abruptly and he was greeted with a whistled "Wheeu! wheeu!" Then,
seeing that it was no one of whom he need be afraid, Veery came
out from under some ferns to greet Peter. He was smaller than
Melody the Wood Thrush, being about one-fourth smaller than
Welcome Robin. He wore a brown coat but it was not as bright as
that of his cousin, Melody. His breast was somewhat faintly
spotted with brown, and below he was white. His sides were
grayish-white and not spotted like the sides of Melody.

"I heard you singing and I just had to come over to see you,"
cried Peter.

"I hope you like my song," said Veery. "I love to sing just at
this hour and I love to think that other people like to hear me."

"They do," declared Peter most emphatically. "I can't imagine how
anybody could fail to like to hear you. I came 'way over here
just to sit a while and listen. Won't you sing some more for me,
Veery?"

"I certainly will, Peter," replied Veery. "I wouldn't feel that I
was going to bed right if I didn't sing until dark. There is no
part of the day I love better than the evening, and the only way
I can express my happiness and my love of the Green Forest and
the joy of just being back here at home is by singing."

Veery slipped out of sight, and almost at once his bell-like
notes began to ring through the Green Forest. Peter sat right
where he was, content to just listen and feel within himself the
joy of being alive and happy in the beautiful spring season which
Veery was expressing so wonderfully. The B1ack Shadows grew
blacker. One by one the little stars came out and twinkled down
through the tree tops. Finally from deep in the Green Forest
sounded the hunting call of Hooty the Owl. Veery's song stopped.
"Good night, Peter," he called softly.

"Good night, Veery," replied Peter and hopped back towards the
Green Meadows for a feast of sweet clover.

CHAPTER XXXII Peter Saves a Friend and Learns Something.

Peter Rabbit sat in a thicket of young trees on the edge of the
Green Forest. It was warm and Peter was feeling lazy. He had
nothing in particular to do, and as he knew of no cooler place he
had squatted there to doze a bit and dream a bit. So far as he
knew, Peter was all alone. He hadn't seen anybody when he entered
that little thicket, and though he had listened he hadn't heard a
sound to indicate that he didn't have that thicket quite to
himself. It was very quiet there, and though when he first
entered he hadn't the least intention in the world of going to
sleep, it wasn't long before he was dozing.

Now Peter is a light sleeper, as all little people who never know
when they may have to run for their lives must be. By and by he
awoke with a start, and he was very wide awake indeed. Something
had wakened him, though just what it was he couldn't say. His
long ears stood straight up as he listened with all his might for
some little sound which might mean danger. His wobbly little nose
wobbled very fast indeed as it tested the air for the scent of a
possible enemy. Very alert was Peter as he waited.

For a few minutes he heard nothing and saw nothing. Then, near
the outer edge of the thicket, he heard a great rustling of dry
leaves. It must have been this that had wakened him. For just an
instant Peter was startled, but only for an instant. His long
ears told him at once that that noise was made by some one
scratching among the leaves, and he knew that no one who did not
wear feathers could scratch like that.

"Now who can that be?" thought Peter, and stole forward very
softly towards the place from which the sound came. Presently, as
he peeped between the stems of the young trees, he saw the brown
leaves which carpeted the ground fly this way and that, and in
the midst of them was an exceedingly busy person, a little
smaller than Welcome Robin, scratching away for dear life. Every
now and then he picked up something.

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