The Burgess Bird Book for Children

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His head, throat, back and breast were black. Beneath he was
white. His sides were reddish-brown. His tail was black and
white, and the longer feathers of his wings were edged with
white. It was Chewink the Towhee, sometimes called Ground Robin.

Peter chuckled, but it was a noiseless chuckle. He kept perfectly
still, for it was fun to watch some one who hadn't the least idea
that he was being watched. It was quite clear that Chewink was
hungry and that under those dry leaves he was finding a good
meal. His feet were made for scratching and he certainly knew how
to use them. For some time Peter sat there watching. He had just
about made up his mind that he would make his presence known and
have a bit of morning gossip when, happening to look out beyond
the edge of the little thicket, he saw something red. It was
something alive, for it was moving very slowly and cautiously
towards the place where Chewink was so busy and forgetful of
everything but his breakfast. Peter knew that there was only one
person with a coat of that color. It was Reddy Fox, and quite
plainly Reddy was hoping to catch Chewink.

For a second or two Peter was quite undecided what to do. He
couldn't warn Chewink without making his own presence known to
Reddy Fox. Of course he could sit perfectly still and let Chewink
be caught, but that was such a dreadful thought that Peter didn't
consider it for more than a second or two. He suddenly thumped
the ground with his feet. It was his danger signal which all his
friends know. Then he turned and scampered lipperty-lipperty-lip
to a thick bramble-tangle not far behind him.

At the sound of that thump Chewink instantly flew up in a little
tree. Then he saw Reddy Fox and began to scold. As for Reddy, he
looked over towards the bramble-tangle and snarled. "I'll get you
one of these days, Peter Rabbit," said he. "I'll get you one of
these days and pay you up for cheating me out of a breakfast."
Without so much as a glance at Chewink, Reddy turned and trotted
off, trying his best to look dignified and as if he had never
entertained such a thought as trying to catch Chewink.

>From his perch Chewink watched until he was sure that Reddy Fox
had gone away for good. Then he called softly, "Towhee! Towhee!
Chewink! Chewink! All is safe now, Peter Rabbit. Come out and
talk with me and let me tell you how grateful to you I am for
saving my life."

Chewink flew down to the ground and Peter crept out of the
bramble-tangle. "It wasn't anything," declared Peter. "I saw
Reddy and I knew you didn't, so of course I gave the alarm. You
would have done the same thing for me. Do you know, Chewink, I've
wondered a great deal about you."

"What have you wondered about me?" asked Chewink.

"I've wondered what family you belong to," replied Peter.

Chewink chuckled. "I belong to a big family," said he. "I belong
to the biggest family among the birds. It is the Finch and
Sparrow family. There are a lot of us and a good many of us don't
look much alike, but still we belong to the same family. I
suppose you know that Rosebreast the Grosbeak and Glory the
Cardinal are members of my family."

"I didn't know it," replied Peter, "but if you say it is so I
suppose it must be so. It is easier to believe than it is to
believe that you are related to the Sparrows."

"Nevertheless I am," retorted Chewink.

"What were you scratching for when I first saw you?" asked Peter.

"Oh, worms and bugs that hide under the leaves," replied Chewink
carelessly. "You have no idea how many of them hide under dead
leaves."

"Do you eat anything else?" asked Peter.

"Berries and wild fruits in season," replied Chewink. "I'm very
fond of them. They make a variety in the bill of fare."

"I've noticed that I seldom see you up in the tree tops,"
remarked Peter.

"I like the ground better," replied Chewink. "I spend more of my
time on the ground than anywhere else."

"I suppose that means that you nest on the ground," ventured
Peter.

Chewink nodded. "Of course," said he. "As a matter of fact, I've
got a nest in this very thicket. Mrs. Towhee is on it right now,
and I suspect she's worrying and anxious to know what happened
over here when you warned me about Reddy Fox. I think I must go
over and set her mind at rest."

Peter was just about to ask if he might go along and see that
nest when a new voice broke in.

"What are you fellows talking about?" it demanded, and there
flitted just in front of Peter a little bird the size of a
Sparrow but lovelier than any Sparrow of Peter's acquaintance. At
first glance he seemed to be all blue, and such a lovely bright
blue. But as he paused for an instant Peter saw that his wings
and tail were mostly black and that the lovely blue was brightest
on his head and back. It was Indigo the Bunting.

"We were talking about our family," replied Chewink. "I was
telling Peter that we belong to the largest family among the
birds."

"But you didn't say anything about Indigo," interrupted Peter.
"Do you mean to say that he belongs to the same family?"

"I surely do," replied Indigo. "I'm rather closely related to the
Sparrow branch. Don't I look like a Sparrow?"

Peter looked at Indigo closely. "In size and shape you do," he
confessed, "but just the same I should never in the world have
thought of connecting you with the Sparrows."

"How about me?" asked another voice, and a little brown bird flew
up beside Indigo, twitching her tail nervously. She looked very
Sparrow-like indeed, so much so, that if Peter had not seen her
with her handsome mate, for she was Mrs. Indigo, he certainly
would have taken her for a Sparrow.

Only on her wings and tail was there any of the blue which made
Indigo's coat so beautiful, and this was only a faint tinge.

"I'll have to confess that so far as you are concerned it isn't
hard to think of you as related to the Sparrows," declared Peter.
"Don't you sometimes wish you were as handsomely dressed as
Indigo?"

Mrs. Indigo shook her head in a most decided way. "Never!" she
declared. "I have worries enough raising a family as it is, but
if I had a coat like his I wouldn't have a moment of peace. You
have no idea how I worry about him sometimes. You ought to be
thankful, Peter Rabbit, that you haven't a coat like his. It
attracts altogether too much attention."

Peter tried to picture himself in a bright blue coat and laughed
right out at the mere thought, and the others joined with him.
Then Indigo flew up to the top of a tall tree not far away and
began to sing. It was a lively song and Peter enjoyed it
thoroughly. Mrs. Indigo took this opportunity to slip away
unobserved, and when Peter looked around for Chewink, he too had
disappeared. He had gone to tell Mrs. Cbewink that he was quite
safe and that she bad nothing to worry about.

CHAPTER XXXIII A Royal Dresser and a Late Nester.

Jenny and Mr. Wren were busy. If there were any busier little
folks anywhere Peter Rabbit couldn't imagine who they could be.
You see, everyone of those seven eggs in the Wren nest had
hatched, and seven mouths are a lot to feed, especially when
every morsel of food must be hunted for and carried from a
distance. There was little time for gossip now. Just as soon as
it was light enough to see Jenny and Mr. Wren began feeding those
always hungry babies, and they kept at it with hardly time for an
occasional mouthful themselves, until the Black Shadows came
creeping out from the Purple Hills. Wren babies, like all other
bird babies, grow very fast, and that means that each one of them
must have a great deal of food every day. Each one of them often
ate its own weight in food in a day and all their food had to be
hunted for and when found carried back and put into the gaping
little mouths. Hardly would Jenny Wren disappear in the little
round doorway of her home with a caterpillar in her bill than she
would hop out again, and Mr. Wren would take her place with a
spider or a fly and then hurry away for something more.

Peter tried to keep count of the number of times they came and
went but soon gave it up as a bad job. He began to wonder where
all the worms and bugs and spiders came from, and gradually he
came to have a great deal of respect for eyes sharp enough to
find them so quickly. Needless to say Jenny was shorter-tempered
than ever. She had no time to gossip and said so most
emphatically. So at last Peter gave up the idea of trying to find
out from her certain things he wanted to know, and hopped off to
look for some one who was less busy. He had gone but a short
distance when his attention was caught by a song so sweet and so
full of little trills that he first stopped to listen, then went
to look for the singer.

It didn't take long to find him, for he was sitting on the very
tiptop of a fir-tree in Farmer Brown's yard. Peter didn't dare go
over there, for already it was broad daylight, and he had about
made up his mind that he would have to content himself with just
listening to that sweet singer when the latter flew over in the
Old Orchard and alighted just over Peter's head. "Hello, Peter!"
he cried.

"Hello, Linnet!" cried Peter. "I was wondering who it could be
who was singing like that. I ought to have known, but you see
it's so long since I've heard you sing that I couldn't just
remember your song. I'm so glad you came over here for I'm just
dying to talk to somebody."

Linnet the Purple Finch, for this is who it was, laughed right
out. "I see you're still the same old Peter," said he. "I suppose
you're just as full of curiosity as ever and just as full of
questions. Well, here I am, so what shall we talk about?"

"You," replied Peter bluntly. "Lately I've found out so many
surprising things about my feathered friends that I want to know
more. I'm trying to get it straight in my head who is related to
who, and I've found out some things which have begun to make me
feel that I know very little about my feathered neighbors. It's
getting so that I don't dare to even guess who a person's
relatives are. If you please, Linnet, what family do you belong
to?"

Linnet flew down a little nearer to Peter. "Look me over, Peter,"
said he with twinkling eyes. "Look me over and see if you can't
tell for yourself."

Peter stared solemnly at Linnet. He saw a bird of Sparrow size
most of whose body was a rose-red, brightest on the head, darkest
on the back, and palest on the breast. Underneath he was whitish.

His wings and tail were brownish, the outer parts of the feathers
edged with rose-red. His bill was short and stout.

Before Peter could reply, Mrs. Linnet appeared. There wasn't so
much as a touch of that beautiful rose-red about her. Her
grayish-brown back was streaked with black, and her white breast
and sides were spotted and streaked with brown. If Peter hadn't
seen her with Linnet he certainly would have taken her for a
Sparrow. She looked so much like one that he ventured to say, "I
guess you belong to the Sparrow family."

"That's pretty close, Peter. That's pretty close," declared
Linnet. "We belong to the Finch branch of the family, which makes
the sparrows own cousins to us. Folks may get Mrs. Linnet mixed
with some of our Sparrow cousins, but they never can mistake me.
There isn't anybody else my size with a rose-red coat like mine.
If you can't remember my song, which you ought to, because there
is no other song quite like it, you can always tell me by the
color of my coat. Hello! Here comes Cousin Chicoree. Did you ever
see a happier fellow than he is? I'll venture to say that he has
been having such a good time that he hasn't even yet thought of
building a nest, and here half the people of the Old Orchard have
grown families. I've a nest and eggs myself, but that madcap
is just roaming about having a good time. Isn't that so,
Chicoree?"

"Isn't what so?" demanded Chicoree the Goldfinch, perching very
near to where Linnet was sitting.

"Isn't it true that you haven't even begun thinking about a
nest?" demanded Linnet. Chicoree flew down in the grass almost
under Peter's nose and began to pull apart a dandelion which had
gone to seed. He snipped the seeds from the soft down to which
they were attached and didn't say a word till he was quite
through. Then he flew up in the tree near Linnet, and while he
dressed his feathers, answered Linnet's question.

"It's quite true, but what of it?" said he. "There's time enough
to think about nest-building and household cares later. Mrs.
Goldfinch and I will begin to think about them about the first of
July. Meanwhile we are making the most of this beautiful season
to roam about and have a good time. For one thing we like
thistledown to line our nest, and there isn't any thistledown
yet. Then, there is no sense in raising a family until there is
plenty of the right kind of food, and you know we Goldfinches
live mostly on seeds. I'll venture to say that we are the
greatest seed-eaters anywhere around. Of course when the babies
are small they have to have soft food, but one can find plenty of
worms and bugs any time during the summer. Just as soon as the
children are big enough to hunt their own food they need seeds,
so there is no sense in trying to raise a family until there are
plenty of seeds for them when needed. Meanwhile we are having a
good time. How do you like my summer suit, Peter?"

"It's beautiful," cried Peter. "I wouldn't know you for the same
bird I see so often in the late fall and sometimes in the winter.
I don't know of anybody who makes a more complete change. That
black cap certainly is very smart and becoming."

Chicoree cocked his head on one side, the better to show off that
black cap. The rest of his head and his whole body were bright
yellow. His wings were black with two white bars on each. His
tail also was black, with some white on it. In size he was a
little smaller than Linnet and altogether one of the smartest
appearing of all the little people who wear feathers. It was a
joy just to look at him. If Peter had known anything about
Canaries, which of course he didn't, because Canaries are always
kept in cages, he would have understood why Chicoree the
Goldfinch is often called the Wild Canary.

Mrs. Goldfinch now joined her handsome mate and it was plain to
see that she admired him quite as much as did Peter. Her wings
and tail were much like his but were more brownish than black.
She wore no cap it all and her back and head were a grayish-brown
with an olive tinge. Underneath she was lighter, with a tinge of
yellow. All together she was a very modestly dressed small
person. As Peter recalled Chicoree's winter suit, it was very
much like that now worn by Mrs. Goldfinch, save that his wings
and tail were as they now appeared.

All the time Chicoree kept up a continual happy twittering,
breaking out every few moments into song. It was clear that he
was fairly bubbling over with joy.

"I suppose," said Peter, "it sounds foolish of me to ask if you
are a member of the same family as Linnet."

"Very foolish, Peter. Very foolish," laughed Chicoree. "Isn't my
name Goldfinch, and isn't his name Purple Finch? We belong to the
same family and a mighty fine family it is. Now I must go over to
the Old Pasture to see how the thistles are coming on."

Away he flew calling, "Chic-o-ree, per-chic-o-ree, chic-o-ree!"
Mrs. Goldfinch followed. As they flew, they rose and fell in the
air in very much the same way that Yellow Wing the Flicker does.

"I'd know them just by that, even if Chicoree didn't keep calling
his own name," thought Peter. "It's funny how they often stay
around all winter yet are among the last of all the birds to set
up housekeeping. As I once said to Jenny Wren, birds certainly
are funny creatures."

"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut! It's no such thing, Peter Rabbit. It's
no such thing," scolded Jenny Wren as she flew last Peter on her
way to hunt for another worm for her hungry babies.

CHAPTER, XXXIV Mourner the Dove and Cuckoo.

A long lane leads from Farmer Brown's barnyard down to his
cornfield on the Green Meadows. It happened that very early one
morning Peter Rabbit took it into his funny little head to run
down that long lane to see what he might see. Now at a certain
place beside that long lane was a gravelly bank into which Farmer
Brown had dug for gravel to put on the roadway up near his house.
As Peter was scampering past this place where Farmer Brown had
dug he caught sight of some one very busy in that gravel pit.
Peter stopped short, then sat up to stare.

It was Mourner the Dove whom Peter saw, an old friend of whom
Peter is very fond. His body was a little bigger than that of
Welcome Robin, but his long slender neck, and longer tail and
wings made him appear considerably larger. In shape he reminded
Peter at once of the Pigeons up at Farmer Brown's. His back was
grayish-brown, varying to bluish-gray. The crown and upper parts
of his head were bluish-gray. His breast was reddish-buff,
shading down into a soft buff. His bill was black and his feet
red. The two middle feathers of his tail were longest and of the
color of his back. The other feathers were slaty-gray with little
black bands and tipped with white. On his wings were a few
scattered black spots. Just under each ear was a black spot. But
it was the sides of his slender neck which were the most
beautiful part of Mourner. When untouched by the Jolly Little
Sunbeams the neck feathers appeared to be in color very like his
breast, but the moment they were touched by the Jolly Little
Sunbeams they seemed to be constantly changing, which, as you
know, is called iridescence. Altogether Mourner was lovely in a
quiet way.

But it was not his appearance which made Peter stare; it was what
he was doing. He was walking about and every now and then picking
up something quite as if he were getting his breakfast in that
gravel pit, and Peter couldn't imagine anything good to eat down
there. He knew that there were not even worms there. Besides,
Mourner is not fond of worms; he lives almost altogether on seeds
and grains of many kinds. So Peter was puzzled. But as yon know
he isn't the kind to puzzle long over anything when he can use
his tongue.

"Hello, Mourner!" he cried. "What under the sun are you doing in
there? Are you getting your breakfast?"

"Hardly, Peter; hardly," cooed Mourner in the softest of voices.
"I've had my breakfast and now I'm picking up a little gravel for
my digestion." He picked up a tiny pebble and swallowed it.

"Well, of all things!" cried Peter. "You must be crazy. The idea
of thinking that gravel is going to help your digestion. I should
say the chances are that it will work just the other way."

Mourner laughed. It was the softest of little cooing laughs, very
pleasant to hear. "I see that as usual you are judging others by
yourself," said he. "You ought to know by this time that you can
do nothing more foolish. I haven't the least doubt that a
breakfast of gravel would give you the worst kind of a
stomach-ache. But you are you and I am I, and there is all the
difference in the world. You know I eat grain and hard seeds. Not
having any teeth I have to swallow them whole. One part of my
stomach is called a gizzard and its duty is to grind and crush my
food so that it may be digested. Tiny pebbles and gravel help
grind the food and so aid digestion. I think I've got enough now
for this morning, and it is time for a dust bath. There is a
dusty spot over in the lane where I take a dust bath every day."

"If you don't mind," said Peter, "I'll go with you."

Mourner said he didn't mind, so Peter followed him over to the
dusty place in the long lane. There Mourner was joined by Mrs.
Dove, who was dressed very much like him save that she did not
have so beautiful a neck. While they thoroughly dusted themselves
they chatted with Peter.

"I see you on the ground so much that I've often wondered if you
build your nest on the ground," said Peter.

"No," replied Mourner. "Mrs. Dove builds in a tree, but usually
not very far above the ground. Now if you'll excuse us we must
get back home. Mrs. Dove has two eggs to sit on and while she is
siting I like to be close at hand to keep her company and make
love to her."

The Doves shook the loose dust from their feathers and flew away.
Peter watched to see where they went, but lost sight of them
behind some trees, so decided to run up to the Old Orchard. There
he found Jenny and Mr. Wren as busy as ever feeding that growing
family of theirs. Jenny wouldn't stop an instant to gossip. Peter
was so brimful of what he had found out about Mr. and Mrs. Dove
that he just had to tell some one. He heard Kitty the Catbird
meowing among the bushes along the old stone wall, so hurried
over to look for him. As soon as he found him Peter began to tell
what he had learned about Mourner the Dove.

"That's no news, Peter," interrupted Kitty. "I know all about
Mourner and his wife. They are very nice people, though I must
say Mrs. Dove is one of the poorest housekeepers I know of. I
take it you never have seen her nest."

Peter shook his head. "No," said he, "I haven't. What is it
like?"

Kitty the Catbird laughed. "It's about the poorest apology for a
nest I know of," said he. "It is made of little sticks and mighty
few of them. How they hold together is more than I can understand.
I guess it is a good thing that Mrs. Dove doesn't lay more than
two eggs, and it's a wonder to me that those two stay in the
nest. Listen! There's Mourner's voice now. For one who is so
happy he certainly does have the mournfullest sounding voice. To
hear him you'd think he was sorrowful instead of happy. It always
makes me feel sad to hear him."

"That's true," replied Peter, "but I like to hear him just the
same. Hello! Who's that?"

>From one of the trees in the Old Orchard sounded a long, clear,
"Kow-kow-kow-kow-kow-kow!" It was quite unlike any voice Peter
had heard that spring.

"That's Cuckoo," said Kitty. "Do you mean to say you don't know
Cuckoo?"

"Of course I know him," retorted Peter. "I had forgotten the
sound of his voice, that's all." Tell me, Kitty, is it true that
Mrs. Cuckoo is no better than Sally Sly the Cowbird and goes
about laying her eggs in the nests of other birds? I've heard
that said of her."

"There isn't a word of truth in it," declared Kitty emphatically.
"She builds a nest, such as it is, which isn't much, and she
looks after her own children. The Cuckoos have been given a bad
name because of some good-for-nothing cousins of theirs who live
across the ocean where Bully the English Sparrow belongs, and
who, if all reports are true, really are no better than Sally Sly
the Cowbird. It's funny how a bad name sticks. The Cuckoos have
been accused of stealing the eggs of us other birds, but I've
never known them to do it and I've lived neighbor to them for a
long time, I guess they get their bad name because of their
habit of slipping about silently and keeping out of sight as much
as possible, as if they were guilty of doing something wrong and
trying to keep from being seen. As a matter of fact, they are
mighty useful birds. Farmer Brown ought to be tickled to death
that Mr. and Mrs. Cuckoo have come back to the Old Orchard this
year."

"Why?" demanded Peter.

"Do you see that cobwebby nest with all those hairy caterpillars
on it and around it up in that tree?" asked Kitty.

Peter replied that he did and that he had seen a great many nests
just like it, and had noticed how the caterpillars ate all the
leaves near them.

"I'll venture to say that you won't see very many leaves eaten
around that nest," replied Kitty. "Those are called
tent-caterpillars, and they do an awful lot of damage. I can't
bear them myself because they are so hairy, and very few birds
will touch them. But Cuckoo likes them. There he comes now; just
watch him."

A long, slim Dove-like looking bird alighted close to the
caterpillar's nest. Above he was brownish-gray with just a little
greenish tinge. Beneath he was white. His wings were
reddish-brown. His tail was a little longer than that of Mourner
the Dove. The outer feathers were black tipped with white, while
the middle feathers were the color of his back. The upper half of
his bill was black, but the under half was yellow, and from this
he is called the Yellow-billed Cuckoo. He has a cousin very much
like himself in appearance, save that his bill is all black and
he is listed the Black-billed Cuckoo.

Cuckoo made no sound but began to pick off the hairy caterpillars
and swallow them. When he had eaten all those in sight he made
holes in the silken web of the nest and picked out the
caterpillars that were inside. Finally, having eaten his fill, he
flew off as silently as he had come and disappeared among the
bushes farther along the old stone wall. A moment later they
heard his voice, "Kow-kow-how-kow-kow-kow-kow-kow!"

"I suppose some folks would think that it is going to rain,"
remarked Kitty the Catbird. "They have the silly notion that
Cuckoo only calls just before rain, and so they call him the Rain
Crow. But that isn't so at all. Well, Peter, I guess I've
gossiped enough for one morning. I must go see how Mrs. Catbird
is getting along."

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