The Burgess Bird Book for Children

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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.

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