The Burgess Bird Book for Children

T >> Thornton W. Burgess >> The Burgess Bird Book for Children

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

"That's perfectly splendid!" cried Peter, as Dear Me resumed his
perch on the old mullein stalk. "How did you ever come to think
of such a place? And why did you leave the shed up at Farmer
Brown's where you have build your home for the last two or three
years?"

"Oh," replied Dear Me, "we Phoebes always have been fond of
building under bridges. You see a place like this is quite safe.
Then, too, we like to be near water. Always there are many
insects flying around where there is water, so it is an easy
matter to get plenty to eat. I left the shed at Farmer Brown's
because that pesky cat up there discovered our nest last year,
and we had a dreadful time keeping our babies out of her
clutches. She hasn't found us down here, and she wouldn't be able
to trouble us if she should find us."

"I suppose," said Peter, "that as usual you were the first of
your family to arrive."

"Certainly. Of course," replied Dear Me. "We always are the
first. Mrs. Phoebe and I don't go as far south in winter as the
other members of the family do. They go clear down into the
Tropics, but we manage to pick up a pretty good living without
going as far as that. So we get back here before the rest of
them, and usually have begun housekeeping by the time they
arrive. My cousin, Chebec the Least Flycatcher, should be here by
this time. Haven't you heard anything of him up in the Old
Orchard?"

"No," replied Peter, "but to tell the truth I haven't looked for
him. I'm on my way to the Old Orchard now, and I certainly shall
keep my ears and eyes open for Chebec. I'll tell you if I find
him. Good-by."

"Dear me! Dear me! Good-by Peter. Dear me!" replied Mr. Phoebe as
Peter started off for the Old Orchard.

Perhaps it was because Peter was thinking of him that almost the
first voice he heard when he reached the Old Orchard was that of
Chebec, repeating his own name over and over as if he loved the
sound of it. It didn't take Peter long to find him. He was
sitting out on the up of one of the upper branches of an
apple-tree where he could watch for flies and other winged insects.
He looked so much like Mr. Phoebe, save that he was smaller, that
any one would have know they were cousins. "Chebec! Chebec!
Chebec!" he repeated over and over, and with every note jerked
his tail. Now and then he would dart out into the air and snap up
something so small that Peter, looking up from the ground,
couldn't see it at all.

"Hello, Chebec!" cried Peter. "I'm glad to see you back again.
Are you going to build in the Old Orchard this year?"

"Of course I am," replied Chebec promptly. "Mrs. Chebec and I
have built here for the last two or three years, and we wouldn't
think of going anywhere else. Mrs. Chebec is looking for a place
now. I suppose I ought to be helping her, but I learned a long
time ago, Peter Rabbit, that in matters of this kind it is just
as well not to have any opinion at all. When Mrs. Chebec has
picked out just the place she wants, I'll help her build the
nest. It certainly is good to be back here in the Old Orchard and
planning a home once more. We've made a terribly long journey,
and I for one am glad it's over."

"I just saw your cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Phoebe, and they already
have a nest and eggs," said Peter.

"The Phoebes are a funny lot," replied Chebec. "They are the only
members of the family that can stand cold weather. What pleasure
they get out of it I don't understand. They are queer anyway, for
they never build their nests in trees as the rest of us do."

"Are you the smallest in the family?" asked Peter, for it had
suddenly struck him that Chebec was a very little fellow indeed.

Chebec nodded. "I'm the smallest," said he. "That's why they call
me Least Flycatcher. I may be least in size, but I can tell you
one thing, Peter Rabbit, and that is that I can catch just as
many bugs and flies as any of them." Suiting action to the word,
he darted out into the air. His little bill snapped and with a
quick turn he was back on his former perch, jerking his tail and
uttering his sharp little cry of, "Chebec! Chebec! Chebec!"
until Peter began to wonder which he was the most fond of,
catching flies, or the sound of his own voice.

Presently they both heard Mrs. Chebec calling from somewhere in
the middle of the Old Orchard. "Excuse me, Peter," said Chebec,
"I must go at once. Mrs. Chebec says she has found just the place
for our nest, and now we've got a busy time ahead of us. We are
very particular how we build a nest."

"Do you start it with mud the way Welcome Robin and your cousins,
the Phoebes, do?" asked Peter.

"Mud!" cried Chebec scornfully. "Mud! I should say not! I would
have you understand, Peter, that we are very particular about
what we use in our nest. We use only the finest of rootlets,
strips of soft bark, fibers of plants, the brown cotton that
grows on ferns, and perhaps a little hair when we can find it. We
make a dainty nest, if I do say it, and we fasten it securely in
the fork made by two or three upright little branches. Now I must
go because Mrs. Chebec is getting impatient. Come see me when I'm
not so busy Peter."

CHAPTER VII The Watchman of the Old Orchard.

A few days after Chebec and his wife started building their nest
in the Old Orchard Peter dropped around as usual for a very early
call. He found Chebec very busy hunting for materials for that
nest, because, as he explained to Peter, Mrs. Chebec is very
particular indeed about what her nest is made of. But he had time
to tell Peter a bit of news.

"My fighting cousin and my handsomest cousin arrived together
yesterday, and now our family is very well represented in the Old
Orchard," said Chebec proudly.

Slowly Peter reached over his back with his long left hind foot
and thoughtfully scratched his long right ear. He didn't like to
admit that he couldn't recall those two cousins of Chebec's. "Did
you say your fighting cousin?" he asked in a hesitating way.

"That's what I said," replied Chebec. "He is Scrapper the
Kingbird, as of course you know. The rest of us always feel safe
when he is about."

"Of course I know him," declared Peter, his face clearing. "Where
is he now?"

At that very instant a great racket broke out on the other side
of the Old Orchard and in no time at all the feathered folks were
hurrying from every direction, screaming at the top of their
voices. Of course, Peter couldn't be left out of anything like
that, and he scampered for the scene of trouble as fast as his
legs could take him. When he got there he saw Redtail the Hawk
flying up and down and this way and that way, as if trying to get
away from something or somebody.

For a minute Peter couldn't think what was the trouble with
Redtail, and then he saw. A white-throated, white-breasted bird,
having a black cap and back, and a broad white band across the
end of his tail, was darting at Redtail as if he meant to pull
out every feather in the latter's coat.

He was just a little smaller than Welcome Robin, and in
comparison with him Redtail was a perfect giant. But this seemed
to make no difference to Scrapper, for that is who it was. He
wasn't afraid, and he intended that everybody should know it,
especially Redtail. It is because of his fearlessness that he is
called Kingbird. All the time he was screaming at the top of his
lungs, calling Redtail a robber and every other bad name he could
think of. All the other birds joined him in calling Redtail bad
names. But none, not even Bully the English Sparrow, was brave
enough to join him in attacking big Redtail.

When he had succeeded in driving Redtail far enough from the Old
Orchard to suit him, Scrapper flew back and perched on a dead
branch of one of the trees, where he received the congratulations
of all his feathered neighbors. He took them quite modestly,
assuring them that he had done nothing, nothing at all, but that
he didn't intend to have any of the Hawk family around the Old
Orchard while he lived there. Peter couldn't help but admire
Scrapper for his courage.

As Peter looked up at Scrapper he saw that, like all the rest of
the flycatchers, there was just the tiniest of hooks on the end
of his bill. Scrapper's slightly raised cap seemed all black, but
if Peter could have gotten close enough, he would have found that
hidden in it was a patch of orange-red. While Peter sat staring
up at him Scrapper suddenly darted out into the air, and his bill
snapped in quite the same way Chebec's did when he caught a fly.
But it wasn't a fly that Scrapper had. It was a bee. Peter saw it
very distinctly just as Scrapper snapped it up. It reminded Peter
that he had often heard Scrapper called the Bee Martin, and now
he understood why.

"Do you live on bees altogether?" asked Peter.

"Bless your heart, Peter, no," replied Scrapper with a chuckle.
"There wouldn't be any honey if I did. I like bees. I like them
first rate. But they form only a very small part of my food.
Those that I do catch are mostly drones, and you know the drones
are useless. They do no work at all. It is only by accident that
I now and then catch a worker. I eat all kinds of insects that
fly and some that don't. I'm one of Farmer Brown's best friends,
if he did but know it. You can talk all you please about the
wonderful eyesight of the members of the Hawk family, but if any
one of them has better eyesight than I have, I'd like to know who
it is. There's a fly 'way over there beyond that old apple-tree;
watch me catch it."

Peter knew better than to waste any effort trying to see that
fly. He knew that he couldn't have seen it had it been only one
fourth that distance away. But if he couldn't see the fly he
could hear the sharp click of Scrapper's bill, and he knew by the
way Scrapper kept opening and shutting his mouth after his return
that he had caught that fly and it had tasted good.

"Are you going to build in the Old Orchard this year?" asked
Peter.

"Of course I am," declared Scrapper. "I--"

Just then he spied Blacky the Crow and dashed out to meet him.
Blacky saw him coming and was wise enough to suddenly appear to
have no interest whatever in the Old Orchard, turning away toward
the Green Meadows instead.

Peter didn't wait for Scrapper to return. It was getting high
time for him to scamper home to the dear Old Briar-patch and so
he started along, lipperty-lipperty-lip. Just as he was leaving
the far corner of the Old Orchard some one called him. "Peter!
Oh, Peter Rabbit!" called the voice. Peter stopped abruptly, sat
up very straight, looked this way, looked that way and looked the
other way, every way but the right way.

"Look up over your head," cried the voice, rather a harsh voice.
Peter looked, then all in a flash it came to him who it was
Chebec had meant by the handsomest member of his family. It was
Cresty the Great Crested Flycatcher. He was a wee bit bigger than
Scrapper the Kingbird, yet not quite so big as Welcome Robin, and
more slender. His throat and breast were gray, shading into
bright yellow underneath. His back and head were of a
grayish-brown with a tint of olive-green. A pointed cap was all
that was needed to make him quite distinguished looking. He
certainly was the handsomest as well as the largest of the
Flycatcher family.

"You seem to be in a hurry, so don't let me detain you, Peter,"
said Cresty, before Peter could find his tongue. "I just want to
ask one little favor of you."

"What is it?" asked Peter, who is always glad to do any one a
favor.

"If in your roaming about you run across an old cast-off suit of
Mr. Black Snake, or of any other member of the Snake family, I
wish you would remember me and let me know. Will you, Peter?"
said Cresty.

"A--a--a--what?" stammered Peter.

"A cast-off suit of clothes from any member of the Snake family,"
replied Cresty somewhat impatiently. "Now don't forget, Peter.
I've got to go house hunting, but you'll find me there or
hereabouts, if it happens that you find one of those cast-off
Snake suits."

Before Peter could say another word Cresty had flown away. Peter
hesitated, looking first towards the dear Old Briar-patch and
then towards Jenny Wren's house. He just couldn't understand
about those cast-off suits of the Snake family, and he felt sure
that Jenny Wren could tell him. Finally curiosity got the best of
him, and back he scampered, lipperty-lipperty-lip, to the foot of
the tree in which Jenny Wren had her home.

"Jenny!" called Peter. "Jenny Wren! Jenny Wren!" No one answered
him. He could hear Mr. Wren singing in another tree, but he
couldn't see him. "Jenny! Jenny Wren! Jenny Wren!" called Peter
again. This time Jenny popped her head out, and her little eyes
fairly snapped. "Didn't I tell you the other day, Peter Rabbit,
that I'm not to be disturbed? Didn't I tell you that I've got
seven eggs in here, and that I can't spend any time gossiping?
Didn't I, Peter Rabbit? Didn't I? Didn't I?"

"You certainly did, Jenny. You certainly did, and I'm sorry to
disturb you," replied Peter meekly. "I wouldn't have thought of
doing such a thing, but I just didn't know who else to go to."

"Go to for what?" snapped Jenny Wren. "What is it you've come to
me for?"

"Snake skins," replied Peter.

"Snake skins! Snake skins!" shrieked Jenny Wren. "What are you
talking about, Peter Rabbit? I never have anything to do with
Snake skins and don't want to. Ugh! It makes me shiver just to
think of it."

"You don't understand," cried Peter hurriedly. "What I want to
know is, why should Cresty the Flycatcher ask me to please let
him know if I found any cast-off suits of the Snake family? He
flew away before I could ask him why he wants them, and so I came
to you, because I know you know everything, especially everything
concerning your neighbors."

Jenny Wren looked as if she didn't know whether to feel flattered
or provoked. But Peter looked so innocent that she concluded he
was trying to say something nice.

CHAPTER VIII Old Clothes and Old Houses.

"I can't stop to talk to you any longer now, Peter Rabbit," said
Jenny Wren, "but if you will come over here bright and early
to-morrow morning, while I am out to get my breakfast, I will
tell you about Cresty the Flycatcher and why he wants the
cast-off clothes of some of the Snake family. Perhaps I should
say WHAT he wants of them instead of WHY he wants them, for why
any one should want anything to do with Snakes is more then I can
understand."

With this Jenny Wren disappeared inside her house, and there was
nothing for Peter to do but once more start for the dear Old
Briar-patch. On his way he couldn't resist the temptation to run
over to the Green Forest, which was just beyond the Old Orchard.
He just HAD to find out if there was anything new over there.
Hardly had he reached it when he heard a plaintive voice crying,
"Pee-wee! Pee-wee! Pee-wee!" Peter chuckled happily. "I declare,
there's Pee-wee," he cried. "He usually is one of the last of the
Flycatcher family to arrive. I didn't expect to find him yet. I
wonder what has brought him up so early."

It didn't take Peter long to find Pewee. He just followed the
sound of that voice and presently saw Pewee fly out and make the
same kind of a little circle as the other members of the family
make when they are hunting flies. It ended just where it had
started, on a dead twig of a tree in a shady, rather lonely part
of the Green Forest. Almost at once he began to call his name in
a rather sad, plaintive tone, "Pee-wee! Pee-wee! Pee-wee!" But he
wasn't sad, as Peter well knew. It was his way of expressing how
happy he felt. He was a little bigger than his cousin, Chebec,
but looked very much like him. There was a little notch in the
end of his tail. The upper half of his bill was black, but the
lower half was light. Peter could see on each wing two whitish
bars, and he noticed that Pewee's wings were longer than his
tail, which wasn't the case with Chebec. But no one could ever
mistake Pewee for any of his relatives, for the simple reason
that he keeps repeating his own name over and over.

"Aren't you here early?" asked Peter.

Pewee nodded. "Yes," said he. "It has been unusually warm this
spring, so I hurried a little and came up with my cousins,
Scrapper and Cresty. That is something I don't often do."

"If you please," Peter inquired politely, "why do folks call you
Wood Pewee?"

Pewee chuckled happily. "It must be," said he, "because I am so
very fond of the Green Forest. It is so quiet and restful that I
love it. Mrs. Pewee and I are very retiring. We do not like too
many near neighbors."

"You won't mind if I come to see you once in a while, will you?"
asked Peter as he prepared to start on again for the dear Old
Briar-patch.

"Come as often as you like," replied Pewee. "The oftener the
better."

Back in the Old Briar-patch Peter thought over all he had learned
about the Flycatcher family, and as he recalled how they were
forever catching all sorts of flying insects it suddenly struck
him that they must be very useful little people in helping Old
Mother Nature take care of her trees and other growing things
which insects so dearly love to destroy.

But most of all Peter thought about that queer request of
Cresty's, and a dozen times that day he found himself peeping
under old logs in the hope of finding a cast-off coat of Mr.
Black Snake. It was such a funny thing for Cresty to ask for that
Peter's curiosity would allow him no peace, and the next morning
he was up in the Old Orchard before jolly Mr. Sun had kicked his
bedclothes off.

Jenny Wren was as good as her word. While she flitted and hopped
about this way and that way in that fussy way of hers, getting
her breakfast, she talked. Jenny couldn't keep her tongue still
if she wanted to.

"Did you find any old clothes of the Snake family?" she demanded.
Then as Peter shook his head her tongue ran on without waiting
for him to reply. "Cresty and his wife always insist upon having
a piece of Snake skin in their nest," said she. "Why they want
it, goodness knows! But they do want it and never can seem to
settle down to housekeeping unless they have it. Perhaps they
think it will scare robbers away. As for me, I should have a cold
chill every time I got into my nest if I had to sit on anything
like that. I have to admit that Cresty and his wife are a
handsome couple, and they certainly have good sense in choosing a
house, more sense than any other member of their family to my way
of thinking. But Snake skins! Ugh!"

"By the way, where does Cresty build?" asked Peter.

"In a hole in a tree, like the rest of us sensible people,"
retorted Jenny Wren promptly.

Peter looked quite as surprised as he felt. "Does Cresty make the
hole?" he asked.

"Goodness gracious, no!" exclaimed Jenny Wren. "Where are your
eyes, Peter? Did you ever see a Flycatcher with a bill that
looked as if it could cut wood?" She didn't wait for a reply, but
rattled on. "It is a good thing for a lot of us that the
Woodpecker family are so fond of new houses. Look! There is Downy
the Woodpecker hard at work on a new house this very minute.
That's good. I like to see that. It means that next year there
will be one more house for some one here in the Old Orchard.
For myself I prefer old houses. I've noticed there are a number
of my neighbors who feel the same way about it. There is something
settled about an old house. It doesn't attract attention the way
a new one does. So long as it has got reasonably good walls, and
the rain and the wind can't get in, the older it is the better it
suits me. But the Woodpeckers seem to like new houses best,
which, as I said before, is a very good thing for the rest of
us."

"Who is there besides you and Cresty and Bully the English
Sparrow who uses these old Woodpecker houses?" asked Peter.

"Winsome Bluebird, stupid!" snapped Jenny Wren.

Peter grinned and looked foolish. "Of course," said he. "I forgot
all about Winsome."

"And Skimmer the Tree Swallow," added Jenny.

"That's so; I ought to have remembered him," exclaimed Peter.
"I've noticed that he is very fond of the same house year after
year. Is there anybody else?"

Again Jenny Wren nodded. "Yank-Yank the Nuthatch uses an old
house, I'm told, but he usually goes up North for his nesting,"
said she. "Tommy Tit the Chickadee sometimes uses an old house.
Then again he and Mrs. Chickadee get fussy and make a house for
themselves. Yellow Wing the flicker, who really is a Woodpecker,
often uses an old house, but quite often makes a new one. Then
there are Killy the Sparrow Hawk and Spooky the Screech Owl."

Peter looked surprised. "I didn't suppose THEY nested in holes in
trees!" he exclaimed.

"They certainly do, more's the pity!" snapped Jenny. "It would be
a good thing for the rest of us if they didn't nest at all. But
they do, and an old house of Yellow Wing the Flicker suits either
of them. Killy always uses one that is high up, and comes back to
it year after year. Spooky isn't particular so long as the house
is big enough to be comfortable. He lives in it more or less the
year around. Now I must get back to those eggs of mine. I've
talked quite enough for one morning."

"Oh, Jenny," cried Peter, as a sudden thought struck him.

Jenny paused and jerked her tail impatiently. "Well, what is it
now?" she demanded.

"Have you got two homes?" asked Peter.

"Goodness gracious, no!" exclaimed Jenny. "What do you suppose I
want of two homes? One is all I can take care of."

"Then why," demanded Peter triumphantly, "does Mr. Wren work all
day carrying sticks and straws into a hole in another tree? It
seems to me that he has carried enough in there to build two or
three nests."

Jenny Wren's eyes twinkled, and she laughed softly. "Mr. Wren
just has to be busy about something, bless his heart," said she.
"He hasn't a lazy feather on him. He's building that nest to take
up his time and keep out of mischief. Besides, if he fills that
hollow up nobody else will take it, and you know we might want to
move some time. Good-by, Peter." With a final jerk of her tail
Jenny Wren flew to the little round doorway of her house and
popped inside.

CHAPTER IX Longbill and Teeter.

>From the decided way in which Jenny Wren had popped into the
little round doorway of her home, Peter knew that to wait in the
hope of more gossip with her would be a waste of time. He wasn't
ready to go back home to the dear Old Briar-patch, yet there
seemed nothing else to do, for everybody in the Old Orchard was
too busy for idle gossip. Peter scratched a long ear with a long
hind foot, trying to think of some place to go. Just then he
heard the clear "peep, peep, peep" of the Hylas, the sweet
singers of the Smiling Pool.

"That's where I'll go!" exclaimed Peter. "I haven't been to the
Smiling Pool for some time. I'll just run over and pay my
respects to Grandfather Frog, and to Redwing the Blackbird.
Redwing was one of the first birds to arrive, and I've neglected
him shamefully."

When Peter thinks of something to do he wastes no time. Off he
started, lipperty-lipperty-lip, for the Smiling Pool. He kept
close to the edge of the Green Forest until he reached the place
where the Laughing Brook comes out of the Green Forest on its way
to the Smiling Pool in the Green Meadows. Bushes and young trees
grow along the banks of the Laughing Brook at this point. The
ground was soft in places, quite muddy. Peter doesn't mind
getting his feet damp, so he hopped along carelessly. From
right under his very nose something shot up into the air with a
whistling sound. It startled Peter so that he stopped short with
his eyes popping out of his head. He had just a glimpse of a
brown form disappearing over the tops of some tall bushes. Then
Peter chuckled. "I declare," said he, "I had forgotten all about
my old friend, Longbill the Woodcock. He scared me for a second."

"Then you are even," said a voice close at hand. "You scared him.
I saw you coming, but Longbill didn't."

Peter turned quickly. There was Mrs. Woodcock peeping at him from
behind a tussock of grass.

"I didn't mean to scare him," apologized Peter. "I really didn't
mean to. Do you think he was really very much scared?"

"Not too scared to come back, anyway," said Longbill himself,
dropping down just in front of Peter. "I recognized you just as I
was disappearing over the tops of the bushes, so I came right
back. I learned when I was very young that when startled it is
best to fly first and find out afterwards whether or not there is
real danger. I am glad it is no one but you, Peter, for I was
having a splendid meal here, and I should have hated to leave it.
You'll excuse me while I go on eating, I hope. We can talk
between bites."

"Certainly I'll excuse you," replied Peter, staring around very
hard to see what it could be Longbill was making such a good meal
of. But Peter couldn't se a thing that looked good to eat. There
wasn't even a bug or a worm crawling on the ground. Longbill took
two or three steps in rather a stately fashion. Peter had to hide
a smile, for Longbill had such an air of importance, yet at the
same time was such an odd looking fellow. He was quite a little
bigger than Welcome Robin, his tail was short, his legs were
short, and his neck was short. But his bill was long enough
to make up. His back was a mixture of gray, brown, black and
buff, while his breast and under parts were a beautiful
reddish-buff. It was his head that made him look queer. His eyes
were very big and they were set so far back that Peter wondered
if it wasn't easier for him to look behind him than in front of
him.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16