The Burgess Bird Book for Children

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"As sure as I live," thought Peter, "that was Mrs. Blacky, and
Blacky brought her some food so that she would not have to leave
those eggs she must have up there. He may be the black-hearted
robber every one says he is, but he certainly is a good husband.
He's a better husband than some others I know, of whom nothing
but good is said. It just goes to show that there is some good in
the very worst folks. Blacky is a sly old rascal. Usually he is
as noisy as any one I know, but he came and went without making a
sound. Now I think of it, I haven't once heard his voice near
here this spring. I guess if Farmer Brown's boy could find this
nest he would get even with Blacky for pulling up his corn. I
know a lot of clever people, but no one quite so clever as Blacky
the Crow. With all his badness I can't help liking him."

Twice, while Peter watched, Blacky returned with food for Mrs.
Blacky. Then, tired of keeping still so long, Peter decided to
run over to a certain place farther in the Green Forest which was
seldom visited by any one. It was a place Peter usually kept away
from. It was pure curiosity which led him to go there now. The
discovery that Blacky the Crow was using his old nest had
reminded Peter that Redtail the Hawk uses his old nest year after
year, and he wanted to find out if Redtail had come back to it
this year.

Halfway over to that lonesome place in the Green Forest a trim
little bird flew up from the ground, hopped from branch to branch
of a tree, walked along a limb, then from pure happiness threw
back his head and cried, "Teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher,
teacher! " each time a little louder than before. It was Teacher
the Oven Bird.

In his delight at seeing this old friend, Peter quite forgot
Redtail the Hawk. "Oh, Teacher!" cried Peter. "I'm so glad to see
you again!"

Teacher stopped singing and looked down at Peter. "If you are so
glad why haven't you been over to see me before?" he demanded.
"I've been here for some time."

Peter looked a little foolish. "The truth is, Teacher," said he
very humbly, "I have been visiting the Old Orchard so much and
learning so many things that this is the first chance I have had
to come 'way over here in the Green Forest. You see, I have been
learning a lot of things about you feathered folks, things I
hadn't even guessed. There is something I wish you'd tell me,
Teacher; will you?"

"That depends on what it is," replied Teacher, eyeing Peter a
little suspiciously.

"It is why you are called Oven Bird," said Peter.

"Is that all?" asked Teacher. Then without waiting for a reply he
added, "It is because of the way Mrs. Teacher and I build our
nest. Some people think it is like an oven and so they call us
Oven Birds. I think that is a silly name myself, quite as silly as
Golden Crowned Thrush, which is what some people call me. I'm not
a Thrush. I'm not even related to the Thrush family. I'm a
Warbler, a Wood Warbler."

"I suppose," said Peter, looking at Teacher thoughtfully,
"they've given you that name because you are dressed something
like the Thrushes. That olive-green coat, and white waistcoat all
streaked and spotted with black, certainly does remind me of the
Thrush family. If you were not so much smaller than any of the
Thrushes I should almost think you were one myself. Why, you are
not very much bigger than Chippy the Chipping Sparrow, only
you've got longer legs. I suppose that's because you spend so
much time on the ground. I think that just Teacher is the best
name for you. No one who has once heard you could ever mistake
you for any one else. By the way, Teacher, where did you say your
nest is?"

"I didn't say," retorted Teacher. "What's more, I'm not going to
say."

"Won't you at least tell me if it is in a tree?" begged Peter.

Teacher's eyes twinkled. "I guess it won't do any harm to tell
you that much," said he. "No, it isn't in a tree. It is on the
ground and, if I do say it, it is as well hidden a nest as
anybody can build. Oh, Peter, watch your step! Watch your step!"
Teacher fairly shrieked this warning.

Peter, who had just started to hop off to his right, stopped
short in sheer astonishment. Just in front of him was a tiny
mound of dead leaves, and a few feet beyond Mrs. Teacher was
fluttering about on the ground as if badly hurt. Peter simply
didn't know what to make of it. Once more he made a movement as
if to hop. Teacher flew right down in front of him. "You'll step
on my nest!" he cried.

Peter stared, for he didn't see any nest. He said as much.

"It's under that little mound of leaves right in front of your
feet!" cried Teacher. "I wasn't going to tell you, but I just had
to or you certainly would have stepped on it."

Very carefully Peter walked around the little bunch of leaves and
peered under them from the other side. There, sure enough, was a
nest beneath them, and in it four speckled eggs. "I won't tell a
soul, Teacher. I promise you I won't tell a soul," declared Peter
very earnestly. "I understand now why you are called Oven Bird,
but I still like the name Teacher best."

Feeling that Mr. and Mrs. Teacher would feel easier in their
minds if he left them, Peter said good-by and started on for the
lonesome place in the Green Forest where he knew the old nest of
Redtail the Hawk had been. As he drew near the place he kept
sharp watch through the treetops for a glimpse of Redtail.
Presently he saw him high in the blue sky, sailing lazily in big
circles. Then Peter became very, very cautious. He tiptoed
forward, keeping under cover as much as possible. At last,
peeping out from beneath a little hemlock-tree, he could see
Redtail's old nest. He saw right away that it was bigger than it
had been when he saw it last. Suddenly there was a chorus of
hungry cries and Peter saw Mrs. Redtail approaching with a Mouse
in her claws. From where he sat he could see four funny heads
stretched above the edge of the nest.

"Redtail is using his old nest again and has got a family
already," exclaimed Peter. "I guess this is no place for me. The
sooner I get away from here the better."

Just then Redtail himself dropped down out of the blue, blue sky
and alighted on a tree close at hand. Peter decided that the best
thing he could do was to sit perfectly still where he was. He had
a splendid view of Redtail, and he couldn't help but admire this
big member of the Hawk family. The upper parts of his coat were a
dark grayish-brown mixed with touches of chestnut color. The
upper part of his breast was streaked with grayish-brown and
buff, the lower part having but few streaks. Below this were
black spots and bars ending in white. But it was the tail which
Peter noticed most of all. It was a rich reddish-brown with a
narrow black band near its end and a white tip. Peter understood
at once why this big Hawk is called Redtail.

It was not until Mr. and Mrs. Redtail had gone in quest of more
food for their hungry youngsters that Peter dared steal away. As
soon as he felt it safe to do so, he headed for home as fast as
he could go, lipperty-lipperty-lip. He knew that he wouldn't feel
safe until that lonesome place in the Green Forest was far
behind.

Yet if the truth be known, Peter had less cause to worry than
would have been the case had it been some other member of the
Hawk family instead of Redtail. And while Redtail and his wife do
sometimes catch some of their feathered and furred neighbors, and
once in a while a chicken, they do vastly more good than harm.

CHAPTER XIX A Maker of Thunder and a Friend in Black.

Peter Rabbit's intentions were of the best. Once safely away from
that lonesome part of the Green Forest where was the home of
Redtail the Hawk, he intended to go straight back to the dear Old
Briar-patch. But he was not halfway there when from another
direction in the Green Forest there came a sound that caused him
to stop short and quite forget all about home. It was a sound
very like distant thunder. It began slowly at first and then went
faster and faster. Boom--Boom--Boom--Boom-Boom-Boom Boo-Boo-B-B-
B-B-b-b-b-b-boom! It was like the long roll on a bass drum.

Peter laughed right out. "That's Strutter the Stuffed Grouse!" he
cried joyously. "I had forgotten all about him. I certainly must
go over and pay him a call and find out where Mrs. Grouse is. My,
how Strutter can drum!"

Peter promptly headed towards that distant thunder. As he drew
nearer to it, it sounded louder and louder. Presently Peter
stopped to try to locate exactly the place where that sound,
which now was more than ever like thunder, was coming from.
Suddenly Peter remembered something. "I know just where he is,"
said he to himself. "There's a big, mossy, hollow log over
yonder, and I remember that Mrs. Grouse once told me that that is
Strutter's thunder log."

Very, very carefully Peter stole forward, making no sound at all.
At last he reached a place where he could peep out and see that
big, mossy, hollow log. Sure enough, there was Strutter the
Ruffed Grouse. When Peter first saw him he was crouched on one
end of the log, a fluffy ball of reddish-brown, black and gray
feathers. He was resting. Suddenly he straightened up to his full
height, raised his tail and spread it until it was like an open
fan above his back. The outer edge was gray, then came a broad
band of black, followed by bands of gray, brown and black. Around
his neck was a wonderful ruff of black. His reddish-brown wings
were dropped until the tips nearly touched the log. His full
breast rounded out and was buff color with black markings. He
was of about the size of the little Bantam hens Peter had seen in
Farmer Brown's henyard.

In the most stately way you can imagine Strutter walked the
length of that mossy log. He was a perfect picture of pride as he
strutted very much like Tom Gobbler the big Turkey cock. When he
reached the end of the log he suddenly dropped his tail,
stretched himself to his full height and his wings began to beat,
first slowly then faster and faster, until they were just a blur.
They seemed to touch above his back but when they came down they
didn't quite strike his sides. It was those fast moving wings
that made the thunder. It was so loud that Peter almost wanted to
stop his ears. When it ended Strutter settled down to rest and
once more appeared like a ball of fluffy feathers. His ruff was
laid flat.

Peter watched him thunder several times and then ventured to show
himself. "Strutter, you are wonderful! simply wonderful!" cried
Peter, and he meant just what he said.

Strutter threw out his chest proudly. "That is just what Mrs.
Grouse says," he replied. "I don't know of any better thunderer
if I do say it myself."

"Speaking of Mrs. Grouse, where is she?" asked Peter eagerly.

"Attending to her household affairs, as a good housewife should,"
retorted Strutter promptly.

"Do you mean she has a nest and eggs?" asked Peter.

Strutter nodded. "She has twelve eggs," he added proudly.

"I suppose," said Peter artfully, "her nest is somewhere near
here on the ground."

"It's on the ground, Peter, but as to where it is I am not saying
a word. It may or it may not be near here. Do you want to hear me
thunder again?"

Of course Peter said he did, and that was sufficient excuse for
Strutter to show off. Peter stayed a while longer to gossip, but
finding Strutter more interested in thundering than in talking,
he once more started for home.

"I really would like to know where that nest is," said he to
himself as he scampered along. "I suppose Mrs. Grouse has hidden
it so cleverly that it is quite useless to look for it."

On his way he passed a certain big tree. All around the ground
was carpeted with brown, dead leaves. There were no bushes or
young trees there. Peter never once thought of looking for a
nest. It was the last place in the world he would expect to find
one. When he was well past the big tree there was a soft chuckle
and from among the brown leaves right at the foot of that big
tree a head with a pair of the brightest eyes was raised a
little. Those eyes twinkled as they watched Peter out of sight.

"He didn't see me at all," chuckled Mrs. Grouse, as she settled
down once more. "That is what comes of having a cloak so like the
color of these nice brown leaves. He isn't the first one who has
passed me without seeing me at all. It is better than trying to
hide a nest, and I certainly am thankful to Old Mother Nature for
the cloak she gave me. I wonder if every one of these twelve eggs
will hatch. If they do, I certainly will have a family to be
proud of."

Meanwhile Peter hurried on in his usual happy-go-lucky fashion
until he came to the edge of the Green Forest. Out on the Green
Meadows just beyond he caught sight of a black form walking about
in a stately way and now and then picking up something. It
reminded him of Blacky the Crow, but he knew right away that it
wasn't Blacky, because it was so much smaller, being not more
than half as big.

"It's Creaker the Grackle. He was one of the first to arrive this
spring and I'm ashamed of myself for not having called on him,"
thought Peter, as he hopped out and started across the Green
Meadows towards Creaker. "What a splendid long tail he has. I
believe Jenny Wren told me that he belongs to the Blackbird
family. He looks so much like Blacky the Crow that I suppose this
is why they call him Crow Blackbird."

Just then Creaker turned in such a way that the sun fell full on
his head and back. "Why! Why-ee!" exclaimed Peter, rubbing his
eyes with astonishment. "He isn't just black! He's beautiful,
simply beautiful, and I've always supposed he was just plain,
homely black."

It was true. Creaker the Grackle with the sun shining on him was
truly beautiful. His head and neck, his throat and upper breast,
were a shining blue-black, while his back was a rich, shining
brassy-green. His wings and tail were much like his head and
neck. As Peter watched it seemed as if the colors were constantly
changing. This changing of colors is called iridescence. One
other thing Peter noticed and this was that Creaker's eyes were
yellow. Just at the moment Peter couldn't remember any other bird
with yellow eyes.

"Creaker," cried Peter, "I wonder if you know how handsome you
are!"

"I'm glad you think so," replied Creaker. "I'm not at all vain,
but there are mighty few birds I would change coats with."

"Is--is--Mrs. Creaker dressed as handsomely as you are?" asked
Peter rather timidly.

Creaker shook his head. "Not quite," said he. "She likes plain
black better. Some of the feathers on her back shine like mine,
but she says that she has no time to show off in the sun and to
take care of fine feathers."

"Where is she now?" asked Peter.

"Over home," replied Creaker, pulling a white grub out of the
roots of the grass. "We've got a nest over there in one of those
pine-trees on the edge of the Green Forest and I expect any day
now we will have four hungry babies to feed. I shall have to get
busy then. You know I am one of those who believe that every
father should do his full share in taking care of his family."

"I'm glad to hear you say it," declared Peter, nodding his head
with approval quite as if he was himself the best of fathers,
which he isn't at all.

"May I ask you a very personal question, Creaker?"

"Ask as many questions as you like. I don't have to answer them
unless I want to," retorted Creaker.

"Is it true that you steal the eggs of other birds?" Peter
blurted the question out rather hurriedly.

Creaker's yellow eyes began to twinkle. "That is a very personal
question," said he. "I won't go so far as to say I steal eggs,
but I've found that eggs are very good for my constitution and if
I find a nest with nobody around I sometimes help myself to the
eggs. You see the owner might not come back and then those eggs
would spoil, and that would be a pity."

"That's no excuse at all," declared Peter. "I believe you're no
better than Sammy Jay and Blacky the Crow."

Creaker chuckled, but he did not seem to be at all offended. Just
then he heard Mrs. Creaker calling him and with a hasty farewell
he spread his wings and headed for the Green Forest. Once in the
air he seemed just plain black. Peter watched him out of sight
and then once more headed for the dear Old Briar-patch.

CHAPTER XX A Fisherman Robbed.

Just out of curiosity, and because he possesses what is called
the wandering foot, which means that he delights to roam about,
Peter Rabbit had run over to the bank of the Big River. There
were plenty of bushes, clumps of tall grass, weeds and tangles of
vines along the bank of the Big River, so that Peter felt quite
safe there. He liked to sit gazing out over the water and wonder
where it all came from and where it was going and what, kept it
moving.

He was doing this very thing on this particular morning when he
happened to glance up in the blue, blue sky. There he saw a
broad-winged bird sailing in wide, graceful circles. Instantly
Peter crouched a little lower in his hiding-place, for he knew
this for a member of the Hawk family and Peter has learned by
experience that the only way to keep perfectly safe when one of
these hook-clawed, hook-billed birds is about is to keep out
of sight.

So now he crouched very close to the ground and kept his eyes
fixed on the big bird sailing so gracefully high up in the blue,
blue sky over the Big River. Suddenly the stranger paused in his
flight and for a moment appeared to remain in one place, his
great wings heating rapidly to hold him there. Then those wings
were closed and with a rush he shot down straight for the water,
disappearing with a great splash. Instantly Peter sat up to his
full height that he might see better.

"It's Plunger the Osprey fishing, and I've nothing to fear from
him," he cried happily.

Out of the water, his great wings flapping, rose Plunger. Peter
looked eagerly to see if he had caught a fish, but there was
nothing in Plunger's great, curved claws. Either that fish had
been too deep or had seen Plunger and darted away just in the
nick of time. Peter had a splendid view of Plunger. He was just a
little bigger than Redtail the Hawk. Above he was dark brown, his
head and neck marked with white. His tail was grayish, crossed by
several narrow dark bands and tipped with white. His under parts
were white with some light brown spots on his breast. Peter could
see clearly the great, curved claws which are Plunger's
fishhooks.

Up, up, up he rose, going round and round in a spiral. When he
was well up in the blue, blue sky, he began to sail again in wide
circles as when Peter had first seen him. It wasn't long before
he again paused and then shot down towards the water. This time
he abruptly spread his great wings just before reaching the water
so that he no more than wet his feet. Once more a fish had
escaped him. But Plunger seemed not in the least discouraged. He
is a true fisherman and every true fisherman possesses patience.
Up again he spiraled until he was so high that Peter wondered how
he could possibly see a fish so far below. You see, Peter didn't
know that it is easier to see down into the water from high above
it than from close to it. Then, too, there are no more wonderful
eyes than those possessed by the members of the Hawk family. And
Plunger the Osprey is a Hawk, usually called Fish Hawk.

A third time Plunger shot down and this time, as in his first
attempt, he struck the water with a great splash and
disappeared. In an instant he reappeared, shaking the water from
him in a silver spray and flapping heavily. This time Fetes could
gee a great shining fish in his claws. It was heavy, as Peter
could tell by the way in which Plunger flew. He headed towards a
tall tree on the other bank of the Big River, there to enjoy his
breakfast. He was not more than halfway there when Peter was
startled by a harsh scream.

He looked up to see a great bird, with wonderful broad wings,
swinging in short circles about Plunger. His body and wings were
dark brown, and his head was snowy white, as was his tail. His
great hooked beak was yellow and his legs were yellow. Peter knew
in an instant who it was. There could be no mistake. It was King
Eagle, commonly known as Bald Head, though his head isn't bald
at all.

Peter's eyes looked as if they would pop out of his head, for it
was quite plain to him that King Eagle was after Plunger, and
Peter didn't understand this at all. You see, he didn't
understand what King Eagle was screaming. But Plunger did. King
Eagle was screaming, "Drop that fish! Drop that fish!"

Plunger didn't intend to drop that fish if he could help
himself. It was his fish. Hadn't he caught it himself? He didn't
intend to give it up to any robber of the air, even though that
robber was King Eagle himself, unless he was actually forced to.
So Plunger began to dodge and twist and turn in the air, all the
time mounting higher and higher, and all the time screaming
harshly, "Robber! Thief! I won't drop this fish! It's mine! It's
mine!"

Now the fish was heavy, so of course Plunger couldn't fly as
easily and swiftly as if he were carrying nothing. Up, up he
went, but all the time King Eagle went up with him, circling
round him, screaming harshly, and threatening to strike him with
those great cruel, curved claws. Peter watched them, so excited
that he fairly danced. "O, I do hope Plunger will get away from
that big robber," cried Peter. "He may be king of the air, but he
is a robber just the same."

Plunger and King Eagle were now high in the air above the Big
River. Suddenly King Eagle swung above Plunger and for an instant
seemed to hold himself still there, just as Plunger had done
before he had shot down into the water after that fish. There
was a still harsher note in King Eagle's scream. If Peter had
been near enough he would have seen a look of anger and
determination in King Eagle's fierce, yellow eyes. Plunger saw it
and knew what it meant. He knew that King Eagle would stand for
no more fooling. With a cry of bitter disappointment and anger
he let go of the big fish.

Down, down, dropped the fish, shining in the sun like a bar of
silver. King Eagle's wings half closed and he shot down like a
thunderbolt. Just before the fish reached the water King Eagle
struck it with his great claws, checked himself by spreading his
broad wings and tail, and then in triumph flew over to the very
tree towards which Plunger had started when he had caught the
fish. There he Hisurely made his breakfast, apparently enjoying
it as much as if he had come by it honestly.

As for poor Plunger, he shook himself, screamed angrily once or
twice, then appeared to think that it was wisest to make the best
of a bad matter and that there were more fish where that one had
come from, for he once more began to sail in circles over the Big
River, searching for a fish near the surface. Peter watched him
until he saw him catch another fish and fly away with it in
triumph. King Eagle watched him, too, but having had a good
breakfast he was quite willing to let Plunger enjoy his catch in
peace.

Late that afternoon Peter visited the Old Orchard, for he just
had to tell Jenny Wren all about what he had seen that morning.

"King Eagle is king simply because he is so big and fierce and
strong," sputtered Jenny. "He isn't kingly in his habits, not the
least bit. He never hesitates to rob those smaller than himself,
just as you saw him rob Plunger. He is very fond of fish, and
once in a while he catches one for himself when Plunger isn't
around to be robbed, but he isn't a very good fisherman, and he
isn't the least bit fussy about his fish. Plunger eats only fresh
fish which he catches himself, but King Eagle will eat dead fish
which he finds on the shore. He doesn't seem to care how long
they have been dead either."

"Doesn't he eat anything but fish?" asked Peter innocently.

"Well," retorted Jenny Wren, her eyes twinkling, "I wouldn't
advise you to run across the Green Meadows in sight of King
Eagle. I am told he is very fond of Rabbit. In fact he is very
fond of fresh meat of any kind. He even catches the babies of
Lightfoot the Deer when he gets a chance. He is so swift of wing
that even the members of the Duck family fear him, for he is
especially fond of fat Duck. Even Honker the Goose is not safe
from him. King he may he, but he rules only through fear. He is
a white-headed old robber. The best thing I can say of him is
that he takes a mate for life and is loyal and true to her as
long as she lives, and that is a great many years. By the way,
Peter, did you know that she is bigger than he is, and that the
young during the first year after leaving their nest, are bigger
than their parents and do not have white heads? By the time they
get white heads they are the same size as their parents."

"That's queer and its hard to believe," said Peter.

"It is queer, but it is true just the same, whether you believe
it or not," retorted Jenny Wren, and whisked out of sight into
her home.

CHAPTER XXI A Fishing Party.

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