The Burgess Bird Book for Children

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Peter Rabbit sat on the edge of the Old Briar-patch trying to
make up his mind whether to stay at home, which was the wise and
proper thing to do, or to go call on some of the friends he had
not yet visited. A sharp, harsh rattle caused him to look up to
see a bird about a third larger than Welcome Robin, and with a
head out of all proportion to the size of his body. He was
flying straight towards the Smiling Pool, rattling harshly as he
flew. The mere sound of his voice settled the matter for Peter.
"It's Rattles the Kingfisher," he cried. "I think I'll run over
to the Smiling Pool and pay him my respects."

So Peter started for the Smiling Pool as fast as his long legs
could take him, lipperty-lipperty-lip. He had lost sight of
Rattles the Kingfisher, and when he reached the back of the
Smiling Pool he was in doubt which way to turn. It was very early
in the morning and there was not so much as a ripple on the
surface of the Smiling Pool. As Peter sat there trying to make up
his mind which way to go, he saw coming from the direction of the
Big River a great, broad-winged bird, flying slowly. He seemed to
have no neck at all, but carried straight out behind him were
two long legs.

"Longlegs the Great Blue Heron! I wonder if he is coming here,"
exclaimed Peter. "I do hope so."

Peter stayed right where he was and waited. Nearer and nearer
came Longlegs. When he was right opposite Peter he suddenly
dropped his long legs, folded his great wings, and alighted right
on the edge of the Smiling Pool across from where Peter was
sitting. If he seemed to have no neck at all when he was flying,
now he seemed to be all neck as he stretched it to its full
length. The fact is, his neck was so long that when he was flying
he carried it folded back on his shoulders. Never before had
Peter had such an opportunity to see Longlegs.

He stood quite four feet high. The top of his head and throat
were white. From the base of his great bill and over his eye was
a black stripe which ended in two long, slender, black feathers
hanging from the back of his head. His bill was longer than his
head, stout and sharp like a spear and yellow in color. His long
neck was a light brownish-gray. His back and wings were of a
bluish color. The bend of each wing and the feathered parts of
his legs were a rusty-red. The remainder of his legs and his feet
were black. Hanging down over his breast were beautiful long
pearly-gray feathers quite unlike any Peter had seen on any of
his other feathered friends. In spite of the length of his legs
and the length of his neck he was both graceful and handsome.

"I wonder what has brought him over to the Smiling Pool," thought
Peter.

He didn't have to wait long to find out. After standing perfectly
still with his neck stretched to its full height until he was
sure that no danger was near, Longlegs waded into the water a few
steps, folded his neck back on his shoulders until his long bill
seemed to rest on his breast, and then remained as motionless as
if there were no life in him. Peter also sat perfectly still. By
and by he began to wonder if Longlegs had gone to sleep. His own
patience was reaching an end and he was just about to go on in
search of Rattles the Kingfisher when like a flash the
dagger-like bill of Longlegs shot out and down into the water.
When he withdrew it Peter saw that Longlegs had caught a little
fish which he at once proceeded to swallow head-first. Peter
almost laughed right out as he watched the funny efforts of
Longlegs to gulp that fish down his long throat. Then Longlegs
resumed his old position as motionless as before.

It was no trouble now for Peter to sit still, for he was too
interested in watching this lone fisherman to think of leaving.
It wasn't long before Longlegs made another catch and this time
it was a fat Pollywog. Peter thought of how he had watched
Plunger the Osprey fishing in the Big River and the difference in
the ways of the two fishermen.

"Plunger hunts for his fish while Longlegs waits for his fish to
come to him," thought Peter. "I wonder if Longlegs never goes
hunting."

As if in answer to Peter's thought Longlegs seemed to conclude
that no more fish were coming his way. He stretched himself up to
his full height, looked sharply this way and that way to make
sure that all was safe, then began to walk along the edge of the
Smiling Pool. He put each foot down slowly and carefully so as
to make no noise. He had gone but a few steps when that great
bill darted down like a flash, and Peter saw that he had caught a
careless young Frog. A few steps farther on he caught another
Pollywog. Then coming to a spot that suited him, he once more
waded in and began to watch for fish.

Peter was suddenly reminded of Rattles the Kingfisher, whom he
had quite forgotten. From the Big Hickory-tree on the bank,
Rattles flew out over the Smiling Pool, hovered for an instant,
then plunged down head-first. There was a splash, and a second
later Rattles was in the air again, shaking the water from him in
a silver spray. In his long, stout, black bill was a little fish.
He flew back to a branch of the Big Hickory-tree that hung out
over the water and thumped the fish against the branch until it
was dead. Then he turned it about so he could swallow it
head-first. It was a big fish for the size of the fisherman and
he had a dreadful time getting it down. But at last it was down,
and Rattles set himself to watch for another. The sun shone full
on him, and Peter gave a little gasp of surprise.

"I never knew before how handsome Rattles is," thought Peter. He
was about the size of Yellow Wing the Flicker, but his head made
him look bigger than he really was. You see, the feathers on top
of his head stood up in a crest, as if they had been brushed the
wrong way. His head, back, wings and tail were a bluish-gray. His
throat was white and he wore a white collar. In front of each eye
was a little white spot. Across his breast was a belt of
bluish-gray, and underneath he was white. There were tiny spots
of white on his wings, and his tail was spotted with white. His
bill was black and, like that of Longlegs, was long, and
stout, and sharp. It looked almost too big for his size.

Presently Rattles flew out and plunged into the Smiling Pool
again, this time, very near to where Longlegs was patiently
waiting. He caught a fish, for it is not often that Rattles
misses. It was smaller than the first one Peter had seen him
catch, and this time as soon as he got back to the Big
Hickory-tree, he swallowed it without thumping it against the
branch. As for Longlegs, he looked thoroughly put out. For a
moment or two he stood glaring angrily up at Rattles. You see,
when Rattles had plunged so close to Longlegs he had frightened
all the fish. Finally Longlegs seemed to make up his mind that
there was room for but one fisherman at a time at the Smiling
Pool. Spreading his great wings, folding his long neck back on
his shoulders, and dragging his long legs out behind him, he flew
heavily away in the direction of the Big River.

Rattles remained long enough to catch another little fish, and
then with a harsh rattle flew off down the Laughing Brook. "I
would know him anywhere by that rattle," thought Peter. "There
isn't any one who can make a noise anything like it. I wonder
where he has gone to now. He must have a nest, but I haven't the
least idea what kind of a nest he builds. Hello! There's
Grandfather Frog over on his green lily pad. Perhaps he can tell
me."

So Peter hopped along until he was near enough to talk to
Grandfather Frog. "What kind of a nest does Rattles the
Kingfisher build?" repeated Grandfather Frog. "Chug-arum, Peter
Rabbit! I thought everybody knew that Rattles doesn't build a
nest. At least I wouldn't call it a nest. He lives in a hole in
the ground."

"What!" cried Peter, and looked as if he couldn't believe his own
ears.

Grandfather Frog grinned and his goggly eyes twinkled. "Yes,"
said he, "Rattles lives in a hole in the ground."

"But--but--but what kind of a hole?" stammered Peter.

"Just plain hole," retorted Grandfather Frog, grinning more
broadly than ever. Then seeing how perplexed and puzzled Peter
looked, he went on to explain. "He usually picks out a high
gravelly bank close to the water and digs a hole straight in just
a little way from the top. He makes it just big enough for
himself and Mrs. Rattles to go in and out of comfortably, and he
digs it straight in for several feet. I'm told that at the end of
it he makes a sort of bedroom, because he usually has a
good-sized family."

"Do you mean to say that he digs it himself?" asked Peter.

Grandfather Frog nodded. "If he doesn't, Mrs. Kingfisher does,"
he replied. "Those big bills of theirs are picks as well as fish
spears. They loosen the sand with those and scoop it out with
their feet. I've never seen the inside of their home myself, but
I'm told that their bedroom is lined with fish bones. Perhaps you
may call that a nest, but I don't."

"I'm going straight down the Laughing Brook to look for that
hole," declared Peter, and left in such a hurry that he forgot to
be polite enough to say thank you to Grandfather Frog.

CHAPTER XXII Some Feathered Diggers.

Peter Rabbit scampered along down one bank of the Laughing Brook,
eagerly watching for a high, gravelly bank such as Grandfather
Frog had said that Rattles the Kingfisher likes to make his home
in. If Peter had stopped to do a little thinking, he would have
known that he was simply wasting time. You see, the Laughing
Brook was flowing through the Green Meadows, so of course there
would be no high, gravelly bank, because the Green Meadows are
low. But Peter Rabbit, in his usual heedless way, did no
thinking. He had seen Rattles fly down the Laughing Brook, and so
he had just taken it for granted that the home of Rattles must be
somewhere down there.

At last Peter reached the place where the Laughing Brook entered
the Big River. Of course he hadn't found the home of Rattles. But
now he did find something that for the time being made him quite
forget Rattles and his home. Just before it reached the Big River
the Laughing Brook wound through a swamp in which were many tall
trees and a great number of young trees. A great many big ferns
grew there and were splendid to hide under. Peter always did like
that swamp.

He had stopped to rest in a clump of ferns when he was startled
by seeing a great bird alight in a tree just a little way from
him. His first thought was that it was a Hawk, so you can imagine
how surprised and pleased he was to discover that it was Mrs.
Longlegs. Somehow Peter had always thought of Longlegs the Blue
Heron as never alighting anywhere except on the ground. But here
was Mrs. Longlegs in a tree. Having nothing to fear, Peter crept
out from his hiding place that he might see better.

In the tree in which Mrs. Longlegs was perched and just below her
he saw a little platform of sticks. He didn't suspect that it was
a nest, because it looked too rough and loosely put together to
be a nest. Probably he wouldn't have thought about it at all had
not Mrs. Longlegs settled herself on it right while Peter was
watching. It didn't seem big enough or strong enough to hold her,
but it did.

"As I live," thought Peter, "I've found the nest of Longlegs! He
and Mrs. Longlegs may be good fishermen but they certainly are
mighty poor nest-builders. I don't see how under the sun Mrs.
Longlegs ever gets on and off that nest without kicking the eggs
out."

Peter sat around for a while, but as he didn't care to let his
presence be known, and as there was no one to talk to, he
presently made up his mind that being so near the Big River he
would go over there to see if Plunger the Osprey was fishing
again on this day.

When he reached the Big River, Plunger was not in sight. Peter
was disappointed. He had just about made up his mind to return
the way he had come, when from beyond the swamp, farther up the
Big River, he heard the harsh, rattling cry of Rattles the
Kingfisher. It reminded him of what he had come for, and he at
once began to hurry in that direction.

Peter came out of the swamp on a little sandy beach. There he
squatted for a moment, blinking his eyes, for out there the sun
was very bright. Then a little way beyond him he discovered
something that in his eager curiosity made him quite forget that
he was out in the open where it was anything but safe for a
Rabbit to be. What he saw was a high sandy bank. With a hasty
glance this way and that way to make sure that no enemy was in
sight, Peter scampered along the edge of the water till he was
right at the foot of that sandy bank. Then he squatted down and
looked eagerly for a hole such as he imagined Rattles the
Kingfisher might make. Instead of one hole he saw a lot of holes,
but they were very small holes. He knew right away that Rattles
couldn't possibly get in or out of a single one of those holes.
In fact, those holes in the bank were no bigger than the holes
Downy the Woodpecker makes in trees. Peter couldn't imagine who
or what had made them.

As Peter sat there staring and wondering a trim little head
appeared at the entrance to one of those holes. It was a trim
little head with a very small bill and a snowy white throat. At
first glance Peter thought it was his old friend, Skimmer the
Tree Swallow, and he was just on the point of asking what under
the sun Skimmer was doing in such a place as that, when with a
lively twitter of greeting the owner of that little hole in the
bank flew out and circled over Peter's head. It wasn't Skimmer at
all. It was Banker the Bank Swallow, own cousin to Skimmer the
Tree Swallow. Peter recognized him the instant he got a full view
of him.

In the first place Banker was a little smaller than Skimmer. Then
too, he was not nearly so handsome. His back, instead of being
that beautiful rich steel-blue which makes Skimmer so handsome,
was a sober grayish-brown. He was a little darker on his wings
and tail. His breast, instead of being all snowy white, was
crossed with a brownish band. His tail was more nearly square
across the end than is the case with other members of the Swallow
family.

"Wha--wha--what were you doing there?" stuttered Peter, his eyes
popping right out with curiosity and excitement.

"Why, that's my home," twittered Banker.

"Do--do--do you mean to say that you live in a hole in the
ground?" cried Peter.

"Certainly; why not?" twittered Banker as he snapped up a fly
just over Peter's head.

"I don't know any reason why you shouldn't," confessed Peter.
"But somehow it is hard for me to think of birds as living in
holes in the ground. I've only just found out that Rattles the
Kingfisher does. But I didn't suppose there were any others. Did
you make that hole yourself, Banker?"

"Of course," replied Banker. "That is, I helped make it. Mrs.
Banker did her share. 'Way in at the end of it we've got the
nicest little nest of straw and feathers. What is more, we've got
four white eggs in there, and Mrs. Banker is sitting on them
now."

By this time the air seemed to be full of Banker's friends,
skimming and circling this way and that, and going in and out of
the little holes in the bank.

"I am like my big cousin, Twitter the Purple Martin, fond of
society," explained Banker. "We Bank Swallows like our homes
close together. You said that you had just learned that Rattles
the Kingfisher has his home in a bank. Do you know where it is?"

"No, replied Peter. "I was looking for it when I discovered your
home. Can you tell me where it is?"

"I'll do better than that;" replied Banker. "I'll show you where
it is."

He darted some distance up along the bank and hovered for an
instant close to the top. Peter scampered over there and looked
up. There, just a few inches below the top, was another hole, a
very much larger hole than those he had just left. As he was
staring up at it a head with a long sharp bill and a crest which
looked as if all the feathers on the top of his head had been
brushed the wrong way, was thrust out. It was Rattles himself. He
didn't seem at all glad to see Peter. In fact, he came out and
darted at Peter angrily. Peter didn't wait to feel that sharp
dagger-like bill. He took to his heels. He had seen what he
started out to find and he was quite content to go home.

Peter took a short cut across the Green Meadows. It took him past
a certain tall, dead tree. A sharp cry of "Kill-ee, kill-ee,
kill-ee!" caused Peter to look up just in time to see a trim,
handsome bird whose body was about the size of Sammy Jay's but
whose longer wings and longer tail made him look bigger. One
glance was enough to tell Peter that this was a member of the
Hawk family, the smallest of the family. It was Killy the Sparrow
Hawk. He is too small for Peter to fear him, so now Peter was
possessed of nothing more than a very lively curiosity, and sat
up to watch.

Out over the meadow grass Killy sailed. Suddenly, with beating
wings, he kept himself in one place in the air and then dropped
down into the grass. He was up again in an instant, and Peter
could see that he had a fat grasshopper in his claws. Back to the
top of the tall, dead tree he flew and there ate the grasshopper.
When it was finished he sat up straight and still, so still that
he seemed a part of the tree itself. With those wonderful eyes of
his he was watching for another grasshopper or for a careless
Meadow Mouse.

Very trim and handsome was Killy. His back was reddish-brown
crossed by bars of black. His tail was reddish-brown with a band
of black near its end and a white tip. His wings were slaty-blue
with little bars of black, the longest feathers leaving white
bars. Underneath he was a beautiful buff, spotted with black. His
head was bluish with a reddish patch right on top. Before and
behind each ear was a black mark. His rather short bill, like the
bills of all the rest of his family, was hooked.

As Peter sat there admiring Killy, for he was handsome enough for
any one to admire, he noticed for the first time a hole high up
in the trunk of the tree, such a hole as Yellow Wing the Flicker
might have made and probably did make. Right away Peter
remembered what Jenny Wren had told him about Killy's making his
nest in just such a hole. "I wonder," thought Peter, "if that is
Killy's home."

Just then Killy flew over and dropped in the grass just in front
of Peter, where he caught another fat grasshopper. "Is that your
home up there?" asked Peter hastily.

"It certainly is, Peter," replied Killy. "This is the third
summer Mrs. Killy and I have had our home there."

"You seem to be very fond of grasshoppers," Peter ventured.

"I am," replied Killy. "They are very fine eating when one can
get enough of them."

"Are they the only kind of food you eat?" ventured Peter.

Killy laughed. It was a shrill laugh. "I should say not," said
he. "I eat spiders and worms and all sorts of insects big enough
to give a fellow a decent bite. But for real good eating give me
a fat Meadow Mouse. I don't object to a Sparrow or some other
small bird now and then, especially when I have a family of
hungry youngsters to feed. But take it the season through, I live
mostly on grasshoppers and insects and Meadow Mice. I do a lot of
good in this world, I'd have you know."

Peter said that he supposed that this was so, but all the time he
kept thinking what a pity it was that Killy ever killed his
feathered neighbors. As soon as he conveniently could he politely
bade Killy good-by and hurried home to the dear Old Briar-patch,
there to think over how queer it seemed that a member of the hawk
family should nest in a hollow tree and a member of the Swallow
family should dig a hole in the ground.

CHAPTER XXIII Some Big Mouths.

Boom! Peter Rabbit jumped as if he had been shot. It was all so
sudden and unexpected that Peter jumped before he had time to
think. Then he looked foolish. He felt foolish. He had been
scared when there was nothing to be afraid of.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha" tittered Jenny Wren. "What are you jumping for,
Peter Rabbit? That was only Boomer the Nighthawk."

"I know it just as well as you do, Jenny Wren," retorted Peter
rather crossly. "You know being suddenly startled is apt to make
people feel cross. If I had seen him anywhere about he wouldn't
have made me jump. It was the unexpectedness of it. I don't see
what he is out now for, anyway, It isn't even dusk yet, and I
thought him a night bird."

"So he is," retorted Jenny Wren. "Anyway, he is a bird of the
evening, and that amounts to the same thing. But just because he
likes the evening best isn't any reason why he shouldn't come out
in the daylight, is it?"

"No-o," replied Peter rather slowly. "I don't suppose it is."

"Of course it isn't," declared Jenny Wren. "I see Boomer late in
the afternoon nearly every day. On cloudy days I often see him
early in the afternoon. He's a queer fellow, is Boomer. Such a
mouth as he has! I suppose it is very handy to have a big mouth
if one must catch all one's food in the air, but it certainly
isn't pretty when it is wide open."

"I never saw a mouth yet that was pretty when it was wide open,"
retorted Peter, who was still feeling a little put out. "I've
never noticed that Boomer has a particularly big mouth."

"Well he has, whether you've noticed it or not," retorted Jenny
Wren sharply. "He's got a little bit of a bill, but a great big
mouth. I don't see what folks call him a Hawk for when he isn't a
Hawk at all. He is no more of a Hawk than I am, and goodness
knows I'm not even related to the Hawk family."

"I believe you told me the other day that Boomer is related to
Sooty the Chimney Swift," said Peter.

Jenny nodded vigorously. "So I did, Peter," she replied. "I'm
glad you have such a good memory. Boomer and Sooty are sort of
second cousins. There is Boomer now, way up in the sky. I do wish
he'd dive and scare some one else."

Peter tipped his head 'way back. High up in the blue, blue sky
was a bird which at that distance looked something like a much
overgrown Swallow. He was circling and darting about this way and
that. Even while Peter watched he half closed his wings and shot
down with such speed that Peter actually held his breath. It
looked very, very much as if Boomer would dash himself to pieces.
Just before he reached the earth he suddenly opened those wings
and turned upward. At the instant he turned, the booming sound
which had so startled Peter was heard. It was made by the rushing
of the wind through the larger feathers of his wings as he
checked himself.

In this dive Boomer had come near enough for Peter to get a good
look at him. His coat seemed to be a mixture of brown and gray,
very soft looking. His wings were brown with a patch of white on
each. There was a white patch on his throat and a band of white
near the end of his tail.

"He's rather handsome, don't you think?" asked Jenny Wren.

"He certainly is," replied Peter. "Do you happen to know what
kind of a nest the Nighthawks build, Jenny?"

"They don't build any." Jenny Wren was a picture of scorn as she
said this. "They don't built any nests at all. It can't be
because they are lazy for I don't know of any birds that hunt
harder for their living than do Boomer and Mrs. Boomer."

"But if there isn't any nest where does Mrs. Boomer lay her
eggs?" cried Peter. "I think you must be mistaken, Jenny Wren.
They must have some kind of a nest. Of course they must."

"Didn't I say they don't have a nest?" sputtered Jenny. "Mrs.
Nighthawk doesn't lay but two eggs, anyway. Perhaps she thinks it
isn't worth while building a nest for just two eggs. Anyway, she
lays them on the ground or on a flat rock and lets it go at that.
She isn't quite as bad as Sally Sly the Cowbird, for she does sit
on those eggs and she is a good mother. But just think of those
Nighthawk children never having any home! It doesn't seem to me
right and it never will. Did you ever see Boomer in a tree?"

Peter shook his head. "I've seen him on the ground," said he,
"but I never have seen him in a tree. Why did you ask, Jenny
Wren?"

"To find out how well you have used your eyes," snapped Jenny. "I
just wanted to see if you had noticed anything peculiar about the
way he sits in a tree. But as long as you haven't seen him in a
tree I may as well tell you that he doesn't sit as most birds do.
He sits lengthwise of a branch. He never sits across it as the
rest of us do."

"How funny!" exclaimed Peter. "I suppose that is Boomer making
that queer noise we hear."

"Yes," replied Jenny. "He certainly does like to use his voice.
They tell me that some folks call him Bullbat, though why they
should call him either Bat or Hawk is beyond me. I suppose you
know his cousin, Whip-poor-will."

"I should say I do," replied Peter. "He's enough to drive one
crazy when he begins to shout 'Whip poor Will' close at hand.
That voice of his goes through me so that I want to stop both
ears. There isn't a person of my acquaintance who can say a thing
over and over, over and over, so many times without stopping for
breath. Do I understand that he is cousin to Boomer?"

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