The Burgess Bird Book for Children

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"He is a sort of second cousin, the same as Sooty the Chimney
Swift," explained Jenny Wren. "They look enough alike to be own
cousins. Whip-poor-will has just the same kind of a big mouth and
he is dressed very much like Boomer, save that there are no white
patches on his wings."

"I've noticed that," said Peter. "That is one way I can tell them
apart."

"So you noticed that much, did you?" cried Jenny. "It does you
credit, Peter. It does you credit. I wonder if you also noticed
Whip-poor-will's whiskers."

"Whiskers!" cried Peter. "Who ever heard of a bird having
whiskers? You can stuff a lot down me, Jenny Wren, but there are
some things I cannot swallow, and bird whiskers is one of them."

"Nobody asked you to swallow them. Nobody wants you to swallow
them," snapped Jenny. "I don't know why a bird shouldn't have
whiskers just as well as you, Peter Rabbit. Anyway,
Whip-poor-will has them and that is all there is to it. It doesn't
make any difference whether you believe in them or not, they are
there. And I guess Whip-poor-will finds them just as useful as you
find yours, and a little more so. I know this much, that if I had
to catch all my food in the air I'd want whiskers and lots of them
so that the insects would get tangled in them. I suppose that's
what Whip-poor-will's are for."

"I beg your pardon, Jenny Wren," said Peter very humbly. "Of
course Whip-poor-will has whiskers if you say so. By the way, do
the Whip-poor-wills do any better in the matter of a nest than
the Nighthawks?"

"Not a bit," replied Jenny Wren. "Mrs. Whip-poor-will lays her
eggs right on the ground, but usually in the Green Forest where
it is dark and lonesome. Like Mrs. Nighthawk, she lays only two.
It's the same way with another second cousin, Chuck-will's-widow."

"Who?" cried Peter, wrinkling his brows.

"Chuck-will's-widow," Jenny Wren fairly shouted it. "Don't you
know Chuck-will's-widow?"

Peter shook his head. "I never heard of such a bird," he
confessed.

"That's what comes of never having traveled," retorted Jenny
Wren. "If you'd ever been in the South the way I have you would
know Chuck-will's-widow. He looks a whole lot like the other two
we've been talking about, but has even a bigger mouth. What's
more, he has whiskers with branches. Now you needn't look as if
you doubted that, Peter Rabbit; it's so. In his habits he's just
like his cousins, no nest and only two eggs. I never saw people
so afraid to raise a real family. If the Wrens didn't do better
than that, I don't know what would become of us." You know Jenny
usually has a family of six or eight.

CHAPTER XXIV The Warblers Arrive.

If there is one family of feathered friends which perplexes Peter
Rabbit more than another, it is the Warbler family.

"So many of them come together and they move about so constantly
that a fellow doesn't have a chance to look at one long enough
to recognize him," complained Peter to Jenny Wren one morning
when the Old Orchard was fairly alive with little birds no bigger
than Jenny Wren herself.

And such restless little folks as they were!

They were not still an instant, flitting from tree to tree, twig
to twig, darting out into the air and all the time keeping up an
endless chattering mingled with little snatches of song. Peter
would no sooner fix his eyes on one than another entirely
different in appearance would take its place. Occasionally he
would see one whom he recognized, one who would stay for the
nesting season. But the majority of them would stop only for a
day or two, being bound farther north to make their summer homes.

Apparently, Jenny Wren did not look upon them altogether with
favor. Perhaps Jenny was a little bit envious, for compared with
the bright colors of some of them Jenny was a very homely small
person indeed. Then, too, there were so many of them and they
were so busy catching all kinds of small insects that it may be
Jenny was a little fearful they would not leave enough for her to
get her own meals easily.

"I don't see what they have to stop here for," scolded Jenny.
"They could just as well go somewhere else where they would not
be taking the food out of the mouths of honest folk who are here
to stay all summer. Did you ever in your life see such uneasy
people? They don't keep still an instant. It positively makes me
tired just to watch them."

Peter couldn't help but chuckle, for Jenny Wren herself is a very
restless and uneasy person. As for Peter, he was thoroughly
enjoying this visit of the Warblers, despite the fact that he was
having no end of trouble trying to tell who was who. Suddenly one
darted down and snapped up a fly almost under Peter's very nose
and was back up in a tree before Peter could get his breath.
"It's Zee Zee the Redstart!" cried Peter joyously. "I would know
Zee Zee anywhere. Do you know who he reminds me of, Jenny Wren?"

"Who?" demanded Jenny.

"Goldy the Oriole," replied Peter promptly. "Only of course he's
ever and ever so much smaller. He's all black and orange-red and
white something as Goldy is, only there isn't quite so much
orange on him."

For just an instant Zee Zee sat still with his tail spread. His
head, throat and back were black and there was a black band
across the end of his tail and a black stripe down the middle of
it. The rest was bright orange-red. On each wing was a band of
orange-red and his sides were the same color. Underneath he was
white tinged more or less with orange.

It was only for an instant that Zee Zee sat still; then he was in
the air, darting, diving, whirling, going through all sorts of
antics as he caught tiny insects too small for Peter to see.
Peter began to wonder how he kept still long enough to sleep at
night. And his voice was quite as busy as his wings. "Zee, zee,
zee, zee!" he would cry. But this was only one of many notes. At
times he would sing a beautiful little song and then again it
would seem as if he were trying to imitate other members of the
Warbler family.

"I do hope Zee Zee is going to stay here," said Peter. "I just
love to watch him."

"He'll stay fast enough," retorted Jenny Wren. "I don't imagine
he'll stay in the Old Orchard and I hope he won't, because if he
does it will make it just that much harder for me to catch enough
to feed my big family. Probably he and Mrs. Redstart will make
their home on the edge of the Green Forest. They like it better
over there, for which I am thankful. There's Mrs Redstart now.
Just notice that where Zee Zee is bright orange-y red she is
yellow, and instead of a black head she has a gray head and her
back is olive-green with a grayish tinge. She isn't nearly as
handsome as Zee Zee, but then, that's not to be expected. She
lets Zee Zee do the singing and the showing off and she does the
work. I expect she'll build that nest with almost no help at all
from him. But Zee Zee is a good father, I'll say that much for
him. He'll do his share in feeding their babies."

Just then Peter caught sight of a bird all in yellow. He was
about the same size as Zee Zee and was flitting about among the
bushes along the old stone wall. "There's Sunshine!" cried
Peter, and without being polite enough to even bid Jenny Wren
farewell, he scampered over to where he could see the one he
called Sunshine flitting about from bush to bush.

"Oh, Sunshine!" he cried, as he came within speaking distance,
"I'm ever and ever so glad to see you back. I do hope you and
Mrs. Sunshine are going to make your home somewhere near here
where I can see you every day."

"Hello, Peter! I am just as glad to see you as you are to see
me," cried Sunshine the Yellow Warbler. "Yes, indeed, we
certainly intend to stay here if we can find just the right place
for our nest. It is lovely to be back here again. We've journeyed
so far that we don't want to go a bit farther if we can help it.
Have you seen Sally Sly the Cowbird around here this spring?"

Peter nodded. "Yes," said he, "I have."

"I'm sorry to hear it," declared Sunshine. "She made us a lot of
trouble last year. But we fooled her."

"How did you fool her?" asked Peter.

Sunshine paused to pick a tiny worm from a leaf. "Well," said he,
"she found our nest just after we had finished it and before Mrs.
Sunshine had had a chance to lay an egg. Of course you know what
she did."

"I can guess," replied Peter. "She laid one of her own eggs in
your nest."

Sunshine stopped to pick two or three more worms from the leaves.
"Yes," said he. "She did just that, the lazy good-for-nothing
creature! But it didn't do her a bit of good, not a bit. That egg
never hatched. We fooled her and that's what we'll do again if
she repeats that trick this year."

"What did you do, throw that egg out?" asked Peter.

"No," replied Sunshine. "Our nest was too deep for us to get that
egg out. We just made a second bottom in our nest right over that
egg and built the sides of the nest a little higher. Then we took
good care that she didn't have a chance to lay another egg in
there."

"Then you had a regular two-story nest, didn't you?" cried Peter,
opening his eyes very wide.

Sunshine nodded. "Yes, sir," said he, "and it was a mighty fine
nest, if I do say it. If there's anything Mrs. Sunshine and I
pride ourselves on it is our nest. There are no babies who have a
softer, cozier home than ours."

"What do you make your nest of?" asked Peter.

"Fine grasses and soft fibers from plants, some hair when we can
find it, and a few feathers. But we always use a lot of that nice
soft fern-cotton. There is nothing softer or nicer that I know
of."

All the time Peter had been admiring Sunshine and thinking how
wonderfully well he was named. At first glance he seemed to be
all yellow, as if somehow he had managed to catch and hold the
sunshine in his feathers. There wasn't a white feather on him.
When he came very close Peter could see that on his breast and
underneath were little streaks of reddish brown and his wings and
tail were a little blackish. Otherwise he was all yellow.

Presently he was joined by Mrs. Sunshine. She was not such a
bright yellow as was Sunshine, having an olive-green tint on her
back. But underneath she was almost clear yellow without the
reddish-brown streaks. She too was glad to see Peter but
couldn't stop to gossip, for already, as she informed Sunshine,
she had found just the place for their nest. Of course Peter
begged to be told where it was. But the two little folks in
yellow snapped their bright eyes at him and told him that that
was their secret and they didn't propose to tell a living soul.

Perhaps if Peter had not been so curious and eager to get
acquainted with other members of the Warbler family he would have
stayed and done a little spying. As it was, he promised himself
to come back to look for that nest after it had been built; then
he scurried back among the trees of the Old Orchard to look for
other friends among the busy little Warblers who were making the
Old Orchard such a lively place that morning.

"There's one thing about it," cried Peter. "Any one can tell Zee
Zee the Redstart by his black and flame colored suit. There is no
other like it. And any one can tell Sunshine the Yellow Warbler
because there isn't anybody else who seems to be all yellow. My,
what a lively, lovely lot these Warblers are!"

CHAPTER XXV Three Cousins Quite Unlike.

As Peter Rabbit passed one of the apple-trees in the Old Orchard,
a thin, wiry voice hailed him. "It's a wonder you wouldn't at
least say you're glad to see me back, Peter Rabbit," said the
voice.

Peter, who had been hopping along rather fast, stopped abruptly
to look up. Running along a limb just over his head, now on top
and now underneath, was a little bird with a black and white
striped coat and a white waistcoat. Just as Peter looked it flew
down to near the base of the tree and began to run straight up
the trunk, picking things from the bark here and there as it ran.
Its way of going up that tree trunk reminded Peter of one of his
winter friends, Seep Seep the Brown Creeper.

"It strikes me that this is a mighty poor welcome for one who has
just come all the way from South America," said the little black
and white bird with twinkling eyes.

"Oh, Creeper, I didn't know you were here!" cried Peter. "You
know I'm glad to see you. I'm just as glad as glad can be. You
are such a quiet fellow I'm afraid I shouldn't have seen you at
all if you hadn't spoken. You know it's always been hard work for
me to believe that you are really and truly a Warbler."

"Why so?" demanded Creeper the Black and White Warbler, for that
is the name by which he is commonly known. "Why so? Don't I look
like a Warbler?"

"Ye-es," said Peter slowly. "You do look like one but you don't
act like one."

"In what way don't I act like one I should like to know?"
demanded Creeper.

"Well," replied Peter, "all the rest of the Warblers are the
uneasiest folks I know of. They can't seem to keep still a
minute. They are everlastingly flitting about this way and that
way and the other way. I actually get tired watching them. But
you are not a bit that way. Then the way you run up tree trunks
and along the limbs isn't a bit Warbler-like. Why don't you flit
and dart about as the others do?"

Creeper's bright eyes sparkled.

"I don't have to," said he. "I'm going to let you into a little
secret, Peter. The rest of them get their living from the leaves
and twigs and in the air, but I've discovered an easier way. I've
found out that there are lots of little worms and insects and
eggs on the trunks and big limbs of the trees and that I can get
the best kind of a living there without flitting about
everlastingly. I don't have to share them with anybody but the
Woodpeckers, Nuthatches, and Tommy Tit the Chickadee."

"That reminds me," said Peter. "Those folks you have mentioned
nest in holes in trees; do you?"

"I should say not," retorted Creeper. "I don't know of any
Warbler who does. I build on the ground, if you want to know. I
nest in the Green Forest. Sometimes I make my nest in a little
hollow at the base of a tree; sometimes I put it under a stump or
rock or tuck it in under the roots of a tree that has been blown
over. But there, Peter Rabbit, I've talked enough. I'm glad
you're glad that I'm back, and I'm glad I'm back too."

Creeper continued on up the trunk of the tree, picking here and
picking there. Just then Peter caught sight of another friend
whom he could always tell by the black mask he wore. It was
Mummer the Yellow-throat. He had just darted into the thicket of
bushes along the old stone wall. Peter promptly hurried over
there to look for him.

When Peter reached the place where he had caught a glimpse of
Mummer, no one was to be seen. Peter sat down, uncertain which
way to go. Suddenly Mummer popped out right in front of Peter,
seemingly from nowhere at all. His throat and breast were bright
yellow and his back wings and tail a soft olive-green. But the
most remarkable thing about him was the mask of black right
across his cheeks, eyes and forehead. At least it looked like a
mask, although it really wasn't one.

"Hello, Mummer!" cried Peter.

"Hello yourself, Peter Rabbit!" retorted Mummer and then
disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.

Peter blinked and looked in vain all about.

"Looking for some one?" asked Mummer, suddenly popping into view
where Peter least expected him.

"For goodness' sake, can't you sit still a minute?" cried Peter.
"How do you expect a fellow can talk to you when he can't keep
his eyes on you more than two seconds at a time."

"Who asked you to talk to me?" responded Mummer, and popped out
of sight. Two seconds later he was back again and his bright
little eyes fairly shone with mischief. Then before Peter could
say a word Mummer burst into a pleasant little song. He was so
full of happiness that Peter couldn't be cross with him.

"There's one thing I like about you, Mummer," declared Peter,
"and that is that I never get you mixed up with anybody else. I
should know you just as far as I could see you because of that
black mask across your face. Has Mrs. Yellow-throat arrived yet?"

"Certainly," replied another voice, and Mrs. Yellow-throat
flitted across right in front of Peter. For just a second she sat
still, long enough for him to have one good look at her. She was
dressed very like Mummer save that she did not wear the black
mask.

Peter was just about to say something polite and pleasant when
from just back of him there sounded a loud, very emphatic, "Chut!
Chut!" Peter whirled about to find another old friend. It was
Chut-Chut the Yellow-breasted Chat, the largest of the Warbler
family. He was so much bigger than Mummer that it was hard to
believe that they were own cousins. But Peter knew they were, and
he also knew that he could never mistake Chut-Chut for any other
member of the family because of his big size, which was that of
some of the members of the Sparrow family. His back was a dark
olive-green, but his throat and breast were a beautiful bright
yellow. There was a broad white line above each eye and a little
white line underneath. Below his breast he was all white.

To have seen him you would have thought that he suspected Peter
might do him some harm. He acted that way. If Peter hadn't known
him so well he might have been offended. But Peter knew that
there is no one among his feathered friends more cautious than
Chut-Chut the Chat. He never takes anything for granted. He
appears to be always on the watch for danger, even to the extent
of suspecting his very best friends.

When he had decided in his own mind that there was no danger,
Chut-Chut came out for a little gossip. But like all the rest of
the Warblers he couldn't keep still. Right in the middle of the
story of his travels from far-away Mexico he flew to the top of a
little tree, began to sing, then flew out into the air with his
legs dangling and his tail wagging up and down in the funniest
way, and there continued his song as he slowly dropped down into
the thicket again. It was a beautiful song and Peter hastened to
tell him so.

Chut-Chut was pleased. He showed it by giving a little concert
all by himself. It seemed to Peter that he never had heard such a
variety of whistles and calls and songs as came from that yellow
throat. When it was over Chut-Chut abruptly said good-by and
disappeared. Peter could hear his sharp "Chut! Chut!" farther
along in the thicket as he hunted for worms among the bushes.

"I wonder," said Peter, speaking out loud without thinking,
"where he builds his nest. I wonder if he builds it on the
ground, the way Creeper does."

"No," declared Mummer, who all the time had been darting about
close at hand. "He doesn't, but I do. Chut-Chut puts his nest
near the ground, however, usually within two or three feet. He
builds it in bushes or briars. Sometimes if I can find a good
tangle of briars I build my nest in it several feet from the
ground, but as a rule I would rather have it on the ground under
a bush or in a clump of weeds. Have you seen my cousin Sprite the
Parula Warbler, yet?"

"Not yet," said Peter, as he started for home.

CHAPTER XXVI Peter Gets a Lame Neck.

For several days it seemed to Peter Rabbit that everywhere he
went he found members of the Warbler family. Being anxious to
know all of them he did his best to remember how each one looked,
but there were so many and some of them were dressed so nearly
alike that after awhile Peter became so mixed that he gave it up
as a bad job. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the
Warblers disappeared. That is to say, most of them disappeared.
You see they had only stopped for a visit, being on their way
farther north.

In his interest in the affairs of others of his feathered
friends, Peter had quite forgotten the Warblers. Then one day
when he was in the Green Forest where the spruce-trees grow, he
stopped to rest. This particular part of the Green Forest was low
and damp, and on many of the trees gray moss grew, hanging down
from the branches and making the trees look much older than they
really were. Peter was staring at a hanging branch of this moss
without thinking anything about it when suddenly a little bird
alighted on it and disappeared in it. At least, that is what
Peter thought. But it was all so unexpected that he couldn't be
sure his eyes hadn't fooled him.

Of course, right away he became very much interested in that
bunch of moss. He stared at it very hard. At first it looked no
different from a dozen other bunches of moss, but presently he
noticed that it was a little thicker than other bunches, as if
somehow it had been woven together. He hopped off to one side so
he could see better. It looked as if in one side of that bunch of
moss was a little round hole. Peter blinked and looked very hard
indeed to make sure. A minute later there was no doubt at all,
for a little feathered head was poked out and a second later a
dainty mite of a bird flew out and alighted very close to Peter.
It was one of the smaller members of the Warbler family.

"Sprite!" cried Peter joyously. "I missed you when your cousins
passed through here, and I thought you had gone to the Far North
with the rest of them."

"Well, I haven't, and what's more I'm not going to go on to the
Far North. I'm going to stay right here," declared Sprite the
Parula Warbler, for that is who it was.

As Peter looked at Sprite he couldn't help thinking that there
wasn't a daintier member in the whole Warbler family. His coat
was of a soft bluish color with a yellowish patch in the very
center of his back. Across each wing were two bars of white. His
throat was yellow. Just beneath it was a little band of
bluish-black. His breast was yellow and his sides were grayish
and brownish-chestnut.

"Sprite, you're just beautiful," declared Peter in frank
admiration. "What was the reason I didn't see you up in the Old
Orchard with your cousins?"

"Because I wasn't there," was Sprite's prompt reply as he flitted
about, quite unable to sit still a minute. "I wasn't there
because I like the Green Forest better, so I came straight here."

"What were you doing just now in that bunch of moss?" demanded
Peter, a sudden suspicion of the truth hopping into his head.

"Just looking it over," replied Sprite, trying to look innocent.

At that very instant Peter looked up just in time to see a tail
disappearing in the little round hole in the side of the bunch of
moss. He knew that that tail belonged to Mrs. Sprite, and just
that glimpse told him all he wanted to know.

"You've got a nest in there!" Peter exclaimed excitedly. "There's
no use denying it, Sprite; you've got a nest in there! What a
perfectly lovely place for a nest."

Sprite saw at once that it would be quite useless to try to
deceive Peter. "Yes," said he, "Mrs. Sprite and I have a nest in
there. We've just finished it. I think myself it is rather nice.
We always build in moss like this. All we have to do is to find a
nice thick bunch and then weave it together at the bottom and
line the inside with fine grasses. It looks so much like all the
rest of the bunches of moss that it is seldom any one finds it. I
wouldn't trade nests with anybody I know."

"Isn't it rather lonesome over here by yourselves?" asked Peter.

"Not at all," replied Sprite. "You see, we are not as much alone
as you think. My cousin, Fidget the Myrtle Warbler, is nesting
not very far away, and another cousin Weechi the Magnolia Warbler
is also quite near. Both have begun housekeeping already."

Of course Peter was all excitement and interest at once. "Where
are their homes?" he asked eagerly. "Tell me where they are and
I'll go straight over and call."

"Peter," said Sprite severely, "you ought to know better than to
ask me to tell you anything of this kind. You have been around
enough to know that there is no secret so precious as the secret
of a home. You happened to find mine, and I guess I can trust you
not to tell anybody where it is. If you can find the homes of
Fidget and Weechi, all right, but I certainly don't intend to
tell you where they are."

Peter knew that Sprite was quite right in refusing to tell the
secrets of his cousins, but he couldn't think of going home
without at least looking for those homes. He tried to look very
innocent as he asked if they also were in hanging bunches of
moss. But Sprite was too smart to be fooled and Peter learned
nothing at all.

For some time Peter hopped around this way and that way, thinking
every bunch of moss he saw must surely contain a nest. But though
he looked and looked and looked, not another little round hole
did he find, and there were so many bunches of moss that finally
his neck ached from tipping his head back so much. Now Peter
hasn't much patience as he might have, so after a while he gave
up the search and started on his way home. On higher ground, just
above the low swampy place where grew the moss-covered trees, he
came to a lot of young hemlock-trees. These had no moss on them.
Having given up his search Peter was thinking of other things
when there flitted across in front of him a black and gray bird
with a yellow cap, yellow sides, and a yellow patch at the root
of his tail. Those yellow patches were all Peter needed to see to
recognize Fidget the Myrtle Warbler, one of the two friends he
had been so long looking for down among the moss-covered trees.

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