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.
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.
“Oh, Fidget!” cried Peter, hurrying after the restless little bird. “Oh, Fidget! I've been looking everywhere for you.”
“Well, here I am,” retorted Fidget. “You didn't look everywhere or you would have found me before. What can I do for you?” All the time Fidget was hopping and flitting about, never still an instant.
“You can tell me where your nest is,” replied Peter promptly.
“I can, but I won't,” retorted Fidget. “Now honestly, Peter, do you think you have any business to ask such a question?”
Peter hung his head and then replied quite honestly, “No I don't, Fidget. But you see Sprite told me that you had a nest not very far from his and I've looked at bunches of moss until I've got a crick in the back of my neck.”
“Bunches of moss!” exclaimed Fidget. “What under the sun do you think I have to do with bunches of moss?”
“Why—why—I just thought you probably had your nest in one, the same as your cousin Sprite.”
Fidget laughed right out. “I'm afraid you would have a worse crick in the back of your neck than you've got now before ever you found my nest in a bunch of moss,” said he. “Moss may suit my cousin Sprite, but it doesn't suit me at all. Besides, I don't like those dark places where the moss grows on the trees. I build my nest of twigs and grass and weed-stalks and I line it with hair and rootlets and feathers. Sometimes I bind it together with spider silk, and if you really want to know, I like a little hemlock-tree to put it in. It isn't very far from here, but where it is I'm not going to tell you. Have you seen my cousin, Weechi?”
“No,” replied Peter. “Is he anywhere around here?”
“Right here,” replied another voice and Weechi the Magnolia Warbler dropped down on the ground for just a second right in front of Peter.
The top of his head and the back of his neck were gray. Above his eye was a white stripe and his cheeks were black. His throat was clear yellow, just below which was a black band. From this black streaks ran down across his yellow breast. At the root of his tail he was yellow. His tail was mostly black on top and white underneath.
His wings were black and gray with two white bars. He was a little smaller than Fidget the Myrtle Warbler and quite as restless.
Peter fairly itched to ask Weechi where his nest was, but by this time he had learned a lesson, so wisely kept his tongue still.
“What were you fellows talking about?” asked Weechi.
“Nests,” replied Fidget. “I've just been telling Peter that while Cousin Sprite may like to build in that hanging moss down there, it wouldn't suit me at all.”
“Nor me either,” declared Weechi promptly. “I prefer to build a real nest just as you do. By the way, Fidget, I stopped to look at your nest this morning. I find we build a good deal alike and we like the same sort of a place to put it. I suppose you know that I am a rather near neighbor of yours?”
“Of course I know it,” replied Fidget. “In fact I watched you start your nest. Don't you think you have it rather near the ground?”
“Not too near, Fidget; not too near. I am not as high-minded as some people. I like to be within two or three feet of the ground.”
“I do myself,” replied Fidget.
Fidget and Weechi became so interested in discussing nests and the proper way of building them they quite forgot Peter Rabbit. Peter sat around for a while listening, but being more interested in seeing those nests than hearing about them, he finally stole away to look for them.
He looked and looked, but there were so many young hemlock-trees and they looked so much alike that finally Peter lost patience and gave it up as a bad job.
Peter Rabbit never will forget the first time he caught a glimpse of Glory the Cardinal, sometimes called Redbird. He had come up to the Old Orchard for his usual morning visit and just as he hopped over the old stone wall he heard a beautiful clear, loud whistle which drew his eyes to the top of an apple-tree. Peter stopped short with a little gasp of sheer astonishment and delight. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked again. He couldn't quite believe that he saw what he thought he saw. He hadn't supposed that any one, even among the feathered folks, could be quite so beautiful.
The stranger was dressed all in red, excepting a little black around the base of his bill. Even his bill was red. He wore a beautiful red crest which made him still more distinguished looking, and how he could sing! Peter had noticed that quite often the most beautifully dressed birds have the poorest songs. But this stranger's song was as beautiful as his coat, and that was one of the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful, that Peter ever had seen. Of course he lost no time in hunting up Jenny Wren. “Who is it, Jenny? Who is that beautiful stranger with such a lovely song?” cried Peter, as soon as he caught sight of Jenny.
“It's Glory the Cardinal,” replied Jenny Wren promptly. “Isn't he the loveliest thing you've ever seen? I do hope he is going to stay here. As I said before, I don't often envy any one's fine clothes, but when I see Glory I'm sometimes tempted to be envious. If I were Mrs. Cardinal I'm afraid I should be jealous. There she is in the very same tree with him. Did you ever see such a difference?”
Peter looked eagerly. Instead of the glorious red of Glory, Mrs. Cardinal wore a very dull dress. Her back was a brownish-gray. Her throat was a grayish-black. Her breast was a dull buff with a faint tinge of red. Her wings and tail were tinged with dull red. Altogether she was very soberly dressed, but a trim, neat looking little person. But if she wasn't handsomely dressed she could sing. In fact she was almost as good a singer as her handsome husband.
“I've noticed,” said Peter, “that people with fine clothes spend most of their time thinking about them and are of very little use when it comes to real work in life.”
“Well, you needn't think that of Glory,” declared Jenny in her vigorous way. “He's just as fine as he is handsome. He's a model husband. If they make their home around here you'll find him doing his full share in the care of their babies. Sometimes they raise two families. When they do that, Glory takes charge of the first lot of youngsters as soon as they are able to leave the nest so that Mrs. Cardinal has nothing to worry about while she is sitting on the second lot of eggs. He fusses over them as if they were the only children in the world. Everybody loves Glory. Excuse me, Peter, I'm going over to find out if they are really going to stay.”
When Jenny returned she was so excited she couldn't keep still a minute. “They like here, Peter!” she cried. “They like here so much that if they can find a place to suit them for a nest they're going to stay. I told them that it is the very best place in the world. They like an evergreen tree to build in, and I think they've got their eyes on those evergreens up near Farmer Brown's house. My, they will add a lot to the quality of this neighborhood.”
Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal whistled and sang as if their hearts were bursting with joy, and Peter sat around listening as if he had nothing else in the world to do. Probably he would have sat there the rest of the morning had he not caught sight of an old friend of whom he is very fond, Kitty the Catbird. In contrast with Glory, Kitty seemed a regular little Quaker, for he was dressed almost wholly in gray, a rather dark, slaty-gray. The top of his head and tail were black, and right at the base of his tail was a patch of chestnut color. He was a little smaller than Welcome Robin. There was no danger of mistaking him for anybody else, for there is no one dressed at all like him.
Peter forgot all about Glory in his pleasure at discovering the returned Kitty and hurried over to welcome him. Kitty had disappeared among the bushes along the old stone wall, but Peter had no trouble in finding him by the queer cries he was uttering, which were very like the meow of Black Pussy the Cat. They were very harsh and unpleasant and Peter understood perfectly why their maker is called the Catbird. He did not hurry in among the bushes at once but waited expectantly. In a few minutes the harsh cries ceased and then there came from the very same place a song which seemed to be made up of parts of the songs of all the other birds of the Old Orchard. It was not loud, but it was charming. It contained the clear whistle of Glory, and there was even the tinkle of Little Friend the Song Sparrow. The notes of other friends were in that song, and with them were notes of southern birds whose songs Kitty had learned while spending the winter in the South. Then there were notes all his own.
Peter listened until the song ended, then scampered in among the bushes. At once those harsh cries broke out again. You would have thought that Kitty was scolding Peter for coming to see him instead of being glad. But that was just Kitty's way. He is simply brimming over with fun and mischief, and delights to pretend.
When Peter found him, he was sitting with all his feathers puffed out until he looked almost like a ball with a head and tail. He looked positively sleepy. Then as he caught sight of Peter he drew those feathers down tight, cocked his tail up after the manner of Jenny Wren, and was as slim and trim looking as any bird of Peter's acquaintance. He didn't look at all like the same bird of the moment before. Then he dropped his tail as if he hadn't strength enough to hold it up at all. It hung straight down. He dropped his wings and all in a second made himself look fairly disreputable. But all the time his eyes were twinkling and snapping, and Peter knew that these changes in appearance were made out of pure fun and mischief.
“I've been wondering if you were coming hack,” cried Peter. “I don't know of any one of my feathered friends I would miss so much as you.”
“Thank you,” responded Kitty. “It's very nice of you to say that, Peter. If you are glad to see me I am still more glad to get back.”
“Did you pass a pleasant winter down South?” asked Peter.
“Fairly so. Fairly so,” replied Kitty. “By the way, Peter, I picked up some new songs down there. Would you like to hear them?”
“Of course,” replied Peter, “but I don't think you need any new songs. I've never seen such a fellow for picking up other people's songs excepting Mocker the Mockingbird.”
At the mention of Mocker a little cloud crossed Kitty's face for just an instant. “There's a fellow I really envy,” said he. “I'm pretty good at imitating others, but Mocker is better. I'm hoping that, if I practice enough, some day I can be as good. I saw a lot of him in the South and he certainly is clever.”
“Huh! You don't need to envy him,” retorted Peter. “You are some imitator yourself. How about those new notes you got when you were in the South?”
Kitty's face cleared, his throat swelled and he began to sing. It was a regular medley. It didn't seem as if so many notes could come from one throat. When it ended Peter had a question all ready.
“Are you going to build somewhere near here?” he asked.
“I certainly am,” replied Kitty. “Mrs. Catbird was delayed a day or two. I hope she'll get here to-day and then we'll get busy at once. I think we shall build in these bushes here somewhere. I'm glad Farmer Brown has sense enough to let them grow. They are just the kind of a place I like for a nest. They are near enough to Farmer Brown's garden, and the Old Orchard is right here. That's just the kind of a combination that suits me.”
Peter looked somewhat uncertain. “Why do you want to be near Farmer Brown's garden?” he asked.
“Because that is where I will get a good part of my living,” Kitty responded promptly. “He ought to be glad to have me about. Once in a while I take a little fruit, but I pay for it ten times over by the number of bugs and worms I get in his garden and the Old Orchard. I pride myself on being useful. There's nothing like being useful in this world, Peter.”
Peter nodded as if he quite agreed. Though, as you know and I know, Peter himself does very little except fill his own big stomach.
“Who's that?” Peter Rabbit pricked up his long ears and stared up at the tops of the trees of the Old Orchard.
Instantly Jenny Wren popped her head out of her doorway. She cocked her head on one side to listen, then looked down at Peter, and her sharp little eyes snapped.
“I don't hear any strange voice,” said she. “The way you are staring, Peter Rabbit, one would think that you had really heard something new and worth while.”
Just then there were two or three rather sharp, squeaky notes from the top of one of the trees. “There!” cried Peter. “There! Didn't you hear that, Jenny Wren?”
“For goodness' sake, Peter Rabbit, you don't mean to say you don't know whose voice that is,” she cried. “That's Rosebreast. He and Mrs. Rosebreast have been here for quite a little while. I didn't suppose there was any one who didn't know those sharp, squeaky voices. They rather get on my nerves. What anybody wants to squeak like that for when they can sing as Rosebreast can, is more than I can understand.”
At that very instant Mr. Wren began to scold as only he and Jenny can. Peter looked up at Jenny and winked slyly. “And what anybody wants to scold like that for when they can sing as Mr. Wren can, is too much for me,” retorted Peter. “But you haven't told me who Rosebreast is.”
“The Grosbeak, of course, stupid,” sputtered Jenny. “If you don't know Rosebreast the Grosbeak, Peter Rabbit, you certainly must have been blind and deaf ever since you were born. Listen to that! Just listen to that song!”
Peter listened. There were many songs, for it was a very beautiful morning and all the singers of the Old Orchard were pouring out the joy that was within them. One song was a little louder and clearer than the others because it came from a tree very close at hand, the very tree from which those squeaky notes had come just a few minutes before. Peter suspected that that must be the song Jenny Wren meant. He looked puzzled. He was puzzled. “Do you mean Welcome Robin's song?” he asked rather sheepishly, for he had a feeling that he would be the victim of Jenny Wren's sharp tongue.
“No, I don't mean Welcome Robin's song,” snapped Jenny. “What good are a pair of long ears if they can't tell one song from another? That song may sound something like Welcome Robin's, but if your ears were good for anything at all you'd know right away that that isn't Welcome Robin singing. That's a better song than Welcome Robin's. Welcome Robin's song is one of good cheer, but this one is of pure happiness. I wouldn't have a pair of ears like yours for anything in the world, Peter Rabbit.”
Peter laughed right out as he tried to picture to himself Jenny Wren with a pair of long ears like his. “What are you laughing at?” demanded Jenny crossly. “Don't you dare laugh at me! If there is any one thing I can't stand it is being laughed at.”
“I wasn't laughing at you,” replied Peter very meekly. “I was just laughing, at the thought of how funny you would look with a pair of long ears like mine. Now you speak of it, Jenny, that song IS quite different from Welcome Robin's.”
“Of course it is,” retorted Jenny. “That is Rosebreast singing up there, and there he is right in the top of that tree. Isn't he handsome?”
Peter looked up to see a bird a little smaller than Welcome Robin. His head, throat and back were black. His wings were black with patches of white on them. But it was his breast that made Peter catch his breath with a little gasp of admiration, for that breast was a beautiful rose-red. The rest of him underneath was white. It was Rosebreast the Grosbeak.
“Isn't he lovely!”' cried Peter, and added in the next breath, “Who is that with him?”
“Mrs. Grosbeak, of course. Who else would it be?” sputtered Jenny rather crossly, for she was still a little put out because she had been laughed at.
“I would never have guessed it,” said Peter. “She doesn't look the least bit like him.”
This was quite true. There was no beautiful rose color about Mrs. Grosbeak. She was dressed chiefly in brown and grayish colors with a little buff here and there and with dark streaks on her breast. Over each eye was a whitish line. Altogether she looked more as if she might be a big member of the Sparrow family than the wife of handsome Rosebreast. While Rosebreast sang, Mrs. Grosbeak was very busily picking buds and blossoms from the tree.
“What is she doing that for?” inquired Peter.
“For the same reason that you bite off sweet clover blossoms and leaves,” replied Jenny Wren tartly.
“Do you mean to say that they live on buds and blossoms?” cried Peter. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut! You can ask more silly questions than anybody of my acquaintance,” retorted Jenny Wren. “Of course they don't live on buds and blossoms. If they did they would soon starve to death, for buds and blossoms don't last long. They eat a few just for variety, but they live mostly on bugs and insects. You ask Farmer Brown's boy who helps him most in his potato patch, and he'll tell you it's the Grosbeaks. They certainly do love potato bugs. They eat some fruit, but on the whole they are about as useful around a garden as any one I know. Now run along, Peter Rabbit, and don't bother me any more.”
Seeing Farmer Brown's boy coming through the Old Orchard Peter decided that it was high time for him to depart. So he scampered for the Green Forest, lipperty-lipperty-lip. Just within the edge of the Green Forest he caught sight of something which for the time being put all thought of Farmer Brown's boy out of his head. Fluttering on the ground was a bird than whom not even Glory the Cardinal was more beautiful. It was about the size of Redwing the Blackbird. Wings and tail were pure black and all the rest was a beautiful scarlet. It was Redcoat the Tanager. At first Peter had eyes only for the wonderful beauty of Redcoat. Never before had he seen Redcoat so close at hand. Then quite suddenly it came over Peter that something was wrong with Redcoat, and he hurried forward to see what the trouble might be.
Redcoat heard the rustle of Peter's feet among the dry leaves and at once began to flap and flutter in an effort to fly away, but he could not get off the ground. “What is it, Redcoat? Has something happened to you? It is just Peter Rabbit. You don't have anything to fear from me,” cried Peter.
The look of terror which had been in the eyes of Redcoat died out, and he stopped fluttering and simply lay panting.
“Oh, Peter,” he gasped, “you don't know how glad I am that it is only you. I've had a terrible accident, and I don't know what I am to do. I can't fly, and if I have to stay on the ground some enemy will be sure to get me. What shall I do, Peter? What shall I do?”
Right away Peter was full of sympathy. “What kind of an accident was it, Redcoat, and how did it happen?” he asked.
“Broadwing the Hawk tried to catch me,” sobbed Redcoat. “In dodging him among the trees I was heedless for a moment and did not see just where I was going. I struck a sharp-pointed dead twig and drove it right through my right wing.”
Redcoat held up his right wing and sure enough there was a little stick projecting from both sides close up to the shoulder. The wing was bleeding a little.
“Oh, dear, whatever shall I do, Peter Rabbit? Whatever shall I do?” sobbed Redcoat.
“Does it pain you dreadfully?” asked Peter.
Redcoat nodded. “But I don't mind the pain,” he hastened to say. “It is the thought of what MAY happen to me.”
Meanwhile Mrs. Tanager was flying about in the tree tops near at hand and calling anxiously. She was dressed almost wholly in light olive-green and greenish-yellow. She looked no more like beautiful Redcoat than did Mrs. Grosbeak like Rosebreast.
“Can't you fly up just a little way so as to get off the ground?” she cried anxiously. “Isn't it dreadful, Peter Rabbit, to have such an accident? We've just got our nest half built, and I don't know what I shall do if anything happens to Redcoat. Oh, dear, here comes somebody! Hide, Redcoat! Hide!” Mrs. Tanager flew off a short distance to one side and began to cry as if in the greatest distress. Peter knew instantly that she was crying to get the attention of whoever was coming.
Poor Redcoat, with the old look of terror in his eyes, fluttered along, trying to find something under which to hide. But there was nothing under which he could crawl, and there was no hiding that wonderful red coat. Peter heard the sound of heavy footsteps, and looking back, saw that Farmer Brown's boy was coming. “Don't be afraid, Redcoat,” he whispered. “It's Farmer Brown's boy and I'm sure he won't hurt you. Perhaps he can help you.” Then Peter scampered off for a short distance and sat up to watch what would happen.
Of coarse Farmer Brown's boy saw Redcoat. No one with any eyes at all could have helped seeing him, because of that wonderful scarlet coat. He saw, too, by the way Redcoat was acting, that he was in great trouble. As Farmer Brown's boy drew near and Redcoat saw that he was discovered, he tried his hardest to flutter away. Farmer Brown's boy understood instantly that something was wrong with one wing, and running forward, he caught Redcoat.
“You poor little thing. You poor, beautiful little creature,” said Farmer Brown's boy softly as he saw the cruel twig sticking through Redcoats' shoulder. “We'll have to get that out right away,” continued Farmer Brown's boy, stroking Redcoat ever so gently.
Somehow at that gentle touch Redcoat lost much of his fear, and a little hope sprang in his heart. He saw, too, this was no enemy, but a friend. Farmer Brown's boy took out his knife and carefully cut off the twig on the upper side of the wing. Then, doing his best to be careful and to hurt as little as possible, he worked the other part of the twig out from the under side. Carefully he examined the wing to see if any bones were broken. None were, and after holding Redcoat a few minutes he carefully set him up in a tree and withdrew a short distance. Redcoat hopped from branch to branch until he was halfway up the tree. Then he sat there for some time as if fearful of trying that injured wing. Meanwhile Mrs. Tanager came and fussed about him and talked to him and coaxed him and made as much of him as if he were a baby.
Peter remained right where he was until at last he saw Redcoat spread his black wings and fly to another tree. From tree to tree he flew, resting a bit in each until he and Mrs. Tanager disappeared in the Green Forest.
“I knew Farmer Brown's boy would help him, and I'm so glad he found him,” cried Peter happily and started for the dear Old Briar-patch.
Over in a maple-tree on the edge of Farmer Brown's door yard lived Mr. and Mrs. Redeye the Vireos. Peter Rabbit knew that they had a nest there because Jenny Wren had told him so. He would have guessed it anyway, because Redeye spent so much time in that tree during the nesting season. No matter what hour of the day Peter visited the Old Orchard he heard Redeye singing over in the maple-tree. Peter used to think that if song is an expression of happiness, Redeye must be the happiest of all birds.
He was a little fellow about the size of one of the larger Warblers and quite as modestly dressed as any of Peter's acquaintances. The crown of his head was gray with a little blackish border on either side. Over each eye was a white line. Underneath he was white. For the rest he was dressed in light olive-green. The first time he came down near enough for Peter to see him well Peter understood at once why he is called Redeye. His eyes were red. Yes, sir, his eyes were red and this fact alone was enough to distinguish him from any other members of his family.
But it wasn't often that Redeye came down so near the ground that Peter could see his eyes. He preferred to spend most of his time in the tree tops, and Peter only got glimpses of him now and then. But if he didn't see him often it was less often that he failed to hear him. “I don't see when Redeye finds time to eat,” declared Peter as he listened to the seemingly unending song in the maple-tree.
“Redeye believes in singing while he works,” said Jenny Wren. “For my part I should think he'd wear his throat out. When other birds sing they don't do anything else, but Redeye sings all the time he is hunting his meals and only stops long enough to swallow a worm or a bug when he finds it. Just as soon as it is down he begins to sing again while he hunts for another. I must say for the Redeyes that they are mighty good nest builders. Have you seen their nest over in that maple-tree, Peter?”
Peter shook his head.
“I don't dare go over there except very early in the morning before Farmer Brown's folks are awake,” said he, “so I haven't had much chance to look for it.”
“You probably couldn't see it, anyway,” declared Jenny Wren. “They have placed it rather high up from the ground and those leaves are so thick that they hide it. It's a regular little basket fastened in a fork near the end of a branch and it is woven almost as nicely as is the nest of Goldy the Oriole. How anybody has the patience to weave a nest like that is beyond me.”
“What's it made of?” asked Peter.
“Strips of bark, plant down, spider's web, grass, and pieces of paper!” replied Jenny. “That's a funny thing about Redeye; he dearly loves a piece of paper in his nest. What for, I can't imagine. He's as fussy about having a scrap of paper as Cresty the Flycatcher is about having a piece of Snakeskin. I had just a peep into that nest a few days ago and unless I am greatly mistaken Sally Sly the Cowbird has managed to impose on the Redeyes. I am certain I saw one of her eggs in that nest.”
A few mornings after this talk with Jenny Wren about Redeye the Vireo Peter once more visited the Old Orchard. No sooner did he come in sight than Jenny Wren's tongue began to fly. “What did I tell you, Peter Rabbit? What did I tell you? I knew it was so, and it is!” cried Jenny.
“What is so?” asked Peter rather testily, for he hadn't the least idea what Jenny Wren was talking about.
“Sally Sly DID lay an egg in Redeye's nest, and now it has hatched and I don't know whatever is to become of Redeye's own children. It's perfectly scandalous! That's what it is, perfectly scandalous!” cried Jenny, and hopped about and jerked her tail and worked herself into a small brown fury.
“The Redeyes are working themselves to feathers and bone feeding that ugly young Cowbird while their own babies aren't getting half enough to eat,” continued Jenny. “One of them has died already. He was kicked out of the nest by that young brute.”
“How dreadful!” cried Peter. “If he does things like that I should think the Redeyes would throw HIM out of the nest.”
“They're too soft-hearted,” declared Jenny. “I can tell you I wouldn't be so soft-hearted if I were in their place. No, sir-ee, I wouldn't! But they say it isn't his fault that he's there, and that he's nothing but a helpless baby, and so they just take care of him.”
“Then why don't they feed their own babies first and give him what's left?” demanded Peter.
“Because he's twice as big as any of their own babies and so strong and greedy that he simply snatches the food out of the very mouths of the others. Because he gets most of the food, he's growing twice as fast as they are. I wouldn't be surprised if he kicks all the rest of them out before he gets through. Mr. and Mrs. Redeye are dreadfully distressed about it, but they will feed him because they say it isn't his fault. It's a dreadful affair and the talk of the whole Orchard. I suppose his mother is off gadding somewhere, having a good time and not caring a flip of her tail feathers what becomes of him. I believe in being goodhearted, but there is such a thing as overdoing the matter. Thank goodness I'm not so weak-minded that I can be imposed on in any such way as that.”
“Speaking of the Vireos, Redeye seems to be the only member of his family around here,” remarked Peter.
“Listen!” commanded Jenny Wren. “Don't you hear that warbling song 'way over in the big elm in front of Farmer Brown's house where Goldy the oriole has his nest?”
Peter listened. At first he didn't hear it, and as usual Jenny Wren made fun of him for having such big ears and not being able to make better use of them. Presently he did hear it. The voice was not unlike that of Redeye, but the song was smoother, more continuous and sweeter. Peter's face lighted up. “I hear it,” he cried.
“That's Redeye's cousin, the Warbling Vireo,” said Jenny. “He's a better singer than Redeye and just as fond of hearing his own voice. He sings from the time jolly Mr. Sun gets up in the morning until he goes to bed at night. He sings when it is so hot that the rest of us are glad to keep still for comfort's sake. I don't know of anybody more fond of the tree tops than he is. He doesn't seem to care anything about the Old Orchard, but stays over in those big trees along the road. He's got a nest over in that big elm and it is as high up as that of Goldy the Oriole; I haven't seen it myself, but Goldy told me about it. Why any one so small should want to live so high up in the world I don't know, any more than I know why any one wants to live anywhere but in the Old Orchard.”
“Somehow I don't remember just what Warble looks like,” Peter confessed.
“He looks a lot like his cousin, Redeye,” replied Jenny. “His coat is a little duller olive-green and underneath he is a little bit yellowish instead of being white. Of course he doesn't have red eyes, and he is a little smaller than Redeye. The whole family looks pretty much alike anyway.”
“You said something then, Jenny Wren,” declared Peter. “They get me all mixed up. If only some of them had some bright colors it would be easier to tell them apart.”
“One has,” replied Jenny Wren. “He has a bright yellow throat and breast and is called the Yellow-throated Vireo. There isn't the least chance of mistaking him.”
“Is he a singer, too?” asked Peter.
“Of course,” replied Jenny. “Every one of that blessed family loves the sound of his own voice. It's a family trait. Sometimes it just makes my throat sore to listen to them all day long. A good thing is good, but more than enough of a good thing is too much. That applies to gossiping just as well as to singing and I've wasted more time on you than I've any business to. Now hop along, Peter, and don't bother me any more to-day.”
Peter hopped.