Having been reminded of Dotty the Tree Sparrow, Peter Rabbit became possessed of a great desire to find this little friend of the cold months and learn how he had fared through the summer.
He was at a loss just where to look for Dotty until he remembered a certain weedy field along the edge of which the bushes had been left growing. “Perhaps I'll find him there,” thought Peter, for he remembered that Dotty lives almost wholly on seeds, chiefly weed seeds, and that he dearly loves a weedy field with bushes not far distant in which he can hide.
So Peter hurried over to the weedy field and there, sure enough, he found Dotty with a lot of his friends. They were very busy getting their breakfast. Some were clinging to the weed-stalks picking the seeds out of the tops, while others were picking up the seeds from the ground. It was cold. Rough Brother North Wind was doing his best to blow up another snow-cloud. It wasn't at all the kind of day in which one would expect to find anybody in high spirits. But Dotty was. He was even singing as Peter came up, and all about Dotty's friends and relatives were twittering as happily and merrily as if it were the beginning of spring instead of winter.
Dotty was very nearly the size of Little Friend the Song Sparrow and looked somewhat like him, save that his breast was clear ashy-gray, all but a little dark spot in the middle, the little dot from which he gets his name. He wore a chestnut cap, almost exactly like that of Chippy the Chipping Sparrow. It reminded Peter that Dotty is often called the Winter Chippy.
“Welcome back, Dotty!” cried Peter. “It does my heart good to see you.”
“Thank you, Peter,” twittered Dotty happily. “In a way it is good to be back. Certainly, it is good to know that an old friend is glad to see me.”
“Are you going to stay all winter, Dotty?” asked Peter.
“I hope so,” replied Dotty. “I certainly shall if the snow does not get so deep that I cannot get enough to eat. Some of these weeds are so tall that it will take a lot of snow to cover them, and as long as the tops are above the snow I will have nothing to worry about. You know a lot of seeds remain in these tops all winter. But if the snow gets deep enough to cover these I shall have to move along farther south.”
“Then I hope there won't be much snow,” declared Peter very emphatically. “There are few enough folks about in winter at best, goodness knows, and I don't know of any one I enjoy having for a neighbor more than I do you.”
“Thank you again, Peter,” cried Dotty, “and please let me return the compliment. I like cold weather. I like winter when there isn't too much ice and bad weather. I always feel good in cold weather. That is one reason I go north to nest.”
“Speaking of nests, do you build in a tree?” inquired Peter.
“Usually on or near the ground,” replied Dotty. “You know I am really a ground bird although I am called a Tree Sparrow. Most of us Sparrows spend our time on or near the ground.”
“I know,” replied Peter. “Do you know I'm very fond of the Sparrow family. I just love your cousin Chippy, who nests in the Old Orchard every spring. I wish he would stay all winter. I really don't see why he doesn't. I should think he could if you can.”
Dotty laughed. It was a tinkling little laugh, good to hear. “Cousin Chippy would starve to death,” he declared. “It is all a matter of food. You ought to know that by this time, Peter. Cousin Chippy lives chiefly on worms and bugs and I live almost wholly on seeds, and that is what makes the difference. Cousin Chippy must go where he can get plenty to eat. I can get plenty here and so I stay.”
“Did you and your relatives come down from the Far North alone?” asked Peter.
“No,” replied Dotty promptly. “Slaty the Junco and his relatives came along with us and we had a very merry party.”
Peter pricked up his ears. “Is Slaty here now?” he asked eagerly.
“Very much here,” replied a voice right behind Peter's back. It was so unexpected that it made Peter jump. He turned to find Slaty himself chuckling merrily as he picked up seeds. He was very nearly the same size as Dotty but trimmer. In fact he was one of the trimmest, neatest appearing of all of Peter's friends. There was no mistaking Slaty the Junco for any other bird. His head, throat and breast were clear slate color. Underneath he was white. His sides were grayish. His outer tail feathers were white. His bill was flesh color. It looked almost white.
“Welcome! Welcome!” cried Peter. “Are you here to stay all winter?”
“I certainly am,” was Slaty's prompt response. “It will take pretty bad weather to drive me away from here. If the snow gets too deep I'll just go up to Farmer Brown's barnyard. I can always pick up a meal there, for Farmer Brown's boy is a very good friend of mine. I know he won't let me starve, no matter what the weather is. I think it is going to snow some more. I like the snow. You know I am sometimes called the Snowbird.”
Peter nodded. “So I have heard,” said he, “though I think that name really belongs to Snowflake the Snow Bunting.”
“Quite right, Peter, quite right,” replied Slaty. “I much prefer my own name of Junco. My, these seeds are good!” All the time he was busily picking up seeds so tiny that Peter didn't even see them.
“If you like here so much why don't you stay all the year?” inquired Peter.
“It gets too warm,” replied Slaty promptly,
“I hate hot weather. Give me cold weather every time.”
“Do you mean to tell me that it is cold all summer where you nest in the Far North?” demanded Peter.
“Not exactly cold,” replied Slaty, “but a lot cooler than it is down here. I don't go as far north to nest as Snowflake does, but I go far enough to be fairly comfortable. I don't see how some folks can stand hot weather.”
“It is a good thing they can,” interrupted Dotty. “If everybody liked the same things it wouldn't do at all. Just suppose all the birds ate nothing but seeds. There wouldn't be seeds enough to go around, and a lot of us would starve. Then, too, the worms and the bugs would eat up everything. So, take it all together, it is a mighty good thing that some birds live almost wholly on worms and bugs and such things, leaving the seeds to the rest of us. I guess Old Mother Nature knew what she was about when she gave us different tastes.”
Peter nodded his head in approval. “You can always trust Old Mother Nature to know what is best,” said he sagely. “By the way, Slaty, what do you make your nest of and where do you put it?”
“My nest is usually made of grasses, moss and rootlets. Sometimes it is lined with fine grasses, and when I am lucky enough to find them I use long hairs. Often I put my nest on the ground, and never very far above it. I am like my friend Dotty in this respect. It always seems to me easier to hide a nest on the ground than anywhere else. There is nothing like having a nest well hidden. It takes sharp eyes to find my nest, I can tell you that, Peter Rabbit.”
Just then Dotty, who had been picking seeds out of the top of a weed, gave a cry of alarm and instantly there was a flit of many wings as Dotty and his relatives and Slaty sought the shelter of the bushes along the edge of the field. Peter sat up very straight and looked this way and looked that way. At first he saw nothing suspicious. Then, crouching flat among the weeds, he got a glimpse of Black Pussy, the cat from Farmer Brown's house. She had been creeping up in the hope of catching one of those happy little seedeaters. Peter stamped angrily. Then with long jumps he started for the dear Old Briar-patch, lipperty-lipperty-lip, for truth to tell, big as he was, he was a little afraid of Black Pussy.
Slaty the Junco had been quite right in thinking it was going to snow some more. Rough Brother North Find hurried up one big cloud after another, and late that afternoon the white feathery flakes came drifting down out of the sky.
Peter Rabbit sat tight in the dear Old Briar-patch. In fact Peter did no moving about that night, but remained squatting just inside the entrance to an old hole Johnny Chuck's grandfather had dug long ago in the middle of the clear Old Briar-patch. Some time before morning the snow stopped falling and then rough Brother North Wind worked as hard to blow away the clouds as he had done to bring them.
When jolly, round, bright Mr. Sun began his daily climb up in the blue, blue sky he looked down on a world of white. It seemed as if every little snowflake twinkled back at every little sunbeam. It was all very lovely, and Peter Rabbit rejoiced as he scampered forth in quest of his breakfast.
He started first for the weedy field where the day before he had found Dotty the Tree Sparrow and Slaty the Junco. They were there before him, having the very best time ever was as they picked seeds from the tops of the weeds which showed above the snow. Almost at once Peter discovered that they were not the only seekers for seeds. Walking about on the snow, and quite as busy seeking seeds as were Dotty and Slaty, was a bird very near their size the top of whose head, neck and back were a soft rusty-brown. There was some black on his wings, but the latter were mostly white and the outer tail feathers were white. His breast and under parts were white. It was Snowflake the Snow Bunting in his winter suit. Peter knew him instantly. There was no mistaking him, for, as Peter well knew, there is no other bird of his size and shape who is so largely white. He had appeared so unexpectedly that it almost seemed as if he must have come out of the snow clouds just as had the snow itself. Peter had his usual question ready.
“Are you going to spend the winter here, Snowflake?” he cried.
Snowflake was so busy getting his breakfast that he did not reply at once. Peter noticed that he did not hop, but walked or ran. Presently he paused long enough to reply to Peter's question. “If the snow has come to stay all winter, perhaps I'll stay,” said he.
“What has the snow to do with it?” demanded Peter.
“Only that I like the snow and I like cold weather. When the snow begins to disappear, I just naturally fly back farther north,” replied Snowflake. “It isn't that I don't like bare ground, because I do, and I'm always glad when the snow is blown off in places so that I can hunt for seeds on the ground. But when the snow begins to melt everywhere I feel uneasy. I can't understand how folks can be contented where there is no snow and ice. You don't catch me going 'way down south. No, siree, you don't catch me going 'way down south. Why, when the nesting season comes around, I chase Jack Frost clear 'way up to where he spends the summer. I nest 'way up on the shore of the Polar Sea, but of course you don't know where that is, Peter Rabbit.”
“If you are so fond of the cold in the Far North, the snow and the ice, what did you come south at all for? Why don't you stay up there all the year around?” demanded Peter.
“Because, Peter,” replied Snowflake, twittering merrily, “like everybody else, I have to eat in order to live. When you see me down here you may know that the snows up north are so deep that they have covered all the seeds. I always keep a weather eye out, as the saying is, and the minute it looks as if there would be too much snow for me to get a living, I move along. I hope I will not have to go any farther than this, but if some morning you wake up and find the snow so deep that all the heads of the weeds are buried, don't expect to find me.”
“That's what I call good, sound common sense,” said another voice, and a bird a little bigger than Snowflake, and who at first glance seemed to be dressed almost wholly in soft chocolate brown, alighted in the snow close by and at once began to run about in search of seeds. It was Wanderer the Horned Lark. Peter hailed him joyously, for there was something of mystery about Wanderer, and Peter, as you know, loves mystery.
Peter had known him ever since his first winter, yet did not feel really acquainted, for Wanderer seldom stayed long enough for a real acquaintance. Every winter he would come, sometimes two or three times, but seldom staying more than a few days at a time. Quite often he and his relatives appeared with the Snowflakes, for they are the best of friends and travel much together.
Now as Wanderer reached up to pick seeds from a weed-top, Peter had a good look at him. The first things he noticed were the two little horn-like tufts of black feathers above and behind the eyes. It is from these that Wanderer gets the name of Horned Lark. No other bird has anything quite like them. His forehead, a line over each eye, and his throat were yellow. There was a black mark from each corner of the bill curving downward just below the eye and almost joining a black crescent-shaped band across the breast. Beneath this he was soiled white with dusky spots showing here and there. His back was brown, in places having almost a pinkish tinge. His tail was black, showing a little white on the edges when he flew. All together he was a handsome little fellow.
“Do all of your family have those funny little horns?” asked Peter.
“No,” was Wanderer's prompt reply. “Mrs. Lark does not have them.”
“I think they are very becoming,” said Peter politely.
“Thank you,” replied Wanderer. “I am inclined to agree with you. You should see me when I have my summer suit.”
“Is it so very different from this?” asked Peter. “I think your present suit is pretty enough.”
“Well said, Peter, well said,” interrupted Snowflake. “I quite agree with you. I think Wanderer's present suit is pretty enough for any one, but it is true that his summer suit is even prettier. It isn't so very different, but it is brighter, and those black markings are much stronger and show up better. You see, Wanderer is one of my neighbors in the Far North, and I know all about him.”
“And that means that you don't know anything bad about me, doesn't it?” chuckled Wanderer.
Snowflake nodded. “Not a thing,” he replied. “I wouldn't ask for a better neighbor. You should hear him sing, Peter. He sings up in the air, and it really is a very pretty song.”
“I'd just love to hear him,” replied Peter. “Why don't you sing here, Wanderer?”
“This isn't the singing season,” replied Wanderer promptly. “Besides, there isn't time to sing when one has to keep busy every minute in order to get enough to eat.”
“I don't see,” said Peter, “why, when you get here, you don't stay in one place.”
“Because it is easier to get a good living by moving about,” replied Wanderer promptly. “Besides, I like to visit new places. I shouldn't enjoy being tied down in just one place like some birds I know. Would you, Snowflake?”
Snowflake promptly replied that he wouldn't. Just then Peter discovered something that he hadn't known before. “My goodness,” he exclaimed, “what a long claw you have on each hind toe!”
It was true. Each hind claw was about twice as long as any other claw. Peter couldn't see any special use for it and he was just about to ask more about it when Wanderer suddenly spied a flock of his relatives some distance away and flew to join them. Probably this saved him some embarrassment, for it is doubtful if he himself knew why Old Mother Nature had given him such long hind claws.
Peter Rabbit likes winter. At least he doesn't mind it so very much, even though he has to really work for a living. Perhaps it is a good thing that he does, for he might grow too fat to keep out of the way of Reddy Fox. You see when the snow is deep Peter is forced to eat whatever he can, and very often there isn't much of anything for him but the bark of young trees. It is at such times that Peter gets into mischief, for there is no bark he likes better than that of young fruit trees. Now you know what happens when the bark is taken off all the way around the trunk of a tree. That tree dies. It dies for the simple reason that it is up the inner layer of bark that the life-giving sap travels in the spring and summer. Of course, when a strip of bark has been taken off all the way around near the base of a tree, the sap cannot go up and the tree must die.
Now up near the Old Orchard Farmer Brown had set out a young orchard. Peter knew all about that young orchard, for he had visited it many times in the summer. Then there had been plenty of sweet clover and other green things to eat, and Peter had never been so much as tempted to sample the bark of those young trees. But now things were very different, and it was very seldom that Peter knew what it was to have a full stomach. He kept thinking of that young orchard. He knew that if he were wise he would keep away from there. But the more he thought of it the more it seemed to him that he just must have some of that tender young bark. So just at dusk one evening, Peter started for the young orchard.
Peter got there in safety and his eyes sparkled as he hopped over to the nearest young tree. But when he reached it, Peter had a dreadful disappointment. All around the trunk of that young tree was wire netting. Peter couldn't get even a nibble of that bark. He tried the next tree with no better result. Then he hurried on from tree to tree, always with the same result. You see Farmer Brown knew all about Peter's liking for the bark of young fruit trees, and he had been wise enough to protect his young orchard.
At last Peter gave up and hopped over to the Old Orchard. As he passed a certain big tree he was startled by a voice. “What's the matter, Peter?” said the voice. “You don't look happy.”
Peter stopped short and stared up in the big apple-tree. Look as he would he couldn't see anybody. Of course there wasn't a leaf on that tree, and he could see all through it. Peter blinked and felt foolish. He knew that had there been any one sitting on any one of those branches he couldn't have helped seeing him.
“Don't look so high, Peter; don't look so high,” said the voice with a chuckle. This time it sounded as if it came right out of the trunk of the tree. Peter stared at the trunk and then suddenly laughed right out. Just a few feet above the ground was a good sized hole in the tree, and poking his head out of it was a funny little fellow with big eyes and a hooked beak.
“You certainly did fool me that time, Spooky,” cried Peter. “I ought to have recognized your voice, but I didn't.”
Spooky the Screech Owl, for that is who it was, came out of the hole in the tree and without a sound from his wings flew over and perched just above Peter's head. He was a little fellow, not over eight inches high, but there was no mistaking the family to which he belonged. In fact he looked very much like a small copy of Hooty the Great Horned Owl, so much so that Peter felt a little cold shiver run over him, although he had nothing in the world to fear from Spooky.
His head seemed to be almost as big around as his body, and he seemed to leave no neck at all. He was dressed in bright reddish-brown, with little streaks and bars of black. Underneath he was whitish, with little streaks and bars of black and brown. On each side of his head was a tuft of feathers. They looked like ears and some people think they are ears, which is a mistake. His eyes were round and yellow with a fierce hungry look in them. His bill was small and almost hidden among the feathers of his face, but it was hooked just like the bill of Hooty. As he settled himself he turned his head around until he could look squarely behind him, then brought it back again so quickly that to Peter it looked as if it had gone clear around. You see Spooky's eyes are fixed in their sockets and he cannot move them from side to side. He has to turn his whole head in order to see to one side or the other.
“You haven't told me yet why you look so unhappy, Peter,” said Spooky.
“Isn't an empty stomach enough to make any fellow unhappy?” retorted Peter rather shortly.
Spooky chuckled. “I've got an empty stomach myself, Peter,” said he, “but it isn't making me unhappy. I have a feeling that somewhere there is a fat Mouse waiting for me.”
Just then Peter remembered what Jenny Wren had told him early in the spring of how Spooky the Screech Owl lives all the year around in a hollow tree, and curiosity made him forget for the time being that he was hungry. “Did you live in that hole all summer, Spooky?” he asked.
Spooky nodded solemnly. “I've lived in that hollow summer and winter for three years,” said he.
Peter's eyes opened very wide. “And till now I never even guessed it,” he exclaimed. “Did you raise a family there?”
“I certainly did,” replied Spooky. “Mrs. Spooky and I raised a family of four as fine looking youngsters as you ever have seen. They've gone out into the Great World to make their own living now. Two were dressed just like me and two were gray.”
“What's that?” exclaimed Peter.
“I said that two were dressed just like me and two were gray,” replied Spooky rather sharply.
“That's funny,” Peter exclaimed.
“What's funny?” snapped Spooky rather crossly.
“Why that all four were not dressed alike,” said Peter.
“There's nothing funny about it,” retorted Spooky, and snapped his bill sharply with a little cracking sound. “We Screech Owls believe in variety. Some of us are gray and some of us are reddish-brown. It is a case of where you cannot tell a person just by the color of his clothes.”
Peter nodded as if he quite understood, although he couldn't understand at all. “I'm ever so pleased to find you living here,” said he politely. “You see, in winter the Old Orchard is rather a lonely place. I don't see how you get enough to eat when there are so few birds about.”
“Birds!” snapped Spooky. “What have birds to do with it?”
“Why, don't you live on birds?” asked Peter innocently.
“I should say not. I guess I would starve if I depended on birds for my daily food,” retorted Spooky. “I catch a Sparrow now and then, to be sure, but usually it is an English Sparrow, and I consider that I am doing the Old Orchard a good turn every time I am lucky enough to catch one of the family of Bully the English Sparrow. But I live mostly on Mice and Shrews in winter and in summer I eat a lot of grasshoppers and other insects. If it wasn't for me and my relatives I guess Mice would soon overrun the Great World. Farmer Brown ought to be glad I've come to live in the Old Orchard and I guess he is, for Farmer Brown's boy knows all about this house of mine and never disturbs me. Now if you'll excuse me I think I'll fly over to Farmer Brown's young orchard. I ought to find a fat Mouse or two trying to get some of the bark from those young trees.”
“Huh!” exclaimed Peter. “They can try all they want to, but they won't get any; I can tell you that.”
Spooky's round yellow eyes twinkled. “It must be you have been trying to get some of that bark yourself,” said he.
Peter didn't say anything but he looked guilty, and Spooky once more chuckled as he spread his wings and flew away so soundlessly that he seemed more like a drifting shadow than a bird. Then Peter started for a certain swamp he knew of where he would be sure to find enough bark to stay his appetite.
Peter Rabbit had gone over to the Green Forest to call on his cousin, Jumper the Hare, who lives there altogether. He had no difficulty in finding Jumper's tracks in the snow, and by following these he at length came up with Jumper. The fact is, Peter almost bumped into Jumper before he saw him, for Jumper was wearing a coat as white as the snow itself. Squatting under a little snow-covered hemlock-tree he looked like nothing more than a little mound of snow.
“Oh!” cried Peter. “How you startled me! I wish I had a winter coat like yours. It must be a great help in avoiding your enemies.”
“It certainly is, Cousin Peter,” cried Jumper. “Nine times out of ten all I have to do is to sit perfectly still when there was no wind to carry my scent. I have had Reddy Fox pass within a few feet of me and never suspect that I was near. I hope this snow will last all winter. It is only when there isn't any snow that I am particularly worried. Then I am not easy for a minute, because my white coat can be seen a long distance against the brown of the dead leaves.”
Peter chuckled, “that is just when I feel safest,” he replied. “I like the snow, but this brown-gray coat of mine certainly does show up against it. Don't you find it pretty lonesome over here in the Green Forest with all the birds gone, Cousin Jumper?”
Jumper shook his head. “Not all have gone, Peter, you know,” said he. “Strutter the Grouse and Mrs. Grouse are here, and I see them every day. They've got snowshoes now.”
Peter blinked his eyes and looked rather perplexed. “Snowshoes!” he exclaimed. “I don't understand what you mean.”
“Come with me,” replied Jumper, “and I'll show you.”
So Jumper led the way and Peter followed close at his heels. Presently they came to some tracks in the snow. At first glance they reminded Peter of the queer tracks Farmer Brown's ducks made in the mud on the edge of the Smiling Pool in summer. “What funny tracks those are!” he exclaimed. “Who made them?”
“Just keep on following me and you'll see,” retorted Jumper.
So they continued to follow the tracks until presently, just ahead of them, they saw Strutter the Grouse. Peter opened his eyes with surprise when he discovered that those queer tracks were made by Strutter.
“Cousin Peter wants to see your snowshoes, Strutter,” said Jumper as they came up with him.
Strutter's bright eyes sparkled. “He's just as curious as ever, isn't he?” said he. “Well, I don't mind showing him my snowshoes because I think myself that they are really quite wonderful.” He held up one foot with the toes spread apart and Peter saw that growing out from the sides of each toe were queer little horny points set close together. They quite filled the space between his toes. Peter recalled that when he had seen Strutter in the summer those toes had been smooth and that his tracks on soft ground had shown the outline of each toe clearly. “How funny!” exclaimed Peter.
“There's nothing funny about them,” retorted Strutter. “If Old Mother Nature hadn't given me something of this kind I certainly would have a hard time of it when there is snow on the ground. If my feet were just the same as in summer I would sink right down in when the snow is soft and wouldn't be able to walk about at all. Now, with these snowshoes I get along very nicely. You see I sink in but very little.”
He took three or four steps and Peter saw right away how very useful those snowshoes were. “My!” he exclaimed. “I wish Old Mother Nature would give me snowshoes too.” Strutter and Jumper both laughed and after a second Peter laughed with them, for he realized how impossible it would be for him to have anything like those snowshoes of Strutter's.
“Cousin Peter was just saying that he should think I would find it lonesome over here in the Green Forest. He forgot that you and Mrs. Grouse stay all winter, and he forgot that while most of the birds who spent the summer here have left, there are others who come down from the Far North to take their place.”
“Who, for instance?” demanded Peter.
“Snipper the Crossbill,” replied Jumper promptly. “I haven't seen him yet this winter, but I know he is here because only this morning I found some pine seeds on the snow under a certain tree.”
“Huh!” Peter exclaimed. “That doesn't prove anything. Those seeds might have just fallen, or Chatterer the Red Squirrel might have dropped them.”
“This isn't the season for seeds to just fall, and I know by the signs that Chatterer hasn't been about,” retorted Jumper. “Let's go over there now and see what we will see.”
Once more he led the way and Peter followed. As they drew near that certain pine-tree, a short whistled note caused them to look up. Busily at work on a pine cone near the top of a tree was a bird about the size of Bully the English Sparrow. He was dressed wholly in dull red with brownish-black wings and tail.
“What did I tell you?” cried Jumper. “There's Snipper this very minute, and over in that next tree are a lot of his family and relatives. See in what a funny way they climb about among the branches. They don't flit or hop, but just climb around. I don't know of any other bird anywhere around here that does that.”
Just then a seed dropped and landed on the snow almost in front of Peter's nose. Almost at once Snipper himself followed it, picking it up and eating it with as much unconcern as if Peter and Jumper were a mile away instead of only a foot or so. The very first thing Peter noticed was Snipper's bill. The upper and lower halves crossed at the tips. That bill looked very much as if Snipper had struck something hard and twisted the tips over.
“Have—have—you met with an accident?” he asked a bit hesitatingly.
Snipper looked surprised. “Are you talking to me?” he asked. “Whatever put such an idea into your head?”
“Your bill,” replied Peter promptly. “How did it get twisted like that?”
Snipper laughed. “It isn't twisted,” said he. “It is just the way Old Mother Nature made it, and I really don't know what I'd do if it were any different.”
Peter scratched one long ear, as is his way when he is puzzled. “I don't see,” said he, “how it is possible for you to pick up food with a bill like that.”
“And I don't see how I would get my food if I didn't have a bill like this,” retorted Snipper. Then, seeing how puzzled Peter really was, he went on to explain. “You see, I live very largely on the seeds that grow in pine cones and the cones of other trees. Of course I eat some other food, such as seeds and buds of trees. But what I love best of all are the seeds that grow in the cones of evergreen trees. If you've ever looked at one of those cones, you will understand that those seeds are not very easy to get at. But with this kind of a bill it is no trouble at all. I can snip them out just as easily as birds with straight bills can pick up seeds. You see my bill is very much like a pair of scissors.”
“It really is very wonderful,” confessed Peter. “Do you mind telling me, Snipper, why I never have seen you here in summer?”
“For the same reason that in summer you never see Snowflake and Wanderer the Horned Lark and some others I might name,” replied Snipper. “Give me the Far North every time. I would stay there the year through but that sometimes food gets scarce up there. That is why I am down here now. If you'll excuse me, I'll go finish my breakfast.”
Snipper flew up in the tree where the other Crossbills were at work and Peter and Jumper watched them.
“I suppose you know,” said Jumper, “that Snipper has a cousin who looks almost exactly like him with the exception of two white bars on each wing. He is called the White-winged Crossbill.”
“I didn't know it,” replied Peter, “but I'm glad you've told me. I certainly shall watch out for him. I can't get over those funny bills. No one could ever mistake it for any other bird. Is there anyone else now from the Far North whom I haven't seen?”
Jumper the Hare didn't have time to reply to Peter Rabbit's question when Peter asked if there was any one else besides the Crossbills who had come down from the Far North.
“I have,” said a voice from a tree just back of them.
It was so unexpected that it made both Peter and Jumper hop in startled surprise. Then they turned to see who had spoken. There sat a bird just a little smaller than Welcome Robin, who at first glance seemed to be dressed in strawberry-red. However, a closer look showed that there were slate-gray markings about his head, under his wings and on his legs. His tail was brown. His wings were brown, marked with black and white and slate. His bill was thick and rather short.
“Who are you?” demanded Peter very bluntly and impolitely.
“I'm Piny the Pine Grosbeak,” replied the stranger, seemingly not at all put out by Peter's bluntness.
“Oh,” said Peter. “Are you related to Rosebreast the Grosbeak who nested last summer in the Old Orchard?”
“I certainly am,” replied Piny. “He is my very own cousin. I've never seen him because he never ventures up where I live and I don't go down where he spends the winter, but all members of the Grosbeak family are cousins.”
“Rosebreast is very lovely and I'm very fond of him,” said Peter. “We are very good friends.”
“Then I know we are going to be good friends,” replied Piny. As he said this he turned and Peter noticed that his tail was distinctly forked instead of being square across like that of Welcome Robin. Piny whistled, and almost at once he was joined by another bird who in shape was just like him, but who was dressed in slaty-gray and olive-yellow, instead of the bright red that he himself wore. Piny introduced the newcomer as Mrs. Grosbeak.
“Lovely weather, isn't it?” said she. “I love the snow. I wouldn't feel at home with no snow about. Why, last spring I even built my nest before the snow was gone in the Far North. We certainly hated to leave up there, but food was getting so scarce that we had to. We have just arrived. Can you tell me if there are any cedar-trees or ash-trees or sumacs near here?”
Peter hastened to tell her just where she would find these trees and then rather timidly asked why she wanted to find them.
“Because they hold their berries all winter,” replied Mrs. Grosbeak promptly, “and those berries make very good eating. I rather thought there must be some around here. If there are enough of them we certainly shall stay a while.”
“I hope you will,” replied Peter. “I want to get better acquainted with you. You know, if it were not for you folks who come down from the Far North the Green Forest would be rather a lonely place in winter. There are times when I like to be alone, but I like to feel that there is someone I can call on when I feel lonesome. Did you and Piny come down alone?”
“No, indeed,” replied Mrs. Grosbeak. “There is a flock of our relatives not far away. We came down with the Crossbills. All together we made quite a party.”
Peter and Jumper stayed a while to gossip with the Grosbeaks. Then Peter bethought him that it was high time for him to return to the dear Old Briar-patch, and bidding his new friends good-by, he started off through the Green Forest, lipperty-lipperty-lip. When he reached the edge of the Green Forest he decided to run over to the weedy field to see if the Snowflakes and the Tree Sparrows and the Horned Larks were there. They were, but almost at once Peter discovered that they had company. Twittering cheerfully as he busily picked seeds out of the top of a weed which stood above the snow, was a bird very little bigger than Chicoree the Goldfinch. But when Peter looked at him he just had to rub his eyes.
“Gracious goodness!” he muttered, “it must be something is wrong with my eyes so that I am seeing red. I've already seen two birds dressed in red and now there's another. It certainly must be my eyes. There's Dotty the Tree Sparrow over there; I hear his voice. I wonder if he will look red.”
Peter hopped near enough to get a good look at Dotty and found him dressed just as he should be. That relieved Peter's mind. His eyes were quite as they should be. Then he returned to look at the happy little stranger still busily picking seeds from that weed-top.
The top of his head was bright red. There was no doubt about it. His back was toward Peter at the time and but for that bright red cap Peter certainly would have taken him for one of his friends among the Sparrow family. You see his back was grayish-brown. Peter could think of several Sparrows with backs very much like it. But when he looked closely he saw that just above his tail this little stranger wore a pinkish patch, and that was something no Sparrow of Peter's acquaintance possesses.
Then the lively little stranger turned to face Peter and a pair of bright eyes twinkled mischievously. “Well,” said he, “how do you like my appearance? Anything wrong with me? I was taught that it is very impolite to stare at any one. I guess your mother forgot to teach you manners.”
Peter paid no attention to what was said but continued to stare. “My, how pretty you are!” he exclaimed.
The little stranger WAS pretty. His breast was PINK. Below this he was white. The middle of his throat was black and his sides were streaked with reddish-brown. He looked pleased at Peter's exclamation.
“I'm glad you think I'm pretty,” said he. “I like pink myself. I like it very much indeed. I suppose you've already seen my friends, Snipper the Crossbill and Piny the Grosbeak.”
Peter promptly bobbed his head. “I've just come from making their acquaintance,” said he. “By the way you speak, I presume you also are from the Far North. I am just beginning to learn that there are more folks who make their homes in the Far North than I had dreamed of. If you please, I don't believe I know you at all.”
“I'm Redpoll,” was the prompt response. “I am called that because of my red cap. Yes, indeed, I make my home in the Far North. There is no place like it. You really ought to run up there and get acquainted with the folks who make their homes there and love it.”
Redpoll laughed at his own joke, but Peter didn't see the joke at all. “Is it so very far?” he asked innocently; then added, “I'd dearly love to go.”
Redpoll laughed harder than ever. “Yes,” said he, “it is. I am afraid you would be a very old and very gray Rabbit by the time you got there. I guess the next thing is for you to make the acquaintance of some of us who get down here once in awhile.”
Redpoll called softly and almost at once was joined by another red-capped bird but without the pink breast, and with sides more heavily streaked. “This is Mrs. Redpoll,” announced her lively little mate. Then he turned to her and added, “I've just been telling Peter Rabbit that as long as he cannot visit our beautiful Far North he must become acquainted with those of us who come down here in the winter. I'm sure he'll find us very friendly folks.”
“I'm sure I shall,” said Peter. “If you please, do you live altogether on these weed seeds?”
Redpoll laughed his usual happy laugh. “Hardly, Peter,” replied he. “We like the seeds of the birches and the alders, and we eat the seeds of the evergreen trees when we get them. Sometimes we find them in cones Snipper the Crossbill has opened but hasn't picked all the seeds out of. Sometimes he drops some for us. Oh, we always manage to get plenty to eat. There are some of our relatives over there and we must join them. We'll see you again, Peter.”
Peter said he hoped they would and then watched them fly over to join their friends. Suddenly, as if a signal had been given, all spread their wings at the same instant and flew up in a birch-tree not far away. All seemed to take wing at precisely the same instant. Up in the birch-tree they sat for a minute or so and then, just as if another signal had been given, all began to pick out the tiny seeds from the birch tassels. No one bird seemed to be first. It was quite like a drill, or as if each had thought of the same thing at the same instant. Peter chuckled over it all the way home. And somehow he felt better for having made the acquaintance of the Redpolls. It was the feeling that everybody so fortunate as to meet them on a gold winter's day is sure to have.