Every day brought newcomers to the Old Orchard, and early in the morning
there were so many voices to be heard that perhaps it is no wonder if
for some time Peter Rabbit failed to miss that of one of his very good
friends. Most unexpectedly he was reminded of this as very early one
morning he scampered, lipperty-lipperty-lip, across a little bridge over
the Laughing Brook.
“Dear me! Dear me! Dear me!” cried rather a plaintive voice. Peter
stopped so suddenly that he all but fell heels over head. Sitting on the
top of a tall, dead, mullein stalk was a very soberly dressed but rather
trim little fellow, a very little larger than Bully the English Sparrow.
Above, his coat was of a dull olive-brown, while underneath he was of a
grayish-white, with faint tinges of yellow in places. His head was dark,
and his bill black. The feathers on his head were lifted just enough to
make the tiniest kind of crest. His wings and tail were dusky, little
bars of white showing very faintly on his wings, while the outer edges
of his tail were distinctly white. He sat with his tail hanging straight
down, as if he hadn't strength enough to hold it up.
“Hello, Dear Me!” cried Peter joyously. “What are you doing way down
here? I haven't seen you since you first arrived, just after Winsome
Bluebird got here.” Peter started to say that he had wondered what had
become of Dear Me, but checked himself, for Peter is very honest and
he realized now that in the excitement of greeting so many friends he
hadn't missed Dear Me at all.
Dear Me the Phoebe did not reply at once, but darted out into the air,
and Peter heard a sharp click of that little black bill. Making a short
circle, Dear Me alighted on the mullein stalk again.
“Did you catch a fly then?” asked Peter.
“Dear me! Dear me! Of course I did,” was the prompt reply. And with each
word there was a jerk of that long hanging tail. Peter almost wondered
if in some way Dear Me's tongue and tail were connected. “I suppose,”
said he, “that it is the habit of catching flies and bugs in the air
that has given your family the name of Flycatchers.”
Dear Me nodded and almost at once started into the air again. Once more
Peter heard the click of that little black bill, then Dear Me was back
on his perch. Peter asked again what he was doing down there.
“Mrs. Phoebe and I are living down here,” replied Dear Me. “We've made
our home down here and we like it very much.”
Peter looked all around, this way, that way, every way, with the
funniest expression on his face. He didn't see anything of Mrs. Phoebe
and he didn't see any place in which he could imagine Mr. and Mrs.
Phoebe building a nest. “What are you looking for?” asked Dear Me.
“For Mrs. Phoebe and your home,” declared Peter quite frankly. “I didn't
suppose you and Mrs. Phoebe ever built a nest on the ground, and I don't
see any other place around here for one.”
Dear Me chuckled. “I wouldn't tell any one but you, Peter,” said he,
“but I've known you so long that I'm going to let you into a little
secret. Mrs. Phoebe and our home are under the very bridge you are
sitting on.”
“I don't believe it!” cried Peter.
But Dear Me knew from the way Peter said it that he really didn't mean
that. “Look and see for yourself,” said Dear Me.
So Peter lay flat on his stomach and tried to stretch his head over
the edge of the bridge so as to see under it. But his neck wasn't long
enough, or else he was afraid to lean over as far as he might have.
Finally he gave up and at Mr. Phoebe's suggestion crept down the bank to
the very edge of the Laughing Brook. Dear Me darted out to catch another
fly, then flew right in under the bridge and alighted on a little ledge
of stone just beneath the floor. There, sure enough, was a nest, and
Peter could see Mrs. Phoebe's bill and the top of her head above the
edge of it. It was a nest with a foundation of mud covered with moss and
lined with feathers.
“That's perfectly splendid!” cried Peter, as Dear Me resumed his perch
on the old mullein stalk. “How did you ever come to think of such a
place? And why did you leave the shed up at Farmer Brown's where you
have build your home for the last two or three years?”
“Oh,” replied Dear Me, “we Phoebes always have been fond of building
under bridges. You see a place like this is quite safe. Then, too, we
like to be near water. Always there are many insects flying around where
there is water, so it is an easy matter to get plenty to eat. I left the
shed at Farmer Brown's because that pesky cat up there discovered our
nest last year, and we had a dreadful time keeping our babies out of
her clutches. She hasn't found us down here, and she wouldn't be able to
trouble us if she should find us.”
“I suppose,” said Peter, “that as usual you were the first of your
family to arrive.”
“Certainly. Of course,” replied Dear Me. “We always are the first. Mrs.
Phoebe and I don't go as far south in winter as the other members of the
family do. They go clear down into the Tropics, but we manage to pick up
a pretty good living without going as far as that. So we get back here
before the rest of them, and usually have begun housekeeping by the time
they arrive. My cousin, Chebec the Least Flycatcher, should be here by
this time. Haven't you heard anything of him up in the Old Orchard?”
“No,” replied Peter, “but to tell the truth I haven't looked for him.
I'm on my way to the Old Orchard now, and I certainly shall keep my ears
and eyes open for Chebec. I'll tell you if I find him. Good-by.”
“Dear me! Dear me! Good-by Peter. Dear me!” replied Mr. Phoebe as Peter
started off for the Old Orchard.
Perhaps it was because Peter was thinking of him that almost the first
voice he heard when he reached the Old Orchard was that of Chebec,
repeating his own name over and over as if he loved the sound of it. It
didn't take Peter long to find him. He was sitting out on the up of one
of the upper branches of an apple-tree where he could watch for flies
and other winged insects. He looked so much like Mr. Phoebe, save that
he was smaller, that any one would have know they were cousins. “Chebec!
Chebec! Chebec!” he repeated over and over, and with every note jerked
his tail. Now and then he would dart out into the air and snap up
something so small that Peter, looking up from the ground, couldn't see
it at all.
“Hello, Chebec!” cried Peter. “I'm glad to see you back again. Are you
going to build in the Old Orchard this year?”
“Of course I am,” replied Chebec promptly. “Mrs. Chebec and I have built
here for the last two or three years, and we wouldn't think of going
anywhere else. Mrs. Chebec is looking for a place now. I suppose I ought
to be helping her, but I learned a long time ago, Peter Rabbit, that in
matters of this kind it is just as well not to have any opinion at all.
When Mrs. Chebec has picked out just the place she wants, I'll help her
build the nest. It certainly is good to be back here in the Old Orchard
and planning a home once more. We've made a terribly long journey, and I
for one am glad it's over.”
“I just saw your cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Phoebe, and they already have a
nest and eggs,” said Peter.
“The Phoebes are a funny lot,” replied Chebec. “They are the only
members of the family that can stand cold weather. What pleasure they
get out of it I don't understand. They are queer anyway, for they never
build their nests in trees as the rest of us do.”
“Are you the smallest in the family?” asked Peter, for it had suddenly
struck him that Chebec was a very little fellow indeed.
Chebec nodded. “I'm the smallest,” said he. “That's why they call me
Least Flycatcher. I may be least in size, but I can tell you one thing,
Peter Rabbit, and that is that I can catch just as many bugs and flies
as any of them.” Suiting action to the word, he darted out into the air.
His little bill snapped and with a quick turn he was back on his former
perch, jerking his tail and uttering his sharp little cry of, “Chebec!
Chebec! Chebec!” until Peter began to wonder which he was the most fond
of, catching flies, or the sound of his own voice.
Presently they both heard Mrs. Chebec calling from somewhere in the
middle of the Old Orchard. “Excuse me, Peter,” said Chebec, “I must go
at once. Mrs. Chebec says she has found just the place for our nest,
and now we've got a busy time ahead of us. We are very particular how we
build a nest.”
“Do you start it with mud the way Welcome Robin and your cousins, the
Phoebes, do?” asked Peter.
“Mud!” cried Chebec scornfully. “Mud! I should say not! I would have you
understand, Peter, that we are very particular about what we use in our
nest. We use only the finest of rootlets, strips of soft bark, fibers of
plants, the brown cotton that grows on ferns, and perhaps a little
hair when we can find it. We make a dainty nest, if I do say it, and
we fasten it securely in the fork made by two or three upright little
branches. Now I must go because Mrs. Chebec is getting impatient. Come
see me when I'm not so busy Peter.”