Boom! Peter Rabbit jumped as if he had been shot. It was all so sudden
and unexpected that Peter jumped before he had time to think. Then
he looked foolish. He felt foolish. He had been scared when there was
nothing to be afraid of.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” tittered Jenny Wren. “What are you jumping for, Peter
Rabbit? That was only Boomer the Nighthawk.”
“I know it just as well as you do, Jenny Wren,” retorted Peter rather
crossly. “You know being suddenly startled is apt to make people feel
cross. If I had seen him anywhere about he wouldn't have made me jump.
It was the unexpectedness of it. I don't see what he is out now for,
anyway, It isn't even dusk yet, and I thought him a night bird.”
“So he is,” retorted Jenny Wren. “Anyway, he is a bird of the evening,
and that amounts to the same thing. But just because he likes the
evening best isn't any reason why he shouldn't come out in the daylight,
is it?”
“No-o,” replied Peter rather slowly. “I don't suppose it is.”
“Of course it isn't,” declared Jenny Wren. “I see Boomer late in the
afternoon nearly every day. On cloudy days I often see him early in the
afternoon. He's a queer fellow, is Boomer. Such a mouth as he has! I
suppose it is very handy to have a big mouth if one must catch all one's
food in the air, but it certainly isn't pretty when it is wide open.”
“I never saw a mouth yet that was pretty when it was wide open,”
retorted Peter, who was still feeling a little put out. “I've never
noticed that Boomer has a particularly big mouth.”
“Well he has, whether you've noticed it or not,” retorted Jenny Wren
sharply. “He's got a little bit of a bill, but a great big mouth. I
don't see what folks call him a Hawk for when he isn't a Hawk at all. He
is no more of a Hawk than I am, and goodness knows I'm not even related
to the Hawk family.”
“I believe you told me the other day that Boomer is related to Sooty the
Chimney Swift,” said Peter.
Jenny nodded vigorously. “So I did, Peter,” she replied. “I'm glad you
have such a good memory. Boomer and Sooty are sort of second cousins.
There is Boomer now, way up in the sky. I do wish he'd dive and scare
some one else.”
Peter tipped his head 'way back. High up in the blue, blue sky was
a bird which at that distance looked something like a much overgrown
Swallow. He was circling and darting about this way and that. Even while
Peter watched he half closed his wings and shot down with such speed
that Peter actually held his breath. It looked very, very much as if
Boomer would dash himself to pieces. Just before he reached the earth he
suddenly opened those wings and turned upward. At the instant he turned,
the booming sound which had so startled Peter was heard. It was made by
the rushing of the wind through the larger feathers of his wings as he
checked himself.
In this dive Boomer had come near enough for Peter to get a good look
at him. His coat seemed to be a mixture of brown and gray, very soft
looking. His wings were brown with a patch of white on each. There was a
white patch on his throat and a band of white near the end of his tail.
“He's rather handsome, don't you think?” asked Jenny Wren.
“He certainly is,” replied Peter. “Do you happen to know what kind of a
nest the Nighthawks build, Jenny?”
“They don't build any.” Jenny Wren was a picture of scorn as she said
this. “They don't built any nests at all. It can't be because they are
lazy for I don't know of any birds that hunt harder for their living
than do Boomer and Mrs. Boomer.”
“But if there isn't any nest where does Mrs. Boomer lay her eggs?” cried
Peter. “I think you must be mistaken, Jenny Wren. They must have some
kind of a nest. Of course they must.”
“Didn't I say they don't have a nest?” sputtered Jenny. “Mrs. Nighthawk
doesn't lay but two eggs, anyway. Perhaps she thinks it isn't worth
while building a nest for just two eggs. Anyway, she lays them on the
ground or on a flat rock and lets it go at that. She isn't quite as bad
as Sally Sly the Cowbird, for she does sit on those eggs and she is a
good mother. But just think of those Nighthawk children never having any
home! It doesn't seem to me right and it never will. Did you ever see
Boomer in a tree?”
Peter shook his head. “I've seen him on the ground,” said he, “but I
never have seen him in a tree. Why did you ask, Jenny Wren?”
“To find out how well you have used your eyes,” snapped Jenny. “I just
wanted to see if you had noticed anything peculiar about the way he sits
in a tree. But as long as you haven't seen him in a tree I may as well
tell you that he doesn't sit as most birds do. He sits lengthwise of a
branch. He never sits across it as the rest of us do.”
“How funny!” exclaimed Peter. “I suppose that is Boomer making that
queer noise we hear.”
“Yes,” replied Jenny. “He certainly does like to use his voice. They
tell me that some folks call him Bullbat, though why they should call
him either Bat or Hawk is beyond me. I suppose you know his cousin,
Whip-poor-will.”
“I should say I do,” replied Peter. “He's enough to drive one crazy when
he begins to shout 'Whip poor Will' close at hand. That voice of his
goes through me so that I want to stop both ears. There isn't a person
of my acquaintance who can say a thing over and over, over and over,
so many times without stopping for breath. Do I understand that he is
cousin to Boomer?”
“He is a sort of second cousin, the same as Sooty the Chimney Swift,”
explained Jenny Wren. “They look enough alike to be own cousins.
Whip-poor-will has just the same kind of a big mouth and he is dressed
very much like Boomer, save that there are no white patches on his
wings.”
“I've noticed that,” said Peter. “That is one way I can tell them
apart.”
“So you noticed that much, did you?” cried Jenny. “It does you credit,
Peter. It does you credit. I wonder if you also noticed Whip-poor-will's
whiskers.”
“Whiskers!” cried Peter. “Who ever heard of a bird having whiskers? You
can stuff a lot down me, Jenny Wren, but there are some things I cannot
swallow, and bird whiskers is one of them.”
“Nobody asked you to swallow them. Nobody wants you to swallow them,”
snapped Jenny. “I don't know why a bird shouldn't have whiskers just as
well as you, Peter Rabbit. Anyway, Whip-poor-will has them and that is
all there is to it. It doesn't make any difference whether you believe
in them or not, they are there. And I guess Whip-poor-will finds them
just as useful as you find yours, and a little more so. I know this
much, that if I had to catch all my food in the air I'd want whiskers
and lots of them so that the insects would get tangled in them. I
suppose that's what Whip-poor-will's are for.”
“I beg your pardon, Jenny Wren,” said Peter very humbly. “Of course
Whip-poor-will has whiskers if you say so. By the way, do the
Whip-poor-wills do any better in the matter of a nest than the
Nighthawks?”
“Not a bit,” replied Jenny Wren. “Mrs. Whip-poor-will lays her eggs
right on the ground, but usually in the Green Forest where it is dark
and lonesome. Like Mrs. Nighthawk, she lays only two. It's the same way
with another second cousin, Chuck-will's-widow.”
“Who?” cried Peter, wrinkling his brows.
“Chuck-will's-widow,” Jenny Wren fairly shouted it. “Don't you know
Chuck-will's-widow?”
Peter shook his head. “I never heard of such a bird,” he confessed.
“That's what comes of never having traveled,” retorted Jenny Wren.
“If you'd ever been in the South the way I have you would know
Chuck-will's-widow. He looks a whole lot like the other two we've been
talking about, but has even a bigger mouth. What's more, he has whiskers
with branches. Now you needn't look as if you doubted that, Peter
Rabbit; it's so. In his habits he's just like his cousins, no nest and
only two eggs. I never saw people so afraid to raise a real family. If
the Wrens didn't do better than that, I don't know what would become of
us.” You know Jenny usually has a family of six or eight.