Jenny and Mr. Wren were busy. If there were any busier little folks
anywhere Peter Rabbit couldn't imagine who they could be. You see,
everyone of those seven eggs in the Wren nest had hatched, and seven
mouths are a lot to feed, especially when every morsel of food must be
hunted for and carried from a distance. There was little time for gossip
now. Just as soon as it was light enough to see Jenny and Mr. Wren began
feeding those always hungry babies, and they kept at it with hardly
time for an occasional mouthful themselves, until the Black Shadows came
creeping out from the Purple Hills. Wren babies, like all other bird
babies, grow very fast, and that means that each one of them must have a
great deal of food every day. Each one of them often ate its own weight
in food in a day and all their food had to be hunted for and when found
carried back and put into the gaping little mouths. Hardly would
Jenny Wren disappear in the little round doorway of her home with a
caterpillar in her bill than she would hop out again, and Mr. Wren would
take her place with a spider or a fly and then hurry away for something
more.
Peter tried to keep count of the number of times they came and went but
soon gave it up as a bad job. He began to wonder where all the worms and
bugs and spiders came from, and gradually he came to have a great deal
of respect for eyes sharp enough to find them so quickly. Needless to
say Jenny was shorter-tempered than ever. She had no time to gossip and
said so most emphatically. So at last Peter gave up the idea of trying
to find out from her certain things he wanted to know, and hopped off
to look for some one who was less busy. He had gone but a short distance
when his attention was caught by a song so sweet and so full of little
trills that he first stopped to listen, then went to look for the
singer.
It didn't take long to find him, for he was sitting on the very tiptop
of a fir-tree in Farmer Brown's yard. Peter didn't dare go over there,
for already it was broad daylight, and he had about made up his mind
that he would have to content himself with just listening to that sweet
singer when the latter flew over in the Old Orchard and alighted just
over Peter's head. “Hello, Peter!” he cried.
“Hello, Linnet!” cried Peter. “I was wondering who it could be who was
singing like that. I ought to have known, but you see it's so long since
I've heard you sing that I couldn't just remember your song. I'm so glad
you came over here for I'm just dying to talk to somebody.”
Linnet the Purple Finch, for this is who it was, laughed right out. “I
see you're still the same old Peter,” said he. “I suppose you're just
as full of curiosity as ever and just as full of questions. Well, here I
am, so what shall we talk about?”
“You,” replied Peter bluntly. “Lately I've found out so many surprising
things about my feathered friends that I want to know more. I'm trying
to get it straight in my head who is related to who, and I've found out
some things which have begun to make me feel that I know very little
about my feathered neighbors. It's getting so that I don't dare to even
guess who a person's relatives are. If you please, Linnet, what family
do you belong to?”
Linnet flew down a little nearer to Peter. “Look me over, Peter,” said
he with twinkling eyes. “Look me over and see if you can't tell for
yourself.”
Peter stared solemnly at Linnet. He saw a bird of Sparrow size most of
whose body was a rose-red, brightest on the head, darkest on the back,
and palest on the breast. Underneath he was whitish.
His wings and tail were brownish, the outer parts of the feathers edged
with rose-red. His bill was short and stout.
Before Peter could reply, Mrs. Linnet appeared. There wasn't so much as
a touch of that beautiful rose-red about her. Her grayish-brown back
was streaked with black, and her white breast and sides were spotted and
streaked with brown. If Peter hadn't seen her with Linnet he certainly
would have taken her for a Sparrow. She looked so much like one that he
ventured to say, “I guess you belong to the Sparrow family.”
“That's pretty close, Peter. That's pretty close,” declared Linnet. “We
belong to the Finch branch of the family, which makes the sparrows own
cousins to us. Folks may get Mrs. Linnet mixed with some of our Sparrow
cousins, but they never can mistake me. There isn't anybody else my size
with a rose-red coat like mine. If you can't remember my song, which you
ought to, because there is no other song quite like it, you can always
tell me by the color of my coat. Hello! Here comes Cousin Chicoree. Did
you ever see a happier fellow than he is? I'll venture to say that he
has been having such a good time that he hasn't even yet thought of
building a nest, and here half the people of the Old Orchard have grown
families. I've a nest and eggs myself, but that madcap is just roaming
about having a good time. Isn't that so, Chicoree?”
“Isn't what so?” demanded Chicoree the Goldfinch, perching very near to
where Linnet was sitting.
“Isn't it true that you haven't even begun thinking about a nest?”
demanded Linnet. Chicoree flew down in the grass almost under Peter's
nose and began to pull apart a dandelion which had gone to seed. He
snipped the seeds from the soft down to which they were attached and
didn't say a word till he was quite through. Then he flew up in the
tree near Linnet, and while he dressed his feathers, answered Linnet's
question.
“It's quite true, but what of it?” said he. “There's time enough to
think about nest-building and household cares later. Mrs. Goldfinch and
I will begin to think about them about the first of July. Meanwhile we
are making the most of this beautiful season to roam about and have a
good time. For one thing we like thistledown to line our nest, and there
isn't any thistledown yet. Then, there is no sense in raising a family
until there is plenty of the right kind of food, and you know we
Goldfinches live mostly on seeds. I'll venture to say that we are the
greatest seed-eaters anywhere around. Of course when the babies are
small they have to have soft food, but one can find plenty of worms and
bugs any time during the summer. Just as soon as the children are big
enough to hunt their own food they need seeds, so there is no sense in
trying to raise a family until there are plenty of seeds for them when
needed. Meanwhile we are having a good time. How do you like my summer
suit, Peter?”
“It's beautiful,” cried Peter. “I wouldn't know you for the same bird I
see so often in the late fall and sometimes in the winter. I don't know
of anybody who makes a more complete change. That black cap certainly is
very smart and becoming.”
Chicoree cocked his head on one side, the better to show off that black
cap. The rest of his head and his whole body were bright yellow. His
wings were black with two white bars on each. His tail also was black,
with some white on it. In size he was a little smaller than Linnet and
altogether one of the smartest appearing of all the little people who
wear feathers. It was a joy just to look at him. If Peter had known
anything about Canaries, which of course he didn't, because Canaries
are always kept in cages, he would have understood why Chicoree the
Goldfinch is often called the Wild Canary.
Mrs. Goldfinch now joined her handsome mate and it was plain to see that
she admired him quite as much as did Peter. Her wings and tail were much
like his but were more brownish than black. She wore no cap it all and
her back and head were a grayish-brown with an olive tinge. Underneath
she was lighter, with a tinge of yellow. All together she was a very
modestly dressed small person. As Peter recalled Chicoree's winter suit,
it was very much like that now worn by Mrs. Goldfinch, save that his
wings and tail were as they now appeared.
All the time Chicoree kept up a continual happy twittering, breaking out
every few moments into song. It was clear that he was fairly bubbling
over with joy.
“I suppose,” said Peter, “it sounds foolish of me to ask if you are a
member of the same family as Linnet.”
“Very foolish, Peter. Very foolish,” laughed Chicoree. “Isn't my name
Goldfinch, and isn't his name Purple Finch? We belong to the same family
and a mighty fine family it is. Now I must go over to the Old Pasture to
see how the thistles are coming on.”
Away he flew calling, “Chic-o-ree, per-chic-o-ree, chic-o-ree!” Mrs.
Goldfinch followed. As they flew, they rose and fell in the air in very
much the same way that Yellow Wing the Flicker does.
“I'd know them just by that, even if Chicoree didn't keep calling his
own name,” thought Peter. “It's funny how they often stay around all
winter yet are among the last of all the birds to set up housekeeping.
As I once said to Jenny Wren, birds certainly are funny creatures.”
“Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut! It's no such thing, Peter Rabbit. It's no such
thing,” scolded Jenny Wren as she flew last Peter on her way to hunt for
another worm for her hungry babies.
CHAPTER, XXXIV. Mourner the Dove and Cuckoo.
A long lane leads from Farmer Brown's barnyard down to his cornfield on
the Green Meadows. It happened that very early one morning Peter Rabbit
took it into his funny little head to run down that long lane to see
what he might see. Now at a certain place beside that long lane was a
gravelly bank into which Farmer Brown had dug for gravel to put on the
roadway up near his house. As Peter was scampering past this place
where Farmer Brown had dug he caught sight of some one very busy in that
gravel pit. Peter stopped short, then sat up to stare.
It was Mourner the Dove whom Peter saw, an old friend of whom Peter is
very fond. His body was a little bigger than that of Welcome Robin,
but his long slender neck, and longer tail and wings made him appear
considerably larger. In shape he reminded Peter at once of the
Pigeons up at Farmer Brown's. His back was grayish-brown, varying to
bluish-gray. The crown and upper parts of his head were bluish-gray.
His breast was reddish-buff, shading down into a soft buff. His bill was
black and his feet red. The two middle feathers of his tail were longest
and of the color of his back. The other feathers were slaty-gray with
little black bands and tipped with white. On his wings were a few
scattered black spots. Just under each ear was a black spot. But it
was the sides of his slender neck which were the most beautiful part of
Mourner. When untouched by the Jolly Little Sunbeams the neck feathers
appeared to be in color very like his breast, but the moment they
were touched by the Jolly Little Sunbeams they seemed to be constantly
changing, which, as you know, is called iridescence. Altogether Mourner
was lovely in a quiet way.
But it was not his appearance which made Peter stare; it was what he was
doing. He was walking about and every now and then picking up something
quite as if he were getting his breakfast in that gravel pit, and Peter
couldn't imagine anything good to eat down there. He knew that there
were not even worms there. Besides, Mourner is not fond of worms; he
lives almost altogether on seeds and grains of many kinds. So Peter was
puzzled. But as you know he isn't the kind to puzzle long over anything
when he can use his tongue.
“Hello, Mourner!” he cried. “What under the sun are you doing in there?
Are you getting your breakfast?”
“Hardly, Peter; hardly,” cooed Mourner in the softest of voices.
“I've had my breakfast and now I'm picking up a little gravel for my
digestion.” He picked up a tiny pebble and swallowed it.
“Well, of all things!” cried Peter. “You must be crazy. The idea of
thinking that gravel is going to help your digestion. I should say the
chances are that it will work just the other way.”
Mourner laughed. It was the softest of little cooing laughs, very
pleasant to hear. “I see that as usual you are judging others by
yourself,” said he. “You ought to know by this time that you can do
nothing more foolish. I haven't the least doubt that a breakfast of
gravel would give you the worst kind of a stomach-ache. But you are you
and I am I, and there is all the difference in the world. You know I eat
grain and hard seeds. Not having any teeth I have to swallow them whole.
One part of my stomach is called a gizzard and its duty is to grind and
crush my food so that it may be digested. Tiny pebbles and gravel help
grind the food and so aid digestion. I think I've got enough now for
this morning, and it is time for a dust bath. There is a dusty spot over
in the lane where I take a dust bath every day.”
“If you don't mind,” said Peter, “I'll go with you.”
Mourner said he didn't mind, so Peter followed him over to the dusty
place in the long lane. There Mourner was joined by Mrs. Dove, who was
dressed very much like him save that she did not have so beautiful a
neck. While they thoroughly dusted themselves they chatted with Peter.
“I see you on the ground so much that I've often wondered if you build
your nest on the ground,” said Peter.
“No,” replied Mourner. “Mrs. Dove builds in a tree, but usually not very
far above the ground. Now if you'll excuse us we must get back home.
Mrs. Dove has two eggs to sit on and while she is siting I like to be
close at hand to keep her company and make love to her.”
The Doves shook the loose dust from their feathers and flew away. Peter
watched to see where they went, but lost sight of them behind some
trees, so decided to run up to the Old Orchard. There he found Jenny and
Mr. Wren as busy as ever feeding that growing family of theirs. Jenny
wouldn't stop an instant to gossip. Peter was so brimful of what he had
found out about Mr. and Mrs. Dove that he just had to tell some one.
He heard Kitty the Catbird meowing among the bushes along the old stone
wall, so hurried over to look for him. As soon as he found him Peter
began to tell what he had learned about Mourner the Dove.
“That's no news, Peter,” interrupted Kitty. “I know all about Mourner
and his wife. They are very nice people, though I must say Mrs. Dove is
one of the poorest housekeepers I know of. I take it you never have seen
her nest.”
Peter shook his head. “No,” said he, “I haven't. What is it like?”
Kitty the Catbird laughed. “It's about the poorest apology for a nest I
know of,” said he. “It is made of little sticks and mighty few of them.
How they hold together is more than I can understand. I guess it is a
good thing that Mrs. Dove doesn't lay more than two eggs, and it's a
wonder to me that those two stay in the nest. Listen! There's
Mourner's voice now. For one who is so happy he certainly does have the
mournfullest sounding voice. To hear him you'd think he was sorrowful
instead of happy. It always makes me feel sad to hear him.”
“That's true,” replied Peter, “but I like to hear him just the same.
Hello! Who's that?”
From one of the trees in the Old Orchard sounded a long, clear,
“Kow-kow-kow-kow-kow-kow!” It was quite unlike any voice Peter had heard
that spring.
“That's Cuckoo,” said Kitty. “Do you mean to say you don't know Cuckoo?”
“Of course I know him,” retorted Peter. “I had forgotten the sound of
his voice, that's all. Tell me, Kitty, is it true that Mrs. Cuckoo is
no better than Sally Sly the Cowbird and goes about laying her eggs in
the nests of other birds? I've heard that said of her.”
“There isn't a word of truth in it,” declared Kitty emphatically. “She
builds a nest, such as it is, which isn't much, and she looks after her
own children. The Cuckoos have been given a bad name because of some
good-for-nothing cousins of theirs who live across the ocean where Bully
the English Sparrow belongs, and who, if all reports are true, really
are no better than Sally Sly the Cowbird. It's funny how a bad name
sticks. The Cuckoos have been accused of stealing the eggs of us other
birds, but I've never known them to do it and I've lived neighbor to
them for a long time, I guess they get their bad name because of their
habit of slipping about silently and keeping out of sight as much as
possible, as if they were guilty of doing something wrong and trying to
keep from being seen. As a matter of fact, they are mighty useful birds.
Farmer Brown ought to be tickled to death that Mr. and Mrs. Cuckoo have
come back to the Old Orchard this year.”
“Why?” demanded Peter.
“Do you see that cobwebby nest with all those hairy caterpillars on it
and around it up in that tree?” asked Kitty.
Peter replied that he did and that he had seen a great many nests just
like it, and had noticed how the caterpillars ate all the leaves near
them.
“I'll venture to say that you won't see very many leaves eaten around
that nest,” replied Kitty. “Those are called tent-caterpillars, and they
do an awful lot of damage. I can't bear them myself because they are so
hairy, and very few birds will touch them. But Cuckoo likes them. There
he comes now; just watch him.”
A long, slim Dove-like looking bird alighted close to the caterpillar's
nest. Above he was brownish-gray with just a little greenish tinge.
Beneath he was white. His wings were reddish-brown. His tail was a
little longer than that of Mourner the Dove. The outer feathers were
black tipped with white, while the middle feathers were the color of
his back. The upper half of his bill was black, but the under half was
yellow, and from this he is called the Yellow-billed Cuckoo. He has a
cousin very much like himself in appearance, save that his bill is all
black and he is listed the Black-billed Cuckoo.
Cuckoo made no sound but began to pick off the hairy caterpillars and
swallow them. When he had eaten all those in sight he made holes in the
silken web of the nest and picked out the caterpillars that were inside.
Finally, having eaten his fill, he flew off as silently as he had come
and disappeared among the bushes farther along the old stone wall. A
moment later they heard his voice, “Kow-kow-how-kow-kow-kow-kow-kow!”
“I suppose some folks would think that it is going to rain,” remarked
Kitty the Catbird. “They have the silly notion that Cuckoo only calls
just before rain, and so they call him the Rain Crow. But that isn't
so at all. Well, Peter, I guess I've gossiped enough for one morning. I
must go see how Mrs. Catbird is getting along.”
Kitty disappeared and Peter, having no one to talk to, decided that the
best thing he could do would be to go home to the dear Old Briar-patch.