 CHAPTER XIV A LONG LANE LEADS FROM FARMER BROWN'S BARNYARD DOWN TO HIS CORNFIELD ON THE GREEN MEDDOS. 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 someone 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 slady gray with little black bands 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 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 all together on seeds and grains of many kind. 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? Crazy Peter hardly, cooed mourner in the softest of voices. I've had my breakfast now and 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 the 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 sitting 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 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 someone. He heard Kitty the cat-bird 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 have never seen her nest? Peter shook his head. No, he said, I haven't. What is it like? Kitty the cat-bird 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 who stay in the nest. Listen, there is Mourner's voice now. For one who is so happy he certainly does have the mournfulest sounding voice. To hear him you'd think he's sorrowful instead of happy. It always makes me feel so 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 cow-cow-cow-cow-cow. 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 Cow-bird and goes about laying her eggs on the nest 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 Cow-bird. 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. Of 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 Morta 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 as the black-billed Cuckoo. Cuckoo made no sound, but began to pick off the hairy caterpillars and swallowed them. When he had eaten all those inside, 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. Cow, cow, cow, cow, cow, cow, cow. 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 and 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. CHAPTER 35 A Butcher and a Hummer. The Shrike and the Ruby-throated Hummingbird. Not far from the old orchard grew a thorn-tree, which Peter Rabbit often passed. He never had paid particular attention to it. One morning he stopped to rest under it. Happening to look up, he saw a most astonishing thing. Fastened on the sharp thorns of one of the branches were three big grasshoppers, a big moth, two big caterpillars, a lizard, a small mouse, and a young English sparrow. Do you wonder that Peter thought he must be dreaming? He couldn't imagine how those creatures could have become fastened on those long sharp thorns. Somehow it gave him an uncomfortable feeling, and he hurried on to the old orchard, bubbling over with desire to tell someone of the strange and dreadful thing he had seen in the thorn-tree. As he entered the old orchard in the far corner he saw Johnny Chuck sitting on his doorstep and hurried over to tell him the strange news. Johnny listened until Peter was through, then told him quite frankly that never had he heard of such a thing, and that he thought Peter must have been dreaming and didn't know it. You're wrong, Johnny Chuck. Peter hasn't been dreaming at all, said Skimmer the Swallow, who you remember lived in a hole in a tree just above the entrance to Johnny Chuck's house. He had been sitting where he could hear all that Peter had said. Well, if you know so much about it, please explain, said Johnny Chuck rather crossly. It's simple enough, replied Skimmer. Peter just happened to find the storehouse of Butcher the Lagerhead Shrike. It isn't a very pleasant sight, I must admit, but one must give Butcher credit for being smart enough to lay up a store of food when it is plentiful. And who is Butcher the Shrike, demanded Peter. He's a new one to me. He's new to this location, replied Skimmer, and you probably haven't noticed him. I've seen him in the south often. Here he is now, on the tip top of that tree over yonder. Peter and Johnny looked eagerly. They saw a bird who at first glance appeared not unlike Mokker the Mockingbird. He was dressed wholly in black, gray, and white. When he turned his head, they noticed a black stripe across the side of his face, and that the tip of his bill was hooked. These were enough to make them forget that otherwise he was like Mokker. While they were watching him, he flew down into the grass and picked up a grasshopper. When he flew, with a steady, even flight, only a little above the ground for some distance, suddenly shooting up and returning to the perch where they had first seen him, there he ate the grasshopper and resumed his watch for something else to catch. He certainly has wonderful eyes, said Skimmer admiringly. He must have seen that grasshopper way over there in the grass before he started after it, for he flew straight there. He doesn't waste time and energy hunting aimlessly. He sits on a high perch and watches until he sees something he wants. Many times I've seen him sitting on top of a telegraph pole. I understand that bully the English sparrow has become terribly nervous since the arrival of Butcher. He is particularly fond of English sparrows. I presume it was one of bully's children you saw in the thorn tree, Peter. For my part, I hope he'll frighten bully into leaving the old orchard. It would be a good thing for the rest of us. But I don't understand yet why he fastens his victims on those long thorns, said Peter. For two reasons, replied Skimmer, when he catches more grasshoppers and other insects than he can eat, he sticks them on those thorns so that later he may be sure of a good meal if it happens there are no more to be caught when he is hungry. My sparrows and things too big for him to swallow, he sticks on the thorns so that he can pull them to pieces easier. You see, his feet and claws are not big and stout enough to hold his victims while he tears them to pieces with his hooked bill. Sometimes instead of sticking them on thorns, he sticks them on the barbed wire of a fence, and sometimes he wedges them into the fork of two branches. Does he kill many birds? asked Peter. Not many, replied Skimmer, and most of those he does kill are English sparrows. The rest of us have learned to keep out of his way. He feeds mostly on insects, worms, and caterpillars, but he is very fond of mice and he catches a good many. He is a good deal like Killie the Sparrowhawk in this respect. He has a cousin, the great Northern Shrike, who sometimes comes down into the winter and is very much like him. Hello! Now what's happened? A great commotion had broken out not far away in the old orchard. Instantly Skimmer flew over to see what it was all about, and Peter followed. He got there just in time to see Chatterer the Red Squirrel dodging around the trunk of a tree, first on one side, then on the other, to avoid the sharp bills of the hungry feathered folk who had discovered him trying to rob a nest of its young. Peter chuckled. Chatterer is getting just what is due him, I guess, he muttered. It reminds me of the time I got into a yellow jacket's nest. My, but those birds are mad. Chatterer continued to dodge from side to side of the tree while the birds darted down at him, all screaming at the top of their voices. Finally Chatterer saw his chance to run for the old stone wall. Only one bird was quick enough to catch up with him, and that one was such a tiny fellow that he seemed hardly bigger than a big insect. It was Hummer the Hummingbird. He followed Chatterer clear to the old stone wall. A moment later Peter heard a humming noise just over his head, and looked up to see Hummer himself alight on a twig, where he squeaked excitedly for a few minutes, for his voice is nothing but a little squeak. Often Peter had seen Hummer darting about from flower to flower and holding himself still in mid-air in front of each as he thrust his long bill into the heart of the blossom to get the tiny insects there and the sweet juices he is so fond of. But this was the first time Peter had ever seen him sitting still. He was such a might of a thing that it was hard to realize that he was a bird. His back was a bright shining green, his wings and tail were brownish with a purplish tinge. Underneath he was whitish, but it was his throat on which Peter fixed his eyes. It was a wonderful ruby red that glistened and shone in the sun like a jewel. Hummer lifted one wing, and with his long needle-like bill smooth the feathers under it. He darted out into the air, his wings moving so fast that Peter couldn't see them at all. But if he couldn't see them he could hear them. You see they moved so fast that they made a sound very like the humming of Bumble the Bee. It is because of this he has called the hummingbird. A few minutes later he was back again, and now he was joined by Mrs. Hummer. She was dressed very much like Hummer, but did not have the beautiful ruby throat. She stopped only a minute or two, then darted over to what looked for all the world like a tiny cup of moss. It was their nest. Just then Jenny Wren came along, and being quite worn out with the work of feeding her seven babies, she was content to rest for a few moments in gossip. Peter told her what he had discovered. I know all about that, retorted Jenny. You don't suppose I hunt these trees over for food without knowing where my neighbors are living, do you? I'd have you to understand, Peter, that that is the daintiest nest in the old orchard. It is made wholly of plant down and covered on the outside with bits of that gray moss-like stuff that grows on the bark of the trees and is called lichens. That is what makes that nest look like nothing more than a knot on the branch. Chatterer made a big mistake when he visited this tree. Hummer may be a tiny fellow, but he isn't afraid of anybody under the sun. That bill of his is so sharp, and he is so quick, that few folks ever bother him more than once. Why, there isn't a single member of the hawk family that Hummer won't attack. There isn't a cowardly feather on him. Does he go very far south for winter? asked Peter. He is such a tiny fellow, I don't see how he can stand a very long journey. Huh! exclaimed Jenny Wren. Distance doesn't bother Hummer any. You needn't worry about those wings of his. He goes clear down to South America. He has ever so many relatives down there. You ought to see his babies when they first hatch out. They are no bigger than bees, but they certainly do grow fast. Why, they are flying three weeks from the time they hatch. I'm glad I don't have to pump food down the throats of my youngsters the way Mrs. Hummingbird has to down hers. Peter looked perplexed. What do you mean by pumping food down their throats? He demanded. Just what I say, retorted Jenny Wren. Mrs. Hummer sticks her bill right down their throats and then pumps up the food she has already swallowed. I guess it is a good thing that the babies have short bills. Do they? asked Peter, opening his eyes very wide with surprise. Yes, replied Jenny. When they hatch out they have short bills, but it doesn't take them a great while to grow long. How many babies does Hummer usually have? asked Peter. Just two, replied Jenny. Just two. That's all that nest will hold. But goodness gracious Peter, I can't stop gossiping here any longer. You have no idea what a care seven babies are. With the jerk of her tail all flew Jenny Wren, and Peter hurried back to tell Johnny Chuck all he had found out about Hummer the Hummingbird. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 of the Burgess Bird Book for Children This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Corey Dean The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess Chapter 36 A Stranger and a Dandy The English Starling and the Cedar Waxway Butcher the Shrike was not the only newcomer in the Old Orchard. There was another stranger, who Peter Rabbit soon discovered, who was looked on with some suspicion by all the other birds of the Old Orchard. The first time Peter saw him, he was walking about on the ground some distance off. He didn't hop, but walked. And at that distance he looked all black. The way he carried himself and his movements as he walked made Peter think of Creaker the Grackle. In fact, Peter mistook him for Creaker. That was because he didn't really look at him. If he had, he would have seen at once that the stranger was smaller than Creaker. Presently the stranger flew up in a tree and Peter saw that his tail was a little more than half as long as that of Creaker. At once it came over Peter that this was a stranger to him, and of course his curiosity was aroused. He didn't have any doubt whatever that this was a member of the Blackbird family, but which one it could be, he hadn't the least idea. Jenny Wren will know, but Peter enscampered off to hunt her up. Who is that new member of the Blackbird family who has come to live in the Old Orchard? Peter asked as soon as he found Jenny Wren. There isn't any new member of the Blackbird family living in the Old Orchard retorted Jenny Wren tartly. There is two contradicted Peter. I saw him with my own eyes. I can see him now. He's sitting in that tree over yonder this very minute. He's all black, so of course he must be a member of the Blackbird family. Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut. Scolded Jenny Wren. Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut. That fellow isn't a member of the Blackbird family at all. And what's more, he isn't black. Go over there and take a good look at him, then come back and tell me if you still think he is black. Jenny turned her back on Peter and went to hunting worms. There being nothing else to do, Peter hopped over where he could get a good look at that stranger. The sun was shining full on him, and he wasn't black at all. Jenny Wren was white. For the most part, he was very dark green. At least that is what Peter thought at first glance. Then as the stranger moved, he seemed to be a rich purple in places. In short, he changed colors as he turned. His feathers were like those of Creaker the Grackle, iridescent. All over he was speckled with tiny light spots. Underneath he was dark brownish gray. His wings and tail were of the same color, with little touches of buff. His rather large bill was yellow. Peter hurried back to Jenny Wren, and it must be confessed. He looked sheepish. You were right, Jenny Wren. He isn't black at all, confessed Peter. Of course I was right. I usually am, retorted Jenny. He isn't black. He isn't even related to the Blackbird family, and he hasn't any business in the Old Orchard. In fact, if you ask me, he hasn't any business in this country anyway. He's a foreigner. That's what he is, a foreigner. But you haven't told me who he is, protested Peter. He is, speckled the Starling, and he isn't really an American at all, replied Jenny. He comes from across the ocean, the same as bully to English Sparrow. Thank goodness he hasn't such a quarrelsome disposition as bully. Just the same, the rest of us would be better satisfied if he were not here. He has taken possession of one of the old homes of Yellow Wing the Flicker, and that means one less house for birds who really belong here. If his family increases at the rate bully's family does, I'm afraid some of us will soon be crowded out of the Old Orchard. Did you notice that yellow bill of his? Peter nodded. I certainly did. I said he. I couldn't very well help noticing it. Well, there's a funny thing about that bill, replied Jenny. In winter, it turns almost black. Most of us wear a different colored suit in winter, but our bills remain the same. Well, he seems to be pretty well fixed here, and I don't see, but what the thing for the rest of you birds to do is to make the best of the matter, said Peter. What I want to know is whether or not he is of any use. I guess he must do some good, invented Jenny Wren rather gruntingly. I've seen him picking up worms and grubs, but he likes grain, and I have a suspicion that if his family becomes very numerous, and I suspect it will, they will eat more of Farmer Brown's grain than they will pay for by the worms and bugs they destroy. Hello! There's Dandy the Waxwing and his friends. A flock of modestly dressed, yet rather distinguished-looking feathered folks had alighted in a cherry tree and promptly began to help themselves to Farmer Brown's cherries. They were about the size of Winsome Bluebird, but did not look in the least like him, for they were dressed almost wholly in beautiful, rich, soft, grayish brown. Across the end of each tail was a yellow band. On each, the forehead, chin, and the line through each eye was velvety black. Each wore a very stylish pointed cap, and on the wings of most of them were little spots of red which looked like ceiling wax. And from which they get the name of waxwings. They were slim and trim and quite dandified, and in a quiet way were really beautiful. As Peter watched them, he began to wonder if Farmer Brown would have any cherries left. Peter himself can do pretty well in the matter of stuffing his stomach, but even he marveled at the way those birds put the cherries out of sight. It was quite clear to him why they are often called cherry birds. If they stay long, Farmer Brown won't have any cherries left, remarked Peter. Don't worry, replied Jenny Wren. They won't stay long. I don't know anybody equal to them for roaming about. Here are most of us with families on our hands, and Mr. and Mrs. Bluebird with a second family, and Mr. and Mrs. Robin with a second set of eggs, while those Gatabots up there haven't even begun to think about housekeeping yet. They certainly do like those cherries, but I guess Farmer Brown can stand lots of what they eat. They may have fewer cherries, but he'll have more apples because of them. How's that? Demanded Peter. Oh, replied Jenny Wren. They were over here a while ago, while those little green canker worms threatened to eat up the whole orchard, and they stuffed themselves on those worms, just the same as they are stuffing themselves on cherries now. They are very fond of small fruits, but most of those they eat are the wild kind, which are of no use at all to Farmer Brown or anybody else. Now just look at that performance, will you? There were five of the wax wings, and they were now seated side by side on a branch of the cherry tree. One of them had a plump cherry, which he passed to the next one. This one passed it to the next, and so it went to the end of the row, and halfway back before it was finally eaten. Peter laughed right out. Never in my life have I seen such politeness, said he. Ha! exclaimed Jenny Wren. I don't believe it was politeness at all. I guess if you got at the truth of the matter, you would find that each one was stuffed so full that he thought he didn't have room for that cherry, and so passed it along. Well, I think that was politeness just the same, retorted Peter. The first one might have dropped the cherry if he couldn't eat it instead of passing it along. Just then the wax wings flew away. It was the very middle of the summer before Peter Rabbit, again, saw Dandy the wax wing. Quite by chance he discovered Dandy sitting on the tip top of an evergreen tree as if on guard. He was on guard, for in that tree was his nest, though Peter didn't know it at the time. In fact, it was so late in the summer that most of Peter's friends were through nesting, and he had quite lost interest in nests. Presently, Dandy flew down to a lower branch, and there he was joined by Mrs. Waxwing. Then Peter was treated to one of the prettiest sights he had ever seen. They rubbed their bills together as if kissing. They smoothed each other's feathers, and altogether were a perfect picture of two little lovebirds. Peter couldn't think of another couple who appeared quite so gentle and loving. Late in the fall, Peter saw Mr. and Mrs. Waxwing and their family together. They were in a cedar tree, and were picking off and eating the cedar berries as fizzily as the five wax wings had picked Farmer Brown's cherries in the early summer. Peter didn't know it, but because of their fondness for cedar berries, the wax wings were often called cedar birds, or cedar wax wings. End of Chapter 36. Chapter 37 of the Burgess Bird Book for Children. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Corrie Dean. The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess. Chapter 37. Farewells and Welcomes. The Chickadee. All through the long summer, Peter Rabbit watched his feathered friends, and learned things in regard to their ways he had never suspected. As he saw them keeping the trees of the old orchard free of insect pests, working in Farmer Brown's garden, and picking up the countless seeds of weeds everywhere, he began to understand something of the wonderful part these feathered folks have in keeping the great world beautiful and worth while living in. He had many a hearty laugh as he watched the bird babies learn to fly and find their own food. While summer long they were going to school all about him, learning how to watch out for danger, to use their eyes and ears, and all the things a bird must know who would live to grow up. As autumn drew near, Peter discovered that his friends were gathering in flocks roaming here and there. It was one of the first signs that summer was nearly over, and it gave him just a little feeling of sadness. He heard few songs now, for the singing season was over. So he discovered that many of the most beautifully dressed of his feathered friends had changed their finery for sober traveling suits in preparation for the long journey to the far south, where they would spend the winter. In fact he actually failed to recognize some of them at first. September came and as the days grew shorter, some of Peter's friends bade him goodbye. They were starting on the long journey, planning to take it in easy stages for the most part. Each day saw some slip away. As Peter thought of the dangers of the long trip before them, he wondered if he would ever see them again. But some there were who lingered, even after Jack Frost's first visit. Welcome in Mrs. Robin, Winsome in Mrs. Bluebird, little friend the song Sparrow, and his wife were among these. By and by even these were forced to leave. Sad indeed and lonely would these days have been for Peter, had it not been that with the departure of the friends he had spent so many happy hours with, came the arrival of certain other friends from the far north, where they had made their summer homes. Some of these stopped for a few days in passing. Others came to stay, and Peter was kept busy looking for and welcoming them. A few old friends there were who would stay the year through. Sammy Jay was one. Downey and Harry the woodpeckers were others. And one there was, whom Peter loves dearly. It was Tommy Titt, the chickadee. Now Tommy Titt had not gone north in the spring. In fact he had made his home not very far from the old orchard. It just happened that Peter hadn't found that home, and had caught only one or two glimpses of Tommy Titt. Now with household cares ended, and his good-sized family properly started in life, Tommy Titt was no longer interested in the snug little home he had built in the hollow birch step. And he and Mrs. Chickadee spent their time flitting about hither, thither, and yawn, spreading good cheer. Every time Peter visited the old orchard, he found him there, and as Tommy was always ready for a bit of merry gossip, Peter soon ceased to miss Jenny Wren. "'Don't you dread the winter, Tommy Titt?' asked Peter one day, as he watched Tommy clinging head down to a twig as he picked some tiny insect eggs from the underside. "'Not a bit,' replied Tommy. "'I like winter. I like cold weather. It makes a fellow feel good from the tips of his claws to the tip of his bill. I'm thankful I don't have to take that long journey most of the birds have to. I discovered a secret a long time ago, Peter. Shall I tell it to you?' "'Please, Tommy,' cried Peter. "'You know I love secrets.' "'Well,' replied Tommy Titt. "'This is it. If a fellow keeps his stomach filled, he will keep his toes warm.' Peter looked a little puzzled. "'I—I just don't see what your stomach has to do with your toes,' said he.' Tommy Titt chuckled. "'It was a lovely throaty little chuckle.' "'Dee-dee-dee,' he said. "'What I mean is, if a fellow has plenty to eat, he will keep the cold out. And I've found that if a fellow uses his eyes and isn't afraid of a little work, he can find plenty to eat. At least I can. The only time I ever get really worried is when the trees are covered with ice. If it were not that Farmer Brownsboro is thoughtful enough to hang a piece of suet in a tree for me, I should dread those ice storms more than I do. As I said before, plenty of food keeps a fellow warm.' "'I thought it was your coat of feathers,' they kept you warm,' said Peter. "'Oh, the feathers help,' replied Tommy Titt. "'Food makes heat, and a warm coat keeps the heat in the body. But the heat has got to be there first, or the feathers will do no good. It's just the same way with your own self, Peter. You know you are never really warm in winter unless you have plenty to eat.' "'That's so,' replied Peter thoughtfully. I never happened to think of it before. "'Just the same. I don't see how you find food enough on the trees, when they are all bare in winter.' "'Dee-dee, chickadee, leave that matter just to me,' chuckled Tommy Titt. "'You ought to know by this time, Peter Rabbit, that a lot of different kinds of bugs lay eggs on the twigs and trunks of trees. Those eggs would stay there all winter and in the spring hatch out into lice and worms if it were not for me. Why, sometimes in a single day I find and eat almost 500 eggs of those little green plant lice that do so much damage in the spring and summer. Then there are little worms that bore in just under the bark, and there are other creatures who sleep the winter away in little cracks in the bark. Oh, there's plenty for me to do in the winter. I am one of the policemen of the trees, Downie and Harry the woodpeckers, Seep Seep the brown creeper and Yank Yank the nut hatch or others. If we didn't stay right here on the job all winter, I don't know what would become of the old orchard. Tommy hung head downward from a twig while he picked some tiny insect eggs from the underside of it. It didn't seem to make the least difference to Tommy whether he was right side up or upside down. He was a little animated, bunch of black and white feathers, not much bigger than Jenny Wren. The top of his head, back of his neck, and coat were shining black. The sides of his head and neck were white. His back was ashy. His sides were a soft cream buff, and his wing and tail feathers were edged with white. His tiny bill was black, and his little black eyes snapped and twinkled in a way good to see. Not one among all Peter's friends is such a merry-hearted little fellow as Tommy toot the chickadee. Merriment and happiness bubble out of him all the time, no matter what the weather is. He is the friend of everyone, and seems to feel that everyone is his friend. I've noticed, said Peter, that birds who do not sing at any other time of year sing in the spring. Do you have a spring song, Tommy Tit? Well, I don't know as you would call it a song, Peter, chuckled Tommy. No, I hardly think you would call it a song, but I have a little love call then, which goes like this. Phoebe, Phoebe! It was the softest, sweetest little whistle, and Tommy had rightly called it a love call. Well, I have often heard that in the spring, and I didn't know it was your voice at all, cried Peter. You say Phoebe planer than does the bird whose name is Phoebe, and is ever so much softer and sweeter. I guess that is because you whistle it. I guess you guess right, replied Tommy Tit. Now I can't stop to talk any longer. Those trees need my attention. I want Farmer Brown's boy to feel that I have earned that suet I am sure he will put out for me as soon as the snow and ice come. I'm not the least bit afraid of Farmer Brown's boy. I had just as soon take food from his hand as from anywhere else. He knows I like chopped up nut meats, and last winter I used to feed from his hand every day. Peter's eyes opened very wide with surprise. Do you mean to say, he said, that you and Farmer Brown's boy are such friends that you dare sit on his hand? Tommy Tit nodded his little black capped head vigorously. Certainly, said he. Why not? What's the good of having friends if you can't trust them? The more you trust them, the better friends they'll be. Just the same. I don't see how you dare do it, Peter replied. I know Farmer Brown's boy is the friend of all the little people, and I'm not much afraid of him myself, but just the same. I wouldn't dare go near enough for him to touch me. Poor retorted Tommy Tit. That's no way of showing true friendship. You have no idea, Peter, what a comfortable feeling it is to know that you can trust a friend, and I feel that Farmer Brown's boy is one of the best friends I've got. I wish more boys and girls were like him. The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess Chapter 38 Honker and Dippy arrive The Canada Goose and the Loon The leaves of the trees turned yellow and red and brown, and then began to drop, a few at first, then more and more every day, until all but the spruce trees and the pine trees and the hemlock trees and the fir trees and the cedar trees were bare. By this time most of Peter's feathered friends of the summer had departed, and there were days when Peter had, oh, such a lonely feeling. The ferv, his coat, was growing thicker. The grass of the green meadows had turned brown. All these things were signs which Peter knew well. He knew that Rough Brother North Wind and Jack Frost were on their way down from the far north. Peter had few friends to visit now. Johnny Chuck had gone to sleep for the winter, way down in his little bedroom underground. Grandfather Frog had also gone to sleep. So had old Mr. Toad. Peter spent a great deal of time in the dear old brier patch, just sitting still and listening. What he was listening for he didn't know. It just seemed to him that there was something he ought to hear at this time of year, and so he sat listening and listening, and wondering what he was listening for. Then late one afternoon there came floating down to him from high up in the sky, faintly at first, but growing louder. A sound unlike any Peter had heard all the long summer through. The sound was a voice. Rather it was many voices mingled, Honk, honk, honk, honk, honk, honk, honk. Peter gave a little jump. That's what I've been listening for, he cried. Honk, or the goose, and his friends are coming. Oh, I do hope they will stop where I can pay them a call. He hopped out to the edge of the dear old brier patch that he might see better, and looked up in the sky. High up, flying in the shape of a letter V, he saw a flock of great birds flying steadily from the direction of the far north. By the sound of their voices he knew that they had flown far that day and were tired. One bird was in the lead, and this he knew to be his old friend Honk, straight over his head they passed, and as Peter listened to their voices he felt within him the very spirit of the far north, that great wild lonely land which he had never seen, but of which he had so often heard. As Peter watched, Honk suddenly turned and headed in the direction of the big river. Then he began his slant down, his flock following him, and presently they disappeared behind the trees along the bank of the great river. Peter gave a happy little sigh. They are going to spend the night there, thought he. When the moon comes up I'll run over there, for they will come ashore and I know just where. Now that they have arrived I know that winter is not far away. Honk's voice is as sure a sign of the coming of winter as is when some bluebirds that spring will soon be here. Peter could hardly wait for the coming of the black shadows, and just as soon as they had crept out over the green meadows he started for the big river. He knew just where to go, because he knew that Honk and his friends would rest and spend the night in the same place they had stopped at the year before. He knew that they would remain out in the middle of the big river, until the black shadows had made it quite safe for them to swim in. He reached the bank of the big river just as sweet Mistress Moon was beginning to throw her silvery light over the great world. There was a sandy bar in the great river at this point, and Peter squatted on the bank just where this sandy bar began. It seemed to Peter that he had sat there half the night, but really it was only a short time, before he heard a low signal out in the black shadows which covered the middle of the big river. It was the voice of Honk her. Then Peter saw little silvery lines moving on the water, and presently a dozen great shapes appeared in the moonlight. Honk her and his friends were swimming in. The long neck of each of those great birds was stretched to its full height, and Peter knew that each bird was listening for the slightest suspicious sound. Slowly they drew near, Honk her in the lead. They were a picture of perfect caution. When they reached the sandy bar they remained quiet, looking and listening for some time. Then, sure that all was safe, Honk her gave a low signal, and at once a low gabbling began as the big birds relaxed their watchfulness and came out on the sandy bar. I'll say one. That one was the guard, and he remained with neck erect on watch. Some swam in among the rushes growing in the water very near to where Peter was sitting, and began to feed. Others sat on the sandy bar and dressed their feathers. Honk her himself came ashore close to where Peter was sitting. Oh, Honk her cried, Peter! I'm so glad you're back here safe and sound! Honk her gave a little start, but instantly recognizing Peter came over close to him. As he stood there in the moonlight he was truly handsome. His throat and a large patch on each side of his head were white. The rest of his head and long, slim neck were black. His short tail was also black. His back, wings, breast and sides were a soft grayish-brown. He was white around the base of his tail, and he wore a white collar. Hello, Peter, said he. It is good to have an old friend greet me. I certainly am glad to be back safe and sound, for the hunters with terrible guns have been at almost every one of our resting places, and it has been hard work to get enough to eat. It is a relief to find one place where there are no terrible guns. Have you come far, asked Peter? Very far, Peter. Very far, replied Honk her. And we still have very far to go. I shall be thankful when the journey is over, for on me depends the safety of all those with me, and it is a great responsibility. We'll winter soon be here, asked Peter eagerly. Rough brother Northwind and Jack Frost were right behind us, replied Honk her. You know we stay in the far north just as long as we can. Already the place where we nested is frozen and covered with snow. For the first part of the journey we kept only just ahead of the snow and ice, but as we drew near to where men make their homes, we were forced to make longer journeys each day, for the places where it is safe to feed and rest are few and far between. Now we shall hurry on until we reach the place in the far way south where we will make our winter home. Just then Honk her was interrupted by wild strange sounds from the middle of the Great River. It sounded like crazy laughter. Peter jumped at the sound, but Honk her merely chuckled. It's Dippy the loon, said he. He spent the summer in the far north not far from us. He started south just before we did. I wish he would come in here so that I can get a good look at him and make his acquaintance, said Peter. He may, but I doubt it, replied Honk her. He and his mate are great people to keep by themselves. Then too they don't have to come ashore for food. You know Dippy feeds altogether on fish. He really has an easier time on the long journey than we do, because he can get his food without running so much risk of being shot by the terrible hunters. He practically lives on the water. He's about the most awkward fellow on land of anyone I know. Why should he be any more awkward on land than you, asked Peter, his curiosity aroused at once. Because, replied Honk her, old mother nature has given him very short legs and has placed them so far back on his body, that he can't keep his balance to walk, and has to use his wings and bill to help him over the ground. On shore he is about the most helpless thing you can imagine, but on water he is another fellow altogether. He's just as much at home underwater as on top. My how that fellow can dive. When he sees the flash of a gun he will get under water before the shot can reach him. That's where he has the advantage of us geese. You know we can't dive. He could swim clear across this river under water if he wanted to, and he can go so fast underwater that he can catch a fish. It is because his legs have been placed so far back that he can swim so fast. You know his feet are nothing but big paddles. Another funny thing is that he can sink right down in the water when he wants to, with nothing but his head out. I envy him that. It would be a lot easier for us geese to escape the dreadful hunters if we could sink down that way. Has he a bill like yours? asked Peter innocently. Of course not, replied Honker. Didn't I tell you that he lives on fish? How do you suppose he would hold on to his slippery fish if he had a broad bill like mine? His bill is stout, straight, and sharp pointed. He is a rather handsome fellow. He is pretty nearly as big as I am, and his back, wings, tail, and neck are black with bluish or greenish appearance in the sun. His back and wings are spotted with white, and there are streaks of white on his throat and the sides of his neck. On his breast and below is all white. He certainly ought to get acquainted with Dippy, Peter, for there isn't anybody quite like him. I'd like to, replied Peter, but if he never comes to shore, how can I? I guess I will have to be content to know him just by his voice. I certainly never will forget that. It's about as crazy sounding as the voice of old man Coyote, and that is saying a great deal. There's one thing I forgot to tell you, said Honker. Dippy can't fly from the land. He must be on water in order to get up in the air. You can, can't you? asked Peter. Of course I can, replied Honker. Why, we geese get a lot of our food on land. When it is safe to do so, we visit the grain fields and pick up the grain that has been shaken out during harvest. Of course we couldn't do that if we couldn't fly from the land. We can rise from either land or water equally well. Now, if you'll excuse me, Peter, I'll take a nap. My, but I'm tired, and I've got a long journey tomorrow. So Peter politely bade Honker and his relatives good night, and left them in peace on the sandy bar in the big river. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 of the Burgest Bird Book for Children This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Corey Dean The Burgest Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess Chapter 39 Peter discovers two old friends, the white-breasted Nuthatch and the brown Creeper. Rough brother Northwind and Jack Frost were not far behind Honker the Goose. In a night Peter Rabbit's world was transformed. It had become a new world, a world of pure white. The last laggard among Peter's feathered friends who spent the winter in the faraway south had hurried away. Still Peter was not lonely. Tommy Titt's cheery voice greeted Peter the very first thing that morning after the storm. Tommy seemed to be in just as good spirits as ever he had been in the summer. Now Peter rather likes the snow, he likes to run about in it, and so he followed Tommy Titt up to the old orchard. He felt sure that he would find company there besides Tommy Titt and he was not disappointed. Downey and Harry the Woodpeckers were getting their breakfast from a piece of suet Farmer Brown's boy had thoughtfully fastened in one of the apple trees for them. Sammy J was there also and his blue coat never had looked better than it did against the pure white of the snow. These were the only ones Peter really had expected to find in the old orchard, and so you can guess how pleased he was as he hopped over the old stone wall to hear the voice of one whom he had almost forgotten. It was the voice of Yank Yank the Nuthatch, and while it was far from being sweet, there was in it something of good cheer and contentment. At once Peter hurried in the direction from which it came. On the trunk of an apple tree he caught sight of a gray and black and white bird about the size of Downey the Woodpecker. The top of his head and upper part of his back were shining black. The rest of his back was bluish gray. The sides of his head and his breast were white. The outer feathers of his tail were black with white patches near their tips. But Peter didn't need to see how Yank Yank was dressed in order to recognize him. Peter would have known him if he had been so far away that the colors of his coat did not show at all. You see Yank Yank was doing a most surprising thing, something no other bird can do. He was walking head first down the trunk of that tree, picking tiny eggs of insects from the bark and seemingly quite as much at home and quite as unconcerned in that queer position as if he were right side up. As Peter approached, Yank Yank lifted his head and called a greeting, which sounded very much like the repetition of his own name. Then he turned around and began to climb the tree as easily as he had come Downey. Welcome home, Yank Yank, cried Peter, hurrying up quite out of breath. Yank Yank turned around so that he was once more head down and his eyes twinkled as he looked down at Peter. You're mistaken, Peter, said he. This isn't home. I've simply come down here for the winter. You know, home is where you raise your children and my home is in the great woods farther north. There's too much ice and snow up there, so I've come down here to spend the winter. Well, anyway, it's a kind of home. It's your winter home, protested Peter, and I certainly am glad to see you back. The old orchard wouldn't be quite the same without you. Did you have a pleasant summer? And if you please, Yank Yank, tell me where you built your home and what it was like. Yes, Mr. Curiosity, I had a very pleasant summer, replied Yank Yank. Mrs. Yank Yank and I raised a family of six, and that is doing a lot better than some folks I know, if I do say it. As to our nest, it was made of leaves and feathers, and it was in a hole in a certain old stump that not a soul knows of but Mrs. Yank Yank and myself. Now, is there anything else you want to know? Yes, retorted Peter promptly. I want to know how it is that you can walk headfirst down the trunk of a tree without losing your balance and tumbling off. Yank Yank chuckled happily. I discovered a long time ago, Peter, said he, that the people who get on best in this world are those who make the most of what they have and waste no time wishing they could have what other people have. I suppose you've noticed that all the woodpecker family have stiff tail feathers and use them to brace themselves when they are climbing a tree. They have become so dependent on them that they don't dare move about on the trunk of a tree without using them. If they want to come down a tree, they have to back down. Now, old mother nature didn't give me a stiff tail feathers, but she gave me a very good pair of feet with three toes in front and one behind. And when I was very little fellow, I learned to make the most of those feet. Each toe has a sharp claw. When I go up a tree, the three front claws on each foot hook into the bark. When I come down a tree, I simply twist one foot around so that I can use the claws of this foot to keep me from falling. It is just as easy for me to go down a tree as it is to go up and I can go right around the trunk just as easily and comfortably. Suiting action to the word, Yank Yank ran around the trunk of the apple tree just above Peter's head. When he reappeared, Peter had another question ready. Do you live altogether on grubs and worms and insects and their eggs? He asked. I should say not, exclaimed Yank Yank. I like acorns and beech nuts in certain kinds of seeds. I don't see how such a little fellow as you can eat such hard things as acorns and beech nuts, protested Peter a little doubtfully. Yank Yank laughed right out. Sometime when I see you over in the green forest, I'll show you. Said he. When I find a fat beech nut, I take it to a little crack in a tree that will just hold it. Then with this stout bill of mine, I crack the shell. It really is quite easy when you know how. Cracking a nut open that way is sometimes called hatching. And that is how I came by the name of nut hatch. Hello. There's Seep Seep. I haven't seen him since we were together up north. His home was not far from mine. As Yank Yank spoke, a little brown bird alighted at the very foot of the next tree. It was just a trifle bigger than Jenny ran, but not at all like Jenny. For while Jenny's tail usually is cocked up in the sauciest way, Seep Seep's tail is never cocked up at all. In fact, it bends down. For Seep Seep uses his tail, just as the members of the Woodpecker family use theirs. He was dressed in grayish brown above and grayish white beneath. Across each wing was a little band of puffy white, and his bell was curved just a little. Seep Seep didn't stop an instant, but started up the trunk of that tree, going round and round it as he climbed and picking out things to eat from under the bark. His way of climbing that tree was very like creeping. And Peter thought to himself that Seep Seep was well named. The brown creeper. He knew it was quite useless to try to get Seep Seep to talk. He knew that Seep Seep wouldn't waste any time that way. Round and round up the trunk of the tree he went, and when he reached the top it once flew down to the bottom of the next tree, and without a pause started up that. He wasted no time exploring the branches, but stuck to the trunk. Once in a while he would cry in a thin little voice, Seep Seep, but never paused to rest or look around. If he had felt that on him alone depended the job of getting all the insect eggs and grubs on those trees, he could not have been more industrious. Does he build his nest in a hole in a tree, asked Peter of Yank Yank? Yank Yank shook his head. No, he replied. He hunts for a tree or stub with a piece of loose bark hanging to it. In behind this he tucks his nest, made of twigs, strips of bark and moss. He's a funny little fellow, and I don't know of anyone in all the great world who more strictly attends to his own business than does Seep Seep the brown creeper. By the way, Peter, have you seen anything of Dottie the tree sparrow? Not yet, replied Peter, but I think he must be here. I'm glad you reminded me of him. I'll go look for him. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 of the Burgess Bird Book for Children This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Having been reminded of Dottie the tree sparrow, Peter Rabbit became possessed of a great desire to find this little friend of the cold moss and learn how he had fared through the summer. He was at a loss just where to look for Dottie until he remembered a certain weedy field along the edge of which the bushes had been left growing. Perhaps I'll find him there, but Peter, for he remembered that Dottie lives most holy on seeds, chiefly weed seeds, and that he dearly loves a weedy field with bushes not far distant which he can hide. So Peter hurried over to the weedy field, and there, sure enough, he found Dottie 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 Dottie was. He was even singing as Peter came up, and all about Dottie's friends and relatives were twittering as happily and merrily as if it were the beginning of spring instead of winter. Dottie was very nearly the size of the little friend the Song Sparrow, and looked somewhat like him, to say 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 Dottie is often called the Winter Chippy. Welcome back, Dottie cried Peter. It does my heart good to see you. Thank you, Peter, twittered Dottie happily. In a way, it's 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, Dottie? asked Peter. I hope so, replied Dottie. 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 further south. Then I hope there won't be much snow, declared Peter, very empathetically. There are few enough folk about winter at best, goodness knows, and I don't know if anyone I enjoy having for a neighbor more than I do you. Thank you again, Peter cried Dottie. 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 Dottie. 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 am very fond of the sparrow family? I just love your cousin Chippy, who nests in the old orchard every spring. I wish you would stay all winter. I really don't see why he doesn't. I think he could if you can. Dottie 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 Dottie promptly. Slady the Junko and his relatives came along with us, and we had a very merry party. Peter pricked up his ears. Is Slady 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 Slady himself, chuckling merrily as he picked up seeds. He was very nearly the same size as Dottie, but trimmer. In fact, he was one of the trimmest, neatest appearing of all Peter's friends. There was no mistaking Slady the Junko 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 flush color. It looked almost white. Welcome, welcome, cried Peter. Are you here to stay all winter? I certainly am, was Slady'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, a very good friend of mine. I know he won't let me starve, no matter what the weather is. I think it's going to snow some more. I like the snow. You know, I'm sometimes called the snowbird. Quite right, Peter, quite right, replied Slady. I much prefer my own name of Junko. 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, inquire Peter? It gets too warm, replied Slady 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 far north, demanded Peter? Not exactly cold, replied Slady, 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 interrupt a dotty. If everybody liked the same things, it wouldn't do at all. Just suppose all the birds ain't 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 mostly wholly on worms and bugs and such things, leaving 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 waist, Slady, 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 Dottie 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, Dottie, who had been picking seeds off the top of a weed, gave a cry of alarm, and instantly there was a flit of many wings as Dottie and his relatives, and Slady, 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 seed-eaters. Peter stamped angrily. Then with long jumps, he started for the dear old briar patch. Lippity, Lippity lip, for truth to tell, big as he was, he was a little afraid of Black Pussy. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 of The Burgess Bird Book for Children This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess Chapter 41 More friends come with the snow, the snow-bunting, and the horned lark. Slady the Junko had been quite right in thinking it was going to snow some more. Rough Brother North Wind 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. Sometime 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 Dottie the Treesparrow and Slady the Junko. 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 Dottie and Slady, 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 north 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. Altogether 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 anyone, 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 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. End of Chapter 41 Reading by Deb Bacon-Ziegler in Oak Park, Illinois 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 ready 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 anyone sitting on any one of those branches he couldn't have helped seeing them. 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 left 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 Hoodie 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 Hoodie. 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 Ginny Wren had told him early in the spring of how Spooky the screech owl lives all the year round 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 have ever 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 crackling 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. Ha! 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, for he would be sure to find enough bark to stay his appetite. End of Chapter 42 Chapter 43 of the Burgess Bird Book for Children This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jamie Gardner The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess Chapter 43 Queer Feet and a Queerer Bill The Roughed Grouse and the Crossbills Peter Rabbit had gone over to the Green Forest to call on his cousin Jumper the Hair 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 wide as the snow itself. Squatting under a little snow covered him locked 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 great help in avoiding your enemies. It certainly is, cousin Peter, cried Jumper. Nine times out of ten, all I have to do is sit perfectly still when there was no when to carry my scent. I have had ready fox pass within a few feet of me and never suspect that I was near. I hope the 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 green forest, with all the birds going, cousin Jumper? Jumper shook his head. Not all have gone, Peter, you know, said he. Strutter the grouse and Mrs. Grouser here, and I see them every day. They've got snowshoes now. Peter blinked his eyes and looked rather perplexed. Snowshoes, he explained. 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 explained. 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 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, but 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. The bold mother nature hadn't given me something of this kind. I certainly would have a hard time of it when there's snow on the ground. If my feet were just the same as in summer, I would sink right down in when the snow was 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. Mine, 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, while most of the birds who spend the summer here have left, there are those who come down from the far north to take their place. Who, for instance, demanded Peter. Snip with a 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. Ha! 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, which were the 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. Bizzily at work on a pine cone near the top of a tree was a bird about the size of fully the English sparrow. He was dressed wholly in dull red with brownish black wings and tail. What did I tell you, cried Jumper? There is 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 flitter hot, 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 unconcerned 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 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 on 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 cone 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 or 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've never 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 wing 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 from the far north whom I haven't seen? End of Chapter 43. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Jumper the hare didn't have time to reply to Peter Rabbit's question when Peter asked if there was anyone 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 and startled surprised. 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-grey 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 Piney the Pine Grossbeak. Replied the stranger, seemingly not at all, put out by Peter's bluntness. Oh, said Peter. Are you related to Rosebreast the Grossbeak who nested last summer in the old orchard? I certainly am, replied Piney. 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 Grossbeak 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 Piney. As he said thus, he turned and Peter noticed that his tail was distinctly forked, instead of being square across, like that of Welcome Robin. Piney whistled, and almost at once he was joined by another bird, who, in shape, was just like him, but who was dressed in slatey grey and olive yellow instead of the bright red that he himself wore. Piney introduced the newcomer with Mrs. Grossbeak. Lovely weather, isn't it? said she. I love the snow. I wouldn't feel at home with no snow about. While 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. Grossbeak 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 awhile. 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 Piney come down alone? No, indeed, replied Mrs. Grossbeak. There is a flock of our relatives not far away. We came down with the cross-bills. Altogether we made quite a party. Peter and Jumper stayed awhile to gossip with the Grossbeaks. Then Peter bethought him that it was high time for him to return to the dear old briar patch, and bidding his new friends goodbye, he started off through the green forest, liberty, liberty, lip. When he reached the edge of the green forest, he decided to run over to the weedy field to see if the snowflakes in 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 in chicory the goldfinch, but when Peter looked at him he just had to rub his eyes. Gracious goodness, he muttered, must be something wrong with my eyes, said that I am seeing red. I've already seen two birds dressed in red, and now there's another. 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 anyone. 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 with 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 cross-bill and piney the gross beak. 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'm 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 Red Pole, was the prompt response. I'm called that because of my red cap. Yes indeed, I make my home in the far north. There's 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. Red Pole 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 dearly love to go. Red Pole 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 a while. Red Pole called softly and almost at once was joined by another red cap bird but without the pink breast and with sides more heavily streaked. This is Mrs. Red Pole, 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 all together on these weed seeds? Red Pole laughed as 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 cross-bill 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 and all the way home, and somehow he felt better for having made the acquaintance of the red poles. It was the feeling that everybody, so fortunate to meet them on a Goldwinners Day, is sure to have. N.44 Recording by Jamie Gardner The birches bird-book for children by Thornton W. Burgess. Chapter 45 Peter sees two terrible feathered hunters, the gauze hawk and the great horned owl. While it is true that Peter Rabbit likes winter, it is also true that life is anything but easy for him that season. In the first place he has to travel about a great deal to get sufficient food, and that means that he must run more risks. There isn't a minute of day or night that he is outside of the dear old briar patch when he can afford not to watch and listen for danger. You see, at this season of the year, Reddy Fox often finds it difficult to get a good meal. He is hungry most of the time, and he is forever hunting for Peter Rabbit. With snow on the ground and no leaves on the bushes and young trees, it is not easy for Peter to hide. So, as he travels about, the thought of Reddy Fox is always in his mind. But there are others whom Peter fears even more, and these were feathers instead of fur coats. One of these is terror, the gauze hawk. Peter is not alone in his fear of terror. There is not one among his feathered friends who will not shiver at the mention of terror's name. Peter will not soon forget the day he discovered that terror had come down from the far north and was likely to stay for the rest of the winter. Peter went hungry all the rest of that day. You see, it was this way. Peter had gone over to the green forest very early that morning in the hope of getting breakfast in a certain swamp. He was hopping along, liberty, liberty, lip, with his thoughts chiefly on that breakfast he hoped to get. But at the same time, with ears and eyes alert for possible danger, when a strange feeling swept over him. It was a feeling that great danger was very near, though he saw nothing and heard nothing to indicate it. It was just a feeling that was all. Now Peter has learned that the wise thing to do when one has such a feeling as that is to seek safety first and investigate afterwards. At the instant he felt that strange feeling of fear, he was passing a certain big hollow log. Without really knowing why he did it, because, you know, he didn't stop to do any thinking. He dived into that hollow log, and even as he did so, there was the sharp swish of great wings. Terror the gauze hawk had missed catching Peter by the fraction of a second. With his heart thumping, as if it were trying to pound its way through his ribs, Peter peeped out of that hollow log. Terror had alighted on a tall stump only a few feet away. To Peter in his fright, he seemed the biggest bird he ever had seen. Of course he wasn't. Actually he was very near the same size as Red Tail the hawk whom Peter knew well. He was handsome. There was no denying the fact that he was handsome. His back was bluish. His head seemed almost black. Over and behind each eye was a white line. Underneath he was beautifully marked with wavy bars of gray and white. On his tail were four dark bands. Yes, he was handsome. But Peter had no thought for his beauty. He could see nothing but the fierceness of the eyes that were fixed on the entrance to that hollow log. Peter shivered as if with a cold chill. He knew that in terror was no pity or gentleness. I hope, thought Peter, that Mr. and Mrs. Grouse are nowhere about. You see, he knew that there is no one that terror would rather catch than a member of the grouse family. Terror did not sit on that stump long. He knew that Peter was not likely to come out in a hurry. Presently he flew away, and Peter suspected from the direction in which he was headed that terror was going over to visit Farmer Brown's hen yard. Of all the members of the hawk family, there is none more bold than terror the gauze hawk. He would not hesitate to seize a hen from almost beneath Farmer Brown's nose. He is well named for the mere suspicion that he is anywhere about strikes terror to the heart of all the furred and feathered folks. He is so swift of wing that few can escape him, and he has no pity but kills for the mere love of killing. In this respect he is like shadow the weasel. To kill for food is forgiven by the little people of the green forest and the green meadows, but to kill needlessly is unpardonable. This is why terror the gauze hawk is universally hated and has not a single friend. All that day Peter remained hidden in that hollow log. He did not dare put foot outside until the black shadows began to creep through the green forest. Then he knew that there was nothing more to fear from terror the gauze hawk, for he hunts only by day. Once more Peter's thoughts were chiefly of his stomach, for it was very, very empty. But it was not intended that Peter should fill his stomach at once. He had gone but a little way when from just ahead of him the silence of the early evening was broken by a terrifying sound. It was so sudden and there was in it such a note of fierceness that Peter had all he could do to keep from jumping and running for dear life. But he knew that voice, and he knew too that safety lay in keeping perfectly still. So with his heart bumping madly as when he had escaped from terror that morning, Peter sat as still as if he could not move. It was the hunting call of Hoodie, the great horned owl, and it had been intended to frighten someone into jumping and running, or at least into moving ever so little. Peter knew all about that trick of Hoodies. He knew that in all the green forest there are no ears so wonderful as those of Hoodie the owl, and that the instant he had uttered that fierce hunting call he had strained those wonderful ears to catch the faintest sound which some startled little sleeper of the night might make. The rustle of a leaf would be enough to bring Hoodie to the spot on his great silent wings, and then his fierce yellow eyes which are made for seeing in the dusk would find the victim. So Peter sat still, fearful that the very thumping of his heart might reach those wonderful ears. Again that terrible hunting cry rang out, and again Peter had all he could do to keep from jumping. But he didn't jump, and a few minutes later, as he sat staring at a certain tall dead stub of a tree, wondering just where Hoodie was, the top of that stub seemed to break off, and a great broad-winged bird flew away soundlessly, like a drifting shadow. It was Hoodie himself. Sitting perfectly straight on the top of that tall dead stub, he had seemed a part of it. Peter waited some time before he ventured to move. Finally he heard Hoodie's hunting call in a distant part of the green forest, and knew that it was safe for him to once more think of his empty stomach. Later in the winter, while the snow still lay in the green forest, and the ice still bound the laughing brook, Peter made a surprising discovery. He was over in a certain lonely part of the green forest when he happened to remember that near there was an old nest which had once belonged to red-tailed the hawk. Out of idle curiosity Peter ran over for a look at that old nest. Imagine how surprised he was when just as he came within sight of it, he saw a great bird just settling down on it. Peter's heart jumped right up in his throat. At least that is the way it seemed, for he recognized Mrs. Hoodie. Of course Peter stopped right where he was, and took the greatest care not to move or make a sound. Presently Hoodie himself appeared and perched in a tree near at hand. Peter has seen Hoodie many times before, but always is a great drifting shadow in the moonlight. Now he could see him clearly. As he sat bolt upright, he seemed to be of the same height as terror the gauze hawk, but with a very much bigger body. If Peter had but known it, his appearance of great size was largely due to the fluffy feathers in which Hoodie was clothed. Like his small cousin, spooky the screech owl, Hoodie seemed to have no neck at all. He looked as if his great head was set directly on his shoulders. From each side of his head two great tufts of feathers stood out like ears or horns. His bill was sharply hooked. He was dressed wholly in reddish brown with little buff and black markings, and on his throat was a white patch. His legs were feathered, and so were his feet clear to the great claws. But it was on the great, round, fierce yellow eyes that Peter kept his own eyes. He had always thought of Hoodie as being able to see only in the dusk of evening or on moonlight nights, but somehow he had a feeling that even now in broad daylight Hoodie could see perfectly well, and he was quite right. For a long time Peter sat there without moving. He dared not do anything else. After he had recovered from his first fright, he began to wonder what Hoodie and Mrs. Hoodie were doing at that old nest. His curiosity was aroused. He felt that he simply must find out. By and by Hoodie flew away very carefully, so as not to attract the attention of Mrs. Hoodie. Peter stole back the way he had come. When he was far enough away to feel reasonably safe, he scampered as fast as ever he could. He wanted to get away from that place, and he wanted to find someone of whom he could ask questions. Presently he met his cousin, Jumper the Hare, and at once in a most excited manner told him all he had seen. Jumper listened until Peter was through. If you'll take my advice, said he, you'll keep away from that part of the green forest, cousin Peter. From what you tell me, it is quite clear to me that the Hoodies have begun nesting. Nesting, exclaimed Peter, nesting why gentle Mr. Spring will not get here for a month yet. I said, nesting, retorted Jumper, speaking rather crossly, for you see he did not like to have his word doubted. Hoodie, the great horned owl, doesn't wait for Mr. Spring. He and Mrs. Hoodie believe in getting household cares out of the way early. Along about this time of year they hunt up an old nest of red-tailed hawk, or blacky the crow, or chatterer the red squirrel, for they do not take the trouble to build a nest themselves. Then Mrs. Hoodie lays her eggs while there is still snow and ice. Why their youngsters don't catch their death from cold when they hatch out is more than I can say. But they don't. I'm sorry to hear that the Hoodies have a nest here this year. It means a bad time for a lot of little folks in feathers and fur. I certainly shall keep away from that part of the green forest, and I advise you to. Peter said that he certainly should, and then started on for the dear old briar patch to think things over. The discovery that already the nesting season of a new year had begun turned Peter's thoughts toward the coming of sweet Mr. Spring and the return of his many feathered friends who had left for the faraway south so long before. A great longing to hear the voices of Welcome Robin and Winsome Bluebird and little friend the Song Sparrow swept over him, and a still greater longing for a bit of friendly gossip with Ginny Wren. In the past year he had learned much about his feathered neighbors, but there were still many things he wanted to know, things which only Ginny Wren could tell him. He was only just beginning to find out that no one knows all there is to know, especially about the birds, and no one ever will.