Introducing the House Wren.
Lipperty-lipperty-lip scampered Peter Rabbit behind the tumble-down
stone wall along one side of the Old Orchard. It was early in the
morning, very early in the morning. In fact, jolly, bright Mr. Sun had
hardly begun his daily climb up in the blue, blue sky. It was nothing
unusual for Peter to see jolly Mr. Sun get up in the morning. It would
be more unusual for Peter not to see him, for you know Peter is a great
hand to stay out all night and not go back to the dear Old Briar-patch,
where his home is, until the hour when most folks are just getting out
of bed.
Peter had been out all night this time, but he wasn't sleepy, not the
least teeny, weeny bit. You see, sweet Mistress Spring had arrived, and
there was so much happening on every side, and Peter was so afraid he
would miss something, that he wouldn't have slept at all if he could
have helped it. Peter had come over to the Old Orchard so early this
morning to see if there had been any new arrivals the day before.
"Birds are funny creatures," said Peter, as he hopped over a low place
in the old stone wall and was fairly in the Old Orchard.
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!" cried a rather sharp scolding voice. "Tut,
tut, tut, tut, tut! You don't know what you are talking about, Peter
Rabbit. They are not funny creatures at all. They are the most sensible
folks in all the wide world."
Peter cut a long hop short right in the middle, to sit up with shining
eyes. "Oh, Jenny Wren, I'm so glad to see you! When did you arrive?" he
cried.
"Mr. Wren and I have just arrived, and thank goodness we are here at
last," replied Jenny Wren, fussing about, as only she can, in a branch
above Peter. "I never was more thankful in my life to see a place than I
am right this minute to see the Old Orchard once more. It seems ages and
ages since we left it."
"Well, if you are so fond of it what did you leave it for?" demanded
Peter. "It is just as I said before--you birds are funny creatures. You
never stay put; at least a lot of you don't. Sammy Jay and Tommy Tit
the Chickadee and Drummer the Woodpecker and a few others have a little
sense; they don't go off on long, foolish journeys. But the rest of
you--"
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!" interrupted Jenny Wren. "You don't know what
you are talking about, and no one sounds so silly as one who tries to
talk about something he knows nothing about."
Peter chuckled. "That tongue of yours is just as sharp as ever," said
he. "But just the same it is good to hear it. We certainly would miss
it. I was beginning to be a little worried for fear something might have
happened to you so that you wouldn't be back here this summer. You know
me well enough, Jenny Wren, to know that you can't hurt me with your
tongue, sharp as it is, so you may as well save your breath to tell me a
few things I want to know. Now if you are as fond of the Old Orchard as
you pretend to be, why did you ever leave it?"
Jenny Wren's bright eyes snapped. "Why do you eat?" she asked tartly.
"Because I'm hungry," replied Peter promptly.
"What would you eat if there were nothing to eat?" snapped Jenny.
"That's a silly question," retorted Peter.
"No more silly than asking me why I leave the Old Orchard," replied
Jenny. "Do give us birds credit for a little common sense, Peter. We
can't live without eating any more than you can, and in winter there is
no food at all here for most of us, so we go where there is food. Those
who are lucky enough to eat the kinds of food that can be found here in
winter stay here. They are lucky. That's what they are--lucky. Still--"
Jenny Wren paused.
"Still what?" prompted Peter.
"I wonder sometimes if you folks who are at home all the time know just
what a blessed place home is," replied Jenny. "It is only six months
since we went south, but I said it seems ages, and it does. The best
part of going away is coming home. I don't care if that does sound
rather mixed; it is true just the same. It isn't home down there in the
sunny South, even if we do spend as much time there as we do here. THIS
is home, and there's no place like it! What's that, Mr. Wren? I haven't
seen all the Great World? Perhaps I haven't, but I've seen enough of it,
let me tell you that! Anyone who travels a thousand miles twice a year
as we do has a right to express an opinion, especially if they have used
their eyes as I have mine. There is no place like home, and you needn't
try to tease me by pretending that there is. My dear, I know you; you
are just as tickled to be back here as I am."
"He sings as if he were," said Peter, for all the time Mr. Wren was
singing with all his might.
Jenny Wren looked over at Mr. Wren fondly. "Isn't he a dear to sing to
me like that? And isn't it a perfectly beautiful spring song?" said she.
Then, without waiting for Peter to reply, her tongue rattled on. "I do
wish he would be careful. Sometimes I am afraid he will overdo. Just
look at him now! He is singing so hard that he is shaking all over. He
always is that way. There is one thing true about us Wrens, and this is
that when we do things we do them with all our might. When we work
we work with all our might. When Mr. Wren sings he sings with all his
might."
"And, when you scold you scold with all your might," interrupted Peter
mischievously.
Jenny Wren opened her mouth for a sharp reply, but laughed instead. "I
suppose I do scold a good deal," said she, "but if I didn't goodness
knows who wouldn't impose on us. I can't bear to be imposed on."
"Did you have a pleasant journey up from the sunny South?" asked Peter.
"Fairly pleasant," replied Jenny. "We took it rather easily, Some birds
hurry right through without stopping, but I should think they would be
tired to death when they arrive. We rest whenever we are tired, and just
follow along behind Mistress Spring, keeping far enough behind so that
if she has to turn back we will not get caught by Jack Frost. It gives
us time to get our new suits on the way. You know everybody expects you
to have new things when you return home. How do you like my new suit,
Peter?" Jenny bobbed and twisted and turned to show it off. It was plain
to see that she was very proud of it.
"Very much," replied Peter. "I am very fond of brown. Brown and gray are
my favorite colors." You know Peter's own coat is brown and gray.
"That is one of the most sensible things I have heard you say,"
chattered Jenny Wren. "The more I see of bright colors the better I like
brown. It always is in good taste. It goes well with almost everything.
It is neat and it is useful. If there is need of getting out of sight in
a hurry you can do it if you wear brown. But if you wear bright colors
it isn't so easy. I never envy anybody who happens to have brighter
clothes than mine. I've seen dreadful things happen all because of
wearing bright colors."
"What?" demanded Peter.
"I'd rather not talk about them," declared Jenny in a very emphatic way.
"'Way down where we spent the winter some of the feathered folks who
live there all the year round wear the brightest and most beautiful
suits I've ever seen. They are simply gorgeous. But I've noticed that in
times of danger these are the folks dreadful things happen to. You see
they simply can't get out of sight. For my part I would far rather be
simply and neatly dressed and feel safe than to wear wonderful clothes
and never know a minute's peace. Why, there are some families I know of
which, because of their beautiful suits, have been so hunted by men that
hardly any are left. But gracious, Peter Rabbit, I can't sit here all
day talking to you! I must find out who else has arrived in the Old
Orchard and must look my old house over to see if it is fit to live in."
CHAPTER II. The Old Orchard Bully.
Peter Rabbit's eyes twinkled when Jenny Wren said that she must look
her old house over to see if it was fit to live in. "I can save you that
trouble," said he.
"What do you mean?" Jenny's voice was very sharp.
"Only that our old house is already occupied," replied Peter. "Bully the
English Sparrow has been living in it for the last two months. In fact,
he already has a good-sized family there."
"What?" screamed Jenny and Mr. Wren together. Then without even saying
good-by to Peter, they flew in a great rage to see if he had told them
the truth. Presently he heard them scolding as fast as their tongues
could go, and this is very fast indeed.
"Much good that will do them," chuckled Peter. "They will have to find
a new house this year. All the sharp tongues in the world couldn't budge
Bully the English sparrow. My, my, my, my, just hear that racket! I
think I'll go over and see what is going on."
So Peter hopped to a place where he could get a good view of Jenny
Wren's old home and still not be too far from the safety of the old
stone wall. Jenny Wren's old home had been in a hole in one of the old
apple-trees. Looking over to it, Peter could see Mrs. Bully sitting
in the little round doorway and quite filling it. She was shrieking
excitedly. Hopping and flitting from twig to twig close by were Jenny
and Mr. Wren, their tails pointing almost straight up to the sky, and
scolding as fast as they could make their tongues go. Flying savagely at
one and then at the other, and almost drowning their voices with his own
harsh cries, was Bully himself. He was perhaps one fourth larger than
Mr. Wren, although he looked half again as big. But for the fact that
his new spring suit was very dirty, due to his fondness for taking dust
baths and the fact that he cares nothing about his personal appearance
and takes no care of himself, he would have been a fairly good-looking
fellow. His back was more or less of an ashy color with black and
chestnut stripes. His wings were brown with a white bar on each. His
throat and breast were black, and below that he was of a dirty white.
The sides of his throat were white and the back of his neck chestnut.
By ruffling up his feathers and raising his wings slightly as he hopped
about, he managed to make himself appear much bigger than he really was.
He looked like a regular little fighting savage. The noise had brought
all the other birds in the Old Orchard to see what was going on, and
every one of them was screaming and urging Jenny and Mr. Wren to stand
up for their rights. Not one of them had a good word for Bully and his
wife. It certainly was a disgraceful neighborhood squabble.
Bully the English Sparrow is a born fighter. He never is happier than
when he is in the midst of a fight or a fuss of some kind. The fact that
all his neighbors were against him didn't bother Bully in the least.
Jenny and Mr. Wren are no cowards, but the two together were no match
for Bully. In fact, Bully did not hesitate to fly fiercely at any of the
onlookers who came near enough, not even when they were twice his own
size. They could have driven him from the Old Orchard had they set out
to, but just by his boldness and appearance he made them afraid to try.
All the time Mrs. Bully sat in the little round doorway, encouraging
him. She knew that as long as she sat there it would be impossible for
either Jenny or Mr. Wren to get in. Truth to tell, she was enjoying
it all, for she is as quarrelsome and as fond of fighting as is Bully
himself.
"You're a sneak! You're a robber! That's my house, and the sooner you
get out of it the better!" shrieked Jenny Wren, jerking her tail with
every word as she hopped about just out of reach of Bully.
"It may have been your house once, but it is mine now, you little
snip-of-nothing!" cried Bully, rushing at her like a little fury. "Just
try to put us out if you dare! You didn't make this house in the first
place, and you deserted it when you went south last fall. It's mine now,
and there isn't anybody in the Old Orchard who can put me out."
Peter Rabbit nodded. "He's right there," muttered Peter. "I don't like
him and never will, but it is true that he has a perfect right to that
house. People who go off and leave things for half a year shouldn't
expect to find them just as they left them. My, my, my what a dreadful
noise! Why don't they all get together and drive Bully and Mrs. Bully
out of the Old Orchard? If they don't I'm afraid he will drive them out.
No one likes to live with such quarrelsome neighbors. They don't belong
over in this country, anyway, and we would be a lot better off if they
were not here. But I must say I do have to admire their spunk."
All the time Bully was darting savagely at this one and that one and
having a thoroughly good time, which is more than could be said of any
one else, except Mrs. Bully.
"I'll teach you folks to know that I am in the Old Orchard to stay!"
shrieked Bully. "If you don't like it, why don't you fight? I am not
afraid of any of you or all of you together." This was boasting, plain
boasting, but it was effective. He actually made the other birds believe
it. Not one of them dared stand up to him and fight. They were content
to call him a bully and all the bad names they could think of, but that
did nothing to help Jenny and Mr. Wren recover their house. Calling
another bad names never hurts him. Brave deeds and not brave words are
what count.
How long that disgraceful squabble in the Old Orchard would have lasted
had it not been for something which happened, no one knows. Right in the
midst of it some one discovered Black Pussy, the cat who lives in Farmer
Brown's house, stealing up through the Old Orchard, her tail twitching
and her yellow eyes glaring eagerly. She had heard that dreadful racket
and suspected that in the midst of such excitement she might have a
chance to catch one of the feathered folks. You can always trust Black
Pussy to be on hand at a time like that.
No sooner was she discovered than everything else was forgotten. With
Bully in the lead, and Jenny and Mr. Wren close behind him, all the
birds turned their attention to Black Pussy. She was the enemy of all,
and they straightway forgot their own quarrel. Only Mrs. Bully remained
where she was, in the little round doorway of her house. She intended
to take no chances, but she added her voice to the general racket. How
those birds did shriek and scream! They darted down almost into the face
of Black Pussy, and none went nearer than Bully the English Sparrow and
Jenny Wren.
Now Black Pussy hates to be the center of so much attention. She knew
that, now she had been discovered, there wasn't a chance in the world
for her to catch one of those Old Orchard folks. So, with tail still
twitching angrily, she turned and, with such dignity as she could, left
the Old Orchard. Clear to the edge of it the birds followed, shrieking,
screaming, calling her bad names, and threatening to do all sorts of
dreadful things to her, quite as if they really could.
When finally she disappeared towards Farmer Brown's barn, those angry
voices changed. It was such a funny change that Peter Rabbit laughed
right out. Instead of anger there was triumph in every note as everybody
returned to attend to his own affairs. Jenny and Mr. Wren seemed to have
forgotten all about Bully and his wife in their old house. They flew to
another part of the Old Orchard, there to talk it all over and rest and
get their breath. Peter Rabbit waited to see if they would not come
over near enough to him for a little more gossip. But they didn't, and
finally Peter started for his home in the dear Old Briar-patch. All the
way there he chuckled as he thought of the spunky way in which Jenny and
Mr. Wren had stood up for their rights.
CHAPTER III. Jenny Has a Good Word for Some Sparrows.
The morning after the fight between Jenny and Mr. Wren and Bully the
English Sparrow found Peter Rabbit in the Old Orchard again. He was so
curious to know what Jenny Wren would do for a house that nothing but
some very great danger could have kept him away from there. Truth to
tell, Peter was afraid that not being able to have their old house,
Jenny and Mr. Wren would decide to leave the Old Orchard altogether. So
it was with a great deal of relief that as he hopped over a low place in
the old stone wall he heard Mr. Wren singing with all his might.
The song was coming from quite the other side of the Old Orchard from
where Bully and Mrs. Bully had set up housekeeping. Peter hurried over.
He found Mr. Wren right away, but at first saw nothing of Jenny. He
was just about to ask after her when he caught sight of her with a tiny
stick in her bill. She snapped her sharp little eyes at him, but for
once her tongue was still. You see, she couldn't talk and carry that
stick at the same time. Peter watched her and saw her disappear in a
little hole in a big branch of one of the old apple-trees. Hardly had
she popped in than she popped out again. This time her mouth was free,
and so was her tongue.
"You'd better stop singing and help me," she said to Mr. Wren sharply.
Mr. Wren obediently stopped singing and began to hunt for a tiny little
twig such as Jenny had taken into that hole.
"Well!" exclaimed Peter. "It didn't take you long to find a new house,
did it?"
"Certainly not," snapped Jenny "We can't afford to sit around wasting
time like some folk I know."
Peter grinned and looked a little foolish, but he didn't resent it. You
see he was quite used to that sort of thing. "Aren't you afraid that
Bully will try to drive you out of that house?" he ventured.
Jenny Wren's sharp little eyes snapped more than ever. "I'd like to see
him try!" said she. "That doorway's too small for him to get more than
his head in. And if he tries putting his head in while I'm inside, I'll
peck his eyes out! She said this so fiercely that Peter laughed right
out.
"I really believe you would," said he.
"I certainly would," she retorted. "Now I can't stop to talk to you,
Peter Rabbit, because I'm too busy. Mr. Wren, you ought to know that
that stick is too big." Jenny snatched it out of Mr. Wren's mouth
and dropped it on the ground, while Mr. Wren meekly went to hunt for
another. Jenny joined him, and as Peter watched them he understood why
Jenny is so often spoken of as a feathered busybody.
For some time Peter Rabbit watched Jenny and Mr. Wren carry sticks and
straws into that little hole until it seemed to him they were trying
to fill the whole inside of the tree. Just watching them made Peter
positively tired. Mr. Wren would stop every now and then to sing, but
Jenny didn't waste a minute. In spite of that she managed to talk just
the same.
"I suppose Little Friend the Song Sparrow got here some time ago," said
she.
Peter nodded. "Yes," said he. "I saw him only a day or two ago over by
the Laughing Brook, and although he wouldn't say so, I'm sure that he
has a nest and eggs already."
Jenny Wren jerked her tail and nodded her head vigorously. "I suppose
so," said she. "He doesn't have to make as long a journey as we do, so
he gets here sooner. Did you ever in your life see such a difference as
there is between Little Friend and his cousin, Bully? Everybody loves
Little Friend."
Once more Peter nodded. "That's right," said he. "Everybody does love
Little Friend. It makes me feel sort of all glad inside just to hear
him sing. I guess it makes everybody feel that way. I wonder why we so
seldom see him up here in the Old Orchard."
"Because he likes damp places with plenty of bushes better," replied
Jenny Wren. "It wouldn't do for everybody to like the same kind of
a place. He isn't a tree bird, anyway. He likes to be on or near the
ground. You will never find his nest much above the ground, not more
than a foot or two. Quite often it is on the ground. Of course I prefer
Mr. Wren's song, but I must admit that Little Friend has one of the
happiest songs of any one I know. Then, too, he is so modest, just like
us Wrens."
Peter turned his head aside to hide a smile, for if there is anybody
who delights in being both seen and heard it is Jenny Wren, while Little
Friend the Song Sparrow is shy and retiring, content to make all the
world glad with his song, but preferring to keep out of sight as much as
possible.
Jenny chattered on as she hunted for some more material for her nest. "I
suppose you've noticed," said she, "that he and his wife dress very much
alike. They don't go in for bright colors any more than we Wrens do.
They show good taste. I like the little brown caps they wear, and the
way their breasts and sides are streaked with brown. Then, too, they are
such useful folks. It is a pity that that nuisance of a Bully doesn't
learn something from them. I suppose they stay rather later than we do
in the fall."
"Yes," replied Peter. "They don't go until Jack Frost makes them. I
don't know of any one that we miss more than we do them."
"Speaking of the sparrow family, did you see anything of Whitethroat?"
asked Jenny Wren, as she rested for a moment in the doorway of her new
house and looked down at Peter Rabbit.
Peter's face brightened. "I should say I did!" he exclaimed. "He stopped
for a few days on his way north. I only wish he would stay here all the
time. But he seems to think there is no place like the Great Woods
of the North. I could listen all day to his song. Do you know what he
always seems to be saying?"
"What?" demanded Jenny.
"I live happ-i-ly, happ-i-ly, happ-i-ly," replied Peter. "I guess he
must too, because he makes other people so happy."
Jenny nodded in her usual emphatic way. "I don't know him as well as I
do some of the others," said she, "but when I have seen him down in
the South he always has appeared to me to be a perfect gentleman. He is
social, too; he likes to travel with others."
"I've noticed that," said Peter. "He almost always has company when he
passes through here. Some of those Sparrows are so much alike that it
is hard for me to tell them apart, but I can always tell Whitethroat
because he is one of the largest of the tribe and has such a lovely
white throat. He really is handsome with his black and white cap and
that bright yellow spot before each eye. I am told that he is very
dearly loved up in the north where he makes his home. They say he sings
all the time."
"I suppose Scratcher the Fox Sparrow has been along too," said Jenny.
"He also started sometime before we did."
"Yes," replied Peter. "He spent one night in the dear Old Briar-patch.
He is fine looking too, the biggest of all the Sparrow tribe, and HOW he
can sing. The only thing I've got against him is the color of his
coat. It always reminds me of Reddy Fox, and I don't like anything that
reminds me of that fellow. When he visited us I discovered something
about Scratcher which I don't believe you know."
"What?" demanded Jenny rather sharply.
"That when he scratches among the leaves he uses both feet at once,"
cried Peter triumphantly. "It's funny to watch him."
"Pooh! I knew that," retorted Jenny Wren. "What do you suppose my eyes
are make for? I thought you were going to tell me something I didn't
know."
Peter looked disappointed.
CHAPTER IV. Chippy, Sweetvoice, and Dotty.
For a while Jenny Wren was too busy to talk save to scold Mr. Wren for
spending so much time singing instead of working. To Peter it seemed
as if they were trying to fill that tree trunk with rubbish. "I should
think they had enough stuff in there for half a dozen nests," muttered
Peter. "I do believe they are carrying it in for the fun of working."
Peter wasn't far wrong in this thought, as he was to discover a little
later in the season when he found Mr. Wren building another nest for
which he had no use.
Finding that for the time being he could get nothing more from Jenny
Wren, Peter hopped over to visit Johnny Chuck, whose home was between
the roots of an old apple-tree in the far corner of the Old Orchard.
Peter was still thinking of the Sparrow family; what a big family it
was, yet how seldom any of them, excepting Bully the English Sparrow,
were to be found in the Old Orchard.
"Hello, Johnny Chuck!" cried Peter, as he discovered Johnny sitting on
his doorstep. "You've lived in the Old Orchard a long time, so you ought
to be able to tell me something I want to know. Why is it that none of
the Sparrow family excepting that noisy nuisance, Bully, build in the
trees of the Old Orchard? Is it because Bully has driven all the rest
out?"
Johnny Chuck shook his head. "Peter," said he, "whatever is the matter
with your ears? And whatever is the matter with your eyes?"
"Nothing," replied Peter rather shortly. "They are as good as yours any
day, Johnny Chuck."
Johnny grinned. "Listen!" said Johnny. Peter listened. From a tree just
a little way off came a clear "Chip, chip, chip, chip." Peter didn't
need to be told to look. He knew without looking who was over there. He
knew that voice for that of one of his oldest and best friends in the
Old Orchard, a little fellow with a red-brown cap, brown back with
feathers streaked with black, brownish wings and tail, a gray waistcoat
and black bill, and a little white line over each eye--altogether as
trim a little gentleman as Peter was acquainted with. It was Chippy, as
everybody calls the Chipping Sparrow, the smallest of the family.
Peter looked a little foolish. "I forgot all about Chippy," said he.
"Now I think of it, I have found Chippy here in the Old Orchard ever
since I can remember. I never have seen his nest because I never
happened to think about looking for it. Does he build a trashy nest like
his cousin, Bully?"
Johnny Chuck laughed. "I should say not!" he exclaimed. "Twice Chippy
and Mrs. Chippy have built their nest in this very old apple-tree. There
is no trash in their nest, I can tell you! It is just as dainty as they
are, and not a bit bigger than it has to be. It is made mostly of little
fine, dry roots, and it is lined inside with horse-hair."
"What's that?" Peter's voice sounded as it he suspected that Johnny
Chuck was trying to fool him.
"It's a fact," said Johnny, nodding his head gravely. "Goodness knows
where they find it these days, but find it they do. Here comes Chippy
himself; ask him."
Chippy and Mrs. Chippy came flitting from tree to tree until they were
on a branch right over Peter and Johnny. "Hello!" cried Peter. "You
folks seem very busy. Haven't you finished building your nest yet?"
"Nearly," replied Chippy. "It is all done but the horsehair. We are on
our way up to Farmer Brown's barnyard now to look for some. You haven't
seen any around anywhere, have you?"
Peter and Johnny shook their heads, and Peter confessed that he wouldn't
know horsehair if he saw it. He often had found hair from the coats of
Reddy Fox and Old Man Coyote and Digger the Badger and Lightfoot the
Deer, but hair from the coat of a horse was altogether another matter.
"It isn't hair from the coat of a horse that we want," cried Chippy, as
he prepared to fly after Mrs. Chippy. "It is long hair form the tail
or mane of a horse that we must have. It makes the very nicest kind of
lining for a nest."
Chippy and Mrs. Chippy were gone a long time, but when they did return
each was carrying a long black hair. They had found what they wanted,
and Mrs. Chippy was in high spirits because, as she took pains to
explain to Peter, that little nest would not soon be ready for the four
beautiful little blue eggs with black spots on one end she meant to lay
in it.
"I just love Chippy and Mrs. Chippy," said Peter, as they watched their
two little feathered friends putting the finishing touches to the little
nest far out on a branch of one of the apple-trees.
"Everybody does," replied Johnny. "Everybody loves them as much as they
hate Bully and his wife. Did you know that they are sometimes called
Tree Sparrows? I suppose it is because they so often build their nests
in trees?"
"No," said Peter, "I didn't. Chippy shouldn't be called Tree Sparrow,
because he has a cousin by that name."
Johnny Chuck looked as if he doubted that, "I never heard of him," he
grunted.
Peter grinned. Here was a chance to tell Johnny Chuck something, and
Peter never is happier than when he can tell folks something they don't
know. "You'd know him if you didn't sleep all winter," said Peter.
"Dotty the Tree Sparrow spends the winter here. He left for his home in
the Far North about the time you took it into your head to wake up."
"Why do you call him Dotty?" asked Johnny Chuck.
"Because he has a little round black dot right in the middle of his
breast," replied Peter. "I don't know why they call him Tree Sparrow; he
doesn't spend his time in the trees the way Chippy does, but I see him
much oftener in low bushes or on the ground. I think Chippy has much
more right to the name of Tree Sparrow than Dotty has. Now I think of
it, I've heard Dotty called the Winter Chippy."
"Gracious, what a mix-up!" exclaimed Johnny Chuck. "With Chippy being
called a Tree Sparrow and a Tree Sparrow called Chippy, I should think
folks would get all tangled up."
"Perhaps they would," replied Peter, "if both were here at the same
time, but Chippy comes just as Dotty goes, and Dotty comes as Chippy
goes. That's a pretty good arrangement, especially as they look very
much alike, excepting that Dotty is quite a little bigger than Chippy
and always has that black dot, which Chippy does not have. Goodness
gracious, it is time I was back in the dear Old Briar-patch! Good-by,
Johnny Chuck."
Away went Peter Rabbit, lipperty-lipperty-lip, heading for the dear
Old Briar-patch. Out of the grass just ahead of him flew a rather pale,
streaked little brown bird, and as he spread his tail Peter saw two
white feathers on the outer edges. Those two white feathers were all
Peter needed to recognize another little friend of whom he is very fond.
It was Sweetvoice the Vesper Sparrow, the only one of the Sparrow family
with white feathers in his tail.
"Come over to the dear Old Briar-patch and sing to me," cried Peter.
Sweetvoice dropped down into the grass again, and when Peter came
up, was very busy getting a mouthful of dry grass. "Can't," mumbled
Sweetvoice. "Can't do it now, Peter Rabbit. I'm too busy. It is high
time our nest was finished, and Mrs. Sweetvoice will lose her patience
if I don't get this grass over there pretty quick."
"Where is your nest; in a tree?" asked Peter innocently.
"That's telling," declared Sweetvoice. "Not a living soul knows where
that nest is, excepting Mrs. Sweetvoice and myself. This much I will
tell you, Peter: it isn't in a tree. And I'll tell you this much more:
it is in a hoofprint of Bossy the Cow."
"In a WHAT?" cried Peter.
"In a hoofprint of Bossy the Cow," repeated Sweetvoice, chuckling
softly. "You know when the ground was wet and soft early this spring,
Bossy left deep footprints wherever she went. One of these makes the
nicest kind of a place for a nest. I think we have picked out the very
best one on all the Green Meadows. Now run along, Peter Rabbit, and
don't bother me any more. I've got too much to do to sit here talking.
Perhaps I'll come over to the edge of the dear Old Briar-patch and sing
to you a while just after jolly, round, red Mr. Sun goes to bed behind
the Purple Hills. I just love to sing then."
"I'll be watching for you," replied Peter. "You don't love to sing any
better than I love to hear you. I think that is the best time of all
the day in which to sing. I mean, I think it's the best time to hear
singing," for of course Peter himself does not sing at all.
That night, sure enough, just as the Black Shadows came creeping out
over the Green Meadows, Sweetvoice, perched on the top of a bramble-bush
over Peter's head, sang over and over again the sweetest little song and
kept on singing even after it was quite dark. Peter didn't know it, but
it is this habit of singing in the evening which has given Sweetvoice
his name of Vesper Sparrow.
CHAPTER V. Peter Learns Something He Hadn't Guessed.
Running over to the Old Orchard very early in the morning for a little
gossip with Jenny Wren and his other friends there had become a regular
thing with Peter Rabbit. He was learning a great many things, and some
of them were most surprising.
Now two of Peter's oldest and best friends in the Old Orchard were
Winsome Bluebird and Welcome Robin. Every spring they arrived pretty
nearly together, though Winsome Bluebird usually was a few days ahead
of Welcome Robin. This year Winsome had arrived while the snow still
lingered in patches. He was, as he always is, the herald of sweet
Mistress Spring. And when Peter had heard for the first time Winsome's
soft, sweet whistle, which seemed to come from nowhere in particular
and from everywhere in general, he had kicked up his long hind legs
from pure joy. Then, when a few days later he had heard Welcome Robin's
joyous message of "Cheer-up! Cheer-up! Cheer-up! Cheer-up! Cheer!" from
the tiptop of a tall tree, he had known that Mistress Spring really had
arrived.
Peter loves Winsome Bluebird and Welcome Robin, just as everybody else
does, and he had known them so long and so well that he thought he knew
all there was to know about them. He would have been very indignant had
anybody told him he didn't.
"Those cousins don't look much alike, do they?" remarked Jenny Wren, as
she poked her head out of her house to gossip with Peter.
"What cousins?" demanded Peter, staring very hard in the direction in
which Jenny Wren was looking.
"Those two sitting on the fence over there. Where are your eyes, Peter?"
replied Jenny rather sharply.
Peter stared harder than ever. On one post sat Winsome Bluebird, and
on another post sat Welcome Robin. "I don't see anybody but Winsome and
Welcome, and they are not even related," replied Peter with a little
puzzled frown.
"Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut, Peter!" exclaimed Jenny Wren. "Tut, tut, tut,
tut, tut! Who told you any such nonsense as that? Of course they are
related. They are cousins. I thought everybody knew that. They belong to
the same family that Melody the Thrush and all the other Thrushes belong
to. That makes them all cousins."
"What?" exclaimed Peter, looking as if he didn't believe a word of what
Jenny Wren had said. Jenny repeated, and still Peter looked doubtful.
Then Jenny lost her temper, a thing she does very easily. "If you don't
believe me, go ask one of them," she snapped, and disappeared inside her
house, where Peter could hear her scolding away to herself.
The more he thought of it, the more this struck Peter as good advice. So
he hopped over to the foot of the fence post on which Winsome Bluebird
was sitting. "Jenny Wren says that you and Welcome Robin are cousins.
She doesn't know what she is talking about, does she?" asked Peter.
Winsome chuckled. It was a soft, gentle chuckle. "Yes," said he, nodding
his head, "we are. You can trust that little busybody to know what she
is talking about, every time. I sometimes think she knows more about
other people's affairs than about her own. Welcome and I may not look
much alike, but we are cousins just the same. Don't you think Welcome is
looking unusually fine this spring?"
"Not a bit finer than you are yourself, Winsome," replied Peter
politely. "I just love that sky-blue coat of yours. What is the reason
that Mrs. Bluebird doesn't wear as bright a coat as you do?"
"Go ask Jenny Wren," chuckled Winsome Bluebird, and before Peter could
say another word he flew over to the roof of Farmer Brown's house.
Back scampered Peter to tell Jenny Wren that he was sorry he had doubted
her and that he never would again. Then he begged Jenny to tell him why
it was that Mrs. Bluebird was not as brightly dressed as was Winsome.
"Mrs. Bluebird, like most mothers, is altogether too busy to spend much
time taking care of her clothes; and fine clothes need a lot of care,"
replied Jenny. "Besides, when Winsome is about he attracts all the
attention and that gives her a chance to slip in and out of her nest
without being noticed. I don't believe you know, Peter Rabbit, where
Winsome's nest is."
Peter had to admit that he didn't, although he had tried his best to
find out by watching Winsome. "I think it's over in that little house
put up by Farmer Brown's boy," he ventured. "I saw both Mr. and Mrs.
Bluebird go in it when they first came, and I've seen Winsome around it
a great deal since, so I guess it is there."
"So you guess it is there!" mimicked Jenny Wren. "Well, your guess is
quite wrong, Peter; quite wrong. As a matter of fact, it is in one of
those old fence posts. But just which one I am not going to tell you. I
will leave that for you to find out. Mrs. Bluebird certainly shows good
sense. She knows a good house when she sees it. The hole in that post is
one of the best holes anywhere around here. If I had arrived here early
enough I would have taken it myself. But Mrs. Bluebird already had her
nest built in it and four eggs there, so there was nothing for me to
do but come here. Just between you and me, Peter, I think the Bluebirds
show more sense in nest building than do their cousins the Robins. There
is nothing like a house with stout walls and a doorway just big enough
to get in and out of comfortably."
Peter nodded quite as if he understood all about the advantages of
a house with walls. "That reminds me," said he. "The other day I saw
Welcome Robin getting mud and carrying it away. Pretty soon he was
joined by Mrs. Robin, and she did the same thing. They kept it up till I
got tired of watching them. What were they doing with that mud?"
"Building their nest, of course, stupid," retorted Jenny. "Welcome
Robin, with that black head, beautiful russet breast, black and white
throat and yellow bill, not to mention the proud way in which he carries
himself, certainly is a handsome fellow, and Mrs. Robin is only a little
less handsome. How they can be content to build the kind of a home they
do is more than I can understand. People think that Mr. Wren and I use
a lot of trash in our nest. Perhaps we do, but I can tell you one thing,
and that is it is clean trash. It is just sticks and clean straws, and
before I lay my eggs I see to it that my nest is lined with feathers.
More than this, there isn't any cleaner housekeeper than I am, if I do
say it.
"Welcome Robin is a fine looker and a fine singer, and everybody loves
him. But when it comes to housekeeping, he and Mrs. Robin are just plain
dirty. They make the foundation of their nest of mud,--plain, common,
ordinary mud. They cover this with dead grass, and sometimes there is
mighty little of this over the inside walls of mud. I know because I've
seen the inside of their nest often. Anybody with any eyes at all can
find their nest. More than once I've known them to have their nest
washed away in a heavy rain, or have it blown down in a high wind.
Nothing like that ever happens to Winsome Bluebird or to me."
Jenny disappeared inside her house, and Peter waited for her to come out
again. Welcome Robin flew down on the ground, ran a few steps, and then
stood still with his head on one side as if listening. Then he reached
down and tugged at something, and presently out of the ground came
a long, wriggling angleworm. Welcome gulped it down and ran on a few
steps, then once more paused to listen. This time he turned and ran
three or four steps to the right, where he pulled another worm out of
the ground.
"He acts as if he heard those worms in the ground," said Peter, speaking
aloud without thinking.
"He does," said Jenny Wren, poking her head out of her doorway just as
Peter spoke. "How do you suppose he would find them when they are in the
ground if he didn't hear them?"
"Can you hear them?" asked Peter.
"I've never tried, and I don't intend to waste my time trying," retorted
Jenny. "Welcome Robin may enjoy eating them, but for my part I want
something smaller and daintier, young grasshoppers, tender young
beetles, small caterpillars, bugs and spiders."
Peter had to turn his head aside to hide the wry face he just had to
make at the mention of such things as food. "Is that all Welcome Robin
eats?" he asked innocently.
"I should say not," laughed Jenny. "He eats a lot of other kinds of
worms, and he just dearly loves fruit like strawberries and cherries and
all sorts of small berries. Well, I can't stop here talking any longer.
I'm going to tell you a secret, Peter, if you'll promise not to tell."
Of course Peter promised, and Jenny leaned so far down that Peter
wondered how she could keep from falling as she whispered, "I've got
seven eggs in my nest, so if you don't see much of me for the next week
or more, you'll know why. I've just got to sit on those eggs and keep
them warm."
CHAPTER VI. An Old Friend In a New Home.
Every day brought newcomers to the Old Orchard, and early in the morning there were so many voices to be heard that perhaps it is no wonder if for some time Peter Rabbit failed to miss that of one of his very good friends. Most unexpectedly he was reminded of this as very early one morning he scampered, lipperty-lipperty-lip, across a little bridge over the Laughing Brook.
"Dear me! Dear me! Dear me!" cried rather a plaintive voice. Peter stopped so suddenly that he all but fell heels over head. Sitting on the top of a tall, dead, mullein stalk was a very soberly dressed but rather
trim little fellow, a very little larger than Bully the English Sparrow.
Above, his coat was of a dull olive-brown, while underneath he was of a grayish-white, with faint tinges of yellow in places. His head was dark, and his bill black. The feathers on his head were lifted just enough to make the tiniest kind of crest. His wings and tail were dusky, little bars of white showing very faintly on his wings, while the outer edges of his tail were distinctly white. He sat with his tail hanging straight
down, as if he hadn't strength enough to hold it up.
"Hello, Dear Me!" cried Peter joyously. "What are you doing way down here? I haven't seen you since you first arrived, just after Winsome Bluebird got here." Peter started to say that he had wondered what had become of Dear Me, but checked himself, for Peter is very honest and he realized now that in the excitement of greeting so many friends he hadn't missed Dear Me at all.
Dear Me the Phoebe did not reply at once, but darted out into the air, and Peter heard a sharp click of that little black bill. Making a short circle, Dear Me alighted on the mullein stalk again.
"Did you catch a fly then?" asked Peter.
"Dear me! Dear me! Of course I did," was the prompt reply. And with each word there was a jerk of that long hanging tail. Peter almost wondered if in some way Dear Me's tongue and tail were connected. "I suppose," said he, "that it is the habit of catching flies and bugs in the air that has given your family the name of Flycatchers."
Dear Me nodded and almost at once started into the air again. Once more Peter heard the click of that little black bill, then Dear Me was back on his perch. Peter asked again what he was doing down there.
"Mrs. Phoebe and I are living down here," replied Dear Me. "We've made our home down here and we like it very much."
Peter looked all around, this way, that way, every way, with the funniest expression on his face. He didn't see anything of Mrs. Phoebe and he didn't see any place in which he could imagine Mr. and Mrs.
Phoebe building a nest. "What are you looking for?" asked Dear Me.
"For Mrs. Phoebe and your home," declared Peter quite frankly. "I didn't suppose you and Mrs. Phoebe ever built a nest on the ground, and I don't see any other place around here for one."
Dear Me chuckled. "I wouldn't tell any one but you, Peter," said he, "but I've known you so long that I'm going to let you into a little secret. Mrs. Phoebe and our home are under the very bridge you are
sitting on."
"I don't believe it!" cried Peter.
But Dear Me knew from the way Peter said it that he really didn't mean that. "Look and see for yourself," said Dear Me.
So Peter lay flat on his stomach and tried to stretch his head over the edge of the bridge so as to see under it. But his neck wasn't long enough, or else he was afraid to lean over as far as he might have.
Finally he gave up and at Mr. Phoebe's suggestion crept down the bank to the very edge of the Laughing Brook. Dear Me darted out to catch another fly, then flew right in under the bridge and alighted on a little ledge
of stone just beneath the floor. There, sure enough, was a nest, and
Peter could see Mrs. Phoebe's bill and the top of her head above the
edge of it. It was a nest with a foundation of mud covered with moss and
lined with feathers.
"That's perfectly splendid!" cried Peter, as Dear Me resumed his perch
on the old mullein stalk. "How did you ever come to think of such a
place? And why did you leave the shed up at Farmer Brown's where you
have build your home for the last two or three years?"
"Oh," replied Dear Me, "we Phoebes always have been fond of building
under bridges. You see a place like this is quite safe. Then, too, we
like to be near water. Always there are many insects flying around where
there is water, so it is an easy matter to get plenty to eat. I left the
shed at Farmer Brown's because that pesky cat up there discovered our
nest last year, and we had a dreadful time keeping our babies out of
her clutches. She hasn't found us down here, and she wouldn't be able to
trouble us if she should find us."
"I suppose," said Peter, "that as usual you were the first of your
family to arrive."
"Certainly. Of course," replied Dear Me. "We always are the first. Mrs.
Phoebe and I don't go as far south in winter as the other members of the
family do. They go clear down into the Tropics, but we manage to pick up
a pretty good living without going as far as that. So we get back here
before the rest of them, and usually have begun housekeeping by the time
they arrive. My cousin, Chebec the Least Flycatcher, should be here by
this time. Haven't you heard anything of him up in the Old Orchard?"
"No," replied Peter, "but to tell the truth I haven't looked for him.
I'm on my way to the Old Orchard now, and I certainly shall keep my ears
and eyes open for Chebec. I'll tell you if I find him. Good-by."
"Dear me! Dear me! Good-by Peter. Dear me!" replied Mr. Phoebe as Peter started off for the Old Orchard.
Perhaps it was because Peter was thinking of him that almost the first voice he heard when he reached the Old Orchard was that of Chebec,repeating his own name over and over as if he loved the sound of it. It didn't take Peter long to find him. He was sitting out on the up of one of the upper branches of an apple-tree where he could watch for flies and other winged insects. He looked so much like Mr. Phoebe, save that he was smaller, that any one would have know they were cousins. "Chebec!Chebec! Chebec!" he repeated over and over, and with every note jerked his tail. Now and then he would dart out into the air and snap up something so small that Peter, looking up from the ground, couldn't see it at all.
"Hello, Chebec!" cried Peter. "I'm glad to see you back again. Are you going to build in the Old Orchard this year?"
"Of course I am," replied Chebec promptly. "Mrs. Chebec and I have built here for the last two or three years, and we wouldn't think of going anywhere else. Mrs. Chebec is looking for a place now. I suppose I ought to be helping her, but I learned a long time ago, Peter Rabbit, that in matters of this kind it is just as well not to have any opinion at all.
When Mrs. Chebec has picked out just the place she wants, I'll help her build the nest. It certainly is good to be back here in the Old Orchard
and planning a home once more. We've made a terribly long journey, and I for one am glad it's over."
"I just saw your cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Phoebe, and they already have a nest and eggs," said Peter.
"The Phoebes are a funny lot," replied Chebec. "They are the only members of the family that can stand cold weather. What pleasure they get out of it I don't understand. They are queer anyway, for they never build their nests in trees as the rest of us do."
"Are you the smallest in the family?" asked Peter, for it had suddenly struck him that Chebec was a very little fellow indeed.
Chebec nodded. "I'm the smallest," said he. "That's why they call me Least Flycatcher. I may be least in size, but I can tell you one thing,Peter Rabbit, and that is that I can catch just as many bugs and flies as any of them." Suiting action to the word, he darted out into the air.
His little bill snapped and with a quick turn he was back on his former perch, jerking his tail and uttering his sharp little cry of, "Chebec! Chebec! Chebec!" until Peter began to wonder which he was the most fond of, catching flies, or the sound of his own voice.
Presently they both heard Mrs. Chebec calling from somewhere in the middle of the Old Orchard. "Excuse me, Peter," said Chebec, "I must go at once. Mrs. Chebec says she has found just the place for our nest, and now we've got a busy time ahead of us. We are very particular how we build a nest."
"Do you start it with mud the way Welcome Robin and your cousins, the Phoebes, do?" asked Peter.
"Mud!" cried Chebec scornfully. "Mud! I should say not! I would have you understand, Peter, that we are very particular about what we use in our nest. We use only the finest of rootlets, strips of soft bark, fibers of plants, the brown cotton that grows on ferns, and perhaps a little hair when we can find it. We make a dainty nest, if I do say it, and we fasten it securely in the fork made by two or three upright little
branches. Now I must go because Mrs. Chebec is getting impatient. Come see me when I'm not so busy Peter."
