CHAPTER 23 SOME BIG MOUTHS BOOM! Peter Rabbit jumped as if he had been shot. It was also sudden and unexpected that Peter jumped before he had time to think. Then he looked foolish. He felt foolish. He had been scared when there was nothing to be afraid of.  Tittered Jenny Wren. What are you jumping for, Peter Rabbit? That was only Boomer the Nighthawk. I know it just as well as you do, Jenny Wren, retorted Peter rather crossly. You know being suddenly startled is apt to make people feel cross. If I had seen him anywhere about he wouldn't have made me jump. It was the unexpectedness of it. I don't see what he is out now for, anyway. It isn't even dusk yet, and I thought him a night bird. So he is, retorted Jenny Wren. Anyway, he is a bird of the evening, and that amounts to the same thing. But just because he likes the evening best isn't any reason why he shouldn't come out in the daylight, is it? No, replied Peter rather slowly. I don't suppose it is. Of course it isn't, declared Jenny Wren. I see Boomer late in the afternoon nearly every day. On cloudy days I often see him early in the afternoon.  I suppose it is very handy to have a big mouth if one must catch all one's food in the air, but it certainly isn't pretty when it is wide open. I never saw a mouth yet that was pretty when it was wide open, retorted Peter, who was still feeling a little put out. I've never noticed that Boomer has a particularly big mouth. Well, he has whether you've noticed it or not, retorted Jenny Wren sharply. He's got a little bit of a built but a great big mouth. I don't see what folks call him a hawk for when he isn't a hawk at all. He is no more of a hawk than I am, and goodness knows I'm not even related to the hawk family. I believe you told me the other day that Boomer is related to Sooty, the chimney swift, said Peter. Jenny nodded vigorously. So I did, Peter, she replied. I'm glad you have such a good memory. Boomer and Sooty are sort of second cousins. There is Boomer now way up in the sky. I do wish he'd dive and scare someone else. Peter tipped his head way back. High up in the blue, blue sky was a bird which at that distance looked something like a much overgrown swallow. He was circling and darting about this way and that. Even while Peter watched, he half closed his wings and shot down with such speed that Peter actually held his breath. It looked very, very much as if Boomer would dash himself to pieces. Just before he reached the earth, he suddenly opened those wings and turned upward. At the instant he turned, the booming sound which had so startled Peter was heard. It was made by the rushing of the wind through the larger feathers of his wings as he checked himself. In this dive Boomer had come near enough for Peter to get a good look at him. His coats seemed to be a mixture of brown and gray, very soft looking. His wings were brown with a patch of white on each. There was a white patch on his throat and a band of white near the end of his tail. He's rather handsome, don't you think? asked Jenny Wren. He certainly is, replied Peter. Do you happen to know what kind of a nest the Nighthawks build, Jenny? They don't build any. Jenny Wren was a picture of scorn, as she said this. They don't build any nests at all. It can't be because they are lazy, for I don't know of any birds that hunt harder for their living than do Boomer and Mrs. Boomer. But if there isn't any nest, where does Mrs. Boomer lay her eggs? cried Peter. I think you must be mistaken, Jenny Wren. They must have some kind of a nest. Of course they must. Didn't I say they don't have a nest? sputtered Jenny. Mrs. Nighthawk doesn't lay but two eggs anyway. Perhaps she thinks it isn't worthwhile building a nest for just two eggs. Anyway, she lays them on the ground or on a flat rock and lets it go at that. She isn't quite as bad as Sally Sly, the cow-bird. For she does sit on those eggs, and she is a good mother. But just think of those Nighthawk children never having any home. It doesn't seem to me right and it never will. Did you ever see Boomer in a tree? Peter shook his head. I've seen him on the ground, said he, but I never have seen him in a tree. Why did you ask, Jenny Wren? To find out how well you have used your eyes, snapped Jenny. I just wanted to see if you had noticed anything peculiar about the way he sits in a tree. But as long as you haven't seen him in a tree I may as well tell you that he doesn't sit as most birds do. He sits lengthwise of a branch. He never sits across it as the rest of us do. How funny, exclaimed Peter. I suppose that is Boomer making that queer noise we hear. Yes, replied Jenny. He certainly does like to use his voice. They tell me that some folks call him bull-bat, though why they should call him either bat or hawk is beyond me. I suppose you know his cousin, Whipper Will. I should say I do, replied Peter. He's enough to drive one crazy when he begins to shout Whip or Will close at hand. That voice of his goes through me so that I want to stop both ears. There isn't a person of my acquaintance who can say a thing over and over, over and over, so many times, without stopping for breath. Do I understand that he is cousin to Boomer? He is a sort of second cousin, the same as Sooty the Chimney Swift, explained Jenny Wren. They look enough alike to be own cousins. Whipper Will has just the same kind of a big mouth, and he is dressed very much like Boomer, save that there are no white patches on his wings. I've noticed that, said Peter. That is one way I can tell them apart. So you notice that much, did you? cried Jenny. It does you credit, Peter. It does you credit. I wonder if you also noticed Whipper Will's whiskers. Whiskers! cried Peter. Whoever heard of a bird having whiskers. You can stuff a lot down me, Jenny Wren, but there are some things I cannot swallow, and bird whiskers is one of them. Nobody asked you to swallow them. Nobody wants you to swallow them, snapped Jenny. I don't know why a bird shouldn't have whiskers just as well as you, Peter read it. Anyway, Whipper Will has them, and that is all there is to it. It doesn't make any difference whether you believe in them or not. They are there. And I guess Whipper Will finds them just as useful as you find yours, and a little more so. I know this much, that if I had to catch all my food in the air, I'd want whiskers and lots of them, so that the insects would get tangled in them. I suppose that's what Whipper Will's are for. I beg your pardon, Jenny Wren, said Peter, very humbly. Of course Whipper Will has whiskers, if you say so. By the way, do the Whipper Will's do any better in the matter of a nest than the night hawks? Not a bit, replied Jenny Wren. Mrs. Whipper Will lays her eggs right on the ground, but usually in the green forest where it is dark and lonesome. Like Mrs. Nighthawk, she lays only two. It's the same way with another second cousin, Chuck Will's widow. Who? cried Peter, wrinkling his brows. Chuck Will's widow! Jenny Wren fairly shouted it. Don't you know Chuck Will's widow? Peter shook his head. I never heard of such a bird, he confessed. That's what comes of never having traveled, retorted Jenny Wren. If you'd ever been in the south the way I have, you would know Chuck Will's widow. He looks a whole lot like the other two we've been talking about, but has even a bigger mouth. What's more, he has whiskers with branches. Now you needn't look as if you doubted that, Peter Rabbit, it's so. In his habits he's just like his cousins. No nest and only two eggs. I never saw people so afraid to raise a real family. If the Wrens didn't do better than that, I don't know what would become of us. You know, Jenny usually has a family of six or eight. End of Chapter 23. Recording by Jan McGillivray. Chapter 24 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 Leanne Howlett. The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess. Chapter 24. The warblers arrive. The red start and the yellow warbler. If there is one family of feathered friends, which perplexes Peter Rabbit more than another, it is the warbler family. So many of them come together and they move about so constantly that a fellow doesn't have a chance to look at one long enough to recognize him, complained Peter to Jenny Wren one morning when the old orchard was fairly alive with little birds no bigger than Jenny Wren herself, and such restless little folks as they were. They were not still an instant, flitting from tree to tree, twig to twig, darting out into the air and all the time keeping up an endless chattering mingled with little snatches of song. Peter would no sooner fix his eyes on one than another entirely different in appearance would take its place. Occasionally he would see one whom he recognized, one who would stay for the nesting season. But the majority of them would stop only for a day or two, being bound farther north to make their summer homes. Apparently Jenny Wren did not look upon them all together with favor. Perhaps Jenny was a little bit envious, for compared with the bright colors of some of them, Jenny was a very homely small person indeed. Then too there were so many of them and they were so busy catching all kinds of small insects that it may be Jenny was a little fearful they would not leave enough for her to get her own meals easily. I don't see what they have to stop here for, scolded Jenny. They could just as well go somewhere else where they would not be taking the food out of the mouths of honest folk who are here to stay all summer. Did you ever in your life see such uneasy people? They don't keep still an instant. It positively makes me tire just to watch them. Peter couldn't help but chuckle, for Jenny Wren herself is a very restless and uneasy person. As for Peter, he was thoroughly enjoying this visit of the warblers, despite the fact that he was having no end of trouble trying to tell who was who. Suddenly one darted down and snapped up a fly almost under Peter's very nose, and was back up in a tree before Peter could get his breath. It's ZZ the Red Star, cried Peter joyously. I would know ZZ anywhere. Do you know who he reminds me of, Jenny Wren? Who demanded Jenny? Goldie the Oriole, replied Peter promptly, only of course he's ever and ever so much smaller. He's all black and orange red and white something as Goldie is, only there isn't quite so much orange on him. For just an instant ZZ sat still with his tail spread.  The rest was bright orange red. On each wing was a band of orange red and his sides were the same color. Underneath he was white tinged more or less with orange. It was only for an instant that ZZ sat still. Then he was in the air darting, diving, whirling, going through all sorts of antics as he caught tiny insects too small for Peter to see. Peter began to wonder how he kept still long enough to sleep at night, and his voice was quite as busy as his wings. ZZZZ he would cry, but this was only one of many notes. At times he would sing a beautiful little song, and then again it would seem as if he were trying to imitate other members of the Warbler family. I do hope ZZZ is going to stay here, said Peter. I just love to watch him. He'll stay fast enough, retorted Jenny Wren. I don't imagine he'll stay in the old orchard, and I hope he won't, because if he does it will make it just that much harder for me to catch enough to feed my big family. Probably he and Mrs. Redstart will make their home on the edge of the green forest. They like it better over there, for which I am thankful. There's Mrs. Redstart now. Just notice that where ZZ is bright orangey red, she is yellow, and instead of a blackhead she has a gray head, and her back is olive green with a grayish tinge. She isn't nearly as handsome as ZZZ, but then that's not to be expected. She lets ZZ do the singing and the showing off, and she does the work. I expect she'll build that nest with almost no help at all from him. But ZZ is a good father. I'll say that much for him. He'll do his share in feeding their babies. Just then Peter caught sight of a bird, all in yellow. He was about the same size as ZZ, and was flitting about among the bushes along the old stone wall. There's sunshine, cried Peter, and without being polite enough to even bid Jenny Wren farewell, he scampered over to where he could see the one he called Sunshine, flitting about from bush to bush. Oh, Sunshine, he cried as he came within speaking distance. I'm ever and ever so glad to see you back. I do hope you and Mrs. Sunshine are going to make your home somewhere near here where I can see you every day. Hello, Peter. I am just as glad to see you as you are to see me, cried Sunshine, the yellow warbler. Yes indeed. We certainly intend to stay here if we can find just the right place for our nest. It is lovely to be back here again. We've journeyed so far that we don't want to go a bit farther if we can help it.  Peter nodded. Yes, said he. I have. I'm sorry to hear it, declared Sunshine. She made us a lot of trouble last year, but we fooled her. How did you fool her? asked Peter.  Well, said he. She found our nest just after we had finished it and before Mrs. Sunshine had had a chance to lay an egg. Of course you know what she did. I can guess, replied Peter. She laid one of her own eggs in your nest. Sunshine stopped to pick two or three more worms from the leaves. Yes, said he.  But it didn't do her a bit of good, not a bit. That egg never hatched. We fooled her, and that's what we'll do again if she repeats that trick this year. What did you do? Throw that egg out? asked Peter. No, replied Sunshine. Our nest was too deep for us to get that egg out. We just made a second bottom in our nest right over that egg and built the sides of the nest a little higher. Then we took good care that she didn't have a chance to lay another egg in there. Then you had a regular two-story nest, didn't you? cried Peter, opening his eyes very wide. Sunshine nodded. Yes, sir, said he, and it was a mighty fine nest if I do say it. If there's anything Mrs. Sunshine and I pride ourselves on it is our nest. There are no babies who have a softer, cozier home than ours. What do you make your nest of? asked Peter. Fine grasses and soft fibers from plants, some hair when we can find it, and a few feathers. But we always use a lot of that nice soft fern cotton. There is nothing softer or nicer that I know of. All the time Peter had been admiring Sunshine and thinking how wonderfully well he was named. At first glance he seemed to be all yellow as if somehow he had managed to catch and hold the sunshine in his feathers. There wasn't a white feather on him. When he came very close, Peter could see that on his breast and underneath were little streaks of reddish brown, and his wings and tail were little blackish. Otherwise he was all yellow. Presently he was joined by Mrs. Sunshine. She was not such a bright yellow as was Sunshine, having an olive-green tent on her back. But underneath she was almost clear yellow without the reddish brown streaks. She too was glad to see Peter but couldn't stop to gossip, for already, as she informed Sunshine, she had found just the place for their nest. Of course Peter begged to be told where it was. But the two little folks in yellow snapped their right eyes at him and told him that that was their secret and they didn't propose to tell a living soul. Perhaps if Peter had not been so curious and eager to get acquainted with other members of the Warbler family, he would have stayed and done a little spying. As it was, he promised himself to come back to look for that nest after it had been built. Then he scurried back among the trees of the Old Orchard to look for other friends among the busy little Warblers who were making the Old Orchard such a lively place that morning. There is one thing about it, cried Peter. Anyone can tell Zeezy the red start by his black and flame-colored suit. There is no other like it. And anyone can tell Sunshine the yellow Warbler because there isn't anybody else who seems to be all yellow. My, what a lively, lovely lot these Warblers are! End of Chapter 24, Recording by Leanne Howlett As Peter Rabbit passed one of the apple trees in the Old Orchard, a thin, wiry voice hailed him. It's a wonder you wouldn't at least say you're glad to see me back, Peter Rabbit, said the voice. Peter, who had been hopping along rather fast, stopped abruptly to look up.  Just as Peter looked, it flew down to near the base of the tree and began to run straight up the trunk, picking things from the bark here and there as it ran. Its way of going up that tree trunk reminded Peter of one of his winter friends, Seep Seep the Brown Creeper. It strikes me that this is a mighty poor welcome for one who has just come all the way from South America, said the little black and white bird with twinkling eyes. Oh, Creeper, I didn't know you were here, cried Peter. You know I'm glad to see you. I'm just as glad as glad can be.  I'm afraid I shouldn't have seen you at all if you hadn't spoken. You know it's always been hard work for me to believe that you are really and truly a warbler.  Why so?  Yes, said Peter slowly.  In what way don't I act like one I should like to know, demanded Creeper. Well, replied Peter, all the rest of the warblers are the uneasiest folks I know of. They can't seem to keep still a minute. They are everlastingly flitting about this way and that way and the other way. I actually get tired watching them, but you are not a bit that way. Then the way you run up tree trunks and along the limbs isn't a bit warbler like. Why don't you flit and dart about as the others do? Creeper's bright eyes sparkled. I don't have to, said he. I'm going to let you into a little secret, Peter. The rest of them get their living from the leaves and twigs and in the air, but I've discovered an easier way. I found out that there are lots of little worms and insects and eggs on the tree trunks and big limbs of the trees that I can get the best kind of a living there without flitting about everlastingly. I don't have to share them with anybody but the woodpeckers, nut hatches, and Tommy Titt, the chickadee. That reminds me, said Peter, those folks you mentioned nest in holes and trees. Do you? I should say not, retorted Creeper. I don't know of any warbler who does. I build on the ground if you want to know. I nest in the green forest. Sometimes I make my nest in a little hollow at the base of a tree. Sometimes I put it under a stump or rock or tuck it under the roots of a tree that has been blown over. But there, Peter Rabbit, I've talked enough.  Creeper continued on up the trunk of the tree, picking here and picking there. Just then Peter caught sight of another friend whom he could always tell by the black mask he wore. It was Mummer the Yellow Throat. He had just darted into the thicket of bushes along the old stone wall. Peter promptly hurried over there to look for him. When Peter reached the place where he had caught a glimpse of Mummer, no one was to be seen. Peter sat down, uncertain which way to go. Suddenly Mummer popped out right in front of Peter, seemingly from nowhere at all. His throat and breast were bright yellow, and his back wings entailed a soft olive green. But the most remarkable thing about him was the mask of black right across his cheeks, eyes, and forehead. At least it looked like a mask, although it really wasn't one. Hello, Mummer, cried Peter. Hello yourself, Peter Rabbit, retorted Mummer, and then disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. Peter blinked and looked in vain all about. Looking for someone, asked Mummer, suddenly popping into view where Peter least expected him.  How do you expect a felic can talk to you when he can't keep his eyes on you more than two seconds at a time? Who asked you to talk to me? responded Mummer, and popped out of sight.  Then before Peter could say a word, Mummer burst into a pleasant little song. He was so full of happiness that Peter couldn't be cross with him. There's one thing I like about you, Mummer, declared Peter, and that is that I never get you mixed up with anybody else. I should know you just as far as I could see you because of that black mask across your face. Has Mrs. Yellowthroat arrived yet? Certainly replied another voice, and Mrs. Yellowthroat flitted across right in front of Peter. For just a second she sat still, long enough for him to have one good look at her. She was dressed very like Mummer, save that she did not wear the black mask. Peter was just about to say something polite and pleasant, when just back of him there sounded a loud, very emphatic, chut-chut. Peter whirled about to find another old friend. It was chut-chut the yellow-breasted chat, the largest of the Warbler family. He was so much bigger than Mummer that it was hard to believe that they were own cousins. But Peter knew they were, and he also knew that he could never mistake chut-chut for any other member of the family because of his big size. Which was that of some of the members of the Sparrow family. His back was a dark olive green, but his throat and breast were a beautiful bright yellow.  To have seen him, you would have thought that he suspected Peter might do him some harm. He acted that way. If Peter hadn't known him so well, he might have been offended. But Peter knew that there is no one among his feathered friends more cautious than chut-chut the chat. He never takes anything for granted. He appears to be always on the watch for danger, even to the extent of suspecting his very best friends. When he had decided in his own mind that there was no danger, chut-chut came out for a little gossip. But like all the rest of the Warblers, he couldn't keep still. Right in the middle of the story of his travels from far away Mexico, he flew to the top of a little tree, began to sing, then flew out into the air with his legs dangling and his tail wagging up and down in the funniest way. And there continued his song as he slowly dropped down into the thicket again. It was a beautiful song, and Peter hastened to tell him so. Chut-chut was pleased. He showed it by giving a little concert all by himself. It seemed to Peter that he never had heard such a variety of whistles and calls and songs as came from that yellow throat. When it was over, chut-chut abruptly said goodbye and disappeared. Peter could hear his sharp chut-chut farther along in the thicket as he hunted for worms among the bushes. I wonder, said Peter, speaking out loud without thinking, where he builds his nest. I wonder if he builds it on the ground the way Creeper does. No, declared mummer, who all the time had been darting about close at hand. He doesn't, but I do. Chut-chut puts his nest near the ground, however, usually within two or three feet. He builds it in bushes or briars. Sometimes, if I can find a good tangle of briars, I build my nest in it several feet from the ground. But as a rule, I would rather have it on the ground under a bush or in a clump of weeds. Have you seen my cousin Sprite, the Perula warbler yet? Not yet, said Peter, as he started for home. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 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 26 Peter Gets a Lame Neck The Perula, Myrtle, and Magnolia Warblers For several days it seemed to Peter Rabbit that everywhere he went, he found members of the warbler family. Being anxious to know all of them, he did his best to remember how each one looked. But there were so many, and some of them were dressed so nearly alike, that after a while Peter became so mixed, that he gave it up as a bad job. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the warblers disappeared. That is to say, most of them disappeared. You see, they had only stopped for a visit, being on their way farther north. In his interest in the affairs of others of his feathered friends, Peter had quite forgotten the warblers. Then one day when he was in the green forest, where the spruce trees grow, he stopped to rest. This particular part of the green forest was low and damp, and on many of the trees, gray moss grew, hanging down from the branches, making the trees look much older than they really were. Peter was staring at a hanging bunch of this moss without thinking anything about it when suddenly a little bird alighted on it and disappeared in it. At least, that is what Peter thought. But it was also unexpected that he couldn't be sure his eyes hadn't fooled him. Of course, right away he became very much interested in that bunch of moss. He stared at it very hard. At first it looked no different from a dozen other bunches of moss. But presently he noticed that it was a little thicker than other branches. As if somehow it had been woven together. He hopped off to one side so he could see better. It looked as if on one side of that bunch of moss was a little round hole. Peter blinked and looked very hard indeed to make sure. A minute later there was no doubt at all. For a little feathered head was poked out, and a second later a dainty might of a bird flew out and alighted very close to Peter. It was one of the smaller members of the Warbler family. Sprite! cried Peter joyously. I missed you when your cousins passed through here, and I thought you had gone to the far north with the rest of them. Well, I haven't. And what's more, I'm not going to go on to the far north. I'm going to stay right here. Declared Sprite the Perula Warbler, for that is who it was. As Peter looked at Sprite he couldn't help thinking that there wasn't a dainty or member in the whole Warbler family. His coat was of a soft bluish color with a yellowish patch in the very center of his back. Across each wing were two bars of white. His throat was yellow. Just beneath it was a little band of bluish black. His breast was yellow and his sides were grayish and brownish chestnut. Sprite, you're just beautiful! declared Peter in frank admiration. What was the reason I didn't see you up in the old orchard with your cousins? Because I wasn't there, was Sprite's prompt reply as he flitted about, quite unable to sit still a minute. I wasn't there because I liked the green forest better, so I came straight here.  Just looking it over, replied Sprite, trying to look innocent. At that very instant Peter looked up just in time to see a tail disappearing in the little round hole in the side of the bunch of moss. He knew that that tail belonged to Mrs. Sprite, and just that glimpse told him all he wanted to know. You've got a nest in there, Peter exclaimed excitedly. There's no use denying it, Sprite. You've got a nest in there.  Sprite saw it once that it would be quite useless to try to deceive Peter. Yes, said he. Mrs. Sprite and I have a nest in there. We've just finished it. I think myself it is rather nice. We always build in moss like this. All we have to do is find a nice thick bunch, and then we weave it together at the bottom and line the inside with fine grasses. It looks so much like all the rest of the bunches of moss that it has seldom anyone finds it. I wouldn't trade nests with anybody I know. Isn't it rather lonesome over there by yourselves? asked Peter. Not at all, replied Sprite. You see, we are not as much alone as you think. My cousin Fidget, the myrtle warbler, is nesting not very far away, and another cousin Weechie, the magnolia warbler, is also quite near. Both have begun housekeeping already. Of course Peter was all excitement and interest at once. Where are their homes? he asked eagerly. Tell me where they are, and I'll go straight over and call. Peter, said Sprite severely, you ought to know better than to ask me to tell you anything of this kind. You have been around enough to know that there is no secret so precious as the secret of a home. You happen to find mine, and I guess I can trust you not to tell anybody where it is. If you can find the homes of Fidget and Weechie, all right, but I certainly don't intend to tell you where they are. Peter knew that Sprite was quite right in refusing to tell the secrets of his cousins, but he couldn't think of going home without at least looking for those homes. He tried to look very innocent as he asked if they were also in hanging bunches of moths, but Sprite was too smart to be fooled, and Peter learned nothing at all. For some time Peter hopped around this way and that way, thinking every bunch of moths he saw must surely contain a nest. But though he looked and looked and looked, not another little round hole did he find, and there were so many bunches of moths that finally his neck ached from tipping his head back so much. Now Peter hasn't much patience as he might have, so after a while he gave up the search and started on his way home. On higher ground, just above the low swampy place where grew the moss-covered trees, he came to a lot of young hemlock trees. These had no moths on them.  Those yellow patches were all Peter needed to see to recognize Fidget the myrtle warbler. One of the two friends he had been so long looking for down among the moss-covered trees. Oh, Fidget! cried Peter, hurrying after the restless little bird. Oh, Fidget, I've been looking everywhere for you. Well, here I am, retorted Fidget. You didn't look everywhere or you would have found me before. What can I do for you? All the time Fidget was hopping and flitting about, never still an instant. You can tell me where your nest is, replied Peter promptly. I can, but I won't, retorted Fidget. Now honestly, Peter, do you think you have any business to ask such a question?  No, I don't, Fidget. But you see, Sprite told me that you had a nest not very far from his, and I've looked at bunches of moss until I've got a crick in the back of my neck. Bunches of moss! exclaimed Fidget. What under the sun do you think I have to do with bunches of moss? Why, I just thought you probably had your nest in one, the same as your cousin Sprite. Fidget laughed right out. I'm afraid you would have a worse crick in the back of your neck than you've got now before you ever found my nest in a bunch of moss, said he. Moss may suit my cousin Sprite, but it doesn't suit me at all. Besides, I don't like those dark places where the moss grows on the trees. I build my nest of twigs and grass and weed stalks, and I line it with hair and rootlets and feathers. Sometimes I bind it together with spider silk, and if you really want to know, I like a little hemlock tree to put in it. It isn't very far from here, but where it is, I'm not going to tell you. Have you seen my cousin Weechie? No, replied Peter. Is he anywhere around here? Right here, replied another voice, and Weechie, the Magnolia Warbler, dropped down on the ground for just a second, right in front of Peter.   His throat was clear yellow. Just below which was a black band. From this black streaks ran down across his yellow breast. At the root of his tail he was yellow. His tail was mostly black on top and white underneath. His wings were black and gray with two white bars. He was a little smaller than fidget the murder warbler, and quite as restless. Peter fairly itched to ask Weechie where his nest was, but by this time he had learned a lesson, so wisely kept his tongue still. What are you fellas talking about? asked Weechie. Nest, replied fidget. I've just been telling Peter that while cousin Sprite may like to build in that hanging moss down there, it wouldn't suit me at all. Nor me either, declared Weechie promptly. I prefer to build a real nest just as you do. By the way, fidget, I stopped to look at your nest this morning. I find we build a good deal alike, and we like the same sort of a place to put it. I suppose you know that I am a rather near neighbor of yours. Of course I know it, replied fidget. In fact, I watched you start your nest. Don't you think you have it rather near the ground? Not too near, fidget. Not too near. I am not as high-minded as some people. I like to be within two or three feet of the ground. I do myself, replied fidget. Fidget and Weechie became so interested in discussing nest and the proper way of building them, they quite forgot Peter Rabbit. Peter sat around for a while listening, but being more interested in seeing those nests than hearing about them, he finally stole a way to look for them. He looked and looked, but there were so many young hemlock trees, and they looked so much alike, that finally Peter lost patience and gave it up as a bad job. End of Chapter 26 Peter Rabbit will never forget the first time he caught a glimpse of Glory the Cardinal, sometimes called Redbird. He had come up to the Old Orchard for his usual morning visit, and just as he hopped over the old stone wall, he heard a beautiful, clear, loud whistle, which drew his eyes to the top of an apple tree. Peter stopped short, with a little gasp of sheer astonishment and delight. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked again. He couldn't quite believe that he saw what he thought he saw. He hadn't supposed that anyone, even among the feathered folks, could be quite so beautiful. The stranger was dressed all in red, accepting a little black around the base of his bill. Even his bill was red. He wore a beautiful red crest, which made him still more distinguished looking, and how he could sing. Peter had noticed that quite often the music of the Old Orchard, Peter had noticed that quite often the most beautifully dressed birds have the poorest songs. But this stranger's song was as beautiful as his coat, and that was one of the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful, that Peter had ever seen. Of course he lost no time in hunting up Jenny Wren. Who is it, Jenny? Who is that beautiful stranger with such a lovely song, cried Peter, as soon as he caught sight of Jenny? It's Glory the Cardinal, replied Jenny Wren promptly. Isn't he the loveliest thing you've ever seen? I do hope he is going to stay here. As I said before, I don't often envy anyone's fine clothes, but when I see Glory, I'm sometimes tempted to be envious. If I were Mrs. Cardinal, I'm afraid I should be jealous. But there she is in the very same tree with him. Did you ever see such a difference? Peter looked eagerly. Instead of the glorious red of Glory, Mrs. Cardinal wore a very dull dress. Her back was brownish gray. Her throat was a grayish black. Her breast was a dull buff with a faint tinge of red. Her wings and tail were tinged with dull red. Altogether she was very soberly dressed, but a trim, neat-looking little person. But if she wasn't handsomely dressed, she could sing. In fact, she was almost as good a singer as her handsome husband. I've noticed, said Peter, that people with fine clothes spend most of their time thinking about them and are of very little use when it comes to real work in life. Well, you'd needn't think that of Glory, declared Jenny in her vigorous way. He's just as fine as he is handsome. He's a model husband. If they make their home around here, you'll find him doing his full share in the care of their babies. Sometimes they raise two families. When they do that, Glory takes charge of the first lot of youngsters as soon as they are able to leave the nest, so that Mrs. Cardinal has nothing to worry about while she is sitting on the second lot of eggs. He fusses over them as if they were the only children in the world. Everybody loves Glory. Excuse me, Peter. I'm going over to find out if they are really going to stay. When Jenny returned, she was so excited. She couldn't keep still a minute. They like here, Peter, she cried. They like here so much that if they can find a place to suit them for a nest, they're going to stay. I told them that it is the very best place in the world. They like an evergreen tree to build in, and I think they've got their eyes on those evergreens up near Farmer Brown's house. My, they will add a lot of the quality to this neighborhood. Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal whistled and sang as if their hearts were bursting with joy, and Peter sat around listening as if he had nothing else in the world to do. Probably he would have sat there the rest of the morning had he not caught sight of an old friend of whom he is very fond, Kitty, the cat bird. In contrast with Glory, Kitty seemed a regular little Quaker, for he was dressed almost wholly in gray, a rather dark slady gray. The top of his head and tail were black, and right at the base of his tail was a patch of chestnut color. He was a little smaller than Welcome Robin. There was no danger of mistaking him for anybody else, for there is no undressed at all like him. Peter forgot all about Glory, and his pleasure at discovering the returned Kitty, and hurried over to Welcome Him. Kitty had disappeared among the bushes along the old stone wall, but Peter had no trouble in finding him by the queer cries he was uttering, which were very like the meow of Black Pussy the Cat. They were very harsh and unpleasant, and Peter understood perfectly why their maker is called the cat bird. He did not hurry in among the bushes at once, but waited expectantly. In a few minutes the harsh cries ceased, and then there came from the very same place a song, which seemed to be made up of parts of the songs of all the other birds in the old orchard. It was not loud, but it was charming. It contained the clear whistle of Glory, and there was even the tinkle of little friend the song sparrow. The notes of other friends were in that song, and with them were notes of southern birds, whose songs Kitty had learned while spending the winter in the south. Then there were notes all his own. Peter listened until the song ended, then scampered in among the bushes. At once those harsh cries broke out again. You would have thought that Kitty was scolding Peter for coming to see him instead of being glad, but that was just Kitty's way. He was simply brimming over with fun and mischief and delights to pretend.  He looked positively sleepy. Then as he caught sight of Peter, he drew those feathers down tight, cucked his tail up after the manner of Jenny Wren, and was as slim and trim-looking as any bird of Peter's acquaintance. He didn't look at all like the same bird of the moment before. Then he dropped his tail as if he hadn't strength enough to hold it up at all. It hung straight down. He dropped his wings, and all in a second made himself look fairly disreputable. But all the time his eyes were twinkling and snapping, and Peter knew that these changes in appearance were made out of pure fun and mischief. I've been wondering if you were coming back, cried Peter. I don't know of any one of my feathered friends I would miss so much as you. Thank you, responded Kitty. It's very nice of you to say that, Peter. If you are glad to see me, I am still more glad to get back. Did you pass a pleasant winter down south, asked Peter? Fairly so, fairly so, replied Kitty. By the way, Peter, I picked up some new songs down there. Would you like to hear them? Of course, replied Peter. But I don't think you need any new songs.  At the mention of Mocker, a little cloud crossed Kitty's face for just an instant. There is a fellow I really envy, said he. I am pretty good at imitating others, but Mocker is better. I'm hoping that, if I practice enough, someday I can be as good. I saw a lot of him in the south, and he certainly is clever. Ha! You don't need to envy him, retorted Peter.  How about those new notes you got when you were in the south? Kitty's face cleared, and his throat swelled, and he began to sing. It was a regular medley. I didn't seem as if so many notes could come from one throat. When it ended, Peter had a question already. Are you going to build somewhere near here, he asked? I certainly am, replied Kitty. Mrs. Catbird was delayed a day or two. I hope she'll get here today, and then we'll get busy at once. I think we shall build in these bushes here somewhere. I'm glad Farmer Brown has sense enough to let them grow. They are just the kind of place I like for a nest. They are near enough to Farmer Brown's garden, and the old orchard is right here. That's just the kind of a combination that suits me. Peter looked somewhat uncertain. Why do you want to be near Farmer Brown's garden, he asked? Because that's where I will get a good part of my living, Kitty responded promptly. He ought to be glad to have me about. Once in a while I take a little fruit, but I pay for it ten times over by the number of bugs and worms I get in his garden and the old orchard. I pride myself on being useful. There's nothing like being useful in this world, Peter. Peter nodded as if he quite agreed. Though, as you know and I know, Peter himself does very little except fill his own big stomach. End of Chapter 27. Chapter 28. Peter sees Rosebreast and finds Redcoat, the rosebreasted grasspeak and the scarlet tannager. Who's that? Peter Rabbit pricked up his long ears and stared up at the tops of the trees of the old orchard.  She cocked her head on one side to listen, then looked down at Peter and her sharp little eyes snapped. I don't hear any strange voice, said she. The way you were staring, Peter Rabbit, one would think that you had really heard something new and worthwhile. Just then there were two or three rather sharp, squeaky notes from the top of one of the trees. There cried Peter. There didn't you hear that, Jenny Wren? For goodness sake, Peter Rabbit, you don't mean to say that you don't know whose voice that is? She cried. That's Rosebreast. He and Mrs. Rosebreast have been here for quite a little while. I didn't suppose there was anyone who didn't know those sharp, squeaky voices.  What anybody wants to squeak like that for when they can sing as Rosebreast can is more than I can understand. At that very instant, Mr. Wren began to scold as only he and Jenny can. Peter looked up at Jenny and winked slyly. And what anybody wants to scold like that for when they can sing as Mr. Wren can is too much for me, retorted Peter.   If you don't know Rosebreast, the Grossbeak, Peter Rabbit, you certainly must have been blind and deaf ever since you were born. Listen to that. Just listen to that song. Peter listened. There were many songs. For it was a very beautiful morning, and all the singers of the old orchard were pouring out the joy that was within them. One song was a little louder and clearer than the others, because it came from a tree very close at hand, the very tree from which those squeaky notes had come just a few minutes before. Peter suspected that that must be the song Jenny Wren meant. He looked puzzled. He was puzzled. Do you mean Welcome Robin song? He asked rather sheepishly, for he had a feeling that he would be the victim of Jenny Wren's sharp tongue. No, I don't mean Welcome Robin song, snapped Jenny. What good a repair of long years if they can't tell one song from another. That song may sound something like Welcome Robbins, but if your ears were good for anything at all, you'd know right away that it isn't Welcome Robin singing. That's a better song than Welcome Robbins. Welcome Robin song is one of good cheer, but this one is of pure happiness. I wouldn't have a pair of ears like yours for anything in the world, Peter Rabbit. Peter laughed right out as he tried to picture to himself Jenny Wren with a pair of long ears like his. What are you laughing at? demanded Jenny crossly.  If there is any one thing I can't stand, it is being laughed at. I wasn't laughing at you, replied Peter very meekly. I was just laughing at the thought of how funny you would look with a pair of long ears like mine. Now you speak of it Jenny, that song is quite different from Welcome Robbins. Of course it is, retorted Jenny. That is Rosebreath singing up there, and there he is right in the top of that tree. Isn't he handsome? Peter looked up to see a bird a little smaller than Welcome Robin. His head, throat, and back were black. His wings were black with patches of white on them. But it was his breast that made Peter catch his breath with a little gasp of admiration, for that breast was a beautiful rose red. The rest of him underneath was white. It was Rosebreath, the grass beak. Isn't he lovely? cried Peter, and added in the next breath. Who is that with him? Mrs. Grossbeek, of course. Who else would it be? sputtered Jenny rather crossly, for she was still a little put out because she had been laughed at. I would never have guessed it, said Peter. She doesn't look the least bit like him. This was quite true. There was no beautiful rose color about Mrs. Grossbeek. She was dressed chiefly in brown and grayish colors, with a little buff here and there, and with dark streaks on her breast. Over each eye was a whitish line. Altogether she looked more as if she might be a big member of the sparrow family than the wife of handsome Rosebreath. While Rosebreath sang, Mrs. Grossbeek was very busily picking buds and blossoms from the tree. What is she doing that for? inquired Peter. For the same reason that you bite off sweet clover blossoms and leaves, replied Jenny Wren tartly. Do you mean to say that they live on buds and blossoms? cried Peter. I never heard of such a thing. You could ask more silly questions than anybody of my acquaintance, retorted Jenny Wren. Of course they don't live on buds and blossoms. If they did they would soon starve to death, for buds and blossoms don't last long. They eat a few just for variety, but they live mostly on bugs and insects. You ask Farmer Brown's boy who helps him most in his potato patch, and he'll tell you it's the Grossbeeks. They certainly do love potato bugs. They eat some fruit, but on the whole they are about as useful around a garden as anyone I know. Now run along Peter Rabbit and don't bother me anymore. Seeing Farmer Brown's boy coming through the old orchard, Peter decided that it was high time for him to depart. So he scampered for the green forest. Just within the edge of the green forest, he caught sight of something which for the time being, put all thought of Farmer Brown's boy out of his head. Fluttering on the ground was a bird, than whom not even glory the cardinal was more beautiful. It was about the size of Redwing the Blackbird. Wings and tail were pure black, and all the rest was a beautiful scarlet. It was Redcoat the Tannager. At first Peter had eyes only for the wonderful beauty of Redcoat. Never before had he seen Redcoat so close at hand. Then, quite suddenly, it came over Peter that something was wrong with Redcoat, and he hurried forward to see what the trouble might be. Redcoat heard the rustle of Peter's feet among the dry leaves, and it once began to flap and flutter in an effort to fly away, but he could not get off the ground. What is it, Redcoat? Has something happened to you? It is just Peter Rallet. You don't have anything to fear from me, cried Peter. The look of terror which had been in the eyes of Redcoat died out, and he stopped fluttering and simply lay panting. Oh, Peter, he gasped. You don't know how glad I am that it is only you. I've had a terrible accident, and I don't know what I am to do. I can't fly, and if I have to stay on the ground, some enemy will be sure to get me. What shall I do, Peter? What shall I do? Right away Peter was full of sympathy. What kind of an accident was it, Redcoat? And how did it happen? he asked. Broadwing the hawk tried to catch me, sobbed Redcoat. Indodging him among the trees, I was heedless for a moment, and did not see just where I was going. I struck a sharp, pointed dead dwig, and drove it right through my right wing. Redcoat held up his right wing, and sure enough, there was a little stick projecting from both sides close up to the shoulder. The wing was bleeding a little. Oh dear, whatever shall I do, Peter Rallet? Whatever shall I do? sobbed Redcoat. Does it pain you dreadfully? asked Peter. Redcoat nodded. But I don't mind the pain, he hastened to say. It is the thought of what may happened to me. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tannager was flying about in the treetops near at hand and calling anxiously. She was dressed almost wholly in light olive green and greenish yellow. She looked no more like beautiful Redcoat than did Mrs. Grossbeak like rose breast. Can't you fly up just a little way so as to get off the ground? She cried anxiously. Isn't it dreadful, Peter Rallet, to have such an accident? We've just got our nest half built, and I don't know what I shall do if anything happens to Redcoat. Oh dear, here comes somebody! Hide, Redcoat! Hide! Mrs. Tannager flew off a short distance to one side and began to cry as if in the greatest distress. Peter knew instantly that she was crying to get the attention of whoever was coming. Poor Redcoat, with the old look of terror in his eyes, flooded along, trying to find something under which to hide. But there was nothing under which he could crawl, and there was no hiding that wonderful Redcoat. Peter heard the sound of heavy footsteps, and looking back, saw that Farmer Brown's boy was coming. Don't be afraid, Redcoat! he whispered.  Perhaps he can help you! Then Peter scampered off for a short distance, and sat up to watch what would happen. Of course Farmer Brown's boy saw Redcoat. No one with any eyes at all could have helped seeing him because of that wonderful scarlet coat. He saw, too, by the way Redcoat was acting, that he was in great trouble. As Farmer Brown's boy drew near and Redcoat saw that he was discovered, he tried his hardest to flutter away. Farmer Brown's boy understood instantly that something was wrong with one wing, and running forward, he caught Redcoat.   As he saw the cruel twig sticking through Redcoat's shoulder. Oh, he'll have to get that out right away, continued Farmer Brown's boy, stroking Redcoat ever so gently. Somehow at that gentle touch, Redcoat lost much of his fear, and a little hope sprang in his heart. He saw, too, that this was no enemy, but a friend. Farmer Brown's boy took out his knife, and carefully cut off the twig on the upper side of the wing. Then, doing his best to be careful, and to hurt as little as possible, he worked the other part of the twig out from the underside. Carefully, he examined the wing to see if any bones were broken. None were, and after holding Redcoat a few minutes, he carefully set him up in a tree, and withdrew a short distance. Redcoat hopped from branch to branch, until he was halfway up the tree. Then he sat there for some time, as if fearful of trying that injured wing. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tannager came and fussed about him, and talked to him and coaxed him, and made as much of him as if he were a baby. Peter remained right where he was, until at last he saw Redcoat spread his black wings and fly to another tree. From tree to tree he flew, resting a bit in each until he and Mrs. Tannager disappeared into the green forest. I knew Farmer Brown's boy would help him, and I'm so glad he found him, cried Peter happily, and started for the dear old briar patch. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 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 Jan McGillivray The Burgess Bird Book for Children by Thornton W. Burgess Chapter 29 The Constant Singers The red-eyed, warbling, and yellow-throated virios Over in a maple tree on the edge of Farmer Brown's dooryard lived Mr. and Mrs. Reddye, the virios. Peter Rabbit knew that they had a nest there, because Jenny Wren had told him so. He would have guessed it anyway, because Reddye spent so much time in that tree during the nesting season. No matter what hour of the day Peter visited the old orchard, he heard Reddye singing over in the maple tree. Peter used to think that if song is an expression of happiness, Reddye must be the happiest of all birds. He was a little fellow, about the size of one of the larger warblers, and quite as modestly dressed as any of Peter's acquaintances. The crown of his head was gray with a little blackish border on either side. Over each eye was a white line. Underneath he was white. For the rest he was dressed in light olive green. The first time he came down near enough for Peter to see him well, Peter understood at once why he is called Reddye. His eyes were red.  But it wasn't often that Reddye came down so near the ground that Peter could see his eyes. He preferred to spend most of his time in the treetops, and Peter only got glimpses of him now and then. But if he didn't see him often, it was less often that he failed to hear him. I don't see when Reddye finds time to eat, declared Peter, as he listened to the seemingly unending song in the maple tree. Reddye believes in singing while he works, said Jenny Wren. For my part I should think he'd wear his throat out. When other birds sing they don't do anything else, but Reddye sings all the time he is hunting his meals, and only stops long enough to swallow a worm or a bug when he finds it. Just as soon as it is down he begins to sing again while he hunts for another. I must say for the Reddye's that they are mighty good nest builders. Have you seen their nest over in that maple tree, Peter? Peter shook his head. I don't dare go over there except very early in the morning, before Farmer Brown's folks are awake, said he, so I haven't had much chance to look for it. You probably couldn't see it anyway, declared Jenny Wren. They have placed it rather high up from the ground, and those leaves are so thick that they hide it. It's a regular little basket fastened in a fork near the end of a branch, and it is woven almost as nicely as is the nest of Goldie the Oriole. How anybody has the patience to weave a nest like that is beyond me. What's it made of? asked Peter. Strips of bark, plant down, spider's web, grass, and pieces of paper, replied Jenny. That's a funny thing about Reddye.  What for, I can't imagine. He's as fussy about having a scrap of paper as crusty the flycatcher is about having a piece of snakeskin. I had just a peep into that nest a few days ago, and unless I'm greatly mistaken Sally Sly the Cowbird has managed to impose on the Reddyes. I am certain I saw one of her eggs in that nest. A few mornings after this talk with Jenny Wren about Reddye the Vario, Peter once more visited the Old Orchard. No sooner did he come in sight than Jenny Wren's tongue began to fly. What did I tell you, Peter Rabbit? What did I tell you? I knew it was so, and it is, cried Jenny. What is so? asked Peter rather testily, for he hadn't the least idea what Jenny Wren was talking about. Sally Sly did lay an egg in Reddye's nest, and now it has hatched, and I don't know whatever is to become of Reddye's own children. It's perfectly scandalous. That's what it is, perfectly scandalous, cried Jenny, and hopped about and jerked her tail and worked herself into a small brown fury. The Reddyes are working themselves to feathers and bone feeding that ugly young cowbird, while their own babies aren't getting half enough to eat, continued Jenny. One of them has died already. He was kicked out of the nest by that young brute. How dreadful! cried Peter. If he does things like that, I should think the Reddyes would throw him out of the nest. There too soft-hearted, declared Jenny. I can tell you I wouldn't be so soft-hearted if I were in their place. No Surrey I wouldn't. But they say it isn't his fault that he's there, and that he's nothing but a hopeless baby, and so they just take care of him. Then why don't they feed their own babies first, and give him what's left? demanded Peter. Because he's twice as big as any of their own babies, and so strong and greedy that he simply snatches the food out of the very mouths of the others. Because he gets most of the food, he's growing twice as fast as they are. I wouldn't be surprised if he kicks all the rest of them out before he gets through. Mr. and Mrs. Reddye are dreadfully distressed about it, but they will feed him because they say it isn't his fault. It's a dreadful affair, and the talk of the whole orchard. I suppose his mother is off gadding somewhere, having a good time and not carrying a flip of her tail feathers what becomes of him. I believe in being good-hearted, but there is such a thing as overdoing the matter. Thank goodness I'm not so weak-minded that I can be imposed on in any such way as that. Speaking of the Verios, Reddye seems to be the only member of his family around here, remarked Peter.  Peter listened. At first he didn't hear it, and as usual Jenny Wren made fun of him for having such big ears and not being able to make better use of them. Presently he did hear it. The voice was not unlike that of Reddye, but the song was smoother, more continuous and sweeter.  I hear it, he cried. That's Reddye's cousin, the warbling Verio, said Jenny. He's a better singer than Reddye, and just as fond of hearing his own voice. He sings from the time Jolly Mr. Son gets up in the morning until he goes to bed at night. He sings when it is so hot that the rest of us are glad to keep still for comfort's sake. I don't know of anybody more fond of the treetops than he is. He doesn't seem to care anything about the Old Orchard, but stays over in those big trees along the road. He's got a nest over in that big elm, and it is as high up as that of Goldie the Oriole. I haven't seen it myself, but Goldie told me about it. Why anyone so small should want to live so high up in the world, I don't know. Any more than I know why anyone wants to live anywhere but in the Old Orchard. Somehow I don't remember just what Warble looks like. Peter confessed. He looks a lot like his cousin Redeye, replied Jenny.  Of course he doesn't have Redeyes, and he is a little smaller than Redeye. The whole family looks pretty much alike anyway. You said something then, Jenny Wren, declared Peter. They get me all mixed up. If only some of them had some bright colors, it would be easier to tell them apart. One has, replied Jenny Wren. He has a bright yellow throat and breast, and is called the yellow-throated virial. There isn't the least chance of mistaking him. Is he a singer too? asked Peter. Of course, replied Jenny. Every one of that blessed family loves the sound of his own voice. It's a family trait. Sometimes it just makes my throat sore to listen to them all day long. A good thing is good, but more than enough of a good thing is too much. That applies to gossiping just as well as to singing, and I've wasted more time on you than I have any business to. Now hop along, Peter, and don't bother me any more today. Peter hopped. End of Chapter 29. Recording by Jan McGillivray. Chapter 30 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 30. Jenny Wren's Cousins. The Brown Thrasher and the Mockingbird. Peter Rabbit will never forget his surprise when Jenny Wren asked him one spring morning if he had seen anything of her big cousin. Peter hesitated. As a matter of fact, he couldn't think of any big cousin of Jenny Wren. All the cousins he knew anything about were very nearly Jenny's own size. Now Jenny Wren is one of the most impatient small persons in the world. Well, well, well, Peter, have you lost your tongue? She chattered. Can't you answer a simple question without talking all day about it?  It is high time for him to be here. You'd needn't be so cross about it if I am slow, replied Peter. I'm just trying to think who your big cousin is. I guess, to be quite honest, I don't know him. Don't know him. Don't know him, sputtered Jenny. Of course you know him. You can't help but know him. I mean Brownie the Thrasher. In his surprise Peter fairly jumped right off the ground. What's that, he exclaimed, since when was Brownie the Thrasher related to the Wren family? Ever since there have been any Wrens and Thrasher's, retorted Jenny. Brownie belongs to one branch of the family and I belong to another, and that makes him my second cousin. It certainly is surprising how little some folks know. But I have always supposed he belonged to the Thrush family, protested Peter. He certainly looks like a Thrush. Looking like one doesn't make him one, snapped Jenny. By this time you ought to have learned that you can never judge anybody just by looks. It always makes me provoke to hear Brownie called the Brown Thrush. There isn't a drop of Thrush blood in him. But you haven't answered my question yet, Peter Rabbit. I want to know if he has got here yet. Yes, said Peter. I saw him only yesterday on the edge of the old pasture. He was fussing around in the bushes and on the ground and jerking that long tail of his up and down and sideways as if he couldn't decide what to do with it. I've never seen anybody twitch their tail around the way he does. Jenny Wren giggled. That's just like him, she said. It is because he thrashes his tail around so much that he has called the Thrasher. I suppose he was wearing his new spring suit. I don't know whether it was a new suit or not, but it was mighty good-looking, replied Peter. I just love that beautiful reddish brown of his back, wings and tail, and it certainly does set off his white and buff waistcoat with those dark streaks and spots. You must admit, Jenny Wren, that anyone seeing him dressed so much like the Thrushes is to be excused for thinking him a Thrush. I suppose so, admitted Jenny rather grudgingly, but none of the Thrushes have such a bright brown coat. Brownie is handsome, if I do say so. Did you notice what a long bill he has? Peter nodded, and I noticed that he had two white bars on each wing, he said. I'm glad you're so observing, replied Jenny Dryly. Did you hear him sing? Did I hear him sing? cried Peter, his eyes shining at the memory. He sang especially for me. He flew up to the top of a tree, tipped his head back, and saying as few birds I know of can sing. He has a wonderful voice, has Brownie. I don't know of anybody I enjoy listening to more. And when he's singing he acts as if he enjoyed it himself and knows what a good singer he is. I noticed that long tale of his hung straight down the same way Mr. Renz does when he sings. Of course it did, replied Jenny promptly. That's a family trait. The tales of both my other big cousins do the same thing. What's that? Have you got more big cousins? cried Peter, staring up at Jenny as if she were some strange person he had never seen before. Certainly, retorted Jenny. Mocker the Mockingbird and Kitty the Catbird belong to Brownie's family, and that makes them second cousins to me. Such a funny expression as there was on Peter's face. He felt that Jenny Renz was telling the truth, but it was surprising news to him and so hard to believe that for a few minutes he couldn't find his tongue to ask another question. Finally he ventured to ask very timidly, does Brownie imitate the songs of other birds the way Mocker and Kitty do? Jenny Renz shook her head very decidedly. No, said she, he's perfectly satisfied with his own song. Before she could add anything further, the clear whistle of Glory the Cardinal sounded from a tree just a little way off. Instantly Peter forgot all about Jenny Renz relatives and scampered over to that tree. You see, Glory is so beautiful that Peter never loses a chance to see him. As Peter sat staring up into the tree, trying to get a glimpse of Glory's beautiful red coat, the clear sweet whistle sounded once more. It drew Peter's eyes to one of the upper branches, but instead of the beautiful, brilliant coat of Glory the Cardinal, he saw a bird about the size of Welcome Robin, dressed in sober ashy gray, with two white bars on his wings, and white feathers on the outer edges of his tail. He was very trim and neat, and his tail hung straight down after the manner of Brownie's when he was singing. It was a long tail, but not as long as Brownie's. Even as Peter blinked and stared in surprise, the stranger opened his mouth, and from it came Glory's own beautiful whistle. Then the stranger looked down at Peter, and his eyes twinkled with mischief. Fooled you that time, didn't I, Peter? He chuckled. You thought you were going to see Glory the Cardinal, didn't you? Then, without waiting for Peter to reply, this sober-looking stranger gave such a concert as no one else in the world could give. From that wonderful throat poured out song after song and note after note of Peter's familiar friends of the old orchard, and the performance wound up with a lovely song which was all the stranger's own. Peter didn't have to be told who the stranger was. It was Mocker the Mockingbird. Oh, gasped Peter. Oh, Mocker, how under the sun do you do it? I was sure that it was Glory whom I heard whistling. Never again will I be able to believe my own ears. Mocker chuckled. You're not the only one I've fooled, Peter, said he. I flatter myself that I can fool almost anybody if I set out to. It's lots of fun. I may not be much to look at, but when it comes to singing, there's no one I envy. I think you are very nice looking indeed, replied Peter politely. I've just been finding out this morning that you can't tell much about folks just by their looks. And now you've learned that you can't always recognize folks by their voices, haven't you, chuckled Mocker? Yes, replied Peter. Hereafter I shall never be sure about any feathered folks unless I can both see and hear them. Once you sing for me again, Mocker? Mocker did. He sang and sang, for he clearly loves to sing. When he finished, Peter had another question ready. Somebody told me, once, that down in the south you are the best loved of all the birds. Is that so? That's not for me to say, replied Mocker modestly. But I can tell you this, Peter. They do think a lot of me down there. There are many birds down there who are very beautifully dressed, birds who don't come up here at all, but not one of them as loved as I am, and it is all on account of my voice. I would rather have a beautiful voice than a fine coat. Peter nodded as if he quite agreed, which, when you think of it, is rather funny, for Peter has neither a fine coat nor a fine voice. A glint of mischief sparkled in Mocker's eyes. There's Mrs. Goldie the Oriole over there. Said he, watch me fool her. He began to call an exact imitation of Goldie's voice when he is anxious about something. At once Mrs. Goldie came hurrying over to find out what the trouble was. When she discovered Mocker she lost her temper and scolded him roundly, then she flew away a perfect picture of indignation. Mocker and Peter laughed for they thought it a good joke. Suddenly Peter remembered what Jenny Wren had told him. Was Jenny Wren telling the truth when she said that you are a second cousin of hers? he asked. Mocker nodded. Yes, said he. We are relatives. We each belong to a branch of the same family. Then he burst into Mr. Wren's own song, after which he excused himself and went to look for Mrs. Mocker. For, as he explained, it was time for them to be thinking of a nest. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 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 31 Voice of the Dusk The Wood Hermit and Wilson's Threshes Jolly Round Red Mr. Sun was just going behind the purple hills and the black shadows had begun to creep all through the green forest and out across the green meadows. It was the hour of the day Peter Rabbit loves best. He sat on the edge of the green forest watching for the first little star to twinkle high up in the sky. Peter felt at peace with all the great world, for it was the hour of peace, the hour of rest, for those who had been busy all through the shining day. Most of Peter's feathered friends had settled themselves for the coming night, the worries and cares of the day over and forgotten. All the world seemed hushed. In the distance sweet voice the Vesper Sparrow was pouring out his evening song, for it was the hour when he dearly loves to sing. Far back in the green forest Whipper Will was calling as if his very life depended on the number of times he could say Whipper Will without taking a breath. From overhead came now and then the sharp, rather harsh cry of Boomer the Nighthawk as he hunted his supper in the air. For a time it seemed as if these were the only feathered friends still awake, and Peter couldn't help thinking that those who went so early to bed missed the most beautiful hour of the whole day. Then, from a tree just back of him, there poured forth a song so clear, so sweet, so wonderfully suited to that peaceful hour, that Peter held his breath until it was finished. He knew that singer and loved him. It was Melody the Woodthrush. When the song ended Peter hopped over to the tree from which it had come. It was still light enough for him to see the sweet singer. He sat on a branch near the top, his head thrown back in his soft, full throat, throbbing with the flute-like noises he was pouring forth. He was a little smaller than welcome, Robin. His coat was a beautiful reddish-brown, not quite so bright as that of Brownie the Thresher. Beneath he was white, with large black spots, thickly dotting his breast and sides. He was singing as if he were trying to put into those beautiful notes all the joy of life. Listening to it Peter felt steel over him a wonderful feeling of peace and pure happiness. Not for the world would he have interrupted it. The black shadows crept far across the green meadows, and it became so dusky in the green forest that Peter could barely make out the sweet singer above his head. Still Melody sang on, and the hush of even tide grew deeper, as if all the great world were holding its breath to listen. It was not until several little stars had begun to twinkle high up in the sky that Melody stopped singing and sought the safety of his hidden perch for the night. Peter felt sure that somewhere near was a nest, and that one thing which had made that song so beautiful was the love Melody had been trying to express to the little mate sitting on the eggs that nest must contain. I'll just run over here early in the morning, thought Peter. Now Peter is a great hand to stay out all night, and that is just what he did that night. Just before it was time for jolly, round, red Mr. Sun to kick off his rosy blankets and begin his daily climb up in the blue blue sky, Peter started for home in the dear old briar patch. Everywhere in the green forest, in the old orchard, on the green meadows, his feathered friends were awakening. He had quite forgotten his intention to visit Melody, and was reminded of it only when he heard those beautiful flute-like noises. At once he scampered over to where he had spent such a peaceful hour the evening before. Melody saw him at once, and dropped down on the ground for a little gossip while he scratched among the leaves in search of his breakfast. I just love to hear you sing, Melody, cried Peter, rather breathlessly. I don't know of any other song that makes me feel quite as yours does, so sort of perfectly contented and free of care and worry. Thank you, replied Melody. I'm glad you'd like to hear me sing, for there is nothing I like to do better. It is the one way in which I can express my feelings. I love all the great world, and I just have to tell it so. I do not mean to boast when I say that all the Thrush family have good voices. But you have the best of all, cried Peter. Melody shook his brown head. I wouldn't say that, said he modestly. I think the song of my cousin Hermit is even more beautiful than mine. And then there is my other cousin, Vary. His song is wonderful, I think. But just then Peter's curiosity was greater than its interest in songs. Have you built your nest yet? he asked. Melody nodded. It is in a little tree not far from here, said he. And Mrs. Woodthrush is sitting on five eggs this blessed minute. Isn't that perfectly lovely? It was Peter's turn to nod. What is your nest built of? he inquired. Rootlets and tiny twigs and weed stalks and leaves and mud, replied Melody. Mud, explained Peter. That's what Welcome Robin uses in his nest. Well, Welcome Robin is my own cousin, so I don't know if there's anything so surprising in that, retorted Melody. Oh, said Peter, I had forgotten that he is a member of the Thrush family. Well, he is, even if he is dressed quite differently from the rest of us, replied Melody. You mentioned your cousin Hermit. I don't believe I know him, said Peter. Then it's high time you got acquainted with him, replied Melody promptly. He is rather fond of being by himself, and that is why he is called the Hermit Thrush.  His tail is brighter than his coat. He has a waistcoat spotted very much like mine. Some folks consider him the most beautiful singer of the Thrush family. I'm glad you like my song, but you must hear Hermit sing. I really think there is no song so beautiful in all the green forest. Does he build a nest like yours? asked Peter. No, replied Melody. He builds his nest on the ground, and he doesn't use any mud. Now, if you'll excuse me, Peter, I must get my breakfast and give Mrs. Woodthrush a chance to get hers. So Peter continued on his way to the dear old briar patch, and there he spent the day. As evening approached he decided to go back to hear Melody sing again. Just as he drew near the green forest he heard from the direction of the Laughing Brook a song that caused him to change his mind and sent him hurrying in that direction. It was a very different song from that of Melody the Woodthrush, yet if he had never heard it before Peter would have known that such a song could come from no throat except that of a member of the Thrush family. As he drew near the Laughing Brook the beautiful notes seemed to ring through the green forest like a bell. As Melody's song had filled Peter with a feeling of peace, so this song stirred in him a feeling of the wonderful mystery of life. There was in it the very spirit of the green forest. It didn't take Peter long to find the singer. It was very who has been named Wilson's Thrush, and by some folks is known as the Tawny Thrush. At the sound of the patter of Peter's feet the song stopped abruptly, and he was greeted with a whistled whew whew. Then, seeing that it was no one of whom he need be afraid, very came out from under some ferns to greet Peter. He was smaller than Melody the Woodthrush, being about one fourth smaller than Welcome Robin. He wore a brown coat, but it was not as bright as that of his cousin Melody. His breast was somewhat faintly spotted with brown, and below he was white. His sides were grayish-white and not spotted like the sides of Melody.  I hope you like my song, said Barry. I love to sing just at the sour, and I love to think that other people like to hear me. They do, declared Peter most emphatically. I can't imagine how anybody could fail to like to hear you. I came way over here just to sit a while and listen. Won't you sing some more for me, Barry? I certainly will, Peter, replied Barry. I wouldn't feel that I was going to bed right if I didn't sing until dark. There is no part of the day I love better than the evening, and the only way I can express my happiness and my love of the green forest and the joy of just being back here at home is by singing. Barry slipped out of sight, and almost at once his bell-like notes began to ring through the green forest. Peter sat right where he was, content to just listen and feel within himself the joy of being alive and happy in the beautiful spring season which Barry was expressing so wonderfully. The black shadows grew blacker. One by one the little stars came out and twinkled down through the treetops. Finally, from deep in the green forest sounded the hunting call of Hootie the Owl. Barry's song stopped. Good night, Peter, he called softly. Good night, Barry, replied Peter, and hopped back towards the green meadows for a feast of sweet clover. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 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 32 Peter saves a friend and learns something, the tauhi and the indigo bunting. Peter Rabbit sat in a thicket of young trees on the edge of the green forest. It was warm and Peter was feeling lazy. He had nothing in particular to do, and as he knew of no cooler place he had squatted there to dose a bit and dream a bit. So far as he knew Peter was all alone. He hadn't seen anybody when he entered that little thicket, and though he had listened he hadn't heard a sound to indicate that he didn't have that thicket quiet to himself. It was very quiet there, and though when he first entered he hadn't the least intention of the world of going to sleep, it wasn't long before he was dosing.  By and by he awoke with a start, and he was very wide awake indeed. Something had awakened him, though just what it was he couldn't say. His long ear stood straight up as he listened with all his might for some little sound which might mean danger. His wobbly little nose wobbled very fast indeed as it tested the air for the scent of a possible enemy. Very alert was Peter as he waited. For a few minutes he heard nothing and saw nothing. Then, near the outer edge of the thicket, he heard a great wrestling of dry leaves. It must have been this that had awakened him. For just an instant Peter was startled but only for an instant. His long ears told him at once that that noise was made by someone scratching among the leaves, and he knew that no one who did not wear feathers could scratch like that. Now who can that be, thought Peter, and stole forward very softly towards the place from which the sound came. Presently, as he peeped between the stems of the young trees, he saw the brown leaves which carpeted the ground fly this way and that, and in the midst of them was an exceedingly busy person, a little smaller than Welcome Robin, scratching away for dear life. Every now and then he picked up something.  Beneath he was white. His sides were reddish-brown, his tail was black and white, and the longer feathers of his wings were edged with white. It was chewing the tauhi, sometimes called ground robin. Peter chuckled, but it was a noiseless chuckle. He kept perfectly still, for it was fun to watch someone who hadn't the least idea that he was being watched. It was quite clear that chewing was hungry, and that under those dry leaves he was finding a good meal. His feet were made for scratching and he certainly knew how to use them. For some time Peter sat there watching. He had just about made up his mind that he would make his presence known and have a bit of morning gossip when, happening to look out beyond the edge of the little thicket, he saw something red. It was something alive, for it was moving very slowly and cautiously towards the place where chewing was so busy and forgetful of everything but his breakfast. Peter knew that there was only one person with a coat of that color. It was Reddy Fox, and quite plainly Reddy was hoping to catch chewing. For a second or two Peter was quite undecided what to do. He couldn't warn chewing without making his own presence known to Reddy Fox. Of course he could sit perfectly still and let chewing be caught, but that was such a dreadful thought that Peter didn't consider it for more than a second or two. He suddenly thumped the ground with his feet. It was his danger signal which all his friends know. Then he turned and scampered, liberty, liberty, lip, to a thick bramble-tangle not far behind him. At the sound of that thump chewing instantly flew up in a little tree. Then he saw Reddy Fox and began to scold. As for Reddy, he looked over towards the bramble-tangle and snarled, I'll get you one of these days, Peter Rabbit, said he. I'll get you one of these days and pay you up for cheating me out of a breakfast. Without so much as a glance at chewing, Reddy turned and trotted off, trying his best to look dignified and as if he had never entertained such a thought as trying to catch chewing. From his perch, chewing watched until he was sure that Reddy Fox had gone away for good. Then he called softly, Tow he, Tow he, chewing, chewing. All is safe now, Peter Rabbit.  Chewing flew down to the ground and Peter crept out of the bramble-tangle. It wasn't anything, declared Peter. I saw Reddy and I knew you didn't, so of course I gave the alarm. You would have done the same thing for me. Do you know, Chewing, I've wondered a great deal about you. What have you wondered about me? asked Chewing. I've wondered what family you belong to, replied Peter. Chewing chuckled. I belong to a big family, said he. I belong to the biggest family among the birds. It is the Finch and Sparrow family. There are a lot of us, and a good many of us, don't look much alike, but still we belong to the same family. I suppose you know that Rose, Bress, the Grosspeak, and Glory the Cardinal are members of my family. I didn't know it, replied Peter, but if you say it is so, I suppose it must be so. It is easier to believe than it is to believe you are related to the Sparrows. Nevertheless, I am, retorted Chewing. What were you scratching for when I first saw you? asked Peter. O worms and bugs that hide under the leaves, replied Chewing carelessly. You have no idea how many of them hide under dead leaves. Do you eat anything else? asked Peter. Berries and wild fruits in season, replied Chewing. I'm very fond of them. They make a variety in the bill of fare. I've noticed that I seldom see you up in the tree-tops, remarked Peter. I like the ground better, replied Chewing. I spend more of my time on the ground than anywhere else. I suppose that means you nest on the ground, ventured Peter. Chewing nodded. Of course, said he. As a matter of fact, I've got a nest in this very thicket. Mrs. Tauhee is on it right now, and I suspect she's worrying and anxious to know what happened over here when you warned me about Ready Fox. I think I must go over and set her mind at rest. Peter was just about to ask if he might go along and see that nest when a new voice broke in.  At first glance he seemed to be all blue, and such a lovely bright blue. But as he paused for an instant Peter saw that his wings and tail were mostly black, and that the lovely blue was brightest on his head and back. It was Indigo the bunting. We were talking about our family, replied Chewing. I was telling Peter that we belong to the largest family among the birds. But you didn't say anything about Indigo, interrupted Peter. Do you mean to say that he belongs to the same family? I surely do, replied Indigo. I'm rather closely related to the sparrow branch.  Peter looked at Indigo closely. In size and shape you do, he confessed, but just the same I should never in the world have thought of connecting you with the sparrows. How about me, asked another voice, and a little brown bird flew up beside Indigo, twitching her tail nervously. She looked very sparrow like indeed, so much so that if Peter had not seen her with her handsome mate, for she was Mrs. Indigo, he certainly would have taken her for a sparrow. Only on her wings and tail was there any of the blue which made Indigo's coat so beautiful, and this was only a faint tinge. I'll have to confess that so far as you are concerned it isn't hard to think of you as related to the sparrows, declared Peter. Don't you sometimes wish you were as handsomely dressed as Indigo? Mrs. Indigo shook her head in a most decided way. Never, she declared. I have worries enough raising a family as it is, but if I had a coat like his I wouldn't have a moment of peace. You have no idea how I worry about him sometimes. You ought to be thankful, Peter Rabbit, that you have an coat like his. It attracts altogether too much attention. Peter tried to picture himself in a bright blue coat and laughed right out at the mere thought, and the others joined with him. Then Indigo flew up to the top of a tall tree not far away and began to sing. It was a lively song, and Peter enjoyed it thoroughly. Mrs. Indigo took this opportunity to slip away unobserved, and when Peter looked around for chewing, he too had disappeared. He had gone to tell Mrs. Chewing that he was quite safe and that she had nothing to worry about. CHAPTER 33 A Royal Dresser and a Late Nester The Purple Linnet and the Goldfinch Jenny and Mr. Wren were busy. If there were any busier little folks anywhere, Peter Rabbit couldn't imagine who they could be. You see, every one of those seven eggs in the Wren nest had hatched, and seven mouths are a lot to feed, especially when every morsel of food must be hunted for and carried from a distance. There was little time for gossip now. Just as soon as it was light enough to see, Jenny and Mr. Wren began feeding those always-hungry babies, and they kept at it with hardly time for an occasional mouthful themselves until the black shadows came creeping out from the purple hills. Wren babies, like all other bird babies, grow very fast, and that means that each one of them must have a great deal of food every day. Each one of them often ate its own weight in food in a day, and all their food had to be hunted for, and when found carried back and put into the gaping little mouths. Hardly would Jenny Wren disappear in the little round doorway of her home with a caterpillar in her bill, then she would hop out again, and Mr. Wren would take her place with a spider or a fly and then hurry away for something more. Peter tried to keep count of the number of times they came and went, but soon gave it up as a bad job. He began to wonder where all the worms and bugs and spiders came from, and gradually he came to have a great deal of respect for eyes sharp enough to find them so quickly. Needless to say, Jenny was shorter tempered than ever. She had no time to gossip and said so most emphatically. So at last Peter gave up the idea of trying to find out from her certain things he wanted to know, and hopped off to look for someone who was less busy.  It didn't take long to find him, for he was sitting on the very tip-top of a fir tree in Farmer Brown's yard. Peter didn't dare go over there, for already it was broad daylight, and he had about made up his mind that he would have to content himself with just listening to that sweet singer when the latter flew over in the old orchard and alighted just over Peter's head. Hello, Peter, he cried. Hello, Linnet, cried Peter. I was wondering who it could be who was singing like that. I ought to have known, but you see it's so long since I've heard you sing I couldn't just remember your song. I'm so glad you came over here, for I'm just dying to talk to somebody. Linnet the purple finch, for this was who it was, laughed right out. I see you're the same old Peter, said he.  Well, here I am, so what shall we talk about? You, replied Peter bluntly. Lately I've found out so many surprising things about my feathered friends that I want to know more. I'm trying to get it straight in my head who is related to who, and I've found out some things which have begun to make me feel that I know very little about my feathered neighbors.  If you please, Linnet, what family do you belong to? Linnet flew down a little nearer to Peter. Look me over, Peter, he said with a twinkling eye. Look me over and see if you can't tell for yourself. Peter stared solemnly at Linnet. He saw a bird of sparrow size, most of whose body was a rose red, brightest on the head, darkest on the back, and palest on the breast. Underneath he was whitish. His wings and tail were brownish. The outer parts of the feathers edged with rose red. His bill was short and stout. Before Peter could reply, Mrs. Linnet appeared. There wasn't so much as a touch of that beautiful rose red about her. Her grayish brown back was streaked with black, and her white breast and sides were spotted and streaked with brown. If Peter hadn't seen her with Linnet, he certainly would have taken her for a sparrow. She looked so much like one that he ventured to say, I guess you belong to the sparrow family. That's pretty close, Peter. That's pretty close, declared Linnet. We belong to the finch branch of the family, which makes the sparrow's own cousins to us. Folks may get Mrs. Linnet mixed with some of our sparrow cousins, but they can never mistake me. There isn't anybody else my size with a rose red coat like mine.  Hello, here comes cousin Chickery. Did you ever see a happier fellow than he is? I'll venture to say that he has been having such a good time that he hasn't even yet thought of building a nest. And here half the people of the old orchard have grown families. I've a nest and eggs myself, but that mad cap is just roaming about having a good time. Isn't that so, Chickery? Isn't what so? Demanded Chickery, the goldfinch, perching very near to where Linnet was sitting. Isn't it true that you haven't even begun thinking about a nest, demanded Linnet? Chickery flew down in the grass almost under Peter's nose and began to pull apart a dandelion which had gone to seed. He snipped the seeds from the soft down to which they were attached and didn't say a word till he was quite through. Then he flew up in the tree near Linnet. And while he dressed his feathers, answered Linnet's question. It's quite true, but what of it? Said he. There's time enough to think about nest building and household cares later. Mrs. Goldfinch and I will begin to think about them about the first of July. Meanwhile, we are making the most of this beautiful season to roam about and have a good time. For one thing, we like thistle down to line our nest, and there isn't any thistle down yet. Then there is no sense in raising a family until there is plenty of the right kind of food, and you know we Goldfinches live mostly on seeds. I'll venture to say that we are the greatest seed eaters anywhere around. Of course when the babies are small, they have to eat soft food, but one can find plenty of worms and bugs any time during the summer. Just as soon as the children are big enough to hunt their own food, they need seeds, so there is no sense in trying to raise a family until there are plenty of seeds for them when needed. Meanwhile, we are having a good time. How do you like my summer suit, Peter? It's beautiful, cried Peter. I wouldn't know you for the same bird I see so often in the late fall and sometimes in the winter. I don't know of anybody who makes a more complete change. That black cap certainly is very smart and becoming. Chickery cocked his head on one side. The better to show off that black cap. The rest of his head and his whole body were bright yellow. His wings were black with two white bars on each. His tail was also black, with some white on it. In size he was a little smaller than Lynette and altogether one of the smartest appearing of all the little people who wear feathers. It was a joy just to look at him. If Peter hadn't known anything about canaries, which of course he didn't because canaries are always kept in cages, he would have understood why Chickery the Goldfinch is often called the Wild Canary. Mrs. Goldfinch now joined her handsome mate, and it was plain to see that she admired him quite as much as Peter did. Her wings and tail were much like his but were more brownish than black.  Underneath she was lighter with a tinge of yellow. Altogether she was a very modestly dressed small person. As Peter recalled Chickery's winter suit, it was very much like that now worn by Mrs. Goldfinch, say that his wings and tail were as they now appeared. All the time Chickery kept up a continual happy twittering, breaking out every few moments into song. It was clear that he was fairly bubbling over with joy. I suppose, said Peter, it sounds foolish of me to ask if you are a member of the same family as Lynette. Very foolish, Peter, very foolish, laughed Chickery. Is it my name Goldfinch and isn't his name Purplefinch? We belong to the same family and a mighty fine family it is. Now I must go over to the old pasture to see how the thistles are coming on. Away he flew calling Chickery, per Chickery, Chickery. Mrs. Goldfinch followed. As they flew they rose and fell in the air in very much the same way that Yellowwing the flicker does. I'd know them just by that, even if Chickery didn't keep calling his own name, thought Peter. It's funny how they often stay around all winter, yet are among the last of the birds to set up housekeeping. As I once said to Jenny Wren, birds certainly are funny creatures. Tutt, tutt, tutt, tutt, tutt. It's no such thing, Peter. It's no such thing. Scolded Jenny Wren as she flew, passed Peter on her way to hunt for another worm for her hungry babies.


My name is Sambatnyan. I am the author of Malignant Self-Love, Narcissism Revisited. No one knows whether therapy works in the long term when narcissists are concerned. What is known is that therapists find narcissists repulsive, overbearing and unnerving. It is also known that narcissists try to co-opt, idolize, intimidate or humiliate their therapists. They regard therapeutic session as a competition, mind game or a power play. But what if a narcissist really wants to improve? Even if complete healing is out of the question, behavior modification is a distinct possibility. To a narcissist, I would recommend a functional approach with the following stages. First of all, know and accept yourself. This is who you are. You have good traits and bad traits, and you are a narcissist. These are the facts. Narcissism is an adaptive mechanism. It is dysfunctional now, but once when you were a child, it saved you from a lot more dysfunction or even non-function. Make a list. What does it mean to be a narcissist in your specific case? What are your typical behavior patterns? Which types of conduct do you find to be counterproductive, irritating, self-defeating or self-destructive? And which types of behavior are actually productive, constructive and should be enhanced and encouraged despite their pathological origin? And so once you've constructed this list, decide to suppress the first type of behaviors and to promote the second type, the constructive ones. So, build a list. Compile a list of self-punishments, negative feedback and negative reinforcements. Impose these upon yourself when you have behaved badly. Make a list of prizes, little indulgences, positive feedbacks and positive reinforcements. And use these to reward yourself when you have adopted a behavior of the second kind, a constructive attitude, a behavior that promoted your interests. Keep doing this with the express intent of conditioning yourself. In other words, keep rewarding yourself for constructive, positive, self-promoting behavior. Keep punishing yourself for negative, socially unacceptable, irritating behaviors. Keep these reinforcements coming, negative and positive, with the express intent of conditioning yourself. Try to be objective, predictable and just in the administration of both punishments and rewards, positive and negative reinforcements and feedback. Learn to trust your inner court, your instincts. Constrain the sadistic, immature and ideal parts of your personality by applying a uniform codex, a set of immutable and invariably applicable rules. Once you feel sufficiently conditioned, monitor yourself incessantly. Narcissism is sneaky and it possesses all of your resources, because narcissism is you.  Beware and never lose control. With time, this onerous regime will become a second habit and supplant the narcissistic pathological superstructures. You might have noticed that all the above can be amply summed up by suggesting to you to become your own parent, to reparent yourself. This is what parents do and the process is called education or socialization. Reparent yourself, be your own parent. If therapy is helpful or needed, go ahead. The heart of the beast is the inability of the narcissist to distinguish true from false, appearance from reality, posing from being, narcissistic supply from genuine relationships and compulsive drives from true interests and avocations. Narcissism is about deceit. It blurs the distinction between authentic actions, true motives, real desires, original emotions and the malignant force. Narcissists are no longer capable of knowing themselves. They are terrified by their internal apparitions, paralyzed by their lack of authenticity, suppressed by the weight of their repressed emotions. They occupy a whole of mirrors. At Wad Munklai, their elongated figures stare at them. On the verge of a scream, it's somehow soundless. Help yourself. Drag yourself out of the abyss. Make yourself a better, more functional person by getting rid of some of this baggage. Not all of it because some of it is still adaptive, but the rest of it is holding you back. Have your best interests in mind.