The Burgess Bird Book for Children - Thornton W. Burgess (books for 5 year olds to read themselves txt) 📗

loose dust from their feathers and flew away. Peter watched to see where they went, but lost sight of them behind some trees, so decided to run up to the Old Orchard. There he found Jenny and Mr. Wren as busy as ever feeding that growing family of theirs. Jenny wouldn’t stop an instant to gossip. Peter was so brimful of what he had found out about Mr. and Mrs. Dove that he just had to tell some one. He heard Kitty the Catbird meowing among the bushes along the old stone wall, so hurried over to look for him. As soon as he found him Peter began to tell what he had learned about Mourner the Dove.

“That’s no news, Peter,” interrupted Kitty. “I know all about Mourner and his wife. They are very nice people, though I must say Mrs. Dove is one of the poorest housekeepers I know of. I take it you never have seen her nest.”

Peter shook his head. “No,” said he, “I haven’t. What is it like?”

Kitty the Catbird laughed. “It’s about the poorest apology for a nest I know of,” said he. “It is made of little sticks and mighty few of them. How they hold together is more than I can understand. I guess it is a good thing that Mrs. Dove doesn’t lay more than two eggs, and it’s a wonder to me that those two stay in the nest. Listen! There’s Mourner’s voice now. For one who is so happy he certainly does have the mournfullest sounding voice. To hear him you’d think he was sorrowful instead of happy. It always makes me feel sad to hear him.”

“That’s true,” replied Peter, “but I like to hear him just the same. Hello! Who’s that?”

>From one of the trees in the Old Orchard sounded a long, clear, “Kow-kow-kow-kow-kow-kow!” It was quite unlike any voice Peter had heard that spring.

“That’s Cuckoo,” said Kitty. “Do you mean to say you don’t know Cuckoo?”

“Of course I know him,” retorted Peter. “I had forgotten the sound of his voice, that’s all.” Tell me, Kitty, is it true that Mrs. Cuckoo is no better than Sally Sly the Cowbird and goes about laying her eggs in the nests of other birds? I’ve heard that said of her.”

“There isn’t a word of truth in it,” declared Kitty emphatically. “She builds a nest, such as it is, which isn’t much, and she looks after her own children. The Cuckoos have been given a bad name because of some good-for-nothing cousins of theirs who live across the ocean where Bully the English Sparrow belongs, and who, if all reports are true, really are no better than Sally Sly the Cowbird. It’s funny how a bad name sticks. The Cuckoos have been accused of stealing the eggs of us other birds, but I’ve never known them to do it and I’ve lived neighbor to them for a long time, I guess they get their bad name because of their habit of slipping about silently and keeping out of sight as much as possible, as if they were guilty of doing something wrong and trying to keep from being seen. As a matter of fact, they are mighty useful birds. Farmer Brown ought to be tickled to death that Mr. and Mrs. Cuckoo have come back to the Old Orchard this year.”

“Why?” demanded Peter.

“Do you see that cobwebby nest with all those hairy caterpillars on it and around it up in that tree?” asked Kitty.

Peter replied that he did and that he had seen a great many nests just like it, and had noticed how the caterpillars ate all the leaves near them.

“I’ll venture to say that you won’t see very many leaves eaten around that nest,” replied Kitty. “Those are called tent-caterpillars, and they do an awful lot of damage. I can’t bear them myself because they are so hairy, and very few birds will touch them. But Cuckoo likes them. There he comes now; just watch him.”

A long, slim Dove-like looking bird alighted close to the caterpillar’s nest. Above he was brownish-gray with just a little greenish tinge. Beneath he was white. His wings were reddish-brown. His tail was a little longer than that of Mourner the Dove. The outer feathers were black tipped with white, while the middle feathers were the color of his back. The upper half of his bill was black, but the under half was yellow, and from this he is called the Yellow-billed Cuckoo. He has a cousin very much like himself in appearance, save that his bill is all black and he is listed the Black-billed Cuckoo.

Cuckoo made no sound but began to pick off the hairy caterpillars and swallow them. When he had eaten all those in sight he made holes in the silken web of the nest and picked out the caterpillars that were inside. Finally, having eaten his fill, he flew off as silently as he had come and disappeared among the bushes farther along the old stone wall. A moment later they heard his voice, “Kow-kow-how-kow-kow-kow-kow-kow!”

“I suppose some folks would think that it is going to rain,” remarked Kitty the Catbird. “They have the silly notion that Cuckoo only calls just before rain, and so they call him the Rain Crow. But that isn’t so at all. Well, Peter, I guess I’ve gossiped enough for one morning. I must go see how Mrs. Catbird is getting along.”

Kitty disappeared and Peter, having no one to talk to, decided that the best thing he could do would be to go home to the dear Old Briar-patch.

 

CHAPTER XXXV A Butcher and a Hummer.

Not far from the Old Orchard grew a thorn-tree which Peter Rabbit often passed. He never had paid particular attention to it. One morning he stopped to rest under it. Happening to look up, he saw a most astonishing thing. Fastened on the sharp thorns of one of the branches were three big grasshoppers, a big moth, two big caterpillars, a lizard, a small mouse and a young English Sparrow. Do you wonder that Peter thought he must be dreaming? He couldn’t imagine how those creatures could have become fastened on those long sharp thorns. Somehow it gave him an uncomfortable feeling and he hurried on to the Old Orchard, bubbling over with desire to tell some one of the strange and dreadful thing he had seen in the thorn-tree.

As he entered the Old Orchard in the far corner he saw Johnny Chuck sitting on his doorstep and hurried over to tell him the strange news. Johnny listened until Peter was through, then told him quite frankly that never had he heard of such a thing, and that he thought Peter must have been dreaming and didn’t know it.

“You’re wrong, Johnny Chuck. Peter hasn’t been dreaming at all,” said Skimmer the Swallow, who, you remember, lived in a hole in a tree just above the entrance to Johnny Chuck’s house. He had been sitting where he could hear all that Peter had said.

“Well, if you know so much about it, please explain,” said Johnny Chuck rather crossly.

“It’s simple enough,” replied Skimmer. “Peter just happened to find the storehouse of Butcher the Loggerhead Shrike. It isn’t a very pleasant sight, I must admit, but one must give Butcher credit for being smart enough to lay up a store of food when it is plentiful.”

“And who is Butcher the Shrike?” demanded Peter. “He’s a new one to me.

“He’s new to this location,” replied Skimmer, “and you probably haven’t noticed him. I’ve seen him in the South often. There he is now, on the tiptop of that tree over yonder.”

Peter and Johnny looked eagerly. They saw a bird who at first glance appeared not unlike Mocker the Mockingbird. He was dressed wholly in black, gray and white. When he turned his head they noticed a black stripe across the side of his face and that the tip of his bill was hooked. These are enough to make them forget that otherwise he was like Mocker. While they were watching him he flew down into the grass and picked up a grasshopper. Then he flew with a steady, even flight, only a little above the ground, for some distance, suddenly shooting up and returning to the perch where they had first seen him. There he ate the grasshopper and resumed his watch for something else to catch.

“He certainly has wonderful eyes,” said Skimmer admiringly. “He mast have seen that grasshopper way over there in the grass before he started after it, for he flew straight there. He doesn’t waste time and energy hunting aimlessly. He sits on a high perch and watches until he sees something he wants. Many times I’ve seen him sitting on top of a telegraph pole. I understand that Bully the English Sparrow has become terribly nervous since the arrival of Butcher. He is particularly fond of English Sparrows. I presume it was one of Bully’s children you saw in the thorn-tree, Peter. For my part I hope he’ll frighten Bully into leaving the Old Orchard. It would he a good thing for the rest of us.”

“But I don’t understand yet why he fastens his victims on those long thorns,” said Peter.

“For two reasons,” replied Skimmer. “When he catches more grasshoppers and other insects than he can eat, he sticks them on those thorns so that later he may be sure of a good meal if it happens there are no more to be caught when he is hungry. Mice, Sparrows, and things too big for him to swallow he sticks on the thorns so that he can pull them to pieces easier. You see his feet and claws are not big and stout enough to hold his victims while he tears them to pieces with his hooked bill. Sometimes, instead of sticking them on thorns, he sticks them on the barbed wire of a fence and sometimes he wedges them into the fork of two branches.”

“Does he kill many birds?” asked Peter.

“Not many,” replied Skimmer, “and most of those he does kill are English Sparrows. The rest of us have learned to keep out of his way. He feeds mostly on insects, worms and caterpillars, but he is very fond of mice and he catches a good many. He is a good deal like Killy the Sparrow Hawk in this respect. He has a cousin, the Great Northern Shrike, who sometimes comes down in the winter, and is very much like him. Hello! Now what’s happened?”

A great commotion had broken out not far away in the Old Orchard. Instantly Skimmer flew over to see what it was all about and Peter followed. He got there just in time to see Chatterer the Red Squirrel dodging around the trunk of a tree, first on one side, then on the other, to avoid the sharp bills of the angry feathered folk who had discovered him trying to rob a nest of its young.

Peter chuckled. “Chatterer is getting just what is due him, I guess,” he muttered. “It reminds me of the time I got into a Yellow Jacket’s nest. My, but those birds are mad!”

Chatterer continued to dodge from side to side of the tree while the birds darted down at him, all screaming at the top of their voices. Finally Chatterer saw his chance to run for the old stone wall. Only one bird was quick enough to catch up with him and that one was such a tiny fellow that he seemed hardly bigger than a big insect. It was Hammer the Hummingbird. He followed Chatterer clear to the old stone wall. A moment later Peter heard a humming noise just over his head and looked up to see Hummer himself alight on a twig, where he