BIRD STORIES 



fluttered away from her young, calling back to them, 

 in a language they understood, to scatter a bit, and then 

 lie so still that not even the green eyes of the cat could 

 see a motion. The four little Pipers obeyed. Not one of 

 them questioned, '^Why, Mother?" or whined, ^^I don't 

 want to,'' or whimpered, ^^I'm frightened," or boasted, 

 '^Pooh, there's nothing here." 



Dot led the crouching enemy away by fluttering as 

 if she had a broken wing, and she called for help with 

 all the agony of her mother-love. ^'Pete," she cried, 

 'Tete," and "Vete, Pete, Pete!" 



No one who hears the wail of a frightened sandpiper 

 begging protection for her young can sit unmoved. 



Someone at the Ledge House heard Dot, and gave a 

 low whistle and a quick command. Then there was a 

 dashing rush through the bushes, that sounded as if a 

 dog were chasing a cat. A few minutes later Dot's voice 

 again called in the dark — this time, not in anguish of 

 heart, but very cosily and gently. ^^Pete-weet?" she 

 whispered; and four precious little babies murmured, 

 ^^Peep," as they snuggled close to the spotted breast of 

 their mother. 



So it happened that two sons and two daughters of 

 Peter Piper, Junior, played and picnicked and bathed by 

 the river. The one who had first pipped his eggshell was 

 named Peter the Third, for his father and his grand- 



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