THE WOOD PEWEE. 



I am called the Wood Pewee, 

 but I don't always stay in the 

 woods. If you have an orchard 

 or a nice garden, you will hear 

 me singing there in June. 



People think I am not a happy 

 bird, because my song seems so 

 sad. They are very much mis- 

 taken. I am just as happy as 

 any other little fellow dressed 

 in feathers, and can flirt and 

 flutter with the best of them. 



Pewee ! Pewee ! Peer ! 



That is my song, and my mate 

 thinks it is beautiful. She is 

 never far away, and always 

 comes at my call. 



Always, did I say ? 



No; one day, when we were 

 busy building our nest — vv^hich 

 is very pretty, almost as dainty 

 as that of our neighbor the 

 Humming Bird — she flew away 

 to quite a distance to find some 

 soft lining-stuff on which to lay 

 her eggs. I had been fetching 

 and carrying all day the lichens 

 to put round the nest, which was 

 hidden among the thick leaves 

 on the bough of a tree, and was 

 resting by the side of it. 



Pewee ! Pewee ! Peer ! 



"She will hear that," thought 

 I, and again I sang it as loud as 

 I could. 



"Ill bring that fellow down, 

 too," said a boy, who surely had 

 never heard anything about our 



happy, innocent lives, and as I 

 peered down at him, he flung a 

 large stone, which struck the 

 bough on which I sat. Oh, how 

 frightened I was, and how 

 quickly I flew away! 



" He has killed my little 

 mate, I thought. Still, I called 

 in my plaintive way, Pewee! 

 Pewee! Peer !^'' 



A faint, low cry led me to the 

 foot of a large tree, and there 

 on the ground lay my mate, 

 struggling to rise and fly to 

 me." 



" I think my wing is broken," 

 she sobbed. " Oh, that wicked, 

 wicked boy!" 



I petted her with my broad, 

 flat beak, and after a while she 

 was able to fly with me to our 

 nest; but it it was days and 

 days before she was out of pain. 

 I am sure if that boy sees my 

 story in Birds, he will never give 

 such an innocent little creature 

 misery again. 



I dress plainly, in a coat of 

 olive and brown, and they do 

 say my manners are stiff and 

 abrupt. 



But my voice is very sweet, and 

 there is something about it which 

 makes people say: "Dear little 

 bird, sad little bird ! what may 

 your name be?" 



Then I answer : 



'^ Pewee ! Pewee ! Peer ! 



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