t 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. Won't 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 is 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. Goldy the
Oriole over there," said he. "Watch me fool her."

He began to call in exact imitation of Goldy's voice when he is anxious
about something. At once Mrs. Goldy 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 you 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.

CHAPTER XXXI. Voices of the Dusk.

Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun was just going to bed 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