fellow. When he visited us I discovered something
about Scratcher which I don't believe you know."

"What?" demanded Jenny rather sharply.

"That when he scratches among the leaves he uses both feet at once,"
cried Peter triumphantly. "It's funny to watch him."

"Pooh! I knew that," retorted Jenny Wren. "What do you suppose my eyes
are make for? I thought you were going to tell me something I didn't
know."

Peter looked disappointed.

CHAPTER IV. Chippy, Sweetvoice, and Dotty.

For a while Jenny Wren was too busy to talk save to scold Mr. Wren for
spending so much time singing instead of working. To Peter it seemed
as if they were trying to fill that tree trunk with rubbish. "I should
think they had enough stuff in there for half a dozen nests," muttered
Peter. "I do believe they are carrying it in for the fun of working."
Peter wasn't far wrong in this thought, as he was to discover a little
later in the season when he found Mr. Wren building another nest for
which he had no use.

Finding that for the time being he could get nothing more from Jenny
Wren, Peter hopped over to visit Johnny Chuck, whose home was between
the roots of an old apple-tree in the far corner of the Old Orchard.
Peter was still thinking of the Sparrow family; what a big family it
was, yet how seldom any of them, excepting Bully the English Sparrow,
were to be found in the Old Orchard.

"Hello, Johnny Chuck!" cried Peter, as he discovered Johnny sitting on
his doorstep. "You've lived in the Old Orchard a long time, so you ought
to be able to tell me something I want to know. Why is it that none of
the Sparrow family excepting that noisy nuisance, Bully, build in the
trees of the Old Orchard? Is it because Bully has driven all the rest
out?"

Johnny Chuck shook his head. "Peter," said he, "whatever is the matter
with your ears? And whatever is the matter with your eyes?"

"Nothing," replied Peter rather shortly. "They are as good as yours any
day, Johnny Chuck."

Johnny grinned. "Listen!" said Johnny. Peter listened. From a tree just
a little way off came a clear "Chip, chip, chip, chip." Peter didn't
need to be told to look. He knew without looking who was over there. He
knew that voice for that of one of his oldest and best friends in the
Old Orchard, a little fellow with a red-brown cap, brown back with
feathers streaked with black, brownish wings and tail, a gray waistcoat
and black bill, and a little white line over each eye