XIX
IT WASN’T THUNDER
Quite often, during the nightly concerts in which Chirpy Cricket took part, he had noticed an odd cry, Peent! Peent! which seemed to come from the woods. And sometimes there followed from the same direction a hollow, booming sound, as if somebody were amusing himself by blowing across the bung-hole of an empty barrel.
Chirpy Cricket had a great curiosity to know who made those queer noises. He asked everybody he met about them. And at last Kiddie Katydid told him that it was Mr. Nighthawk that he had heard.
“He seems to think he’s a musician,” said Chirpy Cricket. “But I must say I don’t care much for his music. He’s not what you might call a steady player. And his notes are not shrill enough for my liking. Perhaps he lacks training. I’d be glad to take him in hand and see what I could do with him. Tell me! Does he ever visit our neighborhood?”
“Not often!” said Kiddie Katydid. “I met him here once. And that was enough for me. I never felt more uncomfortable in all my life.” He shuddered as he spoke and looked over his shoulder.
Somehow Chirpy Cricket did not share Kiddie Katydid’s uneasiness. The more he thought about Mr. Nighthawk the more he wanted to meet him.
“If you ever see Mr. Nighthawk again I wish you’d tell him I want to talk with him,” Chirpy said.
“I’ll do so,” Kiddie Katydid promised. “And now let me give you a bit of advice. When you meet Mr. Nighthawk, keep perfectly still. He’s a hungry fellow, always on the look-out for somebody to eat. But he has one peculiar habit: he won’t grab you unless you’re moving through the air. He always takes his food on the wing.”