“Pee-wee-eet! pee-wee-eet! That is my name. They call me the peewit.”
“Yes,” said Tommy Smith; “because you say”—
“Pee-wee-eet! pee-wee-eet!” screamed the bird. “Yes, that is why. It is because I say ‘Pee-wee-eet’”; and as the peewit said this, he made a sweep down and settled on the ground just in front of Tommy Smith. So close! Tommy Smith could almost have touched him with his hand. He was a handsome bird! Now he could see that, besides his beautiful green back and his white breast, he had a handsome black crest at the back of his head, that stuck out a long way behind it—as if his hair had been brushed up behind, Tommy Smith thought, only, of course, it was not hair, but feathers.
The peewit was not at all afraid, but looked up at Tommy Smith, with his head on one side, and said, “Yes, that is my name. A name isn’t sensible if it hasn’t a meaning. Some people call me the lapwing, but I don’t know what that means. I would rather you called me the peewit. I like that name best. Well, now you may ask me some questions if you like.” Tommy Smith would rather have listened to what the peewit had to tell him about himself first, and then asked him some questions afterwards, for, just then, he didn’t quite know what questions to ask. But, of course, he had to say something, or it would have seemed rude, so he began with, “Please, Mr. Peewit, will you tell me why you say ‘pee-weet’ so often?”
“Why shouldn’t I say it?” said the peewit. “It is my song, and I think it is a very good one too.”
“But I don’t call it a song at all,” said Tommy Smith.
“Don’t you?” said the peewit.
“No,” said Tommy Smith. “It is not at all like what the lark or the nightingale sings. That is what I call singing.”
“If all birds were to sing as well as each other,” the peewit said, “perhaps you would not care to listen to any of them half so much. Now you say, ‘How sweetly the lark sings,’ or ‘How beautifully the nightingale sings,’ because they sing better than other birds. But if every bird was as clever at singing as they are, then to sing well would be such a common thing, that you would hardly notice it at all. As it is, you don’t think about the lark nearly so much as the nightingale, because you hear him much oftener. So perhaps, after all, it is better that some birds should sing more sweetly than other birds. Don’t you agree with me?”
“I don’t know,” said Tommy Smith. “I should never have thought of that, myself.”