“But this isn’t sunset,” replied Yellow Breast the Chat a little impatiently. “It’s early in the morning.”
There was a startled whirring of wings in the bushes, and every one ducked his head ready for flight, fearing that it might be Dasher the Hawk or even Baldy the Eagle; but it was only Whip-Poor-Will the Night hawk. He was so unused to flying around in the day time that he was half blinded, and nearly collided with the Chat.
“Ah, me!” he cried. “What’s going to happen! I can’t set on my nest! Tell me the worst! I can’t see to fly around. The sun hurts my eyes. But I must know what it is. I know it’s something terrible!”
“We don’t know of anything, Whip-Poor-Will,” said Bumper. “We were just discussing it when you interrupted. The sun is very red, but not redder than I’ve seen it before, and Fuzzy Wuzz says she smells something unusual in the air; but beyond that we know no more than you do.”
“Then go and find out,” said Poor Will impatiently. “I can’t go back to my nest in peace until I know.”
“But who can tell us?”
“Listen!” exclaimed Chat suddenly. “What’s that noise?”
And from sheer nervousness Yellow Breast the Chat crouched lower on the branch and shivered.
“Why,” laughed Bumper, “that’s nothing but Rusty the Blackbird calling! He’s always noisy and chattering. Listen to him!”
But Rusty was much noisier than usual. He was so excited that his voice was raised to a high pitch. He was calling to the other birds and making a great commotion. When he finally dropped down in front of the burrow he was all out of breath. It took him some time to tell his tale.