It was long of body and seemed to have no wings, and yet it sailed about overhead as majestically and easily as an eagle could have done.
“What sort of a bird is it?” inquired Sweetest Susan, pointing out the object to Mrs. Meadows.
“Now, really, I don’t know,” was the reply. “They are so high in the sky and I’ve seen them so often that I’ve never bothered my head about them.”
Mr. Thimblefinger climbed on the back of a chair, so as to get a better view of the curious bird, but he shook his head and climbed nimbly down again. The queer bird was too much for Mr. Thimblefinger. Mr. Rabbit opened his eyes lazily and looked at it.
“If I’m not much mistaken—” he started to say, but Drusilla broke in without any ceremony:—
“’T ain’t nothin’ ’t all, but one er dem ar meller bugs what swims roun’ in de spring.”
“Why, I expect it is a mellow bug,” said Mrs. Meadows, laughing. “I used to catch them when I was a girl and put them in my handkerchief. They smell just like a ripe apple.”
“I thought it was a buzzard,” said Buster John.
“No,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, “I used to be well acquainted with Brother Buzzard, and when he’s in the air he’s longer from side to side than he is from end to end. I don’t know when I’ve thought of Brother Buzzard before. I never liked him much, but I used to see him sailing around on sunshiny days, or sitting in the top of a dead pine drying his wings after a heavy rain. He cut a very funny figure sitting up there, with his wings spread out and drooping like a sick chicken.