“Hello, Mourner!” he cried. “What under the sun are you doing in there? Are you getting your breakfast?”
“Hardly, Peter; hardly,” cooed Mourner in the softest of voices. “I've had my breakfast and now I'm picking up a little gravel for my digestion.” He picked up a tiny pebble and swallowed it.
“Well, of all things!” cried Peter. “You must be crazy. The idea of thinking that gravel is going to help your digestion. I should say the chances are that it will work just the other way.”
Mourner laughed. It was the softest of little cooing laughs, very pleasant to hear. “I see that as usual you are judging others by yourself,” said he. “You ought to know by this time that you can do nothing more foolish. I haven't the least doubt that a breakfast of gravel would give you the worst kind of a stomach-ache. But you are you and I am I, and there is all the difference in the world. You know I eat grain and hard seeds. Not having any teeth I have to swallow them whole. One part of my stomach is called a gizzard and its duty is to grind and crush my food so that it may be digested. Tiny pebbles and gravel help grind the food and so aid digestion. I think I've got enough now for this morning, and it is time for a dust bath. There is a dusty spot over in the lane where I take a dust bath every day.”
“If you don't mind,” said Peter, “I'll go with you.”
Mourner said he didn't mind, so Peter followed him over to the dusty place in the long lane. There Mourner was joined by Mrs. Dove, who was dressed very much like him save that she did not have so beautiful a neck. While they thoroughly dusted themselves they chatted with Peter.
“I see you on the ground so much that I've often wondered if you build your nest on the ground,” said Peter.
“No,” replied Mourner. “Mrs. Dove builds in a tree, but usually not very far above the ground. Now if you'll excuse us we must get back home. Mrs. Dove has two eggs to sit on and while she is siting I like to be close at hand to keep her company and make love to her.”
The Doves shook the loose dust from their feathers and flew away. Peter watched to see where they went, but lost sight of them behind some trees, so decided to run up to the Old Orchard. There he found Jenny and Mr. Wren as busy as ever feeding that growing family of theirs. Jenny wouldn't stop an instant to gossip. Peter was so brimful of what he had found out about Mr. and Mrs. Dove that he just had to tell some one. He heard Kitty the Catbird meowing among the bushes along the old stone wall, so hurried over to look for him. As soon as he found him Peter began to tell what he had learned about Mourner the Dove.
“That's no news, Peter,” interrupted Kitty. “I know all about Mourner and his wife. They are very nice people, though I must say Mrs. Dove is one of the poorest housekeepers I know of. I take it you never have seen her nest.”