by Felix Salten
His answer was vague. “I don’t really know. Somewhere I must have heard of it, but I can’t remember where.”
“Well,” said Perri, “I love my mother—and I love the woods.”
“Yes! The woods!” Porro agreed joyfully.
“And all the hazelnuts.”
Porro bounded up. “Ha! The hazelnuts! Let’s go get some!”
The noonday heat subsided; everywhere things began to stir. Wide awake now, the two rushed for a tree. Soon they found a hazel bush.
Perri bit the green covering off the fruit, delicately cracked the juicy shell, and took the kernel gracefully in her forepaws. She said to Porro, “See? This is love.”
Gnawing, he replied, “Perhaps . . .”
She decided, “It’s perfectly simple.”
Porro stopped, sighed, “Perhaps,” and went on gnawing.
Chapter Eight
A NEW DAY WAS DAWNING. The forest-dwellers, already awake, looked toward the sunrise. The shrewmice rustled in the dewy grass. Here and there were heard the whirring sounds of the pheasants, the loud fanlike slap of their wings as they came down from the trees where they slept. The call of the cuckoo resounded through the trees, and the joyful song of the golden thrush, who flew through the air like a golden ball, repeating now and then, “Oh, see how beautiful!”
The woodpecker hammered busily, laughing loudly from time to time. High above them all, crows passed over; they cawed unpleasantly, however friendly they might have meant to sound. The magpies were all on a low ash tree, gossiping busily. The rude, angry screech of the jay interrupted the melody of the morning. But the blackbirds sat in the highest treetops, and began with sweet song to greet the sun.
The sun came. Sparkling arrows, spears, swords of light thrust through the treetops, fell upon bush and shrub, penetrated the thicket, bringing a kindly warmth. The forest shimmered and sparkled with countless dewdrops. On every leaf, on every grass blade, glowed diamond upon diamond, the fabulous riches of the morning. All the creatures who made their way through the thicket, or walked through grass and weeds, brushed these jewels from the plants; their coats were sprinkled with the bright drops, but the dew clung there no longer than to the feathers of the birds in the trees. The four-legged and the flying creatures, refreshed with the cool moisture, shook themselves; many drank the clear dew, and all hurried toward the warmth of the sun.
Perri and Porro had already had their first meal; they had been to the hazel bushes, carefully opened the green coverings, taken out the nuts, and stuffed themselves. They did not care whether the seed-shells were still whitish and soft, or showed a ripe brown; the food tasted wonderful after their sleep. They paid no attention to the jay, who scolded at them.
Then they bounded one after the other up the trunk of the oak, and played about among the twigs, wild with high spirits. Their red coats were dry, their hearts beat gaily, their breath came evenly, quite without effort; this mad speed was their usual pace. Although they did not realize it, while they thought they were playing, they were practicing flight, their only defense.
Below them the hare hopped from the bushes, deliberately, with caution. He sat down at the edge of the little greensward, where the sun warmed him as it sucked the bright dew from the leaves.
Perri was running along a branch which stretched out into the open; she saw the hare, and called Porro over. They both peered down at him with interest.
The hare sat still, his head slanted upward, taking in the sunshine. He had a brooding, careworn look, and seemed lost in thought. Yet he heard the slightest noise. Of course he had noticed the racing of the two, though he had not so much as raised his ears.
“A relative,” whispered Porro.
“What?” asked Perri, also in a whisper. “That giant?”
“We have many relatives,” Porro informed her, “very little ones and very big ones.”
“Isn’t he dangerous?” Perri inquired.
“No—I don’t think so. Anyway, he can’t climb.”
The hare suddenly shot up one ear, then the other, and sat bolt upright. His nose twitched violently in search of the scent.
“See,” said Porro, “he sits just the way we do. I told you he was a relative.”
“So? And where is his flag tail?”
“Oh, we’re the only ones with tails.”
“Hello!” Perri called.
The hare murmured something indistinct.
“Are you unhappy?” asked Perri.
“Not exactly unhappy,” replied the hare. “I have no reason to be jolly. I feel the way I always feel.”
“How do you feel?” Perri wanted to know.
The hare told her: “Afraid. . . . Life is very serious.”
“No,” Perri contradicted, “you mustn’t always be afraid. Life is wonderful!”
“It could be wonderful, if . . .” The hare sighed, and added, “Up there where you are, yes, I can imagine; up there life is wonderful.”
Porro thrust himself forward. “Please, can you tell us what love is? We’d like so much to know.”
“He wants to know,” said Perri indignantly. “He! He’s always asking silly questions.”
“All right,” Porro conceded, “I want to know. And it’s not silly for me to ask.”
“You’re right,” said the hare, “your question isn’t silly at all. Only a little premature, I think. Love is something very great, and I’ll be glad to tell you about it. You see—”
Suddenly he stopped. His ears jerked up. He made a half-turn, as if to run in the direction from which he had come.
“Tell me! Go on!” Porro urged. But the hare zigzagged away, his ears flat along his back, racing with the speed of terror.
The two looked after him in amazement, watching his zigzag course as the white tail kept bobbing up and down.
“What’s wrong with him?” Porro turned to the magpie, who had just fluttered up. “Why is he afraid?” he even asked the jay, who did not answer, of course, but merely screeched, “Look out! Look out!” and flew on.
“You’re above the wind here,” the magpie explained, “or you’d catch the scent, and would know how wise it is for the hare to run to safety. Watch!”
“Oughtn’t we to look out for ourselves?” said Porro, peering around.
“Stay where you are,” the magpie advised. “Up here you’re safe. But keep your eyes open, and you’ll see someone dangerous. There—there—”
The bushes parted a very little, quite soundlessly. At first the two saw nothing; finally they detected a pair of greedily searching eyes, a sharp face, white around the nose—a face they thought enormous, a face with a shrewd but troubled expression, searching, sniffing, marked by hunger and trouble. Neither Porro nor Perri understood this air of suffering. They were merely filled with dread as the fox crept nearer. His red body horrified them; to them it seemed tremendous. His stately brush roused a sort of shuddering admiration.
The magpie gave a piercing scream of warning.
The fox raised his head to the bird, and growled softly, “Don’t make it so hard for me!”
“I must! I must!” chattered the magpie. “The hare got away from you without my help. You won’t find any of the woods creatures here, now that I’ve given warning.”
Beyond in the far trees the jay was screeching. “He too!” grumbled the fox. Sadly lowering his nose to sniff at the ground, he went on, broke into a trot, and disappeared.
Breathlessly Perri and Porro had watched the drama of his passing. The magpie chattered after him: “ ‘Don’t make it so hard for me,’ indeed! A fellow like that is strong, much stronger than anybody—and then he wants you to make it easy for him. The very idea!”
“Why don’t you follow him?” Porro inquired.
“Unnecessary. Members of my family are doing sentry duty all along his path.”
“Imagine—even that vain, envious jay rascal’s helping!” Porro was astonished.
“The jay?” The magpie laughed. “Envy is
his trouble. He just wants to make mischief. He doesn’t even realize he’s saving others. If it occurs to him afterward, he gets angry, or else acts important and even prouder than ever.”
“How clever of the hare!” Porro said to change the subject. “I’m sorry he had to go; he was just about to tell me something I was very curious about. But now I understand.”
“The hare,” said the magpie, “the good old hare, he’s one of the most unfortunate creatures in the forest.”
“Oh, no.” Porro was doubtful.
“Yes, he is! You can take my word for it!” The magpie became quite gentle. “He does no one any harm. He’s always peaceful and timid because he can’t protect himself. Everybody attacks him—the polecat, the fox, the hawk, even the weasel, and at night the owl. Who knows how many others? He can’t defend himself; he’s everyone’s victim.”
“He can run,” said Porro. “It’s wonderful how he runs!”
“Yes,” said the magpie, “but that’s all he can do. He can’t fly away like me, he can’t climb like you—”
“The poor thing,” Perri sympathized, “and he has only that little white button.” Proudly she hoisted her tall, bushy flag.
Chapter Nine
DUSK WAS JUST STARTING TO fall. Wide shadows lay across the forest, but their shade was not cool. Gnats which had danced in the sun went tirelessly on in the twilight. Beetles buzzed about industriously, and moths fluttered noiselessly over bush and turf. The birds were silent; only the blackbird’s evensong across the treetops, and sometimes a peevish jay vainly screeching for “Quiet!” Here and there was the slap of great wings as a pheasant rose to its branch to sleep. The nervous, twitching bats crisscrossed in the air. From the grass came the shrill chirping of the crickets.
The two squirrels were just on their way home. There was still light enough to see, but they wanted to be in their nests before the terrible owl began her plaintive cries.
Below them was a continuous loud rustling, a steady crackling, a dull trampling. The noise did not stir from the spot. It was loud and constant.
Perri sat up. “Listen!” she whispered. “Something awful must be happening.”
“Let’s look,” said Porro.
“I don’t dare.” Perri sat spellbound.
“Nonsense!” whispered Porro. Boldly he jumped a couple of branches lower, hurried to the end of a limb and peered down.
Driven by curiosity, Perri followed. She sat down beside him. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I can’t really see,” replied Porro, “but we’re safe up here. Don’t be scared; nothing can happen to us.”
They went down to the next branch. Porro went first. He whispered back, “Quick, quick! Something extraordinary!” and Perri leaped after him.
A powerful roebuck stood by the young hazel bush, rubbing his horns against it and pawing the ground. His every gesture spoke defiance. With lowered head he charged at the hazel bush, ripping up its slender stems, tearing off the bark in long strips. The bright, wounded wood bled greenish-yellow sap. The whole bush trembled. The leaves whirled and scattered.
At intervals the buck stamped the ground. He stripped the little spot of every grass blade; he stamped and stamped, scraped and scraped.
“Why is he raging so?” asked Perri softly.
Softly Porro replied, “I have no idea.”
From the treetop Mother called, “Perri! Come on to sleep. It’s getting late.”
Perri could not tear herself away. “Look, Mother, look!”
Her mother whizzed down to crouch beside the children. She watched the roebuck’s antics without surprise. “Yes. . . . Well—?”
“Why is he so angry?” Perri inquired.
“Yes, why?” Porro was also curious.
“Nonsense!” said Mother. “He’s not angry at all.”
“But—he’s raging so!” Perri contradicted. “Did the bush do something to him?”
“Don’t be a stupid! The poor, harmless bush couldn’t do anything to anyone. And he isn’t raging.”
The roebuck had had enough. He took a few steps sidewise, and stopped in the green thicket, holding his head high. His horns shone damply. With faintly twitching nose he searched the air.
“It’s his strength that’s bothering him,” Mother explained. “He’s full of health and spirits. But he wouldn’t think of attacking a live creature.”
“Suppose he’s attacked?” Perri interrupted.
“Oh, nobody will attack him—even the fox wouldn’t dare. He alone can destroy him. From a distance. He is all-powerful.”
The roebuck vanished without a sound.
“He’s gone!” said Porro in surprise.
“Gone?” said Perri. “Too bad! He was so handsome and proud.”
“Of course,” said Mother. “Handsome and proud—after all, he’s a prince!”
“I’d like to be a prince,” said Porro longingly.
“Then you couldn’t play around in the trees,” Perri warned him.
From far away came the voice of the owl, sad yet threatening: “Aaa—o—haha—ha—oho!”
“Home with you!” Mother scolded excitedly. “High time! Be quick!”
The three squirrels whisked out of sight.
Chapter Ten
AT THE EDGE OF THE great meadow in the middle of the forest, among beeches, maples, oaks and alders, stood an ash, thickly clothed with leaves. Not far away, in the meadow itself, were a few birches. Silver-stemmed, graceful, with their delicate branches and fine, fluttering leaves, they seemed like high-spirited girls dancing ring-around-a-rosy.
Two hawks circled in the blue, sunny air.
Four young hawks, full-feathered and just ready to fly, sat on the outstretched limb of the ash. They still had soft, yellow beaks; they were bashful and clumsy, and they looked wide-eyed at their parents. They crowded one another, whispering, “Do you think I’ll ever be able to do that? Do you think I’ll ever learn?” But in their hearts and wings the urge was already at work. They were in a fever of impatience.
An eagle floated near. He looked about, and sank lower and lower.
Catching sight of him, the pair of hawks started in wide circles away from the ash. They called back, “Hide! Hide!”
Both hawks were indignant. “How did he get here? This is our territory!”
The mother hawk rose sharply toward the eagle; the father followed close behind.
“What business have you here?” screamed the mother hawk.
“Outrageous!” stormed the father.
The eagle merely flipped the tips of his wings, which might have been a sign that he had noticed the disturbance. He kept on floating calmly in the sky, as though he had not heard them. The two hawks grew all the more violent; they showed no sign of fear, but approached as if to attack from different directions. As a matter of fact they did so only to make it difficult for the mighty eagle to decide which way he would strike. They moved constantly and were not silent for an instant.
“Do you think,” cried the father hawk, “that you can get away with everything just because you’re strong?”
The mother yelled, “You ought to be ashamed—trespassing on our territory!”
“If you’re hungry, find your food elsewhere!” the father snarled at him.
“It’s wicked to steal the food out of the mouths of us smaller ones,” cut in the mother.
Both screamed with one voice, “Thief! Thief! Common thief!”
The eagle had been flying uneasily back and forth, rising high above the trees. But the excited parents followed him; he noticed that the magpies, jays and crows in the branches were growing noisy, so he returned doubtfully to the open meadow. He was bewildered.
Finally he spoke to the hawks: “Do be quiet. . . . I didn’t intend . . . no . . . really, I don’t want anything of you.”
They were softened a little, a very little.
“How did you come here?” asked the father hawk.
The mother hawk shouted, �
��We won’t stand for it at all.”
The eagle replied, “I don’t know myself how I got here. . . . Excuse me.” He dropped to the ground, so that the hawks thought he was striking at something. They were about to start yelling, but he simply sat in the middle of the meadow, turning his noble head, looking around in embarrassment.
The hawks flew in small circles above him.
“I lost my way,” he confessed shamefacedly.
“It does happen,” the father hawk admitted in a friendlier tone.
The mother hawk, still suspicious, screeched, “Liar! That couldn’t happen to anybody as big as you!”
“Don’t make such a row,” begged the eagle. “I can’t understand how it happened. I’m strange here—I won’t stay.”
“You mustn’t stay!” said the mother hawk angrily. “You mustn’t! Mustn’t!”
“Let me go my way in peace,” he begged gently, “you’re right; but let me go.”
“We won’t stop you,” said the father hawk, moving upward.
“If you’re really honest about it,” the mother hawk stipulated, floating toward the other side.
The eagle spread his wings, rose heavily, and climbed steeply with a few wing-strokes. Soon he moved his widespread wings no more, but hung in air as safely as on solid ground. He described narrow spirals, rising higher and higher toward the sun. Then a quick turn: he found his way, and vanished from sight.
That was that.
The hawks circled together a while longer to keep watch.
“He lost his way,” said the hawk.
“Lost his way!” jeered his mate. “Ridiculous! He’s a robber!”
“No! I’m sure he was telling the truth.”
“Of course!” she interrupted. “That’s you all over. You’d believe anything.”
Despite their differences, they were in good humor again. They headed for the ash tree. When the parents landed, the four young ones came out. Greedily they opened their yellow beaks.
“Nothing!” said their mother. “You’ve had breakfast. Now you practice.”
“Then you shall have something good again,” their father promised.
The parents winged away from the tree, did encouraging dances in the air, and cheered the young ones on with happy cries.
