Perri

  There was another rustle; twigs crackled in the underbrush. A brown back pushed through.

  “Who’s that, Mother?”

  “That? That’s one of the good creatures, big as it is. No deer ever hurt anyone. But hurry up, the bats are on the wing. You know what that means.”

  By the time they got home, Perri was tired out. Her mother let her slip into the nest, and then climbed after. It was soft and warm as they snuggled together. The darkness enfolded them.

  Perri went straight to sleep. The owl came on noiseless wings, perched on a branch of the oak, and raised her plaintive voice.

  “Do you hear?” whispered Mother. But Perri was asleep.

  Chapter Five

  THE MORNING GLIMMERED PALE GRAY. The sun had not yet painted the sky, but all the creatures in the forest were awake. The golden thrush flew from tree to tree, rejoicing: “Oh, how glorious! Oh, how lovely! Oh, I’m happy!”

  The blackbirds in the treetops sang their greeting to the new day.

  The woodpecker hammered away, stopping sometimes to laugh. The magpies chattered in midair. The finches’ notes were enchanting, no matter how often repeated. Titmice in neat black caps snapped up butterflies, beetles and day-flies. Over the treetops flew a flock of cawing crows; the jay screeched after them, “Scoundrels!” But they paid no attention to him.

  There came a bursting sound that was almost painful. A rattling whir of big wings followed.

  Perri pricked up her ears.

  “That’s the pheasant,” said Annerle, whom the two squirrels were visiting. “Don’t you know him?”

  “No.”

  “She’s still a child,” said her mother.

  “Well,” Annerle explained, “he’s just waked up, and flown down from his tree. Would you like to meet him?”

  “If he’s not dangerous,” said Perri.

  “The pheasant?” Annerle laughed. “Here, shy one,” she cried, “here, beautiful! I have something for you.”

  There was a soft rustling in the bushes; timidly the pheasant came out. He was a splendid sight. There was a golden glint to his body; his neck had a sapphire gleam. He raised his little head proudly and suspiciously.

  “A giant!” Perri exclaimed, and she leaped on Annerle’s curly head in alarm.

  “Don’t be scared, Perri,” laughed the child. “Sit on my shoulder.”

  But Perri stayed where she was. Not until her mother strolled nonchalantly to meet the pheasant did Perri venture down to Annerle’s shoulder.

  “What have you got for me?” said the pheasant, still keeping close to the bush.

  “You know,” said Annerle with a smile. “Why so timid?” She shook grains of millet from a tin into her little cupped hand, and held them out to the pheasant. “There.”

  With nodding head, the bird approached, step by step. A few grains had slipped from the child’s hand; the pheasant stooped to eat them. “Throw it all into the grass,” he demanded.

  “No,” Annerle persisted, “you come to me.” She squatted down with her hand in her lap. The pheasant began to eat greedily, while the two squirrels looked on.

  “He really won’t hurt us?” Perri smiled down from Annerle’s shoulder.

  The pheasant interrupted his meal to eye Perri, and said gravely, “If you just leave my wife’s eggs alone, you needn’t be afraid of me.”

  “He’s right,” Annerle nodded. “But squirrels robbing your nests? No, that I can’t believe.”

  “Tut, tut,” said the pheasant, “it’s been known to happen.”

  Perri’s mother changed the subject. “And you have nothing for us?”

  Annerle jumped up, flinging the millet on the ground. “For you? Of course I have something! Wait!”

  The pheasant went on eating busily. He paid no attention to Perri, who sat admiring him.

  Annerle came back from the house with five hazelnuts; one hand held two, the other, with great difficulty, three. “What is it?”

  Perri hopped on Annerle’s arm, and saw the nuts. She had never seen anything like them, but she said boldly, “Something good!”

  She cracked the shell. She was disappointed at first, for she had thought the hard shell was good to eat. Then she got to the kernel; she was enchanted.

  Annerle looked at her, laughing. “Does it taste good?”

  Perri merely nodded. She wasted no time talking.

  Her mother ate more calmly. “There’ll be lots of these later,” she whispered to Perri.

  Perri twitched. “Where?”

  “Everywhere—on the bushes. Later, when you’re grown up.”

  Everything good is going to happen when I’m grown up, thought Perri. Too bad that time passes so slowly.

  She tapped Annerle’s knee gently, and received the second hazelnut. She looked up, and saw the magpie sitting beside Annerle. Perri held out the nut. “How can this be here already?”

  The magpie replied shrewdly, “He always has what He wants. Remember that.”

  Mother was racking her brains—if I only knew where all my hazelnuts and acorns were! I just can’t think where I put them! But she said not a word.

  The pheasant raised his gleaming head. “I’m going now. Maybe I’ll come back soon, when you’re alone.” He pointed at the magpie. “I don’t like her.” He stalked proudly off.

  “Come as often as you like!” Annerle called. Turning to the magpie, she asked, “Why doesn’t he like you?”

  “Oh,” chattered the magpie, looking innocent, “he thinks I nibble his wife’s eggs. As a matter of fact it’s the crows.”

  “You too! You too!” yelled the jay, who had perched close by.

  “Oh, only very seldom,” the magpie defended herself, “really very seldom indeed.”

  The woodpecker laughed loudly. “The pheasant is always insulted anyway. He won’t speak to me, and so far as I’m concerned his wife can cover the earth with eggs.”

  Perri, absorbed in eating, had scarcely listened. Now she nudged Annerle’s knee again; but when she cracked the third hazelnut, there was nothing but black fibers inside.

  She turned sadly to Annerle. “You knew it all the time. Why did you give me that nasty stuff?”

  “I didn’t know it. How can you think such a thing?” Annerle defended herself.

  “Don’t you know everything?” Perri was surprised.

  “No—I don’t even know as much as any of you here.” Annerle pointed to Mother, the magpie, the jay. “But wait, I’ll bring you another nut.”

  She got up to go back to the house.

  “Bring me something too,” begged the magpie.

  Bang! came the thunderclap. Annerle stood still.

  The jay flew up, screeching loudly: “He!”

  The magpie said, “I’ll go see what happened.” She flew off.

  “Careful!” warned the woodpecker, mounting a tree.

  Mother said hurriedly, “When He thunders, it’s beyond a joke!” The two squirrels raced for the treetops. Annerle was left alone.

  Chapter Six

  EARLY IN THE EVENING PERRI was still gamboling in the branches of her oak. Shadows spread; the warm breeze was scented. Perri sprang from trunk to trunk; she was never still for a moment, yet nothing escaped her.

  Something rustled in the grass. She kept looking down; finally she saw a tiny creature whisking about.

  The shrewmouse was delicate, quick, graceful; his clever face seemed jolly and full of fun.

  Perri jumped a couple of branches lower, keeping her eye on the mouse. Now he was here, now he was there, vanishing, reappearing, vanishing.

  I’d like to play with the dear little thing, thought Perri.

  “Whom are you looking for?” asked the finch, who had perched beside her. He was surprised to see Perri so quiet.

  “There—no, wait—there! Isn’t he cunning?”

  The finch said nothing.

  “Shall I call him to come up? Wait, I’ll go down.” Perri started to jump.

  “None of that!??
? cried the finch decidedly.

  “Why?”

  “Look out for that robber!”

  Perri laughed: “Robber? That nice little fellow? What can he do to me?”

  “That nice little fellow would make an end of you like that! He’s brave, and he’s bloodthirsty and determined.”

  “I’m five times as big and ten times as strong as he.”

  “But he’s a hundred times more bloodthirsty than you.”

  “Bloodthirsty? What’s that?”

  Before the finch could answer there was a short cry of horror.

  It was Perri’s mother, flashing across the bushes toward the oak. After her came the shrewmouse. He seemed to spatter like a gray drop from the ferns.

  Mother hurtled forward. One could hear her panting; it was extraordinary how she ran, but the drop still splashed right after her.

  A sound of wings followed her. Magpie, blackbird, woodpecker flew low over the bushes, taunting and swearing at the shrewmouse, who paid no attention at all.

  With a mighty leap Mother reached the trunk of the oak at last. For a moment she could only cling to the tree and gasp.

  Meanwhile woodpecker, blackbird and magpie had gathered around Perri, who sat frozen with horror.

  Mother was recovering; she began to smarten herself up. She laughed when the woodpecker said, “You were in luck.” She raised her tail proudly over her back. “Luck? Nobody catches me!”

  “That little rascal is dangerous,” said the magpie.

  “He’s worse than the marten!” said the woodpecker.

  “He hasn’t a friend in the world,” said the blackbird.

  “Friend?” Mother laughed in high good humor. “He has nothing but enemies! He even hates himself. He murders his own brothers and sisters!”

  Perri found her tongue. “What a sad life!” she said.

  The magpie answered: “If he knew it, it would be sad. But he has no idea. All he wants is killing and blood.”

  Shaking her head, Perri sighed: “What a strange world!”

  The finch said, “And you didn’t believe me!”

  Chapter Seven

  ONE MORNING IN THE TREETOPS Perri heard a call. A red streak flickered through the foliage; branches bent and swayed under a romping squirrel. From time to time the call was repeated: “Perri! Perri!”

  When she heard it she was sitting high in a beech, cleaning her fur. For a while she listened, pricking up her tufted ears. It was not her mother’s voice. Perri went on sprucing up. She was even gayer than usual. Someone wanted her. Someone was looking for her. All right, she would let him hunt. It was a jolly voice, so nobody needed help.

  Finally her curiosity got the better of her. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s I, Porro!” came the answer from the other tree.

  Porro, she thought, who can that be? Finally she remembered that this was the boy squirrel she had met at the evergreens.

  She called, “Porro! Porro! Over here!” and ran boldly toward him until she saw him shooting down like flame through the oak. He bounded to the beech, laughing at her, and said, “Well! At last!”

  From this time on Porro visited Perri every day, and they played from morning until night.

  Once in the midst of their play Perri asked, “Where’s your mother?”

  “Somewhere,” he returned.

  “Don’t you see her any more?”

  “Sometimes,” he said carelessly, “but I’m trying to be grown up now, and I’m living alone.”

  She was impressed at first, but then she said, “Grown up—pooh! I still sleep with my mother—it’s so nice and warm.”

  He gave a superior whistle, and dashed off. She whisked after him, caught up with him, and bumped him so hard that he had to grab the tree. He mocked: “Where’s your mother?”

  She answered innocently, “I don’t know. But we meet at night in front of our nest.”

  “So?” he laughed. “Then you’ve run away from her—almost the same as I did.”

  She grew angry. “I didn’t run away, and don’t forget it!” She repeated indignantly, “Run away! I’d never do such a thing; I don’t have to. My mother is very wise. Maybe she’s wiser than anyone else in the forest. She’s the one who leaves me! I’m sure she knows it’s best for me to be alone without anyone watching.”

  “And grown up,” he added.

  “Oh, be quiet,” she said. “I’ve learned a great deal from my mother.”

  But Porro said gravely, “Everyone has to learn for himself.”

  Perri began to feel that Porro was very wise.

  In the woods the berries were ripening. The brush was spangled with little bright-colored fruits. On the ground there were whole stretches of thick greenery which glowed as if with spattered blood, and from which a sweet scent went up.

  Porro led his friend to the strawberries, to the wild currants, to the juniper berries and to all the other tidbits. The two of them had a regular feast. They soon tired of the strawberries, and paid no further attention to them. “They’re too soft,” said Porro, whereupon Perri turned up her nose. But she did not like juniper either; she disliked its aromatic scent, and Porro’s urging did little good. She said it was too strong and bitter.

  “Food for men,” said Porro proudly.

  “Perhaps,” Perri replied doubtfully.

  When they met the big black squirrel, feasting eagerly at the juniper bush, Porro cried, “See? He knows what’s good!” Then he said, “Hello, old Mirro.”

  “Ah, the little fellow,” laughed Mirro. “Hello there!”

  “Is it good?” asked Porro.

  “The berries make you dizzy, but they make you strong.” Then Mirro shrilled, “Come on, children!” He raced up the treetops, and did breakneck acrobatics, all the time shouting, “Come on, children! This way, this way!”

  But the children ducked and whisked away through the low bushes. They did not want to stay with the old fellow; they were tacitly agreed to avoid adults whenever possible.

  They rocked on the broad fruit-saucers of the elderberry bush. Blackbirds, titmice, finches and even magpies fluttered a few clusters farther on when the squirrels arrived.

  “Happy days!” rejoiced the finch; the blackbird agreed, “Enough for all!” By this they meant to show the two squirrels that they were not being disturbed. The magpie for once was quiet, which meant the same thing. All three, blackbird, finch and magpie, really preferred grasshoppers, insects, butterflies and spiders; the blackbird was fond of earthworms, the magpie liked eggs or the flesh of a young brood. But they could not resist the soft luxuriance of the ripe fruit. There was something kindly, something peaceful and rich about the forest today.

  “Bold thing!” said the jay angrily to Perri. Perri sat intent on the elderberry bush; she looked up for a moment, and casually went on eating. “Bold thing!” repeated the jay.

  Perri paid no attention, but Porro asked, “Do you mean these belong to you? Is that why you sound so angry?”

  “It all belongs to me,” shouted the jay, “everything! You’re only intruders!”

  The magpie chattered tauntingly, and finally Perri said, “It all belongs to you? Now it tastes all the better!”

  “I didn’t invite you!” he cried loudly.

  “That’s just why,” said Perri. “Now I’ll eat twice as much!”

  Everyone laughed while the jay screeched, “Impudence!”

  Porro barked at him, “Hold your tongue!”

  “Impudence! Impudence!”

  As if at a word of command, both squirrels jumped at the jay. He fluttered to the nearest tree in alarm, and began to fuss again. But as Porro and Perri started to chase him, he flew off. Farther and farther away they heard him raging: “Thieves! Scoundrels! Impudent rascals!”

  “He doesn’t own the berries!” said Porro.

  Perri laughed. “He thinks he’s the best singer in the forest. He’s hated me ever since I told him his voice was ugly.”

  “Child,” said the m
agpie, “he would have hated you anyway; he can’t get along with anyone.”

  “He never leaves anybody in peace,” agreed the finch, “and he hates me like poison.”

  “Me too,” said the blackbird. “He’s always quarreling.”

  “He’s vain and proud,” said the magpie, and Porro finished, “In other words, an old stupid.”

  About midday a great stillness fell. The leaves quivered in the sun. The grasses, the ferns, the wood-peas, the colt’s-foot, the curled mint and the other ground plants spread toward the light or shut themselves away from it, each according to its nature. Smells evaporated in the warm air. Now and then some sharp odor, thin and strong, pierced the green emptiness. There were no sounds but the soft propeller-hum of the gnats, the dull buzz of the bumblebees, the clearer one of wasps and wild bees; even the constant cooing of the pigeons died away.

  The two squirrels spent these hours of quiet close together in the shadow of the oak’s top. For minutes at a time they would surrender to a pleasant half-doze, and again they would strain their ears; but no threat came to disturb them.

  Then Porro whispered, “Do you know what love is?”

  “No,” Perri answered in a low, indifferent voice.

  “I don’t know either,” murmured Porro. He went on, “Love . . . I asked my mother about it . . .”

  “Well?”

  “She says, ‘You’ll find out later.’ Later—what does she mean, later? Mother just says, ‘Later is later. Wait.’ ”

  “All right,” said Perri, “go ahead and wait.”

  “Have you got the patience to wait?”

  “Yes indeed. I’m not worried about love.” Perri went on dozing.

  “I don’t understand you,” grumbled Porro. “Love must be something very special. I asked old Mirro, too. He laughed at me. ‘That’s nothing for you, you infant!’ he laughed. ‘Why not?’ I asked. First he didn’t say a word; he stopped laughing, and looked at me. Then he said, ‘When you feel it yourself, you’ll know what love is.’ ‘All right,’ I said, ‘but I’d like to know if it hurts.’ Then he laughed again, and made off.”

  “Porro,” Perri inquired, “what made you think of love?”