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  Chapter One

  WHISH! WITH A RUSH THE squirrel whizzed down from the treetop, spreading all four legs wide, bushy tail twitching like a loose rudder. It was hardly a leap, but rather a drop from the sky in mad terror.

  Before one could even hear the twigs rustle, the dainty creature was sitting completely bewildered in the lap of little Anna. The two looked at each other, puzzled—but only for a second. Then the squirrel whispered breathlessly, “Help me!” The child spread tiny hands over her trembling guest, who had fallen as though from heaven, and was cowering under the living roof of fingers. Anna felt the heart of the fugitive beating wildly.

  Up in the treetop the leaves rustled softly, and the branches bent a trifle, Anna looked up. She smiled, for up there the marten was creeping about. He was prowling, taking care that his sly, dangerous face should be seen only seldom. His prey had escaped him; and at the moment of leaping after it, he had caught a human scent dangerously near. This he hated; it hampered him. Now he hesitated.

  The May morning dawned gray and wan; the sun had not yet risen, but Anna was already sitting on her little bench in the grass near the lodge of her gamekeeper father. Everything was waking up in the forest round about. Before the first rays tipped the leaves of the treetops with gold, the reveille of the cuckoo rang out. The fluting of the blackbird was heard, the joyful note of the thrush, the piercing laughter of the woodpecker, the song of the finch, the whispering of the titmouse. These little folk were sure that fine weather was coming. They greeted the new day.

  Anna, a little girl of three, sat here as she did every morning when the weather permitted. Here under the great beech the morning sun reached far, and stayed long. In the afternoons and evenings she sat around in the grass, played in her silent way or sat by the hazel bushes which, with the blackthorn hedge, surrounded the small plot in front of the house. She had big brown curls that fluttered gently around her head, and a delicate but healthy face; in short, she looked like the cherubs the old German artists were so fond of representing with heavenly musical instruments in their hands. Anna was all alone, but she felt little loneliness, neither indoors nor—least of all—out in the woods. She had no mother. Her grandmother had little time to spend with her once the necessary things were tended to. The child ruled kindly and gently, but hers was an unlimited monarchy.

  Her father loved the forest, loved hunting, loved the game which he protected and sometimes shot, or chased out of the bushes for his master to shoot; he also loved two dogs, the dachshund Fido and the slender, spotted pointer Treff; of course he was fond of his mother; but above all he loved Anna, his only child. He called her Annerle, saying the diminutive with a singing intonation, and Anna would reply, singing too, “Ye-es!” Often this was the whole of their conversations. It was enough; their love for each other could not be more truly expressed.

  Ever since she was two—a long time—Annerle had had her way about getting up before dawn, when her father left his bed, and going out with him into the sleeping forest. There she would sit quietly, enjoying the awakening of the small folk, and would wait patiently until her father came back from his stalking. Then she would sleep two or three hours, be fresh again at noon, and spend the rest of the day just as she had spent the morning.

  Annerle was now in that mysterious state where children are still distant from adults, and as yet feel no urge to be grown up. For the moment they enjoy the infinite blessing of having no fate; they live in natural innocence, like Adam and Eve before they ate the apple from the tree of knowledge. And, as in Paradise, all creatures confide their friendship to children. Perhaps this is because the animals, half-consciously or quite unconsciously, have an inexplicable hope and longing for the old original harmony between man and beast. If only human children could grow up with the memory of all the gentleness, all the patience and devotion, which they have had from living creatures! But when they grow out of the dawning of their lives, they forget everything. And they forget, too, that in babyhood, when they did not know the language of men, and only babbled it clumsily, they understood the speech of all innocent creatures. This understanding, word for word, vanishes forever; even the memory of it vanishes, and animals become to them what they are to everyone else—dumb friends.

  Today Annerle understood the squirrel’s terrified plea: “Help me!” She understood also the shouting of jays and magpies in the branches of the beech: “He’s still there! He’s lying in wait, the robber! Little girl, help the squirrel mother! You can save her.”

  Annerle asked the poor creature, “Have you any children?”

  And the squirrel replied sorrowfully, “I had five. Only one is left. Two the marten got; one the Owl caught at night; one the sparrow hawk flew off with. That’s the way it goes; it can’t be helped. Now I have only my little Perri. But who knows if she’s still alive?”

  From the hazel bush a finch called out, “Yes, she’s alive; calm yourself.”

  The squirrel sat up. “Thank you, kind finch.”

  “If you want to thank me,” the finch called, “leave me and my brood alone.”

  “Leave you alone?” said the squirrel. “Who spares me and my brood? You’ll have children again, my kind finch friend,” she called after the bird, which had taken wing, “and I shall have children again,” she added. Then the squirrel went on, turning to Annerle: “You just have to be careful not to fall victim to someone stronger. It’s easy enough to get away from owls and sparrow hawks and other winged enemies. But the marten is worse. He can climb a tree as well as I. Then I have to move like a flash, or I’m lost. Do you know how far he chased me? All the way over here from where I live. The beech was the third tree I jumped to. I was dreadfully tired and out of breath, and my strength was used up. In desperation I came down to the ground. Luckily I landed in your lap.”

  Annerle laughed, and the squirrel, who had been smiling politely, said with a sigh, “Yes, this is a lovely world, but not an easy one.”

  From the beech tree the magpie chattered, “He’s gone!”

  The jay screeched, “Gone away!”

  And the woodpecker said with a piercing laugh, “By day that fellow always crawls away and hides.”

  “Then I’ll go look after Perri,” the squirrel decided. She hopped to the ground, leaped wide-legged through grass and bushes, and was high up the trunk of the nearest oak in an instant. She whisked like a flash through the treetops, and vanished.

  The sun had risen magnificently. In the sky the clouds scattered, and the pale green of the heavens was overspread with a delicate blue.

  There was a sharp crack in the distance.

  After some time Annerle’s father came home with the owner of the forest.

  She and the dogs ran to meet them. Her father at once picked her up in his arms to caress her.

  Then he patted the two dogs. “Work for you, Fido,” he said.

  “Well,” said the owner, “it will hardly be much work. The buck is not thirty paces from the opening in the underbrush.”

  “A little practice never does any harm,” replied the gamekeeper. “That’s what I wanted the dog to have, or I’d have fetched the buck right away.”

  “First let’s have breakfast,” the owner decided.

  The two sat down at the table in front of the house, with Annerle between them. Grandmother soon brought coffee, bread, butter and eggs. />
  Meanwhile Annerle began to talk, and as they ate she went on eagerly about the squirrel that had fled to her; what it had said; about the warning cries of the magpie and the jay; about their reassurance when the marten had gone, and about the good news of Perri which the finch had brought. Her speech was childish, full of those imperfect, often homemade, words peculiar to children.

  “I don’t quite understand what the little one is talking about,” the owner whispered.

  Annerle heard him and began again at the beginning with redoubled enthusiasm.

  Her father smiled. “The child is so lively she imagines whole fairy tales. I don’t know just what she’s trying to tell us either. But it’s nice to listen to.”

  “Yes indeed,” the owner agreed. “Annerle is a sweet child.” He stroked her curls caressingly. “Go on, little one, go on.”

  Annerle thought they understood her now, and she started off again.

  But they did not understand her at all. The two adults guessed rather than understood that she was making an oft-repeated attempt of nature to be a link between human beings and other creatures.

  Chapter Two

  PERRI SAT SNUGLY AGAINST THE trunk of the oak, her neat little tail stiffly upright behind her. The oak trunk was as warm as a living, breathing creature: it drank in the morning sun until almost noon. The fresh green leaves grew in bunches at the end of the twigs, and the clusters of blossoms were hidden away in them. Many trees rose about it, one close to another—oak, ash, beech—crown by crown. When the wind passed over, there was a melodious rustling which sometimes swelled to a wild roar, mighty music that inspired or frightened, depending on the listener.

  Perri had no love for the roar. Like the deer, she was shy of strong wind, and usually felt bad weather keenly.

  Today the kind sun was shining from a blue sky; the leaves fanned gently and pleasantly. The cuckoo kept calling through the woods, now from afar, now close at hand. Now and again a magpie chattered, or a jay screeched.

  Each time Perri listened intently. Her ears, with tufts of hair at the top like brushes, were always ready to be pricked up. But the warning cries were none of Perri’s business.

  She sat waiting. Where could her mother be?

  As yet Perri was hardly independent, but she had known horrible experiences, even though it was scarcely two weeks since she had left the nest. Her brothers and sisters had been carried off, and Perri knew the terror of their fate.

  Only one had she seen die. That was her sister Murri, who ran carelessly and clumsily out along the far-reaching branch. The sparrow hawk came, stuck its talons into the tiny creature, and carried it off into the air. A short shriek of pain. Then nothing. Perri was left with a feeling of terror and of the grandeur of the great bird rising quickly skyward on broad wings.

  Where could her mother be? What fun it had been to play with her, to talk with her, to be fondled and guided! Perri was homesick for her mother, and she was hungry. Then she jumped in alarm. Close before her something fluttered and perched noisily. How could she have failed to hear it sooner—how could she have been so careless? She sat upright, her paws pressed to her white breast.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said the cuckoo, “please don’t.” He let his cry ring out, followed by a little, low laugh.

  “If you see my mother,” Perri requested, “I’m waiting here.”

  “Child,” replied the cuckoo, “don’t wait. Amuse yourself alone! Hunt your own food. Believe me, being alone is the only way.”

  Perri confessed simply, “I haven’t the courage yet. I need my mother—I long for her . . .”

  The cuckoo laughed. “That I can’t understand—mother, child, longing. That’s all just funny! I see you’re a child. Well, what of it? I never knew my mother; I shall never worry about my children; I don’t know what it means to long for anything. I’m free, and when I look at you squirrels and your need for one another, your anxiety for one another, I think you’re dolts!”

  “We just have a feeling we belong together,” whispered Perri shyly.

  “Nonsense!” contradicted the cuckoo. “How long do you belong together after all? Eh? A little while, and then each one goes his way, and the spell is broken. Don’t talk to me! I’ll have nothing to do with such a mistake, and I don’t try to fool my relatives. I go my own way right from the start; I have no consideration for anything, and I enjoy myself thoroughly. That’s why I’m wiser than the lot of you.”

  He started to fly off.

  Perri held him back. “I’m sure you’re right, but please—”

  “What do you want?”

  “If you see my mother, tell her to come here to me right away.”

  “I never mix in family affairs,” said the cuckoo haughtily, “but if I should see your mother, and should happen to think of it, I’ll tell her.”

  He whirred off. Perri looked admiringly after him. For a while she sat still, waiting. The cuckoo’s talk had excited her. At first she was astonished at such bold freedom; then it seemed cold, heartless, saucy and low. Her thoughts were confused; she did not know what to think, and finally took the whole thing as a joke. “He must surely have been talking in fun,” she said to herself. “He wanted to encourage me. The cuckoo was really very good to me.”

  She peered around with shrewd, questioning eyes. A magnificent world of leaves surrounded her—sheltering leaves, sweet-smelling leaves, leaves whose faint stirring announced whatever came near. Everywhere paths led through the green wilderness, which really was not wild at all. The thick branches were wide brown roads; from them ever-narrower paths split off, rocking delightfully as they got thinner. The trunk of the tree, rising thick and solid, meant safety, home, the familiar invitation to race up. Perri loved the trunk, the branches and the many, many leaves.

  Her small fright faded quickly; the shock was soon over. As she sat there, she thought everything she saw was lovely enough to make one leap with joy. Her delight was naturally expressed in leaps, in mad racing, in acrobatics.

  The feeling of loneliness vanished. Only vaguely did Perri remember her mother. Of course, she thought, it would be nice to have Mother here. But if she doesn’t come, then I’ll just manage without.

  Perri whisked away. Not far—she was still timid, after all. She stayed close to the trunk of the oak, climbing straight upward; her little paws were spread wide, as if to embrace the thick bark in which her fine claws stuck. She hesitated, and then climbed ahead. It was a good feeling, altogether pleasant.

  Alone! she felt—I’m alone! Her first timidity gave way entirely; she remembered the cuckoo. Alone!

  A strong branch seemed to call her, stretching away from the trunk into the air. Perri jumped upon it, and whisked delicately back and forth, faster and faster. She had been climbing straight up; now it was level. How magnificent! Perri was wild with joy. But she still had caution enough to avoid the tip of the branch. Where it grew thin she turned back. She did not venture out so far that the branch shook under her slight weight.

  A flapping of wings alarmed her.

  With flying tail Perri shot toward the trunk, leaned against it, raised her tail high, sat upright. She showed her white breast, and her eyes sparkled.

  The magpie moved cautiously into view. “Is it you, Perri?” she chattered.

  Perri stared at her, and said nothing.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said the magpie, “I won’t do anything to you.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Perri whispered, trembling with fear, but also with fight. Still, she preferred not to fight.

  The magpie flattered: “You’re too big and strong for me.”

  “I’m very strong,” said Perri. She tried to put a threat into this answer, but she had not the courage. Only her raised paws had an attitude of menacing defense. She breathed heavily, and her heart pounded wildly.

  Trying to calm herself, she went on, “Soon I’ll be even bigger and even stronger.”

  “I hope so,” the magpie agreed good-naturedly. “If
nobody catches you.”

  Perri started: “Who’s to catch me?”

  They sat face-to-face.

  After looking at the baby squirrel, the magpie thoughtfully turned her head. “For the present, as long as you’re small, look out for the crow.”

  “I’m looking out, all right,” sighed Perri, hiding her pretty face; then she burst out, “Why must I always be looking out?”

  “To keep alive.” The magpie’s tone was serious.

  Perri sounded despairing, almost in tears, as she said, “It’s wretched to be always looking out! I can’t stand it!”

  “Oh, you get used to it,” said the magpie. “You soon get used to a little caution, and you can still be jolly, even happy.”

  Half in doubt, half hopefully, Perri eyed the magpie. At last she said, “It’s easy for you; you’re not in any danger.”

  The magpie gave a chattering laugh. “What a child you are! You don’t know the world. I’m in no danger? My little one, my life is just as hard or just as easy as yours. We all have to look out, all of us! Even if you’re a falcon, a sparrow hawk or a buzzard. Even a great gentleman like the marten or a murderer like the fox!”

  “Who’s the marten? Who’s the fox?” asked Perri.

  “You’ll find out soon enough. They have enormous strength. But He is more powerful than any of them.”

  “And who’s He?”

  “Well, just He. I’ve seen him. He walks upright on two legs, and He has no wings. But his hand, the thin extra one, reaches farther and faster than the fastest bird. More than that I don’t know. He’s mysterious. A thunderclap, and the marten falls dead from the tree. A thunderclap, and the fox lies dying in his blood.”

  “Horrible.” Perri was trembling again. “Then it does no good to look out . . .”

  “Why, child, it’s just on his account that you can rest easy. He never hurts us little folk. On the contrary, He often frees us of our worst enemies.”

  Perri sat upright. “I love this He,” she said, pressing her paws happily to her white breast.