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The donkey was proud too. “Isn’t he a brave little fellow?”

  The stallion pronounced his reluctant judgment. “These meat-eaters, these robbers, are all very brave. All of them.”

  “The fox,” Lisa grumbled, “must be very dangerous.”

  “He is!” Devil agreed. “I don’t know him—I never saw him—but I know he’s very ferocious.”

  “Ferocious! Dangerous!” mocked the Persian. “He’s just a thief! A miserable, greedy, craven thief.”

  “What did he steal from you?” Witch asked mildly.

  “The pheasant I caught in a tree.” Shah spat.

  “Oh! . . . Well, you leave the pheasants in peace,” the stallion cautioned him. “You can eat your fill here. He gives you enough.”

  “But nothing alive, nothing I catch myself.”

  “That’s not so,” Lisa contradicted. “There are lots of mice here.”

  “What’s a mouse!” the tomcat retorted disdainfully.

  “And rats,” Witch added.

  The Persian wiped his mouth with a paw. “Rats make me sick at my stomach. I only bite their necks. I wouldn’t touch them otherwise.”

  The stallion said, “Just the same, it’s something alive.”

  “But what’s that compared with a pheasant?” demanded the tomcat. “The pheasant sleeps high in the trees. The fox can’t get up there because he can’t climb. No He can reach him without a thunder-stick. But I can get up there quickly—right into the tree. Softly I sneak very close. The pheasant doesn’t wake up. A bite—and he’s mine!”

  The stallion shuddered. “Dreadful!”

  The cow was speechless with horror.

  “Awful!” the calf groaned.

  Witch whirled. “I don’t want to hear about it!”

  The donkey stared at the Persian.

  “You can’t understand this, you grass-eaters.” Shah felt very superior. “The hunt is ecstasy for which I gladly risk everything. But surely you can understand my fury when the fox stole my prey—my property—and tried to tell me I had no right to it! Oh, if that treacherous owl hadn’t helped him, I’d have taken care of him all right!”

  “Or he of you,” Lisa observed.

  Just then Babette entered the stable to milk the cow. At first she didn’t notice the tomcat crouching by the feed box. The milk gushed into the pail in hot jets and spread sweet fragrance.

  Attentively, as he did every morning, the donkey stood and watched.

  Lisa was enjoying the pleasant relief that the emptying of her udder now gave her. Witch whispered across the stall partition to her, “When our two-legged friend sees him, he’ll be in for it!”

  “She won’t see him,” the stallion pointed out. “Little Gray is standing in the way on purpose.”

  “When she does see him,” Witch whispered gloatingly, “he’ll be punished. No milk!”

  Lisa lifted her broad beautiful head. “You’re wrong,” she mooed, so loud that the others were frightened lest Babette understand her. “You’re wrong. She’ll pamper that scoundrel.”

  Babette said, “I’m finished already, brown Lisa. You’re impatient today.” She rose and picked up the full milk pail.

  The donkey had to step aside to let Babette pass.

  Now the Persian wanted to show his stable companions how much he remained in favor. Besides, he wanted to drink his milk. He was thirsty and longed for refreshment and for tenderness from the two-legged ones in whose goodness he had confidence. He gave a plaintive miaow and made as if to leap down off the feed box.

  Babette saw him. “Yes, Shah! There you are! Come—milk !” she called. Then she noticed his wounds. She uttered a little cry. “For heaven’s sake, what have they done to you? Who did it?”

  She took hold of him gently. Even her tender touch made his wounds hurt again, most of all the deep ones the owl’s claws had made on his back and throat. He gave a chattering mew of pain and drew away.

  But Babette persisted carefully. “Come, darling,” she soothed, “I won’t hurt you. I only want to help you.”

  The tomcat crept into her arms, though her touch still hurt him.

  “Oh, Shah, how terribly hurt you are! How you’ve bled—”

  He chattered again at Babette’s attempt to caress him.

  “Your ear . . .!” Babette wailed. “Your beautiful ear!”

  The Persian miaowed with pain. Then the sweet fragrance of the milk rose into his nostrils. His throat was dry. He ached for a refreshing drink and tried to get out of Babette’s arms.

  “Yes, yes, you can have your milk.” She let him slip easily to the floor. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

  She fetched the milk pail from Lisa’s stall and filled the saucer which always stood ready for the Persian. “There, poor darling.”

  Eagerly the Persian lapped. The milk refreshed him and gave him new strength.

  Babette bent over him. “Your neck! Your forehead! And that ear! How can we heal you?”

  The tomcat had just finished when Peter entered the stable to feed the horses and the donkey.

  “Look at Shah,” Babette said.

  Peter stooped and looked the wounds over. “There’s not much to be done here,” he said gravely.

  “Is—is he done for?” quavered Babette.

  “Practically,” Peter said. “A shot would put him out of his misery.”

  “No!” Babette exclaimed. “No! No! I’ll nurse him back to health!”

  Soberly Peter said, “I’m afraid he has too many wounds.”

  “He must have had a wild fight with other tomcats, Peter.”

  Peter shook his head. “Not wounds like these. These come from fiercer enemies.”

  “From whom, for heaven’s sake?”

  “How should I know?”

  “No matter who did it,” Babette concluded, “in my care he’ll get well again.” She took up the milk pail and left the stable, Peter following.

  Lisa mooed in disgust. “Well, what did I tell you? Are these two-legged fellows stupid or not?”

  “They’re good,” snorted the stallion.

  “They’re good out of pure stupidity,” argued Lisa.

  “Then let’s be glad they’re stupid,” was the opinion of Witch the mare, “if it means they help us.”

  “Pardon me,” the donkey put in, “but I think they’re very wise.”

  “Much wiser than you, at any rate.” The cow dismissed him.

  Devil snorted, “That’s not saying much.”

  Chapter 29

  THE WINTER DRAGGED ON. TWICE Martin and Peter rode the horses, followed by Raggo, to take feed to the forest—clover, chestnuts and turnips, which they scattered about for the wild animals. It pleased the horses and the donkey to crunch through the forest in the snow.

  One day when the men had gone off in the thicket, the roes approached the barn animals timidly. Genina recognized them quickly. “Greetings! How are you?”

  “Genina! We’re very well, thank you,” the stallion replied.

  “And you?” Witch inquired.

  “Oh, whenever we have hay and chestnuts, we do very well.”

  Witch looked at Genina’s two children. “Are they still so small?” she asked in surprise.

  Genina laughed. “Oh no, these are new ones.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to visit us again?” Devil invited. “We’d be very pleased.”

  “Thank you, but it’s not dangerous here now. I’d rather stay in the forest.”

  “We wish you’d come,” Witch said with regret.

  “This is a younger Gray,” Genina observed. “Where’s the old one?”

  “He’s not alive anymore,” Witch whispered.

  “Oh, how sad!” Genina bowed her head. “I liked him very much.”

  “But the new Little Gray has earned our friendship,” Witch explained quickly.

  “Is that so? He looks nice. I must go now. Farewell!” And Genina departed with her fawns at her side while the other roes marveled at her boldness.
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  The second time the stable animals brought feed they met the bald-headed stags, who displayed less confidence than the roes and fled. The stallion quickly overtook one of them. “Why are you running away? You needn’t be afraid. We won’t do anything to you.”

  “We’re not running away out of fear,” countered the young stag. “We’re fleeing out of shame.” He took courage and stopped now to talk. Witch joined them.

  “Why are you ashamed?” the stallion asked.

  “Don’t you see?—we’re not wearing our crowns.”

  “Where are they?” Witch inquired with sympathy.

  “Lost—shed,” said the young stag.

  “That’s funny!” said the donkey, shaking his head.

  “There’s nothing funny about it.” The young stag was good-natured. “Our little relatives are very shy. Do you know them?”

  “Oh, yes,” the stallion boasted. “A doe and her two fawns once lived with us for a whole winter.”

  “Growing the crown hurts, doesn’t it?” Witch asked.

  “Not at all. We feel happy. There’s a pleasant itching and tickling we can feel through our whole bodies. Then when the crown is ripe and hard, we rub off the covering.”

  “Very interesting!” nodded the stallion. “It’s nice of you to explain it to us.”

  “Very nice,” Witch agreed. “Many thanks.”

  “Oh, we’re glad to do it. Farewell!” In high galloping leaps the young stag hurried away.

  The three—stallion, mare and donkey—looked after him.

  “I think these free creatures are wonderful,” said Witch. “They can always do whatever they want.”

  “Yes,” the donkey agreed, “they’re both wild and tame, timid and bold.”

  “I’m glad I stopped him.” The stallion was full of self-satisfaction. “That’s the first time we’ve been able to talk with our free brothers.”

  “I wouldn’t care for that kind of freedom,” the donkey declared. “If I were free, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. And it’s too risky.”

  “I like to serve,” the stallion admitted. “To serve and have plenty to eat is better than freedom.”

  “And more secure,” Witch pointed out. “What a fine, safe, comfortable place our barn is!”

  They trotted contentedly back to the stable, Martin riding the stallion and Peter the mare. Raggo loped behind alone.

  After the snowy cold of the forest they welcomed the pleasant warmth of their home. The oats tasted better than usual.

  “Did you have a good time?” mooed Lisa.

  “Yes, but there’s nothing better than our stable and our kind of life,” said Devil, chewing oats.

  Raggo went into a detailed description of their meeting with Genina and the young stag.

  The cow listened with interest. “As soon as there’s hot sun again out there,” she announced, “I’ll take a walk up into the forest myself.”

  Chapter 30

  THE WINTER CONTINUED SEVERAL weeks more. Then a thawing wind swept over the icy earth from the south, breaking up the frost and melting the snow with its breath. Everywhere water dripped and splashed. The forest was flooded, the brook swelled to a mad torrent.

  One day the wild geese streaked homeward toward the far north. Their flight proceeded as always. At the head flew the leader, the others following in two lines that formed a wedge. Their honking was a high shout of freedom. And they brought first news of the spring that was approaching hesitantly amid storms and rain squalls.

  Scattered white flakes danced in the streams of rain splashing down, but they dissolved as soon as they touched the ground.

  One morning the sun shone blindingly. With a chirping cry a blackbird lifted himself to the top of a leafless tree and there started his song of rejoicing. It was short at first, but as he repeated it evening and morning each day, it grew longer and more enchanting.

  Sprouting foliage spread from tree to tree, from bush to bush and over the open ground.

  Squirrels slipped out of their nests, rubbed their eyes, exercised up one branch and down the other, waved their saucy flags.

  Like silver-gray balls of wool the newborn March hares played and nibbled at fresh grass and foliage.

  For the fox the time of starving, of living only on mice, was past. He caught clumsy young hares, and also gobbled up a hare mother who fell before his attack. Pheasants, noisily beating their wings, fluttered to the ground from their sleeping-trees, announcing themselves lustily with bursts of clucking. The fox ambushed them without trouble.

  Another morning, and the forest was filled with the flight and the song of masses of birds returning from the south. The cuckoo called, timidly at first, with long pauses. The oriole swung from one treetop to another, never tired of repeating, “I am he-ere! I am ha-appy!” Swallows swooped through the air or industriously built their nests.

  The birds who had stayed at home made a hubbub too.

  The jay screeched disapproval. “What an uproar! Quiet!” But nobody paid any attention to him. The magpies chattered, asking everyone about their adventures. The titmice whispered busily in the underbrush. The woodpecker hammered on the tree trunks, drumming like mad and laughing metallically. The finches pealed their amusing strain. The robins simply sang.

  Many roes appeared in the groves and meadows. Their young ones followed the example of the grownups and kept to themselves.

  Whenever they met stags, they fled quickly as always. From all sides came their frightened Ba-uh!—sometimes deep, sometimes thin and high.

  Now the stags’ crowns grew powerfully. Though they had not yet reached their full size, the covering made them seem huge.

  From afar Debina saw Tambo. Her sharp eyes made her doubt that he would remain King this time. He had grown old, she saw. And she saw that his crown would not be so strong as usual. It was a sixteen-pointer, a mighty one among all the others. But Tambo would not be a ruling tyrant as before. She was certain of that. She felt sorry for him and would gladly have made up with him.

  She looked at little Tambo happily gamboling around her.

  He had the beginnings of tremendous horns. He would outdo his father. He would be king, more powerful than Tambo had ever been; prouder, always remembering his dignity.

  Debina knew that and was proud of her son.

  Should she tell him now who his father was? Now? Debina couldn’t make up her mind.

  Chapter 31

  THE NIGHT WAS DELICATELY touched by silver moonlight. Deep shadows lay in the bushes under the high trees.

  The Persian tomcat had been cured by Babette’s nursing through the winter months. And now there arose in him a new desire for adventure, a new craving for revenge.

  He had almost forgotten the pain he had endured, though sometimes in his torn ear he thought he felt the fox’s bite, sharp enough to make him cry out.

  At such times Babette took him tenderly in her arms, petted him and spoke to him soothingly. Shah purred and pressed against her. Though he did not understand her words, their tone calmed him.

  Tonight his old longing to catch a pheasant drove him back to the forest. Quietly, cautiously, he slipped through the dark bush, avoiding the moonlit places as much as possible or else flashing quickly across them.

  He pictured himself leaping from a tree onto the neck of the unsuspecting fox and getting his revenge quickly.

  He hoped the great gray owl would not be there this time. It was not the fox, but the owl, that Shah feared most. But it was the fox he hated. Only after a knock-out battle, after fully enjoying his vengeance, he promised himself, would he fetch away the pheasant, his reward.

  But there were flaws in this sly plan.

  For it happened that the fox was accompanied by two young foxes already expert in mouse catching and hare killing. They were young, keen, fierce fellows, eager to kill and with clamoring appetites.

  Before he saw them, Shah darted like a black streak across an open moonlit space.

  Lightning-
fast, the young foxes sprang after him. But they found nothing and turned back, puzzled. The old fox drew his forepaw to his body like a pointing dog and sniffed upward toward where the tomcat crouched half-hidden by the thin foliage of a tree.

  Horrified, Shah stared down, hardly daring to believe his eyes. Three foxes! All he needed now to be quite lost was for the owl to come!

  “So it’s you, you dirty intruder?” shouted the fox. And the other two at his side yelped, “Dirty intruder!”

  The tomcat spat his answer: “Yes, it’s I, you cowardly thief!”

  “Are you bringing me your other ear?”

  “I’ve come to fetch your eyes!”

  “Come down and try it!” the fox barked mockingly.

  A silence fell. The Persian was pondering how to save himself. After all, there were no pheasants to be seen. He heard the fox’s yap again.

  “You won’t learn your lesson, poacher, till you’ve had your throat slit!”

  The cat let this threat too go without retort. Moving stealthily, he slipped to the other side of the tree to reach the next one without returning to the ground. Up here, at least, it was safe. Not even the great gray owl could get at him if he stayed where the branches were thickest. At any rate, she’d be only one enemy.

  The brave mood that had filled Shah before was disappearing. He jumped, and the dry, rotten branch of the next tree, a birch, broke under his weight. He almost plunged into the open jaws of the three foxes. The pulse beat in his ears with fright, making the old bite throb painfully. With a desperate effort he clung to the bark of the tree trunk, then climbed up furiously.

  Down below the foxes moved to the foot of the birch. “We’ll get you!” gloated the old fox. “We’ll soon have you!”

  Agilely, Shah sneaked farther, whipping from one tree to another and at last managing to leave the trailing foxes behind. But then he came to a clearing. He stopped in dismay. Should he risk it on the ground, or stick to the trees and make a wide detour of the clearing?

  He didn’t dare go down to the ground. It would be his bitter end if those red robbers caught up with him! He chose the detour.

  It proved to be long and difficult. But the tomcat was patient, for he hoped to confuse his pursuers.