Many other creatures visited the fields also.
The deer often remained until broad daylight and lay during the day among the high sainfoin. Pheasants came every morning and evening in regular processions, haughty with the metallic sheen of their plumage. On some a white ring adorned their dark glossy necks; but the royal pheasants, with their plumage of flaming gold and black, and their extremely long, sweeping tails, recalled priests in their mitres or princes in full regalia! They loved the maize fields, lay all day long in them, feeding on the juicy kernels. Early in the morning one would hear the splintering bell-note of the cock, and again at evening, when they sought the trees where they roosted.
At times the princes of the forest, the elk, appeared in whole herds. The tips of their crownlike antlers shone white as ivory, while the pearly tines grew darker and darker from the sap of the young ashes, alders and silver poplars against which they were constantly beaten.
Every creature round about the meadows knew when the elk came. For their smaller cousins, the deer, were always terrified by them, would utter cries of fear and take to flight.
“Baoh . . . ba-oh! Baa! Baa! Ba-oh!” The cries would ring out on all sides, would recede and re-echo from the forest a long while after. Particularly when some nervous old doe could not calm herself at the appearance of her gigantic relatives.
The rabbits knew about these things and were amused by them. With the first loud bleat of terror, “ba-oh!”, they would merely twitch their ears at one another and say, simply by the play of their whiskers, “The elk are here!”
But they, too, avoided the mighty visitors as much as possible.
The elk were very distinguished and never engaged in conversation with anyone. They came at night under the glitter of the stars, or when the pale moonlight cast its spell. They strode up majestically as if the field were their exclusive property, so that the others could not help having a feeling that they were robbing them. With the first gray morning light they withdrew into the forest again.
The rabbits were very friendly with the lively little partridges. The young ones surprised them by the brotherly way they kept together, by the closeness with which they followed their parents about and the sociable fashion in which the families got along one with another.
Only Trumer expressed disdain for the modest, earth-brown little chicks, speckled with rusty-red. “Everyone for himself,” he repeated his rule of life.
But little by little even he came to respect them.
They took flight only when pressing danger required it. Then they would rise with a loud rustling of wings and fly, whirring, for some distance, to drop down again in some safer place.
Whenever there was danger, all the rabbits would run, everyone for himself, in the same direction.
Or they would listen, their ears pricked up, as soon as one of the many watches that the partridges kept uttered its short cry of warning.
The tender calls of the cocks, the gentle, loving chatter of the partridge mothers to their young ones, their soft clucking of content, were pleasant sounds, enlivening the solemnity of the harvest fields, as they lay quiet beneath the fiery blaze of the sun.
What adventures, what experiences, what terrors and perils occurred in the blissful, calm serenity of the fields!
A mole pushed its way up into the light. It appeared blind, yet suddenly, with the most unexpected swiftness, fell upon a thoughtful frog that was sitting, with rapidly pulsating throat, amidst the murmur of the leaves.
The red streak of a weasel in tremendous haste would slither past like a snake and soon after the terrified squeak of some poor little mouse would be heard.
Cautiously prowling, dangerous and bloodthirsty, the cat would slink up. Before anyone could see her, she had clawed a young rabbit. It was difficult to escape her.
Sometimes a stray dog would come eagerly hunting, rummaging through the maize and rye stalks. But the dog did not have the same soundless tread and attack. Reeking almost audibly, it would noisily grope its way in, making an uproar as it sprang after rabbits, partridges and pheasants. It would never stop barking while it ran after its intended prey, so that it set up a wild clamor and everyone had plenty of time to hide.
The fox went to work with more method when he streaked through the fields. He would be very quiet, would sit silent for a long time, waiting for a little mouse. He knew how to scrape the mole out of its shallow dwelling, how to catch the pheasant at the very moment it was taking wing. The fox nearly always claimed his victim.
Yet, in spite of these things, the summer was glorious.
One morning the forest sweltered. The fields steamed as if the night had brought no coolness. The ground, the undergrowth, the trees were parched; the fields dusty-dry. Not a call sounded in any direction. The pheasants were silent as, awakening, they fluttered down from their roosting places. Their splintering, metallic bell-note was nowhere to be heard, and, for the first time, one could observe that the plaintive sound had a joyousness all its own. So late in August, there were very few birds left singing; that day it was perfectly still. Not a magpie chattered, not a jay uttered its quarrelsome screech. Only at rare intervals the harsh caw of a rook sounded high up in the air or from the treetops, and even it was briefer than usual. Not a woodpecker exulted. Even the twittering of the little hedge-sparrows and post-wrens in the bushes grew feebler and at times ceased altogether.
Deep red, like a round flame, the sun rose, indolently, and slowly. Like a veil, woven of tiny sparks, the hot, dust-laden air encircled it.
The sky arched, shimmering with a greenish tinge like the interior of some massive ball of lead above the earth. The fiery tongues of the rising sun licked it up to the zenith. Soon the firmament grew deep blue, the tongues of fire flickered out, and the dazzling yellow sun climbed higher and higher, burned and seared the earth more and more scorchingly.
The last voices died out in the forest.
Even the crickets were silent. The cicadas were still. Only the wasps and bees were to be heard, droning here and there in the underbrush. Beetles crawled under the branches of the trees and bushes. Flies, dragonflies, butterflies kept close to the ground and the swallows and the swifts that followed them flew very low.
Very few creatures went out into the fields that day, and these soon came back. Even the partridges forsook their accustomed grounds. They sought the thicket at the edge of the forest. For a little while longer one could hear the calls of the cock partridges, the responses of the partridge hens, the timid cooing of the young ones, and the warning cries of their outposts among the leaves. Then everything grew still.
There were no marauders slinking about that day.
All creatures were thrilled to the anticipation of something awful.
What was about to happen the young rabbits did not know. They simply felt that something tremendous was going to occur. They trembled. They kept close to their beds. They were serious, full of fearful expectation.
It was the same with all those creatures that were no older than the year which had begun that spring.
Of course those who had already lived several years on earth knew what was coming. But no one dared to ask them and they themselves preferred not to speak.
Hops and Plana lay close together.
“Terrible . . . !” sighed Plana.
“Unbearable . . . !” Hops affirmed.
From close behind them sounded a whispered plaint of concurrence, “Dreadful . . . !” It was little Epi.
“We’ve got to lie quiet,” Hops said, “running won’t help.”
“Oh,” Plana sighed again, “I couldn’t even run now . . .”
“Who could run now . . . ?” little Epi barely breathed.
Slowly the blue disappeared from the sky. A livid grayish-white, that looked like curdled milk, spread overhead and made the sun itself turn pale. Yet its rays burned only the more pitilessly.
In the west appeared a deep bluish-black wall of cloud, advancing slowly and ponde
rously nearer and nearer.
That continued until almost midday.
The dark wall of cloud had not yet reached the sun but was standing still.
Soon afterward a wispy, light gray cloud detached itself from the wall, from the bottom of the rack, rolled itself into a ball, spread out again, changed into many shapes as it blew across the whole sky, trailing the dark, threatening wall behind it until it blotted out the sun.
“Is it night already?” asked Epi timidly.
Plana’s whiskers quivered. “Now? Perhaps . . .”
The leaves on the trees began to whisper, the thin branches to sway.
A soft breath of wind blew across the earth.
Plana trembled. “Oh, the leaves . . . I can’t stand it . . .”
Hops crouched as close to the earth as he was able.
“Now it’s coming,” he said.
The storm struck the forest furiously.
The roaring of the treetops, of the bushes sounded as if the forest were bellowing under the lash of the storm.
Plana, who had bowed her head immediately, whispered, “It’s the end . . .”
Hops could not hear her.
A raging and roaring was tossing up the whole forest, an invisible but gigantic fury seemed to be rooting it up. The close-packed, slender trees groaned as they struck each other; the old, storm-tossed trunks creaked loudly, one was deafened by the ear-splitting plaints of stout branches that broke in two, the cracking snap of birches and alders. The tops of the aged oaks seemed ready to fly away in the grip of the hurricane.
Wind-driven leaves, thin dry twigs, splinters from the branches that rained down through the air and whirled over the ground wherever they were driven, raised the fears of the frightened rabbits to numbed terror.
A thin streak of light slashed through the darkness. Immediately there followed a short, deafening loud clap of thunder.
After a second’s pause, a second flash of lightning and the second crash of thunder sounded as terrible as if the whole world had blown up.
Somewhere in the forest, not far from Hops and Plana, the lightning had shattered an old elm.
Between the lightning and the thunder, the rabbits heard the groaning of the stricken tree; after the thunder they heard its dying sigh.
A heavy rain descended in a widespread, gushing downpour. Once before it had rained, and the treetops had shed the water so that only a few drops soaked through, one after another, and the earth grew moist slowly. But now this furious downpour instantly beat through to the ground. No treetop, no roof of leaves was thick enough to withstand its roaring torrent. Ponds and puddles were formed immediately, and wild little brooks rushed in a moment through the furrows, for, thirsty as it was, the earth could not drink up the deluge fast enough.
The lightning flickered a few more times while the instantly succeeding thunderclaps shook the forest.
The rabbits sat almost insensible, dripping wet. Their fur clung to their bodies, making them look quite dark and emaciated. They felt forlorn and alone and believed they were lost beyond all possibility of salvation.
The storm wind held its breath. The lightning grew feebler, as though it were flashing only from a distance. The thunder followed at gradually longer intervals, faint and very far away, rumbling softly.
Only the rain still continued. It rustled, drummed, pattered and made the rabbits generally miserable.
But under the rush of water, the forest stood calm, seeming to refresh itself in the coolness. It began to smell strongly of earth, of reopened, newly reviving earth. The rabbits remained troubled, each crouching on his own bed.
Suddenly the rain came to an end. The deafening noise was suddenly replaced by stillness. But through the silence could be heard the plopping of single drops that fell from leaf to leaf, a steady dripping, heard everywhere, high in the treetops, deep among the bushes, an angry drumming, very trying to the rabbits’ nerves. They were all sopping wet and even now, whenever a heavy drop hit one of them, he would tremble as if he were being scourged, or as if the finger of death had touched him.
But presently the smell of the earth and the wet woods grew stronger and more inspiriting. From the foliage, from every leaf, from every plant, a wonderfully strong and strengthening fragrance was exhaled. It was a joyful suspiration, it was the forest’s silent, passionately blissful song.
Once more it was radiantly bright; in the west the rays of a mild sun streamed obliquely through the branches, gently but with enlivening warmth.
At the same time, the tap-tap-tap of drops from the trees and bushes continued and prevented the rabbits’ hearts from quieting.
From the highest treetop the blackbird was already rejoicing; the squirrels scampered like mad through the branches, preened themselves, were uncontrollable in their joy. The titmice, hedge-sparrows, finches and bullfinches flitted here and there, with gay twitterings and peepings. The jay screeched, the magpie chattered, the pheasants ran out into the open.
“Are you there?” asked Hops.
“Do you mean me?” whispered Epi. He looked pitiable.
“Where is Plana?” Hops demanded.
“Oh! Hops,” Plana said in a low voice, “what a time that was! I couldn’t have stood it much longer.”
Murk and Nella went by, shivering. Mamp tottered over faintheartedly. Trumer ventured forth. They all looked wet, bedraggled and forlorn.
“Come,” said Hops to Plana, “come, we’ll go out into the open.”
He did not ask Epi to come. He came of his own accord.
Plana sat up erect. “Out into the field?”
Hops, who had already taken a few steps, halted. “Into the field? If you want to. But I think it would be better at the salt lick . . . The grass is shorter there, and you can get dry quicker. It’s nearer too . . .”
The little glade in which the salt lick stood lay full in the warm sunlight. There they met Klipps and Lugea, Sitzer and Rino. Also Ivner and Olva.
An old rabbit was there too—Fosco. A big, important-looking fellow, stout and impressive, a giant compared with the flock of young ones. He was sitting bolt upright near the strip of woodland and seemed to be almost dry.
The streaming sunlight immediately gave confidence to the poor, careworn young ones.
Plana sat down near him.
Hops and Epi took places beside her.
“It was dreadful . . .” Plana began a conversation with him.
Fosco stirred his ears, rolled his eyes, and wiggled his enormous whiskers impressively.
“Not so bad,” he said curtly but in a friendly tone.
Plana was astonished. “Not bad . . . ?”
And Hops observed, “I think it was bad enough!”
Fosco blinked down at him disdainfully. He was twice as big as the little rabbit and probably three times as strong. “Ha . . .” he permitted himself to say, “one has to go through such . . .”
“What!” Plana, who was ready to be astonished, demanded eagerly. “Have you ever been through such a thing before . . . ?”
Fosco moved his whiskers. “Many, many times!” It sounded a little boastful.
“Oh!” Plana crept closer to him. She gazed at him in admiration and sighed softly. “Have you really?”
A faint feeling of jealousy awoke in Hops. “What is considered bad by a person like you?” he inquired.
Fosco sat still more erect, became still larger. He also became deeply earnest. “You don’t know the snow . . . and the other . . .”
“What is snow?” cried Plana eagerly.
But Hops received this information doubtfully, “. . . and what is the other?”
Fosco did not stir. “Wait a while,” he said curtly.
Plana was flattering. “Tell us a little about it—please.”
Hops plucked up courage to be impudent. “Tell us about it—if you know.”
Fosco kept silent.
A long pause ensued.
Gradually the rabbits grew dry and felt better than
they ever had before. Ivner and Klipps had come up. Mamp and Murk joined them. Later Rino, with Sitzer and Nella, crept over. All were sitting around in a circle, gaping at the high and mighty Fosco. Only Trumer kept to one side. Lugea and Olva remained at a distance from fear.
Fosco kept silent for a long time and let them admire him. Then, when more and more of them had gathered around him, he murmured, “It isn’t good—when so many sit together . . .”
Mamp turned away immediately. He felt insulted.
Murk followed him and said superiorly, “The pompous old fool!”
Suddenly Fosco lifted his ears, sat up on his hind legs and his enormous whiskers quivered beside his feverishly working nose.
“Oh,” said Plana, trying to quiet him cleverly, “those are only the gentle deer,” and she pointed with one ear to the salt lick. A whole herd had been standing there for some time, moving their ears, scraping the earth with their hoofs, letting the sun dry their ruddy hides.
But Fosco had disappeared before the others were even aware of it.
Presently a mighty elk strode out of the thicket. He stood for a long while, quite still, his antler-crowned head lifted high, snuffing the air in all directions.
Klipps, Sitzer and Ivner, terrified, fled into the thicket.
“I’m not afraid of him,” Hops asserted, but he did not sound very determined or convincing.
“You never can tell,” whispered Rino and hastened to slip away to safety.
The does had immediately bounded off, head over heels in their haste.
Hops remained; Plana and Epi remained with him.
Slowly and majestically the elk strode to the middle of the clearing, stood motionless again, then shook himself, so that many little drops of water were spattered from his hide and surrounded him for a moment with a glistening rainbow.
Plana crept nearer to Hops. “He never came before in broad daylight,” she said tremulously.
Hops quieted her. “He wants to dry himself, too, nothing more.”
The elk again took several steps forward, stopped abruptly and made sure.