“Why didn’t you get out of the way, like us?” growled the cross-beak.
“After all, one wants to see what’s going on,” declared Perri.
“It was awful,” Porro reported.
“But I’m glad I went through it,” cried Perri.
“Prying rascals!” laughed the woodpecker.
“We got hit by a lot of bullets,” boasted Porro.
“Haw!” screeched the jay. “Braggart!”
“That’s not bragging,” Perri defended her playmate. “He poured a lot of bullets over us—but they weren’t allowed to harm us.”
“Haw!” the jay squawked. “I hate that two-legged creature.”
The others agreed, “We all hate the two-legged creature!”
“But you only have two legs yourselves,” Perri noticed with astonishment.
They all contradicted at once: “That’s different!”—“There’s no comparison!”—“We have wings!”
There was a rustling in the leaves below. It was the wounded cock pheasant, dragging his injured wing.
“Come on up here!” Perri called to him.
“I can’t!” wailed the pheasant.
“You must!” Perri urged. “As quick as you can, because He’s in the woods with two traitors.”
“They’ll be here in a minute,” said Porro.
“How can I?” The pheasant stared around helplessly. “I’d better hide here in the bushes.”
“Nonsense!” said Perri. “There’s no place to hide down there; the traitors will pull you out. Come up here—quick!”
“Impossible,” sighed the pheasant.
“It’s got to be possible,” said the magpie, “and it is possible.”
“I’d like to know how!”
“Just enough to get up here into the tree,” said the magpie. “Use your wounded wing, no matter how much it hurts.”
“Come on!” they all yelled together. “Come on! It’s a matter of life and death!”
The pheasant beat the air with his sound wing. The injured wing dangled.
“Come on!” everyone yelled.
He fluttered, staggered, rose a little from the ground, and fell back.
“Come on!” Perri yelled with the rest.
Porro had rushed off and come back. “Here He comes,” he announced.
Lurching, fluttering, sighing and groaning, the pheasant reached the lowest branch of the oak. Involuntarily he had used his injured wing, and it helped him up. It was painful and awkward, but it worked. He sat panting with wide-open beak, rolling his eyes.
“Squeeze up against the trunk!” Perri ordered.
“You can still do that,” Porro snapped at him, “your legs are all right!”
“And don’t move,” warned the magpie.
“And now off with the lot of us!” said the woodpecker, swinging to the next tree. The others followed.
Perri and Porro bounded high into the treetops. They waited and listened.
With bated breath the pheasant squeezed against the oak trunk.
After a while the hunter went past below. The dogs sniffed elaborately at the spot where the pheasant had lain, and then ran after their master.
Now the birds came back, and Perri and Porro climbed down again.
“Success!” cried Perri.
“Have any of you seen my mate?” inquired the pheasant.
“No fear,” Perri reassured him. “She’s all right.”
Porro expressed his admiration: “You were brave; that’s why you were lucky.”
Perri added, “One has to be brave all the time.”
The pheasant replied, “None of you knows what pain is—”
“No,” Perri admitted, “but we admire you.”
“Oh, well,” his head drooped sadly, “I’m done for, anyway.”
“How so?” the magpie cut in. “What do you mean, done for?”
The jay screeched: “Haw! He’s out of danger, and then he says he’s done for!”
“I’m not out of danger,” complained the pheasant. “With this lame wing I’m helpless. Anybody can catch me.”
“The wing will heal,” the magpie consoled.
Perri happily took up the words. “Of course your wing will heal. You’ll be perfectly all right soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
SHE HAD HAD PLENTY OF sleep, but still she sat in her nest, not daring to go out. The marten, of whom she was the most afraid, had whipped past her nest, and was in her tree at that very moment, waiting for her. His sharp scent came in to her. Now she heard him climb down, heard his giggling voice: “Hello.”
She heard the fox reply, “Hello.” She listened intently to the marauders’ whole conversation. First she shivered, then she felt cozy because she was safe inside.
“Have you had enough to eat?” inquired the fox.
The marten replied, “Oh, so-so. I could do with a bit more. And you?”
“Enough? Not by a good deal. I didn’t get more than a couple of mice, and that’s not enough.”
“These are bad times,” complained the marten.
“You tell me when times are good,” grumbled the fox. “Our sort never has an easy time. Some of the others get along all right. There’s plenty of food growing for them. They don’t have to skulk and lie in wait. They just stroll around, and wherever they stick their noses they find all they want to eat.”
“Would you like things like that?” tittered the marten.
“I’ve often been so hungry, and not able to catch anything,” the fox shook his head, “that I’ve eaten grass and weeds to fill my stomach. They taste dreadful, and I’m always sick from them.
“But chickens now . . .” the fox grew thoughtful. “It’s nice to get the chickens. Only I don’t take my time the way you do, or He’d catch me. I’m always afraid of that. I think it’s risky to eat on the spot. I’m glad enough if I can drag a chicken away and eat it in peace.”
“Risky? I don’t even think about that. If I get in, I don’t care. Even He doesn’t scare me. I eat without fear.”
“Fear is something I seldom feel either,” boasted the fox, “but still you have to be careful; He has enormous power. He worries us cruelly. One of my brothers, an able fellow, spotted a tidbit in the woods, and tried to eat it, dreaming of no harm, when suddenly he got a fearful blow; his right foreleg was caught, and he couldn’t get loose. He was stuck there all night, in frightful pain. I heard him crying, and went to help him, but I couldn’t do a thing. The poor fellow was quite feeble by the time He came in the morning and killed him. I watched. I’ve been careful ever since.”
“Well,” said the marten, “of course there are exceptions.”
“Lots of exceptions, as you call them. My sister was sitting in her lair with four healthy children. Then He comes along, accompanied by our renegade cousin. I won’t make a long story of it. They were all murdered, mother and children.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” said the marten.
“About what?” replied the fox. “After all, one has to live. But my life is very hard, pleasant as it could be if there were no He.”
“Life is fine,” cried the marten, “and He can’t bother me. I’m cleverer than He, slyer than He, and quicker than He.”
“Of course. You can climb! You can go up the trees. That gives you an enormous advantage.”
“My advantage,” piped a thin voice, “is my little, slender figure, and my speed. I’m nothing but a thread; He can never catch me.”
“You stupid weasel,” growled the fox, “are you trying to compare yourself with us?”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” said the weasel. “I’m better than you, you rough, clumsy louts! Why, you haven’t even had enough to eat. I almost feel like making you a present—indeed, I do!”
“Have you had enough to eat, by chance?” asked the marten.
“I always have enough,” replied the weasel proudly, “only I get hungry again soon. Then I simply go out and catch something.?
??
“What rubbish can you catch?” asked the fox scornfully.
The weasel boasted: “I catch whatever I please. A fat rat three times my size. A mole—I jump for its neck. Did you ever catch a squirrel?”
Perri pricked up her ears.
“Come, come,” the fox objected.
The marten tittered: “Squirrels taste wonderful.”
“I don’t know about that,” growled the fox; “I never caught one.”
“You ought to try it,” the marten advised.
“I have tried a few times. They’re too quick.”
Perri was rather pleased; to be quick was the main thing, after all.
“They’re hard things to get, squirrels,” the marten conceded.
The weasel piped, “Hard? You’re just too clumsy.”
“Impudent thing!” scolded the fox. Then he said, “I’ll have to find something more. If worst comes to worst, a couple of mice. I’m hungry again. But it’s pleasant to talk about our common cares now and then. As usual, mine are worse.”
“Where is that impudent little weasel?” asked the marten.
“Gone,” declared the fox.
“I was thinking of hopping down and breaking his neck. Incidentally, I’ll stay in this tree. We’ve talked so much about squirrels that I have a feeling I’ve got to have one. There’s one living here; it’s still in the nest, a young one. It ought to be a real delicacy.”
“Happy hunting.” The fox took his leave.
“The same to you,” said the marten. “I’ll wait.”
Perri sank deeper into her soft bed. “You’ll have a long wait,” she decided.
Chapter Twenty-Six
BY NOW TREES AND BUSHES were quite leafless. Ferns and colt’s-foot lay withered on the ground. Pale, weatherbeaten, trampled grass and weeds covered the earth. The little plants that had once bloomed were scarcely recognizable. Long since gone were the maybells, primula, violets, forget-me-nots, mullein, iris, larkspur and bluebells; their gay colors and their perfume had been blown like dandelion fluff.
Harsh winds blew day and night. Often wild storms from the mountains shook the forest. But instead of the old rustle of the leaves, there was nothing now but a cracking and creaking of bare limbs; the only roaring was that of the storm.
The deer hid in the withered goldenrod, because there was no longer any real hiding-place in the coverts. They did not enjoy the grass any more; they plucked bunches of it unwillingly, from sheer hunger. It was sour, flat, soaked and savorless. The stags roamed at night; they peeled the bark from the trees, and chewed it slowly.
When occasionally a bird’s voice was heard, there was no joy in it. The blackbirds were silent; sometimes as they flew from tree to tree they would give a melancholy twitter. The woodpecker kept on hammering, but he no longer laughed. The titmice whispered less than before. The magpies fluttered busily around, exchanging gossip, but it was mostly confined to themselves. Seldom would one of them talk with other creatures. Even the squawk of the jay was rare.
But the crows screamed dissonantly. They came in flocks, more ravenous than ever. Many hawks, buzzards and fish-hawks circled in the air. Often the clear cry of the falcon came from above.
The days were gray and cloudy, cold and short.
Perri was alone a great deal, staying in her nest most of the time. If she happened to meet Porro, they would flash through a few treetops, trying to enjoy the game that had once been such a delight; but compared to the old pleasure their present gaiety was pathetically feeble.
The dull, cold weather was like a chain on body and mind. The faint rattling of the bare branches was somehow dispiriting, a warning to the squirrels to redouble their caution. If a hawk flashed at them, they had to flee. When they were threatened by crows, they were in great danger; they hurried to their nests, and after such pursuit did not dare come out for the rest of the day.
The cold rain that splashed down for hours at a time made them prisoners. Then they would suffer from hunger.
Once they were out hunting for their hoards, remembering only vaguely their hiding-places. They found one that Perri’s mother had made, of which they had not known at all. They sat together gnawing, without stopping to wonder where the acorns came from. Their humor improved.
“We had to separate yesterday,” murmured Perri.
“That’s not important,” replied Porro, “the hawk, the buzzard—”
Perri finished, “—and the rascally crows. You can’t be careful enough. Things are hard now,” she continued, “very hard indeed.”
Porro agreed: “Hard times.”
Perri grew thoughtful: “I would never have believed things could get so bad.”
“Nobody told us, either,” complained Porro.
“Who could have told us?” replied Perri. “Could you have known it? Could I? No. All right, then. Just like us, nobody was ready for it. We ought to be resigned to it, and get used to it.”
“That’s hardly going to be easy,” said Porro.
Perri straightened up. “Not easy? It’s impossible. I won’t be resigned!” She spoke in a high whistle: “I won’t get used to this shameful condition! Never!”
She rattled through the treetop, came back, and sat down, overhung by her banner. There was a glint of hope in her eyes as she asked, “Do you think this misery will pass off? Do you think everything might be as lovely as it used to be?”
Porro looked at her: “Who knows?”
“Who knows?” Perri mocked. “If anybody knew, the thing would be easy. I don’t know a thing, but still I’m firmly convinced that someday everything will be the way it was.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Porro contradicted. “Not knowing, and being firmly convinced—”
Perri was gay. “It makes lots of sense. Just try to understand, or try to feel it, you blockhead! That’s what helps in time of need—not knowing, but believing! Believing!”
“Look at our treetops,” she insisted, “at our whole lovely forest—”
“I’d rather not,” said Porro, “it makes me too unhappy.”
Perri cried, “How could it all stay like this?”
The trees stretched their bare branches toward the sky in a gesture of despair. They stood naked, helpless, shivering, as if they had been robbed. The bare, miserable bushes looked like a crowd of beggars.
At daybreak one morning Perri, still in her nest, heard an ugly grinding sound. It came from her own oak and from many other oak trees all around. In alarm she poked her head out a little way, and instantly jumped back.
Down below, close to the ground, was He. There were many of his kind. His odor stupefied Perri. The grinding was loud and strange, it screeched, and sometimes sounded like bad singing. To Perri it was a menace.
The screeching and gnashing went on without interruption. Perri thought she heard a deep sigh. She listened intently. Sure enough, the tree was sighing! Perri’s agitation was feverish. The tree groaned as though in awful pain.
Perri was out of her nest in a bound. She knew that when He was around she was safe from marauders. She whisked fearlessly from branch to branch. Now her only care was to be sure He did not threaten her.
He was below, and several more of his kind were working at the oaks nearby. She saw at once that He was without the fire-hand; but what He intended to do was a puzzle. He was up to no good—that much she could tell all too plainly from the groaning tree. It was always an ill omen when He rumbled about in the woods.
Something broad and hard was being pushed back and forth in Perri’s oak. As He drove it, the horrible thing bit into the trunk with sharp teeth.
Perri had thought her tree was indestructible, mighty and eternal. But now she saw thin white dust spraying from its wound, and saw the hard, shiny thing eating its way deeper and deeper into the body of the oak. She watched the mysterious sight in horror. He was being cruel to her oak. What He was going to do, Perri could not imagine; but she feared something unspeakably awful.
&n
bsp; A tremor went through the oak, which shook in every twig, and Perri shook too. Her forepaws were pressed to the white fluff of her breast, and she breathed painfully.
The grinding stopped. Crashing blows were heard. Perri whipped down to a lower branch, and saw him swinging a single big tooth on a handle at the tree. This tooth was shiny, and its bite was fearful. Great chips flew off wherever it hit.
There was a breathless moment, then a great swaying. It made Perri dizzy, and she had to hold fast to keep from falling. The oak leaned slowly and majestically; its great limbs hissed. Then the tree crashed down with tremendous force. The breaking branches of the top, as it pointed downward, softened the fall.
The fall hurled Perri with it. Stunned, she flung herself blindly through the air, and landed in the crown of a young ash, on familiar wood again.
There lay her oak, mighty and prostrate in a bed of crushed bushes. Murdered. All around was grinding, screeching, harsh singing; here and there a short silence. Then would come the loud crashes as He swung the long-handled tooth. He would yell in chorus, and another oak would thunder down. They fell one after another.
Perri crouched in the ash sapling, too distracted to feel anything clearly or to come to any decision. She was alone. Around her was nothing but his wild activity, the creaking, cracking and roaring of the falling oaks. Not a bird stirred; they had all flown long since.
By the time four or five oaks lay on the ground, Perri noticed that it was growing much lighter. She peered around; the forest looked absolutely different. Over there, where the big yellow disk of the stump was shining—there her oak had stood.
Her oak! The stump bled the pale, scarcely liquid blood of living wood, which was already starting to dry up.
The woodcutters had left the forest. Perri still crouched in the ash, trembling with fear. Just then she saw Porro hunting around in the prostrate branches. He would bob up, then down again; he seemed imprisoned in the horizontal cage of branches, and was clumsy and out of temper.
Perri jumped down to meet him.
“What will He do next?” Porro called.
Perri too had trouble in getting around through the tangle of fallen treetops; she too was slower and clumsier than usual.