A Forest World, Page 2

  The trees of the forest and those in Martin’s garden now put out tender green foliage. Bushes were decorated with buds. The grass of the fields and meadows grew faster. The blooms of violet, dandelion, crocus and hepatica strewed the green turf with rich color and fragrance. The sloe flowered and in the garden the forsythia showed yellow petals motionless in the still air.

  Bumblebees, wasps, soft-winged beetles, countless shining flies buzzed around.

  Through the forest the cuckoo sent his quiet throaty giggle. Restlessly the golden oriole swung from tree to tree singing his poem of joy without pause. “I am he-ere!”

  In vain the jay bade him with loud screeches to be quiet: “Oh, shut up!” But the oriole paid no heed. The jay imitated his singing as he had already mimicked the blackbird’s, the finch’s, the dove’s. Annoyed and confused, the oriole kept quiet for a few moments. Immediately the blackbird made friends with him. She whispered, “Tell me about those countries where there’s always summer. Tell me about the great water you crossed.”

  But the oriole’s answer was only, “Oh, yes, I am he-ere!” He hurled himself into the air and flew to the next tree.

  The blackbird sat alone. Then she searched the nearby branches until she found the nightingale. She asked her the same questions.

  The nightingale replied softly, “The water doesn’t frighten me. I cross it quickly, and find sunny lands with wonderful food.”

  “Then why does none of you stay there—not a single one—if it’s so beautiful?”

  “Stay there?” The nightingale was amazed. “How would that be possible? We have to come back here. This is our homeland. There we’re just visitors.”

  “My ancient ancestors,” explained the blackbird, “once upon a time also took these journeys. But their descendants, their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, loved their homeland so much they didn’t want to wander any more. We became unused to travel. Now we stay here even when it’s very cold. I think it’s a pity.”

  Soon all began eagerly to build their nests. The lark, always first to awaken, was also first to return home and fashion her simple nest on the ground. The others, singing and twittering happily, built new homes or freshened up those they had left in the fall. Artfully the swallows attached their nests to the eaves of Martin’s house, so close under that they could barely slip into them.

  Manni the donkey spoke to the little birds. “Welcome, gallant fliers!”

  “Greetings! Greetings!” the swallows chirped and swished hastily away to fetch new building material.

  “Why do you make your doors so tight?” the donkey wanted to know when they came back.

  “No time to talk now!” the swallows shouted and were off again.

  “Don’t disturb them in their work,” Lisa the cow reproved him gently.

  Devil the stallion muttered, “Now don’t you mix into this. Who are you to give orders to the Gray One?”

  “Are you dictating to me?” Lisa asked him calmly. “You know I’m not afraid of you. After all, I can give Gray a piece of advice without asking your permission.”

  “What kind of advice?” Manni inquired.

  “I mean,” said Lisa, “it’s better to wait till the little flycatchers are on the way to hatching. Then the parents sit quietly and are glad to talk to you.”

  “You’re right,” Manni admitted good-naturedly. “That’s sensible.”

  Placidly the stallion said, “Yes, this time she’s right. But it’s an exception. Usually the milk-giver is really stupid, as dumb as the oats we eat. And I’m right about that.”

  The donkey turned to go.

  “You needn’t run away,” neighed the stallion.

  “I’m not running away,” answered Manni. “I just want to take a look at the forest.”

  “The forest! You’re crazy!” Devil exclaimed.

  “But I’ve never been in the forest,” the donkey brayed stubbornly. “I want to see what it’s like.”

  “But suppose He needs you!” Witch the mare called after him.

  Manni hesitated only a second. For a long time he had wanted to see the forest. Now he was determined to go. “Let Him—” What he was going to say trailed off into nothing as he pushed through the stable door.

  “Gray has declared his independence,” muttered the stallion.

  “Only for this once,” Witch said as if to apologize for Manni.

  Lisa kept wagging her head in amazement. “None of us barn creatures belongs in the forest! How can he dare do such a thing?”

  Chapter 3

  MANNI AVOIDED HIS USUAL path to the Lodge. Softly he stole around the stable to where the ground rose and only the picket fence separated the garden from the hill. He had often stood there to glance longingly upward, only to do a timid about-face and stay home after all.

  But today he was filled with the adventurous spirit of spring, its freshness and courage, though he didn’t know it. He fancied that the courage overpowering his conscience came entirely from within himself.

  As he stood there laying bold plans, a brilliant butterfly tumbled in the air before his eyes. Admiringly Manni followed him as he danced up and down the length of the fence. When at last the fragment of color flew off into the forest, Manni pressed through the little gate that was always unfastened.

  The way went steeply uphill. Vigorously Manni climbed higher and higher. The brush pressed around him, the young shoots on the branches tempted his taste. High above his head the treetops interlaced to form a leafy green ceiling. He did not feel tired until he reached a clearing at the top. There he rested and drew deep breaths.

  Suddenly he heard a thin peevish voice asking over and over: “Who are you? Tell us, who are you?”

  Manni looked around. A squirrel came darting through the trees, a streak of red amid the green. She stopped on a low branch, flirted her bushy flag and complained, “Can’t you hear me? I asked you who you are!”

  “Oh, probably you’ve never been to our place down in the garden,” Manni answered politely. “Otherwise you’d know me.”

  “Garden?” repeated Perri. “What’s that? And where is it?”

  “Down there where the forest stops. It’s a piece of land. All the trees are cared for, and the bushes too. And He plants flower beds among them. You’d like it there.”

  The little squirrel laughed. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t. I don’t like any place but this. How’d you ever happen to come up to the forest?”

  “Oh, I—I just wanted to—”

  “You stutter and mumble so!” the squirrel interrupted. “Ah! Now I know who you are. You’re the stupid one! The big stupid!”

  The donkey opened his eyes wide in hurt surprise. “You’re wrong, my little friend. Let me tell you—”

  But Perri had already scampered up the tree and disappeared.

  Manni broke farther through the thicket. The beauty of the forest took his mind from his hurt feelings. “Why, it’s magnificent here!” he thought.

  Suddenly he halted. Two roe deer sprang up in fright and bounded off. They were soon out of sight. All he could hear was their frightened Ba-uh! He thought, “Funny—they’re afraid of me! I’d have liked to talk with them. And they’re red, too, like the little tree-dancer. It seems everybody in the forest is red.”

  “Oh, ye-es! Who-o is he-ere?” exulted the oriole above his head.

  Manni stopped short again, for he felt obliged to answer. “It’s I,” he said, but only in a small voice lest he frighten another creature away.

  Paying no attention, the oriole kept up his glad shouting. “Who is he-ere? I am he-ere!”

  Manni caught sight of the lovely bird throwing himself in short jerky flights from treetop to treetop.

  “What a wonderful yellow he is—as if he’d been dipped in sunshine!” thought the donkey, standing still amid thick bushes in order to see the happy ball of feathered color again.

  Closer to him, a magpie alighted on a hazel bush and the branch swung to and fro a little. When Manni turn
ed to her, the magpie started in alarm.

  The donkey asked politely, “Do you know that mad singer up there?”

  Reassured, the magpie cackled sarcastically: “The yellow one? Why shouldn’t I know him? But I’m meeting you now for the first time. What are you after?”

  “Nothing,” Manni replied, “nothing, really. You needn’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt anybody.”

  “Well, well!” mocked the magpie. Just by way of caution she sought a perch somewhat higher. “That’s what the red robber says, too.”

  “Red!” The word slipped off Manni’s tongue. “Who’s he? Almost everyone here is red.”

  The magpie ignored the interruption. “How’d you get here? And what did you come for?”

  Embarrassed, the donkey tried to explain. “I wanted—well, I don’t live far away. With Him—”

  “With Him, eh?” Interested now, the magpie came nearer. “Well, He’s good! And He doesn’t do us any harm. Now if I could only trust you . . .”

  “You can trust me,” Manni said.

  “Some other time,” the magpie cackled. “You’re too big, too heavy. Safe is safe!” And she flew swiftly away.

  “Now why did she do that?” the donkey said to himself. “That blue-winged simpleton thinks I’m a robber. The silly little thing!”

  Manni trotted farther. He didn’t know that to move without sound is the law of the wild. He went very noisily, chewing occasionally on the leaves of bushes that reached out to him. “It’s wonderful in the forest—wonderful!” he thought. “I’d come here often if my duties—if He would let me.”

  The bushes rustled. Tambo appeared, huge and powerful, his tall branching crown lowered with hostile purpose. Without realizing it, Manni had come to the stag’s resting place and awakened him out of his sleep.

  Amazed, the donkey stuttered, “I—I—won’t hurt you!”

  “That’s what robbers always say,” Tambo muttered with annoyance. “And there’s no one who’d dare pick on me except you.”

  “But I’m not trying to pick a fight with you! Let’s be friends instead.” The donkey spoke sincerely. But Tambo’s clear, deep eyes examined him and Manni found it hard to bear up under the regal stare. “Believe me—please believe me—I’d like to be your friend,” he begged. “I like you very much.”

  “Well, I don’t like you at all,” retorted Tambo, his forelegs moving restlessly. Suddenly he lifted one slender leg and slashed at Manni with the sharp hoof.

  The donkey hastily backed away, trembling. “Why do you hate me so?”

  Tambo saw Manni’s shivering, and said quietly, “It was a long while ago, so long that none of my forebears could remember it, but it’s been handed down to us that once on a time bloodthirsty monsters lived here. We had to wage a constant life-and-death struggle with them.”

  “What did they look like?” asked Manni.

  “I don’t know,” Tambo said. “They were all killed by Him ages ago. Maybe they looked like you.”

  The donkey forced a laugh. “If they looked like me, then they certainly weren’t dangerous!”

  Tambo answered, “That’s what you’d say, of course.” His dark eyes looked carefully at Manni again. “One must think of every possibility. But I see what you mean.”

  Relieved that danger seemed to have passed, Manni tore a few leaves from a tree. He chewed them eagerly, partly because he was hungry, partly because he wanted to convince the stag of his harmlessness.

  In a surprised and changed tone Tambo asked, “Do you like to eat that sort of thing, too?”

  “I’ve never tasted this before,” Manni replied. “It’s no delicacy, at least not for me. At home I’m served far better stuff.”

  “What, for instance?” inquired Tambo, still a bit mistrustful.

  “Hay, oats, sweet corn, and all kinds of fresh green things.”

  “Where is your home?” the stag asked with growing interest.

  “Down there with Him. I work for Him,” Manni stated proudly.

  “Him,” Tambo repeated in a more friendly tone. “Aren’t you afraid of Him?”

  “Why should I be? He’s good to me, and to the horses and the cow. He’s good to all creatures,” Manni bragged.

  “Remarkable!” But Tambo inspected the donkey with dawning respect. “And don’t you ever get anything alive to eat?”

  “Ugh!” The donkey snorted in disgust. “We eat only what grows out of the ground, never anything else.”

  “Then—” Tambo came closer—“then we can be friends.”

  Manni asked happily, “Well then, tell me, my new friend, are you afraid of Him?”

  Tambo’s head lifted majestically. “Afraid is not the right word. I—I avoid Him. His scent makes me uneasy. Besides, I don’t know Him very well. But I’m afraid of no one, and no one dares come near me.”

  “I can understand that,” the donkey agreed. “You’re big and strong. Perhaps only the horses are bigger and stronger.”

  “Horses? I don’t know them.”

  “Don’t worry. They’re very nice. With their strength they can carry Him and run at the same time. I can carry Him too and run, of course. But not so fast or so long.”

  “I’d like to see a horse.”

  “They’d be frightened of your antlers, just as I am—was, I mean.”

  “My crown? Oh, yes. It’s only just growing.” Tambo was haughty yet modest.

  “Growing?” Manni echoed wonderingly. “It looks fully grown to me. And very stately.”

  “No, it’s still sprouting. There’s no mistake about it, for this is my fifth.”

  “What! Where are the others?” Manni felt as if he were hearing a fairy tale.

  “They fell off,” explained Tambo. “Every year at the end of winter my crown falls off. Every year in the spring it grows again, always bigger and stronger.”

  “Doesn’t it hurt you—falling off that way and growing again?”

  “I hardly feel the loss of the old crown. My head becomes lighter. For a time I’m afraid I won’t be able to defend myself. But the new growth gives me a wonderful feeling of courage and power.”

  The donkey could only say, “Lucky fellow!”

  “Now you’ll excuse me. I want to sleep some more,” Tambo said, “so good-by!” He lowered himself and appeared to doze immediately.

  He did not even seem to hear Manni’s respectful “Good-by!”

  Going on his way the donkey mused, “What a noble creature! What a fine, free life he leads.” Richer with experience now, Manni thought reluctantly of returning home. “My old friends will be wondering about me—the rough one, the gentle one and the milk-giver. How amazed they’ll be when I tell them my adventure—when I describe the loveliness of the forest, the exciting happenings and my talk with the wearer of the crown.”

  A pheasant strutted serenely by. His head bobbing, he pulled at grasses and herbs and seemed not at all afraid of Manni.

  The donkey looked at him with amazement. “What a handsome bird! Oh, that shimmering neck—”

  Manni started in fresh surprise as a hare sat up before him. The hare’s whiskers vibrated with busy sniffing.

  “Greetings, little friend,” the donkey addressed him. “Did I wake you up?”

  “Greetings,” whispered the hare. “Wake me up? Oh, no. I mustn’t sleep. I can hardly ever sleep. I must always protect myself!”

  “Why?” Manni asked sympathetically.

  The hare suddenly pricked up his ears, darted between the legs of the startled donkey and sped off. Manni turned his neck to stare after the wildly fleeing fellow, only to see him disappear.

  A sharp scent penetrated the donkey’s nostrils. Before he could gather his wits there was a violent snapping of small branches and a fox came loping through the underbrush. The pheasant screeched and tried to fly, but too late. The fox fell on the back of his prey, pressing the bird flat to the ground. His bared teeth bit hard into the pheasant’s neck.

  Manni was terribly fr
ightened by the scream of the pheasant. He saw the wings jerk wide and helpless, saw blood gush from the fatal wound. He tried to control his horror.

  “You treacherous murderer!” he cried.

  But the fox glared back at him, his jowls drawn up so that his teeth could be seen. “You fool!” he snarled. “You stupid grass-eater! Don’t you know what hunger is? Get away! Interfere with me and you’ll be sorry!”

  The hair on Manni’s back rose. He stared hypnotized at the raving red animal.

  The fox completed the kill and then yapped at the donkey, “Did you understand? I said get out of here!”

  Manni fled, speeded by the horror of what he had seen. The rank odor of the fox stayed in his nostrils. He was trembling. “Enough!” he told himself. “I’ve had enough of the forest—the murderous forest!”

  He ran faster and faster, his galloping a flight. When he reached the gate and saw the garden, the roofs of the house and the barn, he breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  Chapter 4

  IS MARTIN PORING OVER HIS books again?” Babette, the forester’s wife, inquired.

  “No,” old Peter reported. “He’s sketching.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the barn or somewhere around.”

  “Call him in. He must eat something.”

  “When he wants to eat, he’ll come in of his own accord.”

  “What a way to live!” sighed Babette good-humoredly, pushing back her fluffy gray hair. “Always alone.”

  “But that’s what he prefers,” Peter said.

  “I know. He really never feels lonely at all.” Babette sighed again. “How often we’ve said these same things. . . .” She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. “Ever since that time when he was still a schoolboy—you remember, Peter. When he came trudging up from school, after the children had teased him so. His father and mother dead, poor lamb, and he a poor orphan with a hump on his back—and those children teasing and making fun of him. . . . Oh, Peter, no wonder he said he never wanted to see any human being again. Only the two of us—”

  The strongly built old man put his arm around her. “But he’s happy now. He loves his animals. They give him confidence for confidence, faithfulness for faithfulness, love for love. Remember that! Don’t feel sad for him, he doesn’t need it. He’s really happy with his forest beasts and birds, and his animals in the barn.”