Perri

by Felix Salten

  “Love?” mocked the magpie. “Love is hardly the right word.” As she spread her wings, she asked, “Why are you alone?”

  “I’ve lost my mother.”

  “Then find her! Be careful, but don’t be afraid. Here’s something you have to learn: it’s lovely to be alive.”

  After this warning the magpie flew off. Her dark blue wings glinted magically in the light; her white coverts made a bright design on the dark gray of her wings, and her long tail made her slender figure larger.

  “How much she knows! How much she’s seen!” Perri thought she had learned a great deal—but still she had tried none of it out.

  Chapter Three

  PERRI WAS HANDSOME, AND, LIKE all animals, most beguiling in her babyhood. Her weak body showed promises of growth, of perfection yet to come. Her thick fur, soft and pliable as velvet, was lustrous as a new-blown flower. Her tail, which was almost longer than her body, was already splendid and luxuriant, though it had not yet got its full bushiness. Perri’s red coat was like the deers’, although they wear theirs only in summer, while she had this bright, furry splendor the whole year. The white down on her breast made her look solemn and gracious. Her long, bushy ears gave her little face an alert expression. Her face was wild and kind, full of shyness, gaiety and caution. Perri moved like lightning; she had the quickly changing moods of all little creatures, and especially of her own family. In every gesture, in sitting, in running, in spectacular leaps, she had an instinctive grace, unaffected, unconscious. Anyone who saw her now—or later when she grew up—hurrying through the treetops, whisking, racing, balancing adroitly on thin, swaying twigs, swinging like an acrobat from tree to tree—anyone who saw her thus could not help feeling that it was simply the dance and play of a happy creature.

  Perri was happy; she grew more and more blissful as she moved through the caressing leaves. Her courage grew until it never occurred to her that she was brave. No danger seemed to be present; in fact danger seemed not to exist. It was magnificent to flash through the thick green, through shadow and sunlight.

  A jay screeched in alarm. Instantly Perri sat quiet. She was badly startled.

  “Oh, it’s only Perri,” grumbled the jay, turning away in relief.

  “Who are you?” asked Perri, recovering her gaiety.

  “I’m I,” replied the jay haughtily. “I don’t introduce myself to brats like you.”

  “How handsome you are!” said Perri, admiring the fine, bright-blue, black-striped feathers of his wings.

  “I don’t like your looks at all,” said the jay contemptuously.

  “Is your voice always so ugly?” Perri asked.

  “Impudent thing!” snorted the jay. “My voice is the loveliest in the whole forest!”

  “Out of my way!” cried Perri, suddenly charging off.

  With a loud outcry the jay fluttered upward.

  Perri raced on. The green, scented world of leaves, the tracks and paths in all directions, the sunlight and the warmth, filled her with joy.

  For a second she remembered the magpie. Yes indeed, she could be happy! In her youthful enthusiasm she wished for a sort of happiness which she imagined only vaguely—not being chased, moving freely, seeing the splendor of life, and loving everyone. She thought fleetingly of the jay. The ill-bred good-for-nothing lout!

  A maple held out its branches enticingly. Hop! She was over. Here it looked different from her oak—different, but lovely in its way. She whipped through the broad crown, intent on making the acquaintance of still other trees. Now the old ash invited her, and hop! she was over in a bound. It was wonderful how the little leaves here were regularly spaced on the long, swaying twigs. It looked like a solid screen, but it really gave her a better view. Perri hurried on, and spied the beech, whose broad leaves offered shelter and concealment. Gaily Perri waved at the beech. She whisked about in delight through its living, moving roof. Suddenly she stopped, staring with horror into the depths. Down below was the gamekeeper’s lodge. She had never seen such a thing.

  Annerle, who had just awakened, was coming out of the door toward her bench.

  “That’s He,” thought Perri when she saw Annerle walking on two legs. “He!” She was as quiet as a mouse; but a cold shiver ran through her body.

  “Don’t be afraid!”

  Hesitantly Perri raised her head. Quite close above her sat the blackbird, talking very softly. “Don’t be afraid!”

  “But—it’s He!” said Perri in a low voice.

  “This He is kind.” The very sound of the blackbird’s voice was reassuring.

  “Kind?” Perri doubted. “When He puts out his paw—the thunderbolt—?”

  “No He would do that to us little folk,” the blackbird declared, “but still He’s dangerous . . .”

  “Dangerous? There! You say so yourself!”

  “No, that’s not what I mean!” The blackbird moved closer. “That He down there is our friend. We don’t know how it happens, but He understands us, and we talk with him. I guess you’re surprised at that. Well, we’re surprised too, but we’ve got used to it. This morning your mother was with that He down there.”

  “My mother?” Perri jumped. “My mother?”

  “Yes. She was escaping, and He saved her.”

  The young squirrel kept a bewildered silence.

  “Run on down and ask about your mother. He’ll tell you everything.”

  “I don’t dare.” Perri was seized with suspicion. Perhaps the blackbird was only pretending to be friendly, and was craftily leading her on to destruction. “I’ll stay where I am—and then be off before He notices me.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” The blackbird’s voice grew still gentler. “I’ll go down myself. When you see how nice He is to me, will you come after?”

  Perri hesitated. “Perhaps—I don’t know.”

  The blackbird flew down to Annerle with a boldness which Perri thought unequaled, marched to and fro close in front of her, fluttered up, and perched on the child’s shoulder close to her ear.

  “What do you want?” Annerle asked.

  The blackbird whispered to her, “Up there is little Perri . . .”

  “Why doesn’t she come down here?” asked Annerle.

  “She’s afraid.”

  Annerle laughed, and the young squirrel, who had never heard a human being laugh before, was amazed that there was nothing terrifying about it. On the contrary, it was warm and friendly.

  “Perri!” cried Annerle, “Perri!”

  At once Perri leaped down to the ground, whisked through the grass with widespread paws, and in a twinkling was in Annerle’s lap. Curiously Perri looked at the innocent, beautiful human face.

  Curiously Annerle looked at the squirrel baby, without touching it.

  Then Annerle said, “I think you really look very nice!”

  Perri stood up, holding her paws to her white breast, and replied, “I think you look nice, too!”

  “Your mother was sitting here just the way you are,” said Annerle. “She was in awful danger.”

  “Why?” Perri asked.

  “The marten,” said the blackbird. “The marten chased her, and here she was rescued.”

  “Oh”—Annerle shook her head—“she’d have got away from him without me.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said the blackbird. “She was exhausted, and very feeble.”

  “Where is my mother?” Perri was seized with alarm.

  “Who can tell?” replied the blackbird. But Annerle said soothingly, “Don’t worry. Your mother is nimble. You’re sure to find her soon.”

  The three talked for a while—the child, the blackbird and the squirrel, who felt at home here.

  Suddenly the blackbird took wing. “He!” she cried.

  Perri flashed like red lightning up the beech tree. Annerle’s father came out the door.

  Chapter Four

  PERRI DANCED GAILY ALONG THE branches of the beech; she whirled up and up, around the trunk. She felt almost grown
up.

  Her meeting with Annerle had been a great experience, something for a young squirrel to grow on. Annerle’s face seemed to Perri as lovely as the flowers of the forest. Annerle was part of it all. Perri loved her as she loved anything friendly and innocent—even more, because the child’s voice was so gracious and captivating.

  And besides, Perri had seen the tremendous He—only for a second, of course, but the glimpse was enough to upset her. The great, upright form, the hairy face, the echoing footstep—when she thought of them, Perri had to stop to catch her breath.

  So Annerle had saved Perri’s mother. Perri wondered: How do you go about saving someone? What does saving mean, anyway?

  Mother had been sheltered from the merciless marten, who would have torn her limb from limb. Mother, weak and exhausted, was able to rest and to whisk off to freedom. That was what being saved meant.

  Annerle was more powerful than the marten. And she was kind and gentle. Is there more power in kindness than in the pursuing enemy? Perri brooded a while over this puzzle. For a long time she leaned against the beech trunk, pressing her little forepaws to her white breast, while confused memories of the day swam before her: the cuckoo, the magpie, the jay, the blackbird, Annerle, He.

  Suddenly she felt a longing for her mother. She ran off toward the oak where she lived. She had never gone so far away from it. But her native sense of direction guided her. Soon Perri found the maple, and reached it at a bound, whirring, racing along; soon she saw the familiar oak—

  Broad black wings flapped about her; a black, black-beaked head stabbed at her; black, greedy eyes sparkled, and a disgusting smell almost knocked her senseless.

  Perri dodged into the foliage, and reached the protecting trunk. She circled it in haste, twice, three times.

  “Look out for the crow!” the magpie had warned.

  There was a loud rustling in the leaves. The crow could not spread his wings fully here in the branches, but he moved nearer.

  Perri braced herself hard against the bark. She straightened up, held her paws high, and growled, “Get out! Get out!”

  The crow jeered: “I wouldn’t dream of it! You’ll be a tasty bit, little one!”

  Perri dodged the cut of his beak by a desperate leap to the next limb. She was horror-struck; she had met the enemy face-to-face, had seen his strong, cruel beak.

  The crow had wings, and would soon catch up with her. Hopeless to turn tail. Perri sat up again, and raised her poor paws. Determined to fight to the last, she watched her foe’s every move; once more she panted despairingly, “Get out! Get out!”

  Suddenly there was a red flame between the shoulders of the enemy. A familiar voice cried angrily, “Leave my child alone!”

  The startled crow flew up out of the maple. There was Perri’s mother.

  High in the tree the woodpecker laughed mockingly, “You did well to chase away the shameful creature.”

  Mother quivered with rage: “Absolutely! The scamp! Those wretched crows!”

  Perri was beside herself with rage. “Scoundrel! Scoundrel! Scoundrel!”

  The woodpecker added: “What don’t they do? No nest is safe from them—eggs, young ones, nothing! You came just in the nick of time, old girl!”

  “Mother! Mother!” cried Perri. “What would I have done without you?”

  “It’s all right, child, things aren’t so bad. Now we’re together, after all.”

  “I’m so happy with you!” Perri rejoiced.

  “You couldn’t have done better,” said her mother. “At that rate you’re sure to get along.”

  Perri waved her tail proudly, flashed through the branches, came back, and sighed, “I’m dreadfully hungry, Mother.”

  “That’s easily fixed,” smiled her mother. “Come with me.”

  The two gamboled through the leaves, which barely trembled underfoot. They reached their own oak, and passed on to a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth.

  “Where are we going?” asked Perri.

  “Come on,” said Mother, dropping to the ground.

  Perri stopped on the lowest branch; she asked, “Isn’t it dangerous down there?”

  Again Mother answered, “Come on!”

  At that Perri leaped boldly to the ground. The soft earth was covered with fine, pale-brown needles; its scent was delicious.

  “Look around.”

  Some twenty tall, pointed firs spread heavy branches; their dark needles were tipped with light green. They made an island in the leafy forest.

  “Haven’t you ever seen these before?”

  “No,” said Perri. “Haven’t they any leaves?” She was drunk with the scent of resin.

  “Remember these trees, child; they’ll give us many a meal. Try one of these,” said Mother, picking up a fat cone.

  Perri walked unsteadily over; she was clumsy away from the trees. She sniffed the cone, discovered the seeds under the scales, and began to gnaw hungrily.

  “Does it taste good?”

  “Wonderful!”

  It was very still; only the two squirrels whisked about, feasting on the fir cones. At first Mother fed Perri each new one. Then Perri learned to poke around for herself in the rich carpet of moss and needles. Many loose seeds were hidden there. Perri loved this game, and thanks to her sense of smell and her healthy appetite she learned it fast.

  Past dangers were forgotten.

  But Mother remained alert; from time to time she would sit erect. Perri began to imitate her mother. Once she thought she heard a suspicious noise. She started to rush blindly for the nearest tree, but her mother calmed her. “Stay where you are,” she said, and added, “don’t be a coward.”

  Perri had learned a great deal in a few hours.

  “Now up we go,” said Mother, hopping to the fir, and climbing the trunk. Perri followed after. Climbing was not the word; they dashed straight upward as if on a level track. Indeed they ran faster here than on level ground. Up here their bodies were entirely free, their motions entirely graceful; there was purpose as well as grace in the flicking of their tails.

  How different the evergreens were from the oaks at home! The branches stood in regular circles, one above the other, around the trunk; the shoots were spread out like fans, with the dark-green needles in rigid order.

  Mother simply whizzed along. Perri hesitated a little. “It’s dark here!” she cried.

  Mother was already far away when she answered, “But lovely and quiet!”

  Now Perri romped as only boisterous children can, and her mother danced as only happy mothers do. The two played tag on their way to the next fir. There Mother stopped to listen.

  “Relatives,” she announced.

  “Relatives?” said Perri, who had thought they were the only squirrels in the forest. Sure enough, two squirrels raced up, a mother and her little son. They sat down with tails held high.

  “Hello,” said the strangers, and Perri’s mother replied, “Hello.”

  The children said nothing. They looked at each other curiously.

  Now a large black squirrel arrived, to be admired with some puzzlement by Perri.

  “Haw!” cried he, “haw, a whole party and my wife not here?”

  Nobody answered. The black fellow turned to Perri’s mother. “Do you live in the evergreens?”

  “No, but not far away.”

  “And you?” he quizzed the strange mother, “do you live here?”

  “I live in the leafy trees,” she replied, “a long way off.”

  “Haw! Not so far off as I do,” boasted the black one. “And I live in the evergreens; it’s quieter there.”

  Meanwhile the children had begun a happy game of tag. They romped and raced and somersaulted up and down the fir tree. The boy squirrel led Perri to the very tip of the leader branch. When Perri warned him, “Not where everyone can see us,” he only replied scornfully, “What of it? Let anyone see us who wants! Seeing us isn’t catching us!”

  Perri had never played with another youngster;
she was wild with enthusiasm.

  The elders joined in without more ado. For an hour the five squirrels flew through the firs, clattered through the treetops, hopped along the ground, and sat up eating fir cones. The black one was a little wild, but a jolly fellow. He urged them on until they had to stop for breath.

  In the midst of the tail-waving and racing, Mother said, “That’s enough! Home with you!”

  But Perri had not had nearly enough. Not until the other mother called her son to go did Perri say good-bye. “Are you coming again soon?” she whispered to her new friend.

  “Soon!” he answered as he hurried off.

  The black one squatted on a tall branch, crying, “Good-bye! Good-bye!” Then he vanished.

  It was already dusk when the two caught sight of the oaks. They skipped over in a twinkling.

  The blackbirds were singing their evensong, the finches sang short, sweet notes, the whisper of the titmice sounded from the thick underbrush. The magpies chattered and the jay screeched.

  “It’s really nicer here in the leaves, after all,” Mother declared.

  Perri agreed, “Yes—it’s nicer in the leaves.”

  A faint pattering came from the tangle of brambles, hazel and dogwood down below. The squirrels peered down.

  “Do you see anything?” asked Perri.

  “Nothing,” said Mother. “That must be the fox. He always skulks like that.”

  “The fox?” Perri jumped. “Let me look! The fox won’t hurt us, will he?”

  “Only because he can’t climb; he’d love to catch us.”

  “I never saw a . . .”

  “Quiet!” interrupted Mother. “Wait until the leaves fall, and you’ll see him often enough.”

  “The leaves—the green, lovely leaves?” Perri stiffened. “They fall off?”

  “All of them. The branches get quite bare.”

  “When, Mother?”

  “When you’re all grown up.”

  Perri regretted her eagerness to grow up. That will make the good leaves disappear, she thought. She hesitated. “Why do the leaves have to fall?”

  “Nobody knows. They have to. Come on now, and don’t ask so many questions. It’s late!”