Bambi (4 page)

“Good evening,” Bambi called after him.

His mother smiled. “The good Hare,” she said; “he is so suave and prudent. He doesn't have an easy time of it in this world.” There was sympathy in her voice.

Bambi strolled about a little and left his mother to her meal. He wanted to meet his friend again and he wanted to make new acquaintances, besides. For without being very clear himself what it was he wanted, he felt a certain expectancy. Suddenly, at a distance, he heard a soft rustling on the meadow, and felt a quick, gentle step tapping the ground. He peered ahead of him. Over on the edge of the woods something was gliding through the grasses. Was it alive? No, there were two things. Bambi cast a quick glance at his mother but she wasn't paying attention to anything and had her head deep in the grass. But the game was going on on the other side of the meadow in a shifting circle exactly as Bambi himself had raced around before. Bambi was so excited that he sprang back as if he wanted to run away. Then his mother noticed him and raised her head.

“What's the matter?” she called.

But Bambi was speechless. He could not find his tongue and only stammered, “Look over there.”

His mother looked over. “I see,” she said, “that's my sister, and sure enough she has a baby too, now. No, she has two of them.” His mother spoke at first out of pure happiness, but she had grown serious. “To think that Ena has two babies,” she said, “two of them.”

Bambi stood gazing across the meadow. He saw a creature that looked just like his mother. He hadn't even noticed her before. He saw that the grasses were being shaken in a double circle, but only a pair of ­reddish backs were visible like thin red streaks.

“Come,” his mother said, “we'll go over. They'll be company for you.”

Bambi would have run, but as his mother walked slowly, peering to right and to left at every step, he held himself back. Still, he was bursting with excitement and very impatient.

“I thought we would meet Ena sometime,” his mother went on to say. “Where can she have been keeping herself? I thought I knew she had one child, that wasn't hard to guess. But two of them! . . .”

At last the others saw them and came to meet them. Bambi had to greet his aunt, but his mind was entirely on the children.

His aunt was very friendly. “Well,” she said to him, “this is Gobo and that is Faline. Now you run along and play together.”

The children stood stock-still and stared at each other, Gobo close beside Faline and Bambi in front of him. None of them stirred. They stood and gaped.

“Run along,” said Bambi's mother, “you'll soon be friends.”

“What a lovely child,” Aunt Ena replied. “He is really lovely. So strong, and he stands so well.”

“Oh well,” said his mother modestly, “we have to be content. But to have two of them, Ena! . . .”

“Oh yes, that's all very well,” Ena declared; “you know, dear, I've had children before.”

“Bambi is my first,” his mother said.

“We'll see,” Ena comforted her, “perhaps it will be different with you next time, too.”

The children were still standing and staring at each other. No one said a word. Suddenly Faline gave a leap and rushed away. It had become too much for her.

In a moment Bambi darted after her. Gobo followed him. They flew around in a semicircle, they turned tail and fell over each other. Then they chased each other up and down. It was glorious. When they stopped, all topsy-turvy and somewhat breathless, they were already good friends. They began to chatter.

Bambi told them how he talked to the nice grasshopper and the butterfly.

“Did you ever talk to the goldbug?” asked Faline.

No, Bambi had never talked to the goldbug. He did not even know who he was.

“I've talked to him often,” Faline declared, a little pertly.

“The jay insulted me,” said Bambi.

“Really,” said Gobo astonished, “did the jay treat you like that?” Gobo was very easily astonished and was extremely timid.

“Well,” he observed, “the hedgehog stuck me in the nose.” But he only mentioned it in passing.

“Who is the hedgehog?” Bambi asked eagerly. It seemed wonderful to him to be there with friends, listening to so many exciting things.

“The hedgehog is a terrible creature,” cried Faline, “full of long spines all over his body and very wicked!”

“Do you really think he's wicked?” asked Gobo. “He never hurts anybody.”

“Is that so?” answered Faline quickly. “Didn't he stick you?”

“Oh, that was only because I wanted to speak to him,” Gobo replied, “and only a little anyhow. It didn't hurt me much.”

Bambi turned to Gobo. “Why didn't he want you to talk to him?” he asked.

“He doesn't talk to anybody,” Faline interrupted; “even if you just come where he is he rolls himself up so he's nothing but prickles all over. Our mother says he's one of those people who don't want to have anything to do with the world.”

“Maybe he's only afraid,” Gobo said.

But Faline knew better. “Mother says you shouldn't meddle with such people,” she said.

Presently, Bambi began to ask Gobo softly, “Do you know what ‘danger' means?”

Then they both grew serious and all three heads drew together. Gobo thought a while. He made a special effort to remember for he saw how curious Bambi was for the answer. “Danger,” he whispered, “is something very bad.”

“Yes,” Bambi declared excitedly, “I know it's something very bad, but what?” All three trembled with fear.

Suddenly Faline cried out loudly and joyfully, “I know what danger is—it's what you run away from.” She sprang away. She couldn't bear to stay there any longer and be frightened. In an instant, Bambi and Gobo had bounded after her. They began to play again. They ­tumbled in the rustling, silky green meadow grass and in a twinkling had forgotten all about the absorbing question. After a while they stopped and stood chattering together as before. They looked toward their ­mothers. They were standing close together, eating a little and carrying on a quiet conversation.

Aunt Ena raised her head and called the children. “Come, Gobo. Come, Faline. We have to go now.”

And Bambi's mother said to him, “Come, it's time to go.”

“Wait just a little longer,” Faline pleaded eagerly, “just a little while.”

“Let's stay a little longer, please,” Bambi pleaded, “it's so nice.” And Gobo repeated timidly, “It's so nice, just a little longer.” All three spoke at once.

Ena looked at Bambi's mother, “What did I tell you,” she said, “they won't want to separate now.”

Then something happened that was much more exciting than everything else that happened to Bambi that day. Out of the woods came the sound of hoofs beating the earth. Branches snapped, the boughs ­rustled, and before Bambi had time to listen, something burst out of the thicket. Someone came crashing and ­rustling with someone else rushing after him. They tore by like the wind, described a wide circle on the meadow and vanished into the woods again, where they could be heard galloping. Then they came bursting out of the thicket again and suddenly stood still, about twenty paces apart.

Bambi looked at them and did not stir. They looked like his mother and Aunt Ena. But their heads were crowned with gleaming antlers covered with brown beads and bright white prongs. Bambi was completely overcome. He looked from one to the other. One was smaller and his antlers narrower. But the other one was stately and beautiful. He carried his head up and his ­antlers rose high above it. They flashed from dark to light, adorned with the splendor of many black and brown beads and the gleam of the branching white prongs.

“Oh,” cried Faline in admiration. “Oh,” Gobo repeated softly. But Bambi said nothing. He was entranced and silent. Then they both moved and, turning away from each other, walked slowly back into the woods in opposite directions. The stately stag passed close to the children and Bambi's mother and Aunt Ena. He passed by in silent splendor, holding his noble head royally high and honoring no one with so much as a glance.

The children did not dare to breathe till he had disappeared into the thicket. They turned to look after the other one, but at that very moment the green door of the forest closed on him.

Faline was the first to break the silence. “Who were they?” she cried. But her pert little voice trembled.

“Who were they?” Gobo repeated in a hardly audible voice. Bambi kept silent.

Aunt Ena said solemnly, “Those were your fathers.”

Nothing more was said, and they parted. Aunt Ena led her children into the nearest thicket. It was her trail. Bambi and his mother had to cross the whole meadow to the oak in order to reach their own path. He was silent for a long time before he finally asked, “Didn't they see us?”

His mother understood what he meant and replied, “Of course, they saw all of us.”

Bambi was troubled. He felt shy about asking questions, but it was too much for him. “Then why . . .” he began, and stopped.

His mother helped him along. “What is it you want to know, son?” she asked.

“Why didn't they stay with us?”

“They don't ever stay with us,” his mother answered, “only at times.”

Bambi continued, “But why didn't they speak to us?”

His mother said, “They don't speak to us now; only at time. We have to wait till they come to us. And we have to wait for them to speak to us. They do it whenever they like.”

With a troubled heart, Bambi asked, “Will my father speak to me?”

“Of course he will,” his mother promised. “When you're grown up he'll speak to you, and you'll have to stay with him sometimes.”

Bambi walked silently beside his mother, his whole mind filled with his father's appearance. “How handsome he is!” he thought over and over again. “How handsome he is!”

As though his mother could read his thoughts, she said, “If you live, my son, if you are cunning and don't run into danger, you'll be as strong and handsome as your father is sometime, and you'll have antlers like his, too.”

Bambi breathed deeply. His heart swelled with joy and expectancy.

Chapter Five

T
IME PASSED, AND BAMBI HAD many adventures and went through many experiences. Every day brought something new. Sometimes he felt quite giddy. He had so incredibly much to learn.

He could listen now, not merely hear, when things happened so close that they struck the ear of their own accord. No, there was really no art in that. He could really listen intelligently now to everything that stirred, no matter how softly. He heard even the tiniest whisper that the wind brought by. For instance, he knew that a pheasant was running through the next bushes. He recognized clearly the soft quick tread that was always stopping. He knew by ear the sound the field mice make when they run to and fro on their little paths. And the patter of the moles when they are in a good humor and chase one another around the elder bushes so that there is just the slightest rustling. He heard the shrill clear call of the falcon, and he knew from its altered, angry tones when a hawk or an eagle approached. The falcon was angry because she was afraid her field would be taken from her. He knew the beat of the wood doves' wings, the beautiful, distant, soaring cries of ducks, and many other things besides.

He knew how to snuff the air now, too. Soon he would do it as well as his mother. He could breathe in the air and at the same time analyze it with his senses. “That's clover and meadow grass,” he would think when the wind blew off the fields. “And Friend Hare is out there, too. I can smell him plainly.”

Again he would notice through the smell of leaves and earth, wild leek and wood mustard, that the ferret was passing by. He could tell by putting his nose to the ground and snuffing deeply that the fox was afoot. Or he would know that one of his family was somewhere nearby. It might be Aunt Ena and the children.

By now he was good friends with the night and no longer wanted to run about so much in broad daylight. He was quite willing to lie all day long in the shade of the leafy glade with his mother. He would listen to the air sizzling in the heat and then fall asleep.

From time to time he would wake up, listen and snuff the air to find out how things stood. Everything was as it should be. Only the titmice were chattering a little to each other, the midges, who were hardly ever still, hummed, while the wood doves never ceased declaiming their ecstatic tenderness. What concern was it of his? He would drop off to sleep again.

He liked the night very much now. Everything was alive, everything was in motion. Of course, he had to be cautious at night too, but still he could be less careful. And he could go wherever he wanted to. And everywhere he went he met acquaintances. They too were always less nervous than in the daytime.

At night the woods were solemn and still. There were only a few voices. They sounded loud in the stillness, and they had a different ring from daytime voices, and left a deeper impression.