XXII

One night when the air was whispering with the autumnal fall of leaves the screech-owl shrieked piercingly among the branches. Then he waited.

But Bambi had spied him already through the thinning leaves, and stopped.

The screech-owl flew nearer and shrieked louder. Then he waited again. But Bambi did not say anything.

Then the owl could restrain himself no longer. “Aren’t you frightened?” he asked, displeased.

“Well,” Bambi replied, “a little.”

“Is that so?” the screech-owl cooed in an offended tone. “Only a little. You used to get terribly frightened. It was really a pleasure to see how frightened you’d get. But for some reason or other you’re only a little frightened now.” He grew angrier and repeated, “Only a little!”

The screech-owl was getting old, and that was why he was so much vainer and so much more sensitive than before.

Bambi wanted to answer, “I wasn’t ever frightened before either,” but he decided to keep that to himself. He was sorry to see the good old screech-owl sitting there so angry. He tried to soothe him. “Maybe it’s because I thought of you right away,” he said.

“What?” said the screech-owl becoming happy again, “you really did think of me?”

“Yes,” Bambi answered with some hesitation, “as soon as I heard you screech. Otherwise, of course, I’d have been as scared as ever.”

“Really?” cooed the owl.

Bambi hadn’t the heart to deny it. What difference did it make anyhow? Let the little old child enjoy himself.

“I really did,” he assured him, and went on, “I’m so happy, for a thrill goes through me when I hear you so suddenly.”

The screech-owl fluffed up his feathers into a soft, brownish-gray, downy ball. He was happy. “It’s nice of you to think of me,” he cooed tenderly, “very nice. We haven’t seen each other for a long time.”

“A very long time,” said Bambi.

“You don’t use the old trails any more, do you?” the screech-owl inquired.

“No,” said Bambi slowly, “I don’t use the old trails any more.”

“I’m also seeing more of the world than I used to,” the screech-owl observed boastfully. He didn’t mention that he had been driven from his old hereditary haunts by a pitiless younger rival. “You can’t stay forever in the same spot,” he added. Then he waited for an answer.

But Bambi had gone away. By now he understood almost as well as the old stag how to disappear suddenly and noiselessly.

The screech-owl was provoked. “It’s a shame.⁠ ⁠…” he cooed to himself. He shook his feathers, sank his bill deep into his breast and silently philosophized, “You should never imagine you can be friends with great folks. They can be as nice as pie but when the time comes they haven’t a thought for you, and you’re left sitting stupidly by yourself as I’m sitting here now.⁠ ⁠…”

Suddenly he dropped to the earth like a stone. He had spied a mouse. It squeaked once in his talons. He tore it to pieces, for he was furious. He crammed the little morsel faster than usual. Then he flew off. “What do all your great folks mean to me?” he asked. “Not a thing.” He began to screech so piercingly and ceaselessly that a pair of wood-doves whom he passed awoke and fled from their roost with loud wingbeats.

The storm swept the woods for several days and tore the last leaves from the branches. Then the trees stood stripped.

Bambi was wandering homewards in the gray dawn in order to sleep in the hollow with the old stag.

A shrill voice called him once or twice in quick succession. He stopped. Then the squirrel scampered down from the branches in a twinkling and sat on the ground in front of him.

“Is it really you?” he shrilled, surprised and delighted. “I recognized you the minute you passed me but I couldn’t believe⁠ ⁠…”

“Where did you come from?” asked Bambi.

The merry little face in front of him grew quite troubled. “The oak is gone,” he began plaintively, “my beautiful old oak, do you remember it? It was awful. He chopped it down!”

Bambi hung his head sadly. His very soul felt sorry for the wonderful old tree.

“As soon as it happened,” the squirrel related, “everybody who lived in the tree fled and watched how He bit through the trunk with a gigantic flashing tooth. The tree groaned aloud when it was wounded. It kept on groaning and the tooth kept gnawing, it was dreadful to hear it. Then the poor beautiful tree fell out on the meadow. Everybody cried.”

Bambi was silent.

“Yes,” sighed the squirrel, “He can do anything. He’s all-powerful.” He gazed at Bambi out of his big eyes, and pointed his ears. But Bambi kept silent.

“Then we were all homeless,” the squirrel went on, “I don’t even know where the others scattered to. I came here. But I won’t find another tree like that in a hurry.”

“The old oak,” said Bambi to himself, “I knew it from the time I was a child.”

“O well,” said the squirrel. “But to think it’s really you,” he went on delightedly. “Everybody said you must be dead long ago. Of course there were some people now and then who said you were still alive. Once in a while someone said he had seen you. But nobody could find out anything definite. And so I thought it was only gossip,” the squirrel gazed at him inquisitively, “since you didn’t come back any more.”

Bambi could see how curious he was and how he was fishing for an answer.

Bambi kept silent. But a gentle anxious curiosity was stirring in him, too. He wanted to ask about Faline, about Aunt Ena, and Ronno and Karus, about all his childhood companions. But he kept silent.

The squirrel still sat in front of him, studying him. “What antlers!” he cried admiringly. “What antlers! Nobody in the whole forest, except the old Prince, has antlers like that.”

Once Bambi would have felt elated and flattered by such praise. But he only said, “Maybe.”

The squirrel nodded quickly with his head. “Really,” he said, surprised, “you’re beginning to get gray.”

Bambi wandered on.

The squirrel perceived that the conversation was over and sprang through the bushes. “Good day,” he shouted down. “Goodbye. I’m very glad I met you. If I see any of your acquaintances I’ll tell them you’re still alive. They’ll all be glad.”

Bambi heard him and again felt that gentle stirring in his heart. But he said nothing. When he was still a child the old stag had taught him that you must live alone. Then and afterwards the old stag had revealed much wisdom and many secrets to him. But of all his teachings this had been the most important; you must live alone, if you wanted to preserve yourself, if you understood existence, if you wanted to attain wisdom, you had to live alone.

“But,” Bambi had once objected, “we two are always together now.”

“Not for very much longer,” the old stag had answered quickly. That was a few weeks ago. Now it occurred to Bambi again, and he suddenly remembered how even the old stag’s very first words to him had been about singleness. That day when Bambi was still a child calling for his mother, the old stag had come to him and asked him, “Can’t you stay by yourself?”

Bambi wandered on.