He understood the language of the trees no more than he understood the speech of the animals. Yet he had an instinctive feeling of oneness with other forms of life. This happy feeling swelled his misshapen chest so that he drew in his breath lightly and freely.

The growing light spread. The leaves and the sky took on a hue of delicate green.

Martin climbed to his lookout platform built in the shadow of a birch tree at the edge of a large meadow. From there he could see the green arch of the treetops and a tremendous sky in which the morning star was twinkling its farewell.

In the meadow three stags, with the horns still covered by their velvet, were grazing at ease. They strolled around in the manner of great gentlemen, nibbling a bit here and there or merely looking off into space for moments at a time.

Regretfully they glanced at a roe which they had scared into flight. “We wouldn’t have done anything to him,” said a stag whose horns had ten branches.

The youngest, who had only six branches, said, “Certainly not.”

Tambo added, “When have we ever done anything to one of these little fellows? They are relatives of ours. It’s painful to see them avoid us.”

The first stag stretched out his head in thought. His horns lay almost flat on his back. “My father,” he recalled, “told me a story he heard from one of our forefathers. A long time ago a roebuck was speared by one of our ancient ancestors—in anger.”

Tambo said, “During the mating season I too become angry at my own kind. At such times we all get angry.”

“Even though they happen very seldom,” continued the first stag, “such acts of violence live in the memory of our children and their children. It is not surprising that smaller ones are frightened at the mere sight of us and flee because of our power. Who would dare fight with one of us?”

“Do you feel a prickling in your crown as I do?” the six-pointer asked.

“A little,” answered the ten-pointer.

Tambo said, “My crown isn’t hard enough yet. But soon I’ll rub it against the tree trunks.”

They wandered apart, each sauntering by himself. Tambo drifted toward the lookout, then stopped suddenly as he caught sight of Martin. After a few seconds he strolled quietly back to the other two and murmured, “Imagine! He is here!”

“That’s nothing,” the ten-pointer said. “He comes here every day.”

But the young six-pointer grew excited. “Where? Where is He? I’ve never seen Him!”

The three stags stared upward at Martin. He found it the purest joy to have them watch him without fear.

“Can you see Him?” asked the ten-pointer of the youngest stag.

“Yes! He looks dreadful—dreadful!” The young deer stamped and nervously approached the platform. Curiosity made him bold, yet he was prepared for flight.

“He’s not dreadful at all,” Tambo retorted. “I know Him. You must get used to Him.”

“No,” whispered the six-pointer, “I couldn’t. I can’t bear that look of His!” And he leaped away into the thicket.

“Young and stupid and inexperienced,” Tambo scoffed good-naturedly.

“It’s time for us to go too,” the ten-pointer urged.

“Well, let’s go then. It’s all right with me.”

They moved away slowly, lifting their slender legs in proud mincing steps, nibbling here and there at the young shoots by the forest’s edge. Finally they vanished into the wall of brush.

Martin watched their majestic departure with the keenest enjoyment. Then he turned his gaze over the green ocean of treetops toward the coming of the day.

In the sky the light green was giving way to a pale lemon-yellow. The yellow grew deeper and deeper until it was shot through by tongues of pink which in turn became streamers of flame. Martin witnessed the display with delight. No matter how often he saw this climax, its effect upon him was never less.