“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!”

There was another rustle; twigs crackled in the underbrush. A brown back pushed through.

“Who’s that, Mother?”

“That? That’s one of the good creatures, big as it is. No deer ever hurt anyone. But hurry up, the bats are on the wing. You know what that means.”

By the time they got home, Perri was tired out. Her mother let her slip into the nest, and then climbed after. It was soft and warm as they snuggled together.