After her came the shrewmouse. He seemed to spatter like a gray drop from the ferns.

Mother hurtled forward. One could hear her panting; it was extraordinary how she ran, but the drop still splashed right after her.

A sound of wings followed her. Magpie, blackbird, woodpecker flew low over the bushes, taunting and swearing at the shrewmouse, who paid no attention at all.

With a mighty leap Mother reached the trunk of the oak at last. For a moment she could only cling to the tree and gasp.

Meanwhile woodpecker, blackbird and magpie had gathered around Perri, who sat frozen with horror.

Mother was recovering; she began to smarten herself up. She laughed when the woodpecker said, “You were in luck.” She raised her tail proudly over her back. “Luck? Nobody catches me!”

“That little rascal is dangerous,” said the magpie.

“He’s worse than the marten!” said the woodpecker.

“He hasn’t a friend in the world,” said the blackbird.

“Friend?” Mother laughed in high good humor. “He has nothing but enemies! He even hates himself. He murders his own brothers and sisters!”

Perri found her tongue. “What a sad life!” she said.

The magpie answered: “If he knew it, it would be sad. But he has no idea. All he wants is killing and blood.”

Shaking her head, Perri sighed: “What a strange world!”

The finch said, “And you didn’t believe me!”

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Chapter Seven

ONE MORNING IN THE TREETOPS Perri heard a call. A red streak flickered through the foliage; branches bent and swayed under a romping squirrel. From time to time the call was repeated: “Perri! Perri!”

When she heard it she was sitting high in a beech, cleaning her fur. For a while she listened, pricking up her tufted ears. It was not her mother’s voice. Perri went on sprucing up. She was even gayer than usual. Someone wanted her. Someone was looking for her. All right, she would let him hunt. It was a jolly voice, so nobody needed help.

Finally her curiosity got the better of her. “Who’s there?”

“It’s I, Porro!” came the answer from the other tree.

Porro, she thought, who can that be? Finally she remembered that this was the boy squirrel she had met at the evergreens.

She called, “Porro! Porro! Over here!” and ran boldly toward him until she saw him shooting down like flame through the oak. He bounded to the beech, laughing at her, and said, “Well! At last!”

From this time on Porro visited Perri every day, and they played from morning until night.

Once in the midst of their play Perri asked, “Where’s your mother?”

“Somewhere,” he returned.

“Don’t you see her any more?”

“Sometimes,” he said carelessly, “but I’m trying to be grown up now, and I’m living alone.”

She was impressed at first, but then she said, “Grown up—pooh! I still sleep with my mother—it’s so nice and warm.”

He gave a superior whistle, and dashed off. She whisked after him, caught up with him, and bumped him so hard that he had to grab the tree. He mocked: “Where’s your mother?”

She answered innocently, “I don’t know. But we meet at night in front of our nest.”

“So?” he laughed. “Then you’ve run away from her—almost the same as I did.”

She grew angry. “I didn’t run away, and don’t forget it!” She repeated indignantly, “Run away! I’d never do such a thing; I don’t have to. My mother is very wise.