There were no sounds but the soft propeller-hum of the gnats, the dull buzz of the bumblebees, the clearer one of wasps and wild bees; even the constant cooing of the pigeons died away.
The two squirrels spent these hours of quiet close together in the shadow of the oak’s top. For minutes at a time they would surrender to a pleasant half-doze, and again they would strain their ears; but no threat came to disturb them.
Then Porro whispered, “Do you know what love is?”
“No,” Perri answered in a low, indifferent voice.
“I don’t know either,” murmured Porro. He went on, “Love . . . I asked my mother about it . . .”
“Well?”
“She says, ‘You’ll find out later.’ Later—what does she mean, later? Mother just says, ‘Later is later. Wait.’ ”
“All right,” said Perri, “go ahead and wait.”
“Have you got the patience to wait?”
“Yes indeed. I’m not worried about love.” Perri went on dozing.
“I don’t understand you,” grumbled Porro. “Love must be something very special. I asked old Mirro, too. He laughed at me. ‘That’s nothing for you, you infant!’ he laughed. ‘Why not?’ I asked. First he didn’t say a word; he stopped laughing, and looked at me. Then he said, ‘When you feel it yourself, you’ll know what love is.’ ‘All right,’ I said, ‘but I’d like to know if it hurts.’ Then he laughed again, and made off.”
“Porro,” Perri inquired, “what made you think of love?”
His answer was vague. “I don’t really know. Somewhere I must have heard of it, but I can’t remember where.”
“Well,” said Perri, “I love my mother—and I love the woods.”
“Yes! The woods!” Porro agreed joyfully.
“And all the hazelnuts.”
Porro bounded up. “Ha! The hazelnuts! Let’s go get some!”
The noonday heat subsided; everywhere things began to stir. Wide awake now, the two rushed for a tree. Soon they found a hazel bush.
Perri bit the green covering off the fruit, delicately cracked the juicy shell, and took the kernel gracefully in her forepaws. She said to Porro, “See? This is love.”
Gnawing, he replied, “Perhaps . . .”
She decided, “It’s perfectly simple.”
Porro stopped, sighed, “Perhaps,” and went on gnawing.
Chapter Eight
A NEW DAY WAS DAWNING. The forest-dwellers, already awake, looked toward the sunrise. The shrewmice rustled in the dewy grass. Here and there were heard the whirring sounds of the pheasants, the loud fanlike slap of their wings as they came down from the trees where they slept. The call of the cuckoo resounded through the trees, and the joyful song of the golden thrush, who flew through the air like a golden ball, repeating now and then, “Oh, see how beautiful!”
The woodpecker hammered busily, laughing loudly from time to time. High above them all, crows passed over; they cawed unpleasantly, however friendly they might have meant to sound. The magpies were all on a low ash tree, gossiping busily. The rude, angry screech of the jay interrupted the melody of the morning. But the blackbirds sat in the highest treetops, and began with sweet song to greet the sun.
The sun came. Sparkling arrows, spears, swords of light thrust through the treetops, fell upon bush and shrub, penetrated the thicket, bringing a kindly warmth. The forest shimmered and sparkled with countless dewdrops. On every leaf, on every grass blade, glowed diamond upon diamond, the fabulous riches of the morning.
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