But it’s nice to listen to.”

“Yes indeed,” the owner agreed. “Annerle is a sweet child.” He stroked her curls caressingly. “Go on, little one, go on.”

Annerle thought they understood her now, and she started off again.

But they did not understand her at all. The two adults guessed rather than understood that she was making an oft-repeated attempt of nature to be a link between human beings and other creatures.

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Chapter Two

PERRI SAT SNUGLY AGAINST THE trunk of the oak, her neat little tail stiffly upright behind her. The oak trunk was as warm as a living, breathing creature: it drank in the morning sun until almost noon. The fresh green leaves grew in bunches at the end of the twigs, and the clusters of blossoms were hidden away in them. Many trees rose about it, one close to another—oak, ash, beech—crown by crown. When the wind passed over, there was a melodious rustling which sometimes swelled to a wild roar, mighty music that inspired or frightened, depending on the listener.

Perri had no love for the roar. Like the deer, she was shy of strong wind, and usually felt bad weather keenly.

Today the kind sun was shining from a blue sky; the leaves fanned gently and pleasantly. The cuckoo kept calling through the woods, now from afar, now close at hand. Now and again a magpie chattered, or a jay screeched.

Each time Perri listened intently. Her ears, with tufts of hair at the top like brushes, were always ready to be pricked up. But the warning cries were none of Perri’s business.

She sat waiting. Where could her mother be?

As yet Perri was hardly independent, but she had known horrible experiences, even though it was scarcely two weeks since she had left the nest. Her brothers and sisters had been carried off, and Perri knew the terror of their fate.

Only one had she seen die. That was her sister Murri, who ran carelessly and clumsily out along the far-reaching branch. The sparrow hawk came, stuck its talons into the tiny creature, and carried it off into the air. A short shriek of pain. Then nothing. Perri was left with a feeling of terror and of the grandeur of the great bird rising quickly skyward on broad wings.

Where could her mother be? What fun it had been to play with her, to talk with her, to be fondled and guided! Perri was homesick for her mother, and she was hungry. Then she jumped in alarm. Close before her something fluttered and perched noisily. How could she have failed to hear it sooner—how could she have been so careless? She sat upright, her paws pressed to her white breast.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the cuckoo, “please don’t.” He let his cry ring out, followed by a little, low laugh.

“If you see my mother,” Perri requested, “I’m waiting here.”

“Child,” replied the cuckoo, “don’t wait. Amuse yourself alone! Hunt your own food. Believe me, being alone is the only way.”

Perri confessed simply, “I haven’t the courage yet. I need my mother—I long for her . . .”

The cuckoo laughed. “That I can’t understand—mother, child, longing. That’s all just funny! I see you’re a child. Well, what of it? I never knew my mother; I shall never worry about my children; I don’t know what it means to long for anything. I’m free, and when I look at you squirrels and your need for one another, your anxiety for one another, I think you’re dolts!”

“We just have a feeling we belong together,” whispered Perri shyly.

“Nonsense!” contradicted the cuckoo.