“How long do you belong together after all? Eh? A little while, and then each one goes his way, and the spell is broken. Don’t talk to me! I’ll have nothing to do with such a mistake, and I don’t try to fool my relatives. I go my own way right from the start; I have no consideration for anything, and I enjoy myself thoroughly. That’s why I’m wiser than the lot of you.”

He started to fly off.

Perri held him back. “I’m sure you’re right, but please—”

“What do you want?”

“If you see my mother, tell her to come here to me right away.”

“I never mix in family affairs,” said the cuckoo haughtily, “but if I should see your mother, and should happen to think of it, I’ll tell her.”

He whirred off. Perri looked admiringly after him. For a while she sat still, waiting. The cuckoo’s talk had excited her. At first she was astonished at such bold freedom; then it seemed cold, heartless, saucy and low. Her thoughts were confused; she did not know what to think, and finally took the whole thing as a joke. “He must surely have been talking in fun,” she said to herself. “He wanted to encourage me. The cuckoo was really very good to me.”

She peered around with shrewd, questioning eyes. A magnificent world of leaves surrounded her—sheltering leaves, sweet-smelling leaves, leaves whose faint stirring announced whatever came near. Everywhere paths led through the green wilderness, which really was not wild at all. The thick branches were wide brown roads; from them ever-narrower paths split off, rocking delightfully as they got thinner. The trunk of the tree, rising thick and solid, meant safety, home, the familiar invitation to race up. Perri loved the trunk, the branches and the many, many leaves.

Her small fright faded quickly; the shock was soon over. As she sat there, she thought everything she saw was lovely enough to make one leap with joy. Her delight was naturally expressed in leaps, in mad racing, in acrobatics.

The feeling of loneliness vanished. Only vaguely did Perri remember her mother. Of course, she thought, it would be nice to have Mother here. But if she doesn’t come, then I’ll just manage without.

Perri whisked away. Not far—she was still timid, after all. She stayed close to the trunk of the oak, climbing straight upward; her little paws were spread wide, as if to embrace the thick bark in which her fine claws stuck. She hesitated, and then climbed ahead. It was a good feeling, altogether pleasant.

Alone! she felt—I’m alone! Her first timidity gave way entirely; she remembered the cuckoo. Alone!

A strong branch seemed to call her, stretching away from the trunk into the air. Perri jumped upon it, and whisked delicately back and forth, faster and faster. She had been climbing straight up; now it was level.