In the heart of the forest was a little glade that belonged to Bambi’s
mother. It lay only a few steps from the narrow trail where the deer
went bounding through the woods. But no one could ever have found it who
did not know the little passage leading to it through the thick bushes.
The glade was very narrow, so narrow that there was only room for Bambi
and his mother, and so low that when Bambi’s mother stood up her head
was hidden among the branches. Sprays of hazel, furze, and dogwood,
woven about each other, intercepted the little bit of sunlight that came
through the tree-tops, so that it never reached the ground. Bambi had
come into the world in this glade. It was his mother’s and his.
His mother was lying asleep on the ground. Bambi had dozed a little,
too. But suddenly he had become wide awake. He got up and looked around.
The shadows were so deep where he was that it was almost dark. From the
woods came soft rustlings. Now and again the tit-mice chirped. Now and
again came the clear hammering of the woodpecker or the joyless call of
a crow. Everything else was still, far and wide. But the air was
sizzling in the midday heat so that you could hear it if you listened
closely. And it was stiflingly sweet.
Bambi looked down at his mother and said, “Are you asleep?”
No, his mother was not asleep. She had awakened the moment Bambi got up.
“What are we going to do now?” Bambi asked.
“Nothing,” his mother answered. “We’re going to stay right where we are.
Lie down, like a good boy, and go to sleep.”
But Bambi had no desire to go to sleep. “Come on,” he begged, “let’s go
to the meadow.”
His mother lifted her head. “Go to the meadow,” she said, “go to the
meadow now?” Her voice was so full of astonishment and terror that Bambi
became quite frightened.
“Can’t we go to the meadow?” he asked timidly.
“No,” his mother answered, and it sounded very final. “No, you can’t go
now.”
“Why?” Bambi perceived that something mysterious was involved. He grew
still more frightened, but at the same time he was terribly anxious to
know everything. “Why can’t we go to the meadow?” he asked.
“You’ll find out all about it later when you’re bigger,” his mother
replied.
“But,” Bambi insisted, “I’d rather know now.”
“Later,” his mother repeated, “you’re nothing but a baby yet,” she went
on tenderly, “and we don’t talk about such things to children.” She had
grown quite serious. “Fancy going to the meadow at this time of day. I
don’t even like to think of it. Why, it’s broad daylight.”
“But it was broad daylight when we went to the meadow before,” Bambi
objected.
“That’s different,” his mother explained, “it was early in the morning.”
“Can we only go there early in the morning?” Bambi was very curious.
His mother was patient. “Only in the early morning or late evening,” she
said, “or at night.”
“And never in the daytime, never?”
His mother hesitated. “Well,” she said at last, “sometimes a few of us
do go there in the daytime.... But those are special occasions....
I can’t just explain it to you, you are too young yet.... Some of us
do go there.... But we are exposed to the greatest danger.”
“What kind of danger?” asked Bambi all attention.
But his mother did not want to go on with the conversation. “We’re in
danger, and that’s enough for you, my son. You can’t understand such
things yet.”
Bambi thought that he could understand everything except why his mother
did not want to tell him the truth. But he kept silent.
“That’s what life means for us,” his mother went on, “though we all love
the daylight, especially when we’re young, we have to lie quiet all day
long. We can only roam around from evening till morning. Do you
understand?”
“Yes,” said Bambi.
“So, my son, we’ll have to stay where we are. We’re safe here. Now lie
down again and go to sleep.”
But Bambi didn’t want to lie down. “Why are we safe here?” he asked.
“Because all the bushes shield us,” his mother answered, “and the twigs
snap on the shrubs and the dry twigs crackle and give us warning. And
last year’s dead leaves lie on the ground and rustle to warn us, and the
jays and magpies keep watch so we can tell from a distance if anybody is
coming.”
“What are last year’s leaves?” Bambi asked.
“Come and sit beside me,” said his mother, “and I will tell you.” Bambi
sat down contentedly, nestling close to his mother. And she told him how
the trees are not always green, how the sunshine and the pleasant warmth
disappear. Then it grows cold, the frost turns the leaves yellow, brown
and red, and they fall slowly so that the trees and bushes stretch their
bare branches to the sky and look perfectly naked. But the dry leaves
lie on the ground, and when a foot stirs them they rustle. Then someone
is coming. O, how kind last year’s dead leaves are! They do their duty
so well and are so alert and watchful. Even in mid-summer there are a
lot of them hidden beneath the undergrowth. And they give warning in
advance of every danger.
[Illustration: _The leaves fall slowly._]
Bambi pressed close against his mother. It was so cozy to sit there and
listen while his mother talked.
When she grew silent he began to think. He thought it was very kind of
the good old leaves to keep watch, though they were all dead and frozen
and had suffered so much. He wondered just what that danger could be
that his mother was always talking about. But too much thought tired
him. Round about him it was still. Only the air sizzling in the heat was
audible. Then he fell asleep.