They were all standing around in the middle of the thicket in a little
clearing. Gobo was talking to them.
Even Friend Hare was there. Full of astonishment, he would lift one
spoonlike ear, listen attentively, and let it fall back, only to lift it
again at once.
The magpie was perched on the lowest branch of a young beech and
listened in amazement. The jay was sitting restlessly on an ash opposite
and screamed every once in a while in wonder.
A few friendly pheasants had brought their wives and children and were
stretching their necks in surprise as they listened. At times they would
jerk them in again, turning their heads this way and that in speechless
wonder.
The squirrel had scurried up and was gesturing, wild with excitement. At
times he would slide to the ground, at times he would run up some tree
or other. Or he would balance with his tail erect and display his white
chest. Every now and again he tried to interrupt Gobo and say something,
but he was always told sternly to keep quiet.
Gobo told how he had lain helpless in the snow waiting to die.
“The dogs found me,” he said. “Dogs are terrible. They are certainly the
most terrible creatures in the world. Their jaws drip blood and their
bark is pitiless and full of anger.” He looked all around the circle and
continued, “Well, since then I’ve played with them just as I would with
one of you.” He was very proud. “I don’t need to be afraid of them any
more, I’m good friends with them now. Nevertheless, when they begin to
grow angry, I have a roaring in my ears and my heart stops beating. But
they don’t really mean any harm by it and, as I said, I’m a good friend
of theirs. But their bark is terribly loud.”
[Illustration: “_The dogs found me._”]
“Go on,” Faline urged.
Gobo looked at her. “Well,” he said, “they would have torn me to pieces,
but He came.”
Gobo paused. The others hardly breathed.
“Yes,” said Gobo, “He came. He called off the dogs and they quieted down
at once. He called them again and they crouched motionless at His feet.
Then He picked me up. I screamed but He petted me. He held me in His
arms. He didn’t hurt me. And then He carried me away.”
Faline interrupted him. “What does ‘carry’ mean?” she asked.
Gobo began to explain it in great detail.
“It’s very simple,” Bambi broke in, “look at what the squirrel does when
he takes a nut and carries it off.”
The squirrel tried to speak again. “A cousin of mine ...” he began
eagerly. But the others cried out at once, “Be still, be still, let Gobo
go on.”
The squirrel had to keep quiet. He was desperate and, pressing his
forepaws against his white chest, he tried to begin a conversation with
the magpie. “As I was saying, a cousin of mine ...” he began. But the
magpie simply turned her back on him.
Gobo told of wonders. “Outside it will be cold and the storm is howling.
But inside there’s not a breath of wind and it’s as warm as in
summertime,” he said.
“Akh!” screamed the jay.
“The rain may be pouring outside so that everything is flooded. But not
a drop of it gets inside and you keep dry.”
The pheasants craned their necks and twisted their heads.
“Everything outside may be snowed under, but inside I was warm,” said
Gobo; “I was even hot. They gave me hay to eat and chestnuts, potatoes
and turnips, whatever I wanted.”
“Hay?” they all cried at once, amazed, incredulous and excited.
“Sweet, new-mown hay,” Gobo repeated calmly, and gazed triumphantly
around.
The squirrel’s voice cut in, “A cousin of mine ...”
“Keep quiet,” cried the others.
“Where does He get hay and all the rest of the things in winter?” asked
Faline eagerly.
“He grows them,” Gobo answered, “He grows what He wants and keeps what
He wants.”
Faline went on questioning him: “Weren’t you ever afraid, Gobo, when you
were with Him?” she asked.
Gobo smiled a very superior smile. “No, dear Faline,” he said, “not any
more. I got to know that He wouldn’t hurt me. Why should I have been
afraid? You all think He’s wicked. But He isn’t wicked. If He loves
anybody or if anybody serves Him, He’s good to him. Wonderfully good!
Nobody in the world can be as kind as He can.”
While Gobo was talking that way the old stag suddenly stepped
noiselessly from the bushes.
Gobo didn’t notice him and went on talking. But the others saw the old
stag and held their breath in awe.
The old stag stood motionless, watching Gobo with deep and serious eyes.
Gobo said, “Not only He, but all His children loved me. His wife and all
of them used to pet me and play with me.” He broke off suddenly. He had
seen the old stag.
A silence followed.
Then the old stag asked in his quiet commanding voice, “What kind of a
band is that you have on your neck?”
Everybody looked at it and noticed for the first time the dark strip of
braided horsehair around Gobo’s neck.
Gobo answered uneasily, “That? Why that’s part of the halter I wore.
It’s His halter and it’s the greatest honor to wear His halter,
it’s ...” He grew confused and stammered.
Everyone was silent. The old stag looked at Gobo for a long time,
piercingly and sadly.
“You poor thing!” he said softly at last, and turned and was gone.
In the astonished silence that followed, the squirrel began to chatter
again. “As I was saying, a cousin of mine stayed with Him, too. He
caught him and shut him up, oh, for the longest while, till one day my
father ...”
But nobody was listening to the squirrel. They were all walking away.