Bambi by Felix Salten Page A

protestingly against his heart. “I tried my best to warn the poor Prince.”
    â€œAnd I,” the jay rasped. “How often did I scream? But he didn’t care to hear me.”
    â€œHe didn’t hear me either,” the magpie croaked. “I called him at least ten times. I wanted to fly right past him, for, thought I, he hasn’t heard me yet; I’ll fly to the hazel bush where he’s standing. He can’t help hearing me there. But at that minute it happened.”
    â€œMy voice is probably louder than yours, and I warned him as well as I could,” the crow said in an impudent tone. “But gentlemen of that stamp pay little attention to the likes of us.”
    â€œMuch too little, really,” the squirrel agreed.
    â€œWell, we did what we could,” said the magpie. “We’re certainly not to blame when an accident happens.”
    â€œSuch a handsome Prince,” the squirrel lamented. “And in the very prime of life.”
    â€œAkh!” croaked the jay. “It would have been better for him if he hadn’t been so proud and had paid more attention to us.”
    â€œHe certainly wasn’t proud.”
    â€œNo more so than the other Princes of his family,” the magpie put in.
    â€œJust plain stupid,” sneered the jay.
    â€œYou’re stupid yourself,” the crow cried down from overhead. “Don’t you talk about stupidity. The whole forest knows how stupid you are.”
    â€œI!” replied the jay, stiff with astonishment. “Nobody can accuse me of being stupid. I may be forgetful but I’m certainly not stupid.”
    â€œOh just as you please,” said the crow solemnly. “Forget what I said to you, but remember that the Prince did not die because he was proud or stupid, but because no one can escape Him.”
    â€œAkh!” croaked the jay. “I don’t like that kind of talk.” He flew away.
    The crow went on. “He has already outwitted many of my family. He kills what He wants. Nothing can help us.”
    â€œYou have to be on your guard against Him,” the magpie broke in.
    â€œYou certainly do,” said the crow sadly. “Goodbye.” He flew off, his family accompanying him.
    Bambi looked around. His mother was no longer there.
    â€œWhat are they talking about now?” thought Bambi. “I can’t understand what they are talking about. Who is this ‘He’ they talk about? That was He, too, that I saw in the bushes, but He didn’t kill me.”
    Bambi thought of the Prince lying in front of him with his bloody, mangled shoulder. He was dead now. Bambi walked along. The forest sang again with a thousand voices, the sun pierced the treetops with its broad rays. There was light everywhere. The leaves began to smell. Far above the falcons called, close at hand a woodpecker hammered as if nothing had happened. Bambi was not happy. He felt himself threatened by something dark. He did not understand how the ­others could be so carefree and happy while life was so difficult and dangerous. Then the desire seized him to go deeper and deeper into the woods. They lured him into their depths. He wanted to find some hiding place where, shielded on all sides by impenetrable thickets, he could never be seen. He never wanted to go to the meadow again.
    Something moved very softly in the bushes. Bambi drew back violently. The old stag was standing in front of him.
    Bambi trembled. He wanted to run away, but he controlled himself and remained. The old stag looked at him with his great deep eyes and asked, “Were you out there before?”
    â€œYes,” Bambi said softly. His heart was pounding in his throat.
    â€œWhere is your mother?” asked the stag.
    Bambi answered still very softly, “I don’t know.”
    The old stag kept gazing at him. “And still you’re not calling for her?” he said.
    Bambi looked into the noble,