Bambi by Felix Salten Page B

iron-gray face, looked at the stag’s antlers and suddenly felt full of courage. “I can stay by myself, too,” he said.
    The old stag considered him for a while; then he asked gently, “Aren’t you the little one that was crying for his mother not long ago?”
    Bambi was somewhat embarrassed, but his courage held. “Yes, I am,” he confessed.
    The old stag looked at him in silence and it seemed to Bambi as if those deep eyes gazed still more mildly. “You scolded me then, Prince,” he cried excitedly, “because I was afraid of being left alone. Since then I haven’t been.”

    The stag looked at Bambi appraisingly and smiled a very slight, hardly noticeable smile. Bambi noticed it however. “Noble Prince,” he asked confidently, “what has happened? I don’t understand it. Who is this ‘He’ they are all talking about?” He stopped, terrified by the dark glance that bade him be silent.
    Another pause ensued. The old stag was gazing past Bambi into the distance. Then he said slowly, “Listen, smell and see for yourself. Find out for yourself.” He lifted his antlered head still higher. “Farewell,” he said; nothing else. Then he vanished.
    Bambi stood transfixed and wanted to cry. But that farewell still rang in his ears and sustained him. Farewell, the old stag had said, so he couldn’t have been angry.
    Bambi felt himself thrill with pride, felt inspired with a deep earnestness. Yes, life was difficult and full of danger. But come what might he would learn to bear it all.
    He walked slowly deeper into the forest.

Chapter Eight
    T HE LEAVES WERE FALLING FROM the great oak at the meadow’s edge. They were falling from all the trees.
    One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip.
    â€œIt isn’t the way it used to be,” said one leaf to the other.
    â€œNo,” the other left answered. “So many of us have fallen off tonight we’re almost the only ones left on our branch.”
    â€œYou never know who’s going to go next,” said the first leaf. “Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes, and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who’s going to go next.”
    â€œThe sun seldom shines now,” sighed the second leaf, “and when it does it gives no warmth. We must have warmth again.”
    â€œCan it be true,” said the first leaf, “can it really be true, that others come to take our places when we’re gone and after them still others, and more and more?”
    â€œIt is really true,” whispered the second leaf. “We can’t even begin to imagine it, it’s beyond our powers.”
    â€œIt makes me very sad,” added the first leaf.
    They were silent a while. Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, “Why must we fall? . . .”
    The second leaf asked, “What happens to us when we have fallen?”
    â€œWe sink down. . . .”
    â€œWhat is under us?”
    The first leaf answered, “I don’t know, some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows.”
    The second leaf asked, “Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we’re down there?”
    The first leaf answered, “Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it.”
    They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, “Don’t worry so much about it, you’re trembling.”
    â€œThat’s nothing,” the second leaf answered. “I ­tremble at the least thing now. I don’t feel so sure of my hold as I used to.”
    â€œLet’s not talk any more about such things,” said the first leaf.
    The other replied, “No, we’ll let be. But—what else shall