ospered accordingly, and was a baby to be
proud of.

[Illustration: "_He was a baby to be proud of._"]

And his mother took good care of him, and never tried to show him off
before the other people of the woods. She knew that it was far safer and
wiser to keep him concealed as long as possible, and not let anyone know
that she had him. So instead of letting him wander with her through the
woods when she went in search of food, she generally left him hidden in
a thicket or behind a bush or a fallen tree. There he spent many a long,
lonely hour, idly watching the waving branches and the moving shadows,
and perhaps thinking dim, formless, wordless baby thoughts, or looking
at nothing and thinking of nothing, but just sleeping the quiet sleep
of infancy, and living, and growing, and getting ready for hard times.

At first the Fawn knew no difference between friends and enemies, but
the instinct of the hunted soon awoke and told him when to be afraid. If
a hostile animal came by while the doe was gone, he would crouch low,
with his nose to the ground and his big ears laid back on his neck; or
if pressed too closely he would jump up and hurry away to some better
cover, with leaps and bounds so light and airy that they seemed the very
music of motion. But that did not happen very often. His hiding-places
were well chosen, and he usually lay still till his mother came back.

When she thought he was large enough, and strong and swift enough, she
let him travel with her; and then he became acquainted with several new
kinds of forest--with the dark hemlock groves, and the dense cedar
swamps; with the open tamarack, where the trees stand wide apart, and
between them the great purple-and-white lady's-slippers bloom; with the
cranberry marshes, where pitcher-plants live, and white-plumed grasses
nod in the breeze; with sandy ridges where the pine-trees purr with
pleasure when the wind strokes them; with the broad, beautiful
Glimmerglass, laughing and shimmering in the sunshine, and with all the
sights and the sounds of that wonderful world where he was to spend the
years of his deerhood.

They were a very silent pair. When his breakfast was ready she would
sometimes call him with a low murmuring, and he would answer her with a
little bleat; but those were almost the only sounds that were ever heard
from them, except the rustling of the dry leaves around their feet. Yet
they understood each other perfectly, and they were very happ