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Or maybe I hear only the air that your wings stir up.”
    â€œMaybe that’s it.” The hoot owl was quickly mollified. “It’s a good thing the little fellows I hunt can’t hear as well as you do. Of course they’re usually asleep when I go after them. But even if they wake up, as some do, I’m on them before they know it. That’s the way to handle your prey.”
    â€œPrey . . .” Tambo’s slightly troubled gaze rested on the round featherball rocking on a branch. “Prey! It’s not easy for me to imagine what that means.”
    The hoot owl giggled softly. “Prey, my dear fellow, is something that writhes and squeaks—something that gives you pleasure and fills you up.”
    â€œI’m filled up by leaves and herbs and grasses. I never kill anyone.”
    â€œYou’re foolish,” croaked the other. “You with your pronged crown, and with your strength and great size—who could hold against you? Think of all you could catch!”
    â€œI’m surrounded by plenty,” said Tambo placidly. “I’m never hungry and I wouldn’t care for such murderous ‘pleasures.’ ” He turned quietly away. “Good night.”
    â€œFoolish giant!” mocked the hoot owl, and floated off to the treetops. “All giants are silly.” He laughed to himself.
    Tambo only half heard these words and paid no attention to them. Noiselessly he moved through the brush, his step halting whenever he caught the tiniest sound.
    Suddenly he came to a stop. Another owl, the great gray owl, had just perched close to him.
    â€œGreetings!” she whispered in her thin but pleasant voice.
    â€œGreetings!” whispered Tambo, who preferred the big owl to the hoot owl.
    The bird started the conversation. “You know I live with Him.”
    â€œWhat!” Tambo was gravely surprised. “You’re friendly with Him?”
    â€œVery intimate.”
    Tambo stared at her. “Aren’t you afraid?”
    â€œAfraid?” The owl’s laughter sounded like a melancholy song. “Every day He calls me and I go to Him. He always has some tidbit for me.”
    â€œMm, that’s right,” Tambo remembered. “In the winter He lays out sweet clover and piles of chestnuts for us.”
    â€œThere! You see? He’s good.”
    â€œStill,” objected Tambo, “I can’t help being afraid of Him. Not exactly afraid—but still—”
    â€œThen you’re very foolish. Why, I lie in His arms and let Him pet me. He knows just what kind of petting an owl likes best.”
    Tambo looked at the speaker as if he could hardly believe her. “Amazing!”
    The owl began singing to herself in low crooning hoots, remembering happily. The sound made Tambo drowsy.
    â€œI think I’ll go to bed now,” he said gently. “Good-by.” He walked quietly away.
    The owl sang him a friendly farewell and swung gracefully up into the air.
    It was still long before day and quite dark. Tambo lay down to sleep, not in his accustomed bed but in a remote part of the underbrush. He slept, but only in snatches. Again and again he opened his eyes, pricked his ears, sniffed cautiously, and then dozed off once more.
    When he finally arose the morning was far gone. Feeling hungry, he began to graze, but fastidiously, choosing only the delicate grasses.
    Then he had another visitor. Near his lowered head, the woodpecker knocked on a poplar trunk. “Good day! Beautiful weather!” the cocky bird greeted. “And it’s a good day for me because last night again no one caught me.”
    â€œWho would do anything to you?” scoffed Tambo.
    The woodpecker laughed shrilly. “You’re funny! Don’t you know any great owls, any hoot owls, any martens?”
    â€œThey aren’t all after you, are they?”
    â€œWhether they’re after me specially or not, I