The squirrel rushed up to him and quarrelsomely asked, “What do you think you’re talking about? The prince isn’t looking for beetles and grubs ...”
“Why not?” asked the woodpecker complacently. They taste delicious ... “He bit into a beetle, swallowed it, and went on drumming.
“You don’t understand,” the squirrel scolded again. “A noble gentleman like this has other, higher goals to pursue. You just make yourself look ridiculous.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” the woodpecker replied. “I don’t care a thing about these higher goals of yours,” he called cheerfully and flew away.
The squirrel scampered back down.
“Don’t you know me?” he asked, looking very satisfied with himself.
“I think I do know you,” was Bambi’s friendly answer. “You live up there ...” And he indicated the oak tree above them.
The squirrel looked at him with a grin. “You’re confusing me with my grandmother,” he said. “I knew it. I knew you were confusing me with my grandmother. My grandmother lived up there ever since she was a child, Prince Bambi. She often told me about you. Only ... only then she was killed by the polecat ... a long time ago, that was ... in the wintertime ... don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I do,” Bambi nodded. “I heard about it.”
“Well then ... and after that my father moved in here,” the squirrel told him. He sat up, showed astonishment in his eyes, and held both his paws politely on his white breast. “But ... you might also be confusing me with my father. Did you know my father?”