The Fawn and His Mother

In a quiet forest there lived a young fawn with bright eyes and quick, slender legs. He often watched his mother move through the trees. She was larger than any dog he had seen, swift upon the ground, and furnished with horns that might serve as a defense. To the fawn, she seemed strong enough to fear very little.

One misty morning, while they were feeding near the edge of a meadow, the bark of a hound sounded far away. The mother deer lifted her head at once. Her ears trembled, her body grew tense, and before the fawn could ask a question, she turned and fled among the trees. The young one ran after her, puzzled as well as frightened.

When they had reached a sheltered place and the barking was distant, the fawn said, “Mother, you are larger than a dog. You are swifter, and you have horns to defend yourself. Why, then, does the sound of hounds frighten you so?”

His mother looked at him kindly. She did not grow angry, nor did she pretend to be braver than she was. “My son,” she answered, “all that you say is true. I have the advantages you name. Yet when I hear even the bark of a single dog, my heart fails within me, and my legs carry me away as fast as they can.”

The fawn was silent. He began to understand that knowing reasons for courage is not the same as having courage in the moment. Fear may dwell deeper than argument, and wisdom sometimes begins with admitting where fear still lives.