Walt Disney is in his element only when dealing with rodents. His deer, like his human characters, are flat, two-dimensional color patterns, animated but lifeless. And his cannel but highly emotional thunderstorms are worse still; they are Disney trying to do what the Lord never intended he should; they are Moon Mullins making an ass of himself on the Flash Gordon page.

Oh, but those rabbits. Mouth open, one paw up, great big eyes, little impressionists running all over the theatre. Take one home in your pocket. What if that sissy, Bambi, is a bore? What if mother-love, the Cruelty of Man, the Landlord of the Forest, and other miscellaneous nineteenth century melodrama are overdone until they become a lush mush? These are Disney's incorrigible faults, but they are well worth suffering or sleeping through for a glimpse of a lop-cared bunny yelling like hell as he slides on the ice.

The gang's all here, Round-headed, pop-eyed little birds blinking at you over the edge of the nest, or pulling a worm two ways, snoring squirrels raising their big square incisors as they inhale and puffing heir paraboloid checks as they exhale. Not to mention an irritated and sleepless chipmunk blanketing himself under the tail of one of the above snorers, or a wide-eyed fieldmouse slamming a hollow tree behind him after skipping over the meadow in nothing flat. Like Dopey, who would always come running over the bridge fifty yards behind his outfit, there is the duckling that stops to test the temperature with his toe before swimming after the gang, and the gopher who slides down the hill on his fanny while his pals scamper on ahead. Walt, old pal, this is life as l see it. The furriest, plumpest, liveliest achievement of modern impressionism. Bambi and his old lady may be a couple of drips, but the little guys aren't.