118 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



does not sound like bad news. I listen to it 

 with a kind of pleasure, as to solemn music. 

 If the doctor or the clergyman had brought 

 me the same word, my spirit might have 

 risen in rebellion ; but the falling leaf may 

 say what it likes. It has poet's leave. 



How gracefully they come to the ground, 

 here one and there another ; slowly, slowly, 

 with leisurely dips and turns, as if the breeze 

 loved them and would buoy them up till the 

 last inevitable moment. Children of air and 

 sunshine, they must return to the dust. So 

 all things move in circles, life and death, 

 death and life. Happy leaves ! they depart 

 without formalities, with no funereal trap- 

 pings. The wind whispers to them, and they 

 follow. 



As I watch them falling, a gray squirrel 

 startles me. I rejoice to see him. He, too, 

 is a falling leaf. In truth, his living pre- 

 sence takes me by surprise. So many gun- 

 ners have been in this wood of late, all so 

 murderously equipped, that I had thought 

 every squirrel must before this time have 

 gone into the game-bag. Be careful, young 

 fellow ; you will need all your spryness and 



