LEAFING 81 



own rewards, not the least of them being the leaves 

 themselves and the getting of them ! 



We jolt across the bumpy field, strike into the 

 back wood-road, and turn off upon an old stumpy 

 track over which cord wood was carted years ago. 

 Here in the hollow at the foot of a high wooded 

 hill, the winds have whirled the oak and maple 

 leaves into drifts almost knee-deep. 



We are off the main road, far into the heart of 

 the woods. We straddle stumps ; bend down saplings ; 

 stop while the horse takes a bite of sweet birch ; tack 

 and tip and tumble and back through the tight 

 squeezes between the trees ; and finally, after a pro- 

 digious amount of whoa-ing and oh-ing and squeal- 

 ing and screeching, we land right side up and so 

 headed that we can start the load out toward the 

 open road. 



You can yell all you want to when you go leafing ; 

 yell at every stump you hit ; yell every time a limb 

 knocks off your hat or catches you under the chin ; 

 yell when the horse stops suddenly to browse on the 

 twigs and stands you meekly on your head in the 

 bottom of the rig. You can screech and howl and 

 yell like the wild Indian that you are, you can dive 

 and wrestle in the piles of leaves and cut all the 

 crazy capers you know; for this is a Saturday, these 

 are the wild woods and the noisy leaves, and who is 

 there looking on besides the mocking jays and the 

 crows ? 



