CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH 



DEAD LEASES 



T HAVE often .wondered why the Indians 

 * did not call November the month of 

 dead leaves. The out-of-town world is full 

 of them now. They replace the daisies and 

 dandelions in the open fields, the violets and 

 azaleas in the shady woods. They are a promi- 

 nent feature of the village street. Many will 

 cling to the trees the winter long, but mil- 

 lions are scattered over the ground. Even 

 on the river I find them floating, borne slowly 

 by the tide or hurrying across the rippled 

 surface, chased by the passing breeze. 



The pleasure common to us all we take 

 in crushing them beneath our feet savors of 

 heartlessness. Why should we not recall 

 their kindness when, as bright-green leaves, 

 each cast its mite of grateful shade, so dear 

 to the rambler, and now, when they have 

 fallen, let them rest in peace ? We should 



203 



