CHAPTER 



SEVENTEENTH 



DEAD LEAVES 



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 pi-omi- 

 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 



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