2o6 Dead Leaves 



first beneath an old oak and then pass to the 

 quivering aspen, or pause in the shade of a 

 way-side locust and then tarry beneath the 

 cedar, at whose roots the sunshine never 

 comes. It needs but to do this to realize 

 that there are leaves and leaves : those that 

 truly shelter and those that tease you by their 

 fitfulness. 



It is winter now and the leaves are dead ; 

 but, although blighted, they have not lost 

 their beauty. Heaped in the by-paths of 

 this ancient wood, they are closely associated 

 with the pranks of many birds, and for this 

 alone should be lovingly regarded. Even now 

 I hear an overstaying chewink — for this is a 

 warm wood the winter long — tossing them 

 in little clouds about him as he searches for 

 the abundant insedls that vainly seek shelter 

 where they have fallen. The birds seem to 

 seek fun as well as food among the leaves. I 

 have often watched them literally dive from 

 the overhanging bushes into a heap of leaves, 

 and then with a flirt of the wings send dozens 

 flying into the air. It is hard to imagine any 

 other purpose than pure sport. When, as 

 often happens, two or three follow their 

 leader, I always think of a string of boys diving 



