Dead Leaves 207 



or playing leap-frog. Coincidence," cries 

 old Prosy, with a wise shake of his head. 

 Perhaps ; but I think old Prosy is a fool. 



The strange, retiring winter wren is equally 

 a lover of dead leaves. He plays with them 

 in a less boisterous manner, but none the less 

 delights in tossing them to and fro. It is at 

 such a time that a few notes of his marvellous 

 summer song occasionally escape him. The 

 white-throated sparrows fairly dance among 

 or upon the heaped-up leaves, and play bo- 

 peep with the clouds of them they send 

 aloft ; and in February the foxie sparrows 

 play the same pranks. Squirrels and mice 

 are equally at home, and abandon all prudence 

 when they frolic among the windrows. The 

 more clatter and cackle, the better they are 

 pleased. When freed from the restraint of 

 fear, wild life is fun-loving to the very brim. 



Dead leaves are never deserted unless the 

 weather is extremely cold or a storm has 

 prevailed until they are a sodden mat. Even 

 from such a wetting they soon recover and 

 respond to the passing breeze's gentlest touch. 

 Dead leaves are the matured fruit of summer, 

 and what an important part they really play 

 as the year closes ! They are not now of the 



