2o8 Dead Leaves 



air, airy, but of the earth, earthy. Dead, it 

 is true, yet living. Passive, yet how a£live ! 

 They are whispering good cheer now to the 

 sleeping buds that await the coming of a new 

 year, and faithfully guard them when the 

 storm rages. For such deeds we owe them 

 our kindliest thoughts. 



In the golden sunshine of this dreamy day 

 the leaves have yet another visitor that makes 

 merry with them. The little whirlwind, 

 without a herald, springs laughingly upon 

 them, even when the profoundest quiet reigns 

 throughout the wood. Touched by this 

 fairy's wand, the leaves rise in a whirling 

 pillar and dance down the narrow path into 

 some even more secluded nook. Dead leaves, 

 indeed ! Never did the wildest madcap of a 

 courting bird play livelier pranks. 



Time was when I would have searched 

 the woods for winter-green and worn it gayly. 

 I am content to-day to carry a withered leaf. 



