It was one of those November days when the wind swoops down the mountain
sides, bringing an avalanche of leaves—disked oak leaves—and then leaving
them for a moment in the valley basin, gathers them in her mighty hands
and tosses them again almost to the mountain tops.
Chris found a sympathy in the dizzy, whirling, swirling leaves. His hopes
had withered so, and now a girl’s changeful hand had been as reckless
with him as was the wind with these: like wrath in death and envy
afterwards.
Poor Chris’s spiritual kingdom was suffering the nature of an
insurrection, for though he loved her he was too proud to tell her she
had misjudged him. The dissipation of his hopes now was tinged with
regret, just as the wanton winds seem to us ruthless as we remember when
these leaves were planes and green, not disked and brown.
Mockingly came the dance of leaves around his feet—each like a thing
alive—to beckon him here, there, to elude him, to laugh at him.
“It’s too hard to bear!” groaned Chris, between his teeth. “How could she
believe it! How could she!”
A flurry of hurrying, scurrying leaves swept past him, a company of
mocking, dancing leaves; from right and left they came, and scarce ten
steps before him they met and swirled up—up into a monstrous wraith with
beckoning hands. Chris’s conflict took form. “I’ll do it! I’ll do it!
I’ll show her! She’ll regret this day!” and he threw back his head and
with flashing eyes started forward with resolute steps.
A lost leaf wavered, dipped, paused, then with a timid wafture touched
his crisp curls.
His blood surged up, for it was like the caress of a loving hand.
“Oh no,” said Chris, “I may be wrong—I’ll tell her so;” and holding the
lost leaf very gently between his two hands he walked swiftly back.