So gay it looked, that young maple tree standing in the centre of the
pasture with rows and rows of dark cedars and hemlocks growing all
around it! They towered above the little maple and yet seemed to bow
before it, as with their size and strength they shielded it from the
wind which tossed their branches. It was covered, this small tree,
with leaves of flaming crimson and gold which danced and fluttered
merrily in the sunshine.
“Is it after all only a maple tree?” thought the little lad Jamie,
who lay upon the ground in the old pasture watching. Ever since the
frost in a single night had painted the leaves with splendour, that
young tree had been a real comrade to the cripple boy. Jamie had
hurt his back the year before, and this summer, while the other boys
climbed mountains and swam streams, Jamie could only hobble upon
his crutches as far as the pasture. There he lay for hours upon the
grass watching the clouds drift across the sky and wishing he were
a cloud or a bird, so he could fly also. The days seemed very long,
and to make them pass more quickly Jamie made up stories about the
mountains in the distance, the stream which rippled at the foot
of the pasture and the dark evergreen trees which surrounded that
flaming maple. “They are dull old courtiers, and he is a gay little
king in his coronation robes,” thought the boy and then--he sat up
in astonishment and rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming? No, it was all
real, the young maple was gone and in its place was a little king! A
crown of gleaming jewels was upon his head, he was dressed in robes
of flaming crimson and over all was flung a mantle of woven gold. And
the dark evergreens, where were they? There was no sign of them, and
around the king stood a throng of grave and solemn courtiers dressed
in green velvet, all gazing frowningly at the King. He was stamping
his foot, Jamie heard the stamp, and then he heard the King cry in a
clear, boyish voice, “I won’t be a King! I won’t sit upon a throne
all day long and make laws and punish people and be bowed down to; I
want to be a little boy and have fun, I do!”
At that moment a gust of wind blew the King’s mantle from his
shoulders; it looked like a handful of golden leaves flying through
the air, and the King himself--or was it only a branch of scarlet
leaves?--no, it was the little King who came scampering over the
grass toward Jamie. “Come,” he said gleefully, “we are going to run
away, you and I. We’re going to have the merriest day of our whole
lives!”
“But my crutches,” sighed Jamie. “See, I can’t run.”
“Can’t you?” whispered the little King gently. “Close your eyes and
keep tight hold of my hand.”
As Jamie shut his eyes he felt something very soft, like a bit of
thistle down against his cheek, and then as light as that same
thistle he felt himself rising from the ground, drifting, floating,
flying, up, up----“Now open your eyes,” said the little King’s
laughing voice. Jamie obeyed, and for a moment he was puzzled. Was he
a King, too, he wondered, for his clothes were of crimson velvet like
the lad’s beside him, or were they but leaves fluttering through the
air?
“Never mind what you are,” cried the King, reading his look of
bewilderment. “We can all be lots more things than we dream of until
the Spirit of Autumn takes hold of us. The folks below think us only
leaves, but we know better, and now, where shall we go? This is my
last gorgeous day, for to-night Autumn flies away from the cold breath
of Winter. Let’s fly to the spot you wish to see more than anything
else in the world.”
“Flying like this is such fun that I don’t care where we go,”
answered Jamie, then suddenly both leaves--but let us say
boys--stopped drifting and gazed in wonder at the sight before them.
They were in the sunshine, but a shower was falling in the distance
and opposite them, across the sky, stretched a perfect rainbow.
“Did you ever hear of the pot of gold at the rainbow’s foot?” asked
Jamie excitedly. “Let’s go there now and find it!”
“All right,” answered the little King, “let’s go there, and if
we don’t find the pot of gold we may find something still more
wonderful.”
Through the air they flew toward the rainbow, whose colours were
paling a little in the center, but growing more and more glorious at
the end.
“Shut your eyes again and hold my hand tight,” said the King. “I must
fill your eyes with mist or you would be blinded by the sight you are
going to see. No boy has ever seen it before except in dreams.”
For a moment Jamie shivered, they seemed to be passing through
a thick fog, and then--“Open your eyes,” cried the King. Jamie
looked----
Picture to yourself a great golden hall filled with streams of
colours, each as radiant as the sunshine, and yet, seen through
spectacles of mist, so soft they could not dazzle your eyes. Each
great sheath of colour was moving, shifting and weaving itself in
and out among the others like the figure of a dancer, so quickly
that it was almost impossible to catch it. And yet that was just what
hundreds of gay little fairies with butterfly wings and scarfs of
thistle down were trying to do. Each one carried a golden pot, and
as they caught one colour after another their captives rushed away,
leaving a bit of colour in the fairy’s hand. Hastily dropping that
bit into his golden pot with a merry, tinkling laugh, the fairy was
off again after another dancing, gleaming bit of rainbow.
“So there are the pots of gold,” cried Jamie. “But what do the
fairies do with the rainbow’s colours?”
Just then a very merry sprite came tearing past, his pot brimming
over with glowing crimson. “My colour is the favourite just now,” he
cried. “I’ve got one billion trees to paint and all that’s left over
goes to the cardinal flowers.” “Mine is just as popular,” sang out
another fairy, his pot overflowing with gold. “There are millions of
goldenrods for me to colour as well as the trees!” “And autumn loves
mine too,” chanted a delicate little sprite whose pot was filled with
violet. “Think of all the asters without which your goldenrods would
be very tiresome.” “And mine,” rippled another, his pot filled with
blue like the sea. “Autumn always wants mine! The gentians are rare
because one blossom takes more colour than a thousand of spring’s
forget-me-nots.”
Just then a flaming orange stream rushed past, and Jamie and the
little king made one grab at it.
“Thieves! Robbers!” cried the colours in a whirl of fury. In a second
they were all dancing madly before the eyes of the terrified boys.
Then there was a crash as of thunder and the lads found themselves
lying upon the ground, wet, thick, gray mist all about them. The
glorious dance at the rainbow’s foot had vanished.
“I suppose we deserved that,” sighed Jamie, “but I did want a
pocketful of colour stuff to show the boys.”
“Never mind, let’s fly out of this mist and have more fun!” cried the
little King. Up they floated into the sunshine and they found that
the winds had been busy while they were gone. Almost every tree stood
dark and bare--the air was full of brilliant, whispering leaves.
“Winter is surely coming soon,” said the little King. “Look at the
spot below us where I grew.” Beneath them, in the centre of the
pasture, stood the maple tree, only one crimson leaf still fluttering
from its branches.
“When that leaf is gone, I’ll have to say good-night for many
months,” said the King. “Come, before that happens we’ll go to the
Cavern of the winds and see how Autumn plays upon them.”
This time they flew upward, and now it was so cold that Jamie drew
his scarlet robes close about him. Through the first thin clouds they
flew; then right into a great cloud, looking like an enormous castle,
they floated. It was one huge hall, so vast that Jamie couldn’t see
the other end, but he could hear, far, far away beyond great arches,
the rumbling of a mighty organ. Crashing and thunderous it sounded
until the vast hall shook and echoed with the sound. “That is Autumn
playing upon the organ of the winds,” said the little King, and
although he shouted in Jamie’s ear it sounded like a whisper above
the music. “When she touches the keys the winds fill the pipes and
go roaring off to carry away the leaves below,” he explained. “But
listen--she knows the leaves have almost all fallen and now she is
singing her good-night to them.”
The crashing had ceased, and through the great hall echoed a slumber
song, as sweet as a thrush’s note at twilight, as tender as a
wood-dove’s call.
Jamie closed his eyes and thought of lapping waves, and sunsets, the
new moon rising and the first stars blossoming in the sky.
Did he sleep there in the Winds’ Cavern with the Spirit of Autumn
singing good-night to her flaming world? He never knew. When he
opened his eyes he found himself standing upon the doorstep of his
own home! He was drawing something soft and white about him to keep
out the cold and he heard a whispered “Good-night, Comrade, until
next Autumn,” and a flutter as of leaves flying through the air, then
the house door opened and as he stood with the light of the blazing
fire falling upon him he heard his mother’s voice:
“Why, Jamie, you’re covered with snow! And, my boy, where are your
crutches?”
Into the house he ran, right into his mother’s outstretched arms,
although his crutches were still lying out on the pasture, buried
beneath the snow! And Jamie was well! Was it a gift from the Spirit
of Autumn to a little lad? Just another of her precious gifts given
with her flaming leaves, her wind’s music, her glorious flowers. Has
she not a gift for you, too, among all these? Open your eyes and your
ears and find your heart’s desire!
October’s touch paints all the maple leaves
With brilliant crimson, and his golden kiss
Lies on the clustered hazels; scarlet glows
The sturdy oak, and copper-hued the beech.
A russet gloss lingers in the elm;
The pensile birch is yellowing apace,
And many-tinted show the woodlands all,
With autumn’s dying slendours.
--_Selected._