summer was past and the farmer had carted his corn home from the field.
the wood was still green, but darker; and, in many places, yellow and red leaves appeared among the green ones. the sun was tired after his hot work during the summer and went to bed early.
at night, winter stole through the trees to see if his time would soon come. when he found a flower, he kissed her politely and said:
"well, well, are you there still? i am glad to see you. stay where you are. i am a harmless old man and wouldn't hurt a fly."
but the flower shuddered at his kiss and the bright dew-drops hanging from her petals froze to ice at the same moment.
winter went oftener and oftener through the wood. he breathed upon the leaves, till they turned yellow, or upon the ground, till even the anemones, who lay below in the earth, waiting for dame spring to come again as she had promised, could feel his breath and shuddered right down to their roots:
"oh dear, how cold it is!" they said to one another. "how ever shall we last through the winter? we are sure to die before it is over."
"now my time has come," said winter. "now i need no longer steal round like a thief in the night. from to-morrow, i shall look every one straight in the face and bite his nose and make his eyes run with tears."
at night, the storm broke loose.
"let me see you make a clean sweep of things," said winter.
and the storm obeyed his orders. he tore howling through the wood and shook the branches till they creaked and broke. any that were at all decayed fell down and those that held on had to twist and turn to every side.
"away with all that finery!" howled the storm and tore off the leaves. "this is no time to dress yourselves up. soon there will be snow on the branches: that's another story."
all the leaves fell terrified to the ground, but the storm did not let them lie in peace. he took them round the waist and waltzed with them over the field, high up in the air and into the wood again, swept them together into great heaps and scattered them once more to every side, just as the fit seized him.
not until the morning did the storm grow weary and go down.
"now you can have peace for this time," he said. "i am going down till we have our spring-cleaning. then we can have another dance, if there are any of you left by then."
and the leaves went to rest and lay like a thick carpet over the whole earth.
the anemones felt that it had grown delightfully warm:
"i wonder if dame spring can have come yet?" they asked one another.
"i haven't my buds ready!" cried one of them.
"no more have i! no more have i!" exclaimed the others in chorus.
but one of them took courage and just peeped out above the ground.
"good-morning!" cried the withered beech-leaves. "it's rather too early, young lady: if only you don't come to any harm!"
"isn't that dame spring?" asked the anemone.
"not just yet," replied the beech-leaves. "it's we, the green leaves you were so angry with in the summer. now we have lost our brightness and have not much left to make a show of. we have enjoyed our youth and had our fling, you know. and now we are lying here and protecting all the little flowers in the ground against the winter."
"and meanwhile i am standing and freezing in my bare branches," said the beech, crossly.
the anemones talked about it down in the earth and thought it very nice:
"those dear beech-leaves!" they said.
"mind you remember it next summer, when i come into leaf," said the beech.
"we will, we will!" whispered the anemones.
for that sort of thing is promised, but the promise is never kept.
