warm. He wiped the tears from his eyes away to the side of his face with
his sleeve, and looked about. The sun was very bright, but in a mild,
pleasant way. And a tree on the other side of the street was showering
softly, softly, softly, yellow autumn leaves, until they covered the
cobblestones all around. Eric did not think about being late. The Magic
was pulling him now. He went across and stood under the tree, and felt
the leaves showering on his head and shoulders, and caught a few in his
hands.

All the people passed, and soon the last one was hidden behind the heavy
factory door. Eric gave the door a glance or two, but did not go. Over
the roof of the factory he saw the tops of tall trees waving. He had
never looked so high above the factory before. But he knew there was a
wood on the other side, a wood he had always been too tired to think of
exploring, even on holidays. Now he saw the tops of the tall trees
beckoning him in a golden mist. "The mist is the yellow leaves they're
dropping," thought Eric. With every beckon the golden mist of leaves
grew brighter and brighter, until he could not see the beckoning any
more, but only the mist. Still he knew the beckoning was going on behind
the mist.

"If I'm to live in the streets at night," he thought to himself,
"there's no need to live in the factory by day. I'll just go and see
what those trees want of me."

Very slowly, with little firm steps, he went by the factory door, and
then around under its windows to the wood at the back.

It was Indian Summer. That was why the golden leaves were showering in a
mist, and why the sun was so warm.