drew closer and closer together, until their branches locked fingers
overhead and shook the yellow leaves down for each other. The leaves
showered softly and steadily. Eric's feet rustled loudly in them.

Soon he stopped and took off his worn shoes and stockings. He left them
where he took them off and went on, barefoot. Now that he was only in
his shirt and trousers he began to run and leap. He leapt for the
drifting leaves, and he ran farther and farther into the happy
stillness.

The trees crowded and crowded, and the mist of leaves grew brighter and
brighter. No birds sang, for they had all flown away for the winter, and
there were no flowers. But the drifting leaves hid the bareness, and
magic covered everything.

After Eric had run and leapt and waded in the crackling pools of leaves
for a long time, he grew hungry. "But there is no food here," he
thought; "and anyway it doesn't matter. It's much better to be hungry
here than in the dirty streets."

He decided to go to sleep and forget about it. So he lay down in the
leaves. They fell over him, a steady, gentle shower, and he slept long,
and without dreaming anything.

But when he woke he was cold. And worse than that, the golden mist had
faded. It was almost twilight. The light was cold and still and gray.
While he slept Indian Summer had vanished and its magic with it.

Now no matter how fast Eric ran, or how high he jumped, he was chilly
through and through. But he did not think of trying to find the way out