"Tra la, tra lee, I want my tea!"
Sang Tennessee, as she ran up-stairs. "Oh, Maine, is that you? my dear, my costume is simply too perfect for anything. I've been out in the woods, practising my war-whoop. Three yelps and a screech; I flatter myself it is the most blood-curdling screech you ever heard. I'm going to have a dress-rehearsal now, all by myself. Come and see—why, what's the matter, Maine? something is wrong with you. What is it?"
"Oh! nothing serious," said Maine, trying to speak lightly. "I must get up another costume, that's all, and there isn't much time."
"Why! what has happened?"
"The scarlet leaves are gone."
"Gone! fallen, do you mean?"
"No! some one has cut or broken every branch. There is not one left. The leaves made the whole costume, you see; it amounts to nothing without them, merely a yellow gown."
"Oh! my dear, what a shame! Who could have taken them?"
"I cannot imagine. I thought I would get them to-day, and keep them in water over night, so as to have them all ready to-morrow. Oh, well, it can't be helped. I can call myself a sunflower, or Black-eyed Susan, or some other yellow thing. It's absurd to mind, of course, only—"
"Only, being human, you do mind," said Tennessee, putting her arm round her friend's waist. "I should think so, dear. We don't care about having you canonized just yet. But, Maine, there must be more red leaves somewhere. This comes of living near the sea. Now, in my mountains, or in your woods, we could just go out and fill our arms with glory in five minutes, whichever way we turned. These murmuring pines and—well, I don't know that there are any hemlocks—are all very splendid, and no one loves them better than I do; but for a Harvest festival decoration, 'Ils ne sont pas là dedans,' as the French have it."