Merrit Shares the First Blaze — If you ever hear a dry leaf skitter like a whispered secret, it may be telling Merrit’s old rule. Read the full story →
If you ever hear a dry leaf skitter like a whispered secret, it may be telling Merrit’s old rule. Merrit stood beside the curving park path and dared himself to make one color for every bend before the lamplighter clicked the evening lamp awake. He squeezed sunlight through his branches: gold for the first turn, orange for the bench, red for the far little hill. The colors felt warm and fizzy, like cider bubbles under his bark.
But the park stayed too quiet. A beetle below could not see the gold. The bench sparrow only caught a flash of orange when the wind tipped a leaf. Merrit’s joy grew so big it crowded his twigs. “I can’t keep this,” he rustled, and shook once—not hard, just enough. Down sailed one red leaf, then five gold ones, then a whole bright hush of them, pat-pat-patting on the path.
The lamplighter stopped. Two children filled their pockets. Even the beetle marched under a yellow roof. Ever since that evening, maples let their finest colors fall, because a joy that big needs feet to carry it. Next time a leaf skitters by, dare it to tell you Merrit’s old rule.