Quilla's Leaf Blanket

The sun was going down over the little wood. The trees turned soft and orange… and the whole evening smelled like autumn. Down under a big grey root lived a very small hedgehog. Her name was Quilla. She had round dark eyes, a tiny wet nose — and a nest that was not quite ready for the night.

Quilla stepped out into the cool blue evening. Pit… pat… pit… pat. That was the sound of her little feet on the ground. And there — right beside her paw — lay a leaf. A red leaf. Red as a berry. Red as one small warm coal. Quilla touched it. It felt dry, and smooth, and light as nothing at all.

Now, every leaf has a tiny sleepy story. This one is the story of the red leaf. All summer long it sat high on a branch and watched the birds go by. It held the sunshine. It held the rain. And when at last it grew tired… it let go, and floated down, down, down — slowly — like a little boat on the wind.

Quilla carried the red leaf home, and then she went out again. The wind moved through the trees — hush… hush… — and something small and yellow came spinning past her nose. A yellow leaf. Yellow as butter. Yellow as a tiny sleepy moon. She caught it in both paws and held it close. Two leaves now. Two.

And this is the story of the yellow leaf. It grew right beside a nest of little sparrows. It heard them cheep and chatter in the morning… and go quiet, one by one, at night. It learned all their softest songs. Now it hums them, very very quietly, whenever it is folded up somewhere warm. Quilla laid it down beside the red one.