Poppy and the Orange Leaf

Poppy was lifting the lid off the big green leaf-jar when she saw the problem. The jar was for orange leaves. Every autumn, Poppy and her grandad filled it, and every autumn the oak tree at the end of the lane turned orange first.

But this year the oak was still green.

"Come on, oak," said Poppy. She stood under it with her hands on her hips. "It's autumn. You're late."

The oak did not answer. A green leaf dropped onto her boot.

Poppy tried shaking the trunk. Nothing came down but a bit of bark and one cross beetle. She tried singing to the tree, very loudly. A crow flew off, looking offended.

Then she tried something different. She sat down and looked.

The oak was green on the bottom. But high up, at the very top, one small leaf was orange. It was the colour of a tangerine. It flickered in the wind.

"Oh!" said Poppy. "You've started at the top!"

She fetched her grandad's long stick and the little stool from the shed. She climbed up on the stool. She stretched as far as she could. Her fingers were nowhere near.

Wobble, wobble went the stool.

"Not that way," Poppy said to herself. She thought hard.

Then the wind blew, and the orange leaf let go. It spun down, round and round, and landed right on her nose.

"Ha!" said Poppy. She sat very still. The leaf tickled.

She took it off with two careful fingers and dropped it into the big green jar. It lay at the bottom like a tiny orange boat.

Above her, the oak rustled. One more leaf, then another, began to turn.

Poppy put the lid on. Inside the jar, the orange leaf glowed, and she could hear it, a soft crinkle, settling down for the night.