It was eight o’clock sharp and darker than
usual outside Michael’s treehouse. Instead of knocking on the front door, two
Leafies were clambering up the stairs to one of its gnarled hole windows. It
led directly to the upper floor, which was where Michael’s dinner party was
being held. Michael heard a noise that was much louder than any rustling the
Leafies ever made. He looked out the central window. There was something
scrambling in the bushes. And bam!
Lying flat on his back with a dozen concerned
Leafies around him, Michael realized he had been struck on the forehead by
something that was making him bleed.
“They’re very scandalous, wounds on the
forehead are,” said the Leafy Malcolfus. “Bleed a great deal, they do.”
“Somebody, put a cushion under his head,”
ordered Bob, a yew tree Leafy.
Other Leafies were huffing and puffing as they
dragged a napkin filled with ice cubes up to Michael’s forehead.
“Another brick? I can’t believe this!” cried
Michael, when he was shown what had hit him.
“And it’s wrapped in a sort of note. But
there’s no understanding what it says! Can it be deciphered?”
“I’m glad it doesn’t say happy birthday,”
sighed Michael. “That would have been so sad.”
Nobody had seen
anything. And nobody saw anything either when more bricks arrived. These disturbances
went on all summer without anyone’s being able to discover a thing about the cause of all this.
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