Christmas Trees a Christmas circular letter. The city had withdrawn into itself and left
at last the country to the country, when between worlds of snow not come
to lie, and worlds of foliage not yet laid there drove a stranger to
our yard, who looked the city, yet did in country fashion in that
There he sat and waited till he drew us out a buttoning coats to ask
him who he was. He proved to be the city, come again to
look for something it had left behind and could not do without and keep its
Christmas. He asked if I could sell my Christmas trees, my woods,
the young fir Balsams like a place where houses all were churches and have spires.
I hadn't thought of them as Christmas trees. I doubt if I was
tempted for a moment to sell them off their feet, to go in cars
and leave the slope behind the house all bare, where the sun shines now
no warmer than the moon, I'd hate to have them know it. If
I was yet more, I'd hate to hold my trees, except as others
hold theirs, or refuse for them beyond the time of profitable growth. The
trial by market. Everything must come to I dallied so much with the thought
of selling. Then, whether from mistaken courtesy and fear of seeming short of
speech, or whether from hope of hearing good of what was mine, I
said, there aren't enough to be worth while. I could soon tell how
many they would cut you. Let me look them over. You could look,
but don't expect I'm going to let you have them. Pasture. They
spring in, some in clumps too close that lop each other of boughs,
but not a few, quite solitary, and having equal bows all round and
round the latter. He nodded, yes too, or paused to say,
beneath some lovelier one with a buyer's moderation, that would do. I thought
so too, but wasn't there to say so. We climbed the pasture on
the south, crossed over, and came down to the north. He said,
a thousand, a thousand Christmas trees. At what a piece. He
felt some need of softening that to me, a thousand trees would come to
thirty dollars. Then I was certain I had never meant to let him have
them, never show surprise. But thirty dollars seemed so small beside the extent
of pasture, I should strip three cents, for that was all they figured
out a piece three cents so small besides the dollar friends I should be writing
to within the hour would pay in cities for good trees like those regular vestry
trees whole Sunday schools could hang enough on to pick off enough a thousand Christmas
trees. I didn't know I had worth three cents more to give away than
to sell, as many be shown by a simple calculation. Too bad I
couldn't lay one in a letter. I can't help wishing I could send you
one in wishing you herewith a merry Christmas