Speaker 1: 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 The city had withdrawn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