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cedar bough, nor garish holly ; break long 

 trails of wax-green brier ; pluck by armfuls 

 of the hill-side fern. 



How green it lies, prone on Earth's breast, 

 nestled in russet leaves. Seize it, and spare 

 not. The fairies are all asleep in deepest 

 caves of Gnomeland. Did they stir, they 

 would help you elfishly thus to rob their 

 brothers, the snow -sprites, the ice -fays. 

 Pluck the great leaf, the small; weave your 

 wreath, or arch, or ribbon of them ; hang 

 wall, door, pillar, with their lacy emerald. 

 The very soul of Christmas clings and 

 abides in it more than even in the holly 

 so ruddily bedight, so wreathed and woven 

 through Christmas song and story. A 

 cheery green, no doubt, yet something bar- 

 baric, with its gloss, its sharp leaf -points, 

 its crude glow of berry. Use it with spar- 

 ing wisdom, else the glare of it shall put 

 out of countenance the tender soberness of 

 cedar and fern and thorny smilax. Break 

 long boughs scant of berry but here and 

 there a coral gleam to set high in dull cor- 

 ners or shadowed nooks. Wreathe them 

 above your chimney-piece, in welcome to 

 Kriss Kringle ; set here and there a stem 

 about marble or picture ; as you love the 

 season leave unmade star, wreath, or cross. 



