THE CHRISTMAS WOODS 



of wintergreen flavor and of that wander- 

 ing name hold their rubies low on the 

 mountain side. After the enduring snows 

 have come, these glimmering fruits will be 

 requisitioned dug out by the furry owners 

 of such plantations on days when even 

 covered roots seem barren of sap, and nuts 

 should really be saved awhile longer. 

 Clumps of sword fern, beaten down by 

 November rains, are round green mats; 

 other ferns long ago were brown. But 

 seldom save in its sunsets and woodlands 

 has December color. Ponds, fanged 

 with ice, lie sullen or stir resentfully into 

 whitecaps. The sky is stony and often 

 vanishes in brooding fog. Uncloaked, but 

 courageous in their gray armor, the trees 

 wait tensely for the intolerable onslaught 

 of the cold: the blizzard with knives of 

 sleet. 



Over the marshes at the hour of dusk 

 when the bronze and topaz are quenched 

 passes the breath of foreboding. Decem- 

 ber acknowledges an unpitying fate any- 

 thing may happen. It is not the fireside 

 month, softly white outdoors and candlelit 

 within. Time of miracles, it stands ex- 

 pectant, and the thronging stars of the 



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