CHRISTMAS AND THE WINTER WORLD 293 



stowed away in the cellar, and from the orchard comes 

 the pungent fragrance of apples; and lifting our eyes to 

 the hills, we see the banners of Autumn already flying on 

 their wooded slopes. 



The garden dies down for its winter sleep, the harvest 

 is reaped, and the season slips into that indefinite stage 

 between autumn glory and winter snow, when a blue 

 haze hangs in the leafless trees, the chill winds of No- 

 vember blow, and there is ice on the little water pools of 

 a morning. It is in this season, this hush of Nature be- 

 fore the winter storms, that Thanksgiving comes, our 

 most characteristic and best-loved American holiday. 

 Surely there is no melancholy in Thanksgiving, though 

 there may be just a touch of soberness as we think back 

 to those grim days when the Pilgrims reaped their first 

 scanty harvest between the sea beach and the forest 

 edge, and thanked God for the mere gift of life. The 

 last warmth of Indian Summer has gone from the air, 

 the last golden leaves have dropped from the maples, 

 the smell of bonfires is no longer pungent; yet every 

 country-bred American, I fancy, knows what I mean 

 when I say that the Thanksgiving season has a peculiar, 

 a unique charm. 



From the Tennessee Cumberlands north to Canada 

 leaves have fallen and lie restless on the ground, not yet 

 shrivelled nor rotted, but crisp beneath the foot and in 

 the morning indescribably fragrant with frost. The 

 sky has lost its autumn clarity; there is a touch of lead 



