CHRISTMAS AND THE WINTER WORLD 297 



the chickadees have deserted them, coming in about 

 our dwellings. The only sound is made by the snow 

 falling from wind-stirred branches or melted off by the 

 sun. We hear it falling, with tiny, soft thuds, as we 

 go along. The forest aisles are like a frost cathedral. 

 Low branches shake "their frosty pepper'* in our faces. 

 On the ground are many tracks, mute records of the 

 wood creatures. Here a squirrel has run from a tree 

 to his storehouse under a stump. There a pheasant 

 slept last night, scratching away the snow to the bed 

 of leaves below. Here a rabbit has gone bounding 

 along. There a deer has passed, stopping to browse 

 off a ground hemlock. But there is no sound of them 

 now. The woods are still, save for the soft thuds of the 

 tiny falling drifts from the branches still and white, 

 and lit by the winter sun. Presently we come upon the 

 stand of young evergreens we are seeking, and hunting 

 out the perfect specimen we desire, thick branched to 

 the very ground, our axe rings out in the frosty silence 

 and the fragrant spruce or balsam topples down. We 

 tug it home with laughter, meeting others with similar 

 loads, and as we draw near our dwelling, and the low 

 afternoon sun is casting purple shadows over the snow 

 and the eastern mountains are melting into amethyst, 

 we smell the pungent fragrance of wood fires burn- 

 ing and hear on the village street the jingle of sleigh- 

 bells. 



We always have a little Christmas tree, too, for the 



