CHRISTMAS MISTLETOE 175 
Do not finger the leaf of the book in thy hand. 
Let the wind idly flutter the idle pages. Do not 
gaze, just look. A gaze is a concentrated look 
and that requires energy. Looking may be just 
bovine, looking and seeing nothing or seeing 
things as in a hazy dream far across as in an 
Indian summer landscape. Lie down as the idle 
cattle do and possess thyself in peace while a 
wandering leaf rustles past or a blue jay loses its 
temper because he sees thee lying under his tree. 
I am gathering mistletoe in easy stages. I am 
prospering in my quest when I idle with the 
stream and dance with the leaves and listen to 
the wind, not caring what tune it pipes. It is 
Oklahoma winter, the day before Christmas, 
sown wide and wild with sunlight. I fairly hear 
the sunlight drip from the branches of the cotton- 
wood trees; and the sound of dripping sunlight 
is a music not often heard but held in high esteem 
of those who listen for seldom voices under the 
blue sky. Though seeming inactive, I am lethar- 
gically whetting my knife to be surgeon for the 
mistletoe not as having a knife out of my pocket, 
but as being likely to do so at any moment. I 
might, I might not; that is the humor of it. 
The sky is June blue, not the milder blue of 
December. It has no almanac; it needs no 
chronology, or better, it needs no chronometer. 
It has a memory of June days and is looking it 
in the face. So have I. June skies may well 
become that June day of the year, the Christ 
