& jBteto Christmas 



By Ida M. H. Starr, Maryland 



HEIGH HO! SING HEIGH HO! UNTO THE GREEN HOLLY. 



THE royal month has come and there 

 is to be holly and mistletoe on the walls 

 of Hope House and there is to be a new 

 Christmas, once again. Yes, for this is the 

 second Christmas in the real country. The 

 second New Christian. It began last year 

 of itself. It came unasked, undreamed of, 

 and as the royal days approached the great 

 festival of the Christtian year, we found 

 ourselves in the midst of a new experience. 

 Wonderingly we looked to see if we were real ; 

 if the happy people moving about us in such 

 tranquility, if they were real. Could it be that 

 William Morris's dream had become a fact, 

 that the cities had dissolved, that the peoples 

 of the world had spread out into the country, 

 and that a new race of contented, happy 

 and beautiful beings had sprung into life? 

 Do you truly love gardens? Of course, 

 I know you love green spring gardens and 

 the wonders of redolent summer gardens, 

 but do you love them well enough to care 

 for all the others? That's really the test. 

 To feel that your love will hold good when 

 the garden is befrowzled in the rough and 

 tumble of the late fall; or when the rainy 

 season is come; or when your garden is 

 metamorphosed into a snow cloud let down 

 to earth, or into an icicle spun from the 

 dripping, shivering lips of the northwest 

 gale; do you truly love all of this? If you 

 truly love gardens well enough to go on 

 with a calm heart after things have withered 

 and died, and all is bare and frozen: oh, if 

 you truly love gardens, and never lose 

 that vision of the garden celestial your fancy 

 paints — then you will know what it is to 

 feel a song down in your heart, somewhere, 

 in a heart that has, perhaps, long been silent, 

 an actual song in an actual heart, a song 

 singing there softly, creeping up note by 

 note until it touches a voice — your voice. 



Then you know what it is to find yourself 

 with face to the East on a morning of the 

 royal month, when suddenly unknown to 

 yourself, undreamed of, there comes a lifting 

 of your arms and you reach them up toward 

 the sky, standing thus alone in a new world 

 with a new soul. 



This lift to the arms had been coming to 

 me all along the way. From the time when 

 I first stepped into the chaos of the old 

 garden, through all the long labor of love 

 among plants and flowers, there was the 

 arm-lift stealing up from the earth into 

 my quickening step, on and up to my fast 

 loosening spirit, until suddenly up reached 

 the arms and something unspeakable 

 touched my soul. 



And this at Christmas time — that was 

 the strange part about it all; the time of 

 hurry and worry, of buying and spending, 

 of fatigue and insatiable desire. Marveling, 

 I became conscious that we were not hurrying 

 or worrying or buying. Something new 

 was coming to us, a new sensation; and I 

 laughed and suddenly stopped, and turned 

 to see if someone was listening to that new 

 and laughing voice, actually singing at 

 Christmas time. 



I ran down to the garden, whence I thought 

 it had come, half fearful lest I might find the 

 old wearying Christmas there. No, not 

 there, nor in the field, nor in the still, orderly 

 house. And it dawned upon me that there 

 was really nothing to do for Christmas, but 

 be glad! 



"Then heigh ho! the holly! 

 This life is most jolly." 



In November of that old year, with still 

 some taint of the old Christmas in the blood, 

 we decided that certain gifts must be bought; 

 a few, just for the family. So we went 

 to the big citv. 



On the way we met a friend, a belated, 

 country-loving make-believe, running away 

 to escape the fast approaching bug-a-boo of 

 a winter in the country. 



"How late do you stay?" 



"Late? How late?" 



"Yes. How late?" 



"Why, all winter." 



"All winter? How do you stand it?" 



"Stand what?" 



"Why it. The country." 



"I don't stand it. I love it." 



"What, down there, miles from every- 

 body?" 



"Yes, miles from everybody." 



"And you're never lonesome?" 



"No — never. Never a minute." 



One, two, three days found us hurrying 

 through the city streets to finish our shop- 

 ping, for we were in a strange state of mind. 

 We felt that something important might be 

 happening, away down there in the country, 

 which we must not miss. 



For some reason Christmas did not loom 

 up before us as such an exacting and 

 abnormal event, such an absolute task- 

 master as in former years. Other things, 

 important things, had unlocked the barred 

 doors of our consciousness with such a 

 gentle, sane turning of the key that we were 

 amazed, and thought to ourselves that 

 however pleasant it was to be free, should 

 we not — out of consideration for family 

 traditions — step back again into the dark ? 

 However, we ventured forth. 



This, the second year, finds us safely 

 beyond the barred doors. Unconsciously 

 we have grown to be of one mind with the 

 great, quiet world about us, a sane and 

 normal world, bounded by a blue dome 

 above, and a mellow, rich earth beneath. 



The whole relation of things seems to 



Of course, I know you love green spring gardens and the wonders of redolent su mm er gardens ' 



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