12 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
“ The cluster’d berries charm the eye, 
O’er the bright Holly’s gay green leaves.” 
And still, when round the blazing yule log friends and kinsfolk 
meet, and old memories are renewed, and old affections awakened 
to new life; when the simple carol which tells the story of the 
blessed Babe of Bethlehem is sung, and the advent of the time 
of family reunion is hailed in words like these ; 
“ Old Christmas, merry Christmas, thou art with us once again; 
And thy laugh of free light-heartedness goes ringing o’er the plain ; 
Thy step is as the step of youth, which knoweth nought of care. 
And Holly-berries, ruby red, are glowing 'mid thy hair.” 
Then it is that the pale green Mistletoe, the sacred plant of the 
Druids dedicated of old to Friga, the Scandinavian goddess 
of love—is hung up in hall and kitchen, and gives occasion for 
many a mirthful sally and pleasant stratagem. 
The Holly, we are told, was dedicated to Saturn, and as the 
ffites of that deity were celebrated in December, and the Romans 
were accustomed to decorate their houses with Holly, the early 
Christians did so too, while they celebrated their festival of 
Christmas, in order that they might escape observation. 
Yes, the Holly is winter’s tree, and a beautiful object it is, 
with its dark, glossy leaves and shining red berries, almost the 
only green thing which asserts the vitality of vegetation in this 
season of universal deadness. 
True it is that in spring, 
“ From the vivid greens 
That shine around, the Holly, winter’s child. 
Retires abash’d,” 
as Gisborne tells us. But in the autumn it asserts its right to 
notice and admiration : 
“ What though yon Holly’s cold unalter’d green, 
That oak embosoming with contrast harsh. 
Hath met the splendid foil that glows above ! 
Cinctured with reddening zones, the fertile spray. 
Like Indian maiden girt with coral bands, 
BJends with^the sylvan monarch’s gorgeous robe 
Tints that his gorgeous robe will not disdain.” 
