CANARY 
Canary, a new yellow-berried Holly, has bright yellow berries, dark green foliage, 
and is the hardiest of the yellow-berried Hollies. The parent tree, now destroyed, stood 
for many years high up in the Great Smoky Mountains. 
A lady living near this tree sent me a few branches several years ago. I grew a half 
dozen small trees from the cuttings, but thought little about them until one planted in my 
yard bore fruit. The berries hold their color all Winter and plants placed among red-berried 
Hollies stand out in strong contrast. 
So many folks enjoying the Hollies in our Holly orchard spied the little tree that Mrs. 
Dilatush and I decided to drive down to the Great Smokies in our pick-up and bring home 
a lot of cuttings to propagate. 
We found the lady we were seeking easily and then met with a series of disappoint- 
ments. Everybody seemed to know of the Holly in question, but no one would take me to it. 
Their excuses seemed quite legitimate, yet I could not but feel that I was put off—not welcome. 
Finally an old trapper said he would help if I would give him ten dollars. 1 agreed, 
and my wife waited in the pick-up, alongside the cabin, while I followed my guide. We 
walked what seemed miles up hill and down, and through thickets of rhododendrons which 
were at times almost impassable. We passed several little corn fields that interested me 
for I could see no way in which corn could be transported to the highway. When ques- 
tioned, my guide said that real farmers like myself knew little or nothing of the hardships 
of the hill. people. 
I was completely tired out when we reached our goal, but I wish I had words to de- 
scribe the thrill of my first sight of the Holly the natives all seemed to know but which 
I learned afterwards, few outsiders had seen. 
It stood on a small bluff at the junction of a dry gulch and a rushing mountain stream. 
Probably 100 years old, it was as straight as a tulip poplar, and covered with berries. And 
about 15 feet away, there was a red-berried Holly even larger. The limbs of the two 
trees interlaced so that masses of red berries were mingled with the bright yellow ones. 
Those two Hollies growing side by side, deep in the forest, made a greater impres- 
sion on me than any others I have yet seen. I marvel every time I think of the wondrous 
way nature works. Branches of each tree extended way into the other, yet the same pol- 
len, brought by bees, made yellow berries on one branch and red on the other. 
With arms full of yellow-berried branches we started back to the truck. The distance 
seemed even farther than the trip down, and somehow I felt, most of the time that we 
were walking in other than the direction of the cabin. I could see by the sun that 
some of the time we were even going back in the direction of the tree. 
When I got the Holly packed in wet burlap and was ready to depart, the old fellow 
asked just one question. He wanted to know if I felt I could find the tree again. My 
answer, a plain ‘No,’ seemed to please him, but after driving only a few yards down the 
road, we topped a little hill, and there less than a half a mile away, I saw the bluff where 
the Hollv stood. 
Probably you have guessed already what I was so slow in realizing. Everybody there 
knew that yellow-berried Holly because it marked the exact location of a still. I guess 
it is a good thing I was so dumb, for I never would have taken the chances I did if I had 
realized what was under the roots of the parent tree of the Holly named ‘’Canary.” 
