It would be a perfect Christmas in the
woods, clear, mild, stirless, with silent footing for me, and everywhere
the telltale snow.
And everywhere the Christmas spirit, too. As I paused among the pointed
cedars of the pasture, looking down into the cripple at the head of the
swamp, a clear wild whistle rang in the thicket, followed by a flash
through the alders like a tongue of fire, as a cardinal grosbeak shot
down to the tangle of greenbrier and magnolia under the slope. It was a
fleck of flaming summer. As warm as summer, too, the staghorn sumac
burned on the crest of the ridge against the group of holly
trees,--trees as fresh as April, and all aglow with berries. The woods
were decorated for the holy day. The gentleness of the soft new snow
touched everything; cheer and good-will lighted the unclouded sky and
warmed the thick depths of the evergreens, and blazed in the
crimson-berried bushes of the ilex and alder. The Christmas woods were
glad.
Nor was the gladness all show, mere decoration. There was real cheer in
abundance; for I was back in the old home woods, back along the
Cohansey, back where you can pick persimmons off the trees at Christmas.
There are persons who say the Lord might have made a better berry than
the strawberry, but He didn't. Perhaps He didn't make the strawberry at
all. But He did make the Cohansey Creek persimmon, and He made it as
good as He could. Nowhere else under the sun can you find such
persimmons as these along the creek, such richness of flavor, such
gummy, candied quality, woodsy, wild, crude,--especially the fruit of
two particular trees on the west bank, near Lupton's Pond.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185