CHRISTMAS TREES
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_A Christmas Circular Letter_) The city had withdrawn into itselfAnd left at last the country to the country;When between whirls of snow not come to lieAnd whirls of foliage not yet laid, there droveA stranger to our yard, who looked the city,Yet did in country fashion in that thereHe sat and waited till he drew us outA-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.He proved to be the city come againTo look for something it had left behindAnd could not do without and keep its Christmas.He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;My woods--the young fir balsams like a placeWhere houses all are churches and have spires.I hadn't thought of them as Christmas Trees.I doubt if I was tempted for a momentTo sell them off their feet to go in carsAnd leave the slope behind the house all bare,Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.I'd hate to have them know it if I was.Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees exceptAs others hold theirs or refuse for them,Beyond the time of profitable growth,The trial by market everything must come to.I dallied so much with the thought of selling.Then whether from mistaken courtesyAnd fear of seeming short of speech, or whetherFrom hope of hearing good of what was mine,I said, "There aren't enough to be worth while.""I could soon tell how many they would cut,You let me look them over." "You could look.But don't expect I'm going to let you have them."Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too closeThat lop each other of boughs, but not a fewQuite solitary and having equal boughsAll round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to,Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,With a buyer's moderation, "That would do."I thought so too, but wasn't there to say so.We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,And came down on the north. He said, "A thousand." "A thousand Christmas trees!--at what apiece?"
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