The spot looked like a wound in the side of the Divine purity,
and across this open wound the tree had hung its rosary-beads never to
be told by Sorrow's fingers.
The sunset golden and gathering up its last gold threw it backward
across the sadness of the Shield. One by one the stars came back to
their faithful places above the silence and the whiteness. A swinging
lamp was lighted on the front porch and its rays fell on little round
mats of snow stamped off by entering boot heels. On each gatepost a
low Christmas star was set to guide and welcome good neighbors; and
between those beacons soon they came hurrying, fathers and mothers and
children assembling for the party.
Late into the night the party lasted.
The logs blazed in deep fireplaces and their Forest Memories went to
ashes. Bodily comfort there was and good-will and good wishes and the
robust sensible making the best of what is best on the surface of our
life. And hale eating and drinking as old England itself once ate and
drank at Yuletide. And fast music and dancing that ever wanted to go
faster than the music.
The chief feature of the revelry was the distribution of gifts on the
Christmas Tree--the handing over to this person and to that person of
those unread lessons of the ages--little mummied packages of the lord
of time.
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