(A Christmas Circular Letter)

The city had withdrawn into itself



And left at last the country to the country;



When between whirls of snow not come to lie



And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove



A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,



Yet did in country fashion in that there



He sat and waited till he drew us out



A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.



He proved to be the city come again



To look for something it had left behind



And 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 place



Where houses all are churches and have spires.



I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.



I doubt if I was tempted for a moment



To sell them off their feet to go in cars



And 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 except



As 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 courtesy



And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether



From 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 close



That lop each other of boughs, but not a few



Quite solitary and having equal boughs



All 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?”







He felt some need of softening that to me:



“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”







Then I was certain I had never meant



To let him have them. Never show surprise!



But thirty dollars seemed so small beside



The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents



(For that was all they figured out apiece),



Three cents so small beside the dollar friends



I should be writing to within the hour



Would pay in cities for good trees like those,



Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools



Could hang enough on to pick off enough.



A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!



Worth three cents more to give away than sell,



As may be shown by a simple calculation.



Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.



I can’t help wishing I could send you one,

