not have enough left next morning to buy butter for breakfast. How
young we were then, and how poor, and how happy! and Christmas morning,
with its twinkling mystery, was the most precious thing of the whole
year.

It still remained so. Time could not dim the magic of the starlit tree.
Another little person had come, and another. A larger tree and more
decorations were needed, and the presents grew in number and variety,
but the old charm of secret preparation, and morning gifts, and the
lights that first twinkled around a manger, did not fade.

[Illustration]

We did not buy a tree at Brook Ridge. There was no need. Across the
road, partway up the slope, was a collection of green and shapely little
cedars--a regular Santa Claus grove--and on the afternoon before
Christmas, a gray, still afternoon, heavy with mystic portent, Elizabeth
and I took a small ax and climbed up there, and picked and selected,
just as we had done in those earlier years, and came home with our tree,
stealthily carrying it in the back way, to the wood-house, and fitting
it to the small green stand that we had used and preserved from year to
year. The little girl for whom we had bought the first tree was the
Pride, now aged twelve, and no longer without knowledge of the Christmas
saint, but the romance of not knowing, of still believing in it all, was
too precious to be put away yet, and she was off to bed with the others
to bring more quickly the joyous morning. Alone, as heretofore,
Elizabeth and I tied and marked the tissue packages, and in some of the
books wrote rhymes, such as only Santa Claus can think of when he has
finished his remote year of toil and has started out with his loaded
sleigh to strew happiness around the world.

I suppose there is no more delightful employment than to watch the thing
that will give a splendid joy to one's children grow and glisten under
one's hands--to view it at different angles during the process; to note
how it begins to look "Christmasy," to add a touch here, a brightness
there, to see it at last radiant and complete, ready for the morning
illumination. On the topmost branch each year there was always the same
little hanging ornament, a swinging tinseled cherub that we had bought
for the very first little tree and the very first little girl, in the
days when we had been so young, so poor, and so happy.

It was midnight when the last touch was given and the cherub was
swinging at the top, and it was