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withdrawn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,
In
wishing
you
herewith
a
Merry
Christmas.
