LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
slightly. The next morning the air was cool, crisp, and delightfully exhilarating, much like our weather at home,—only, of course, not so cold. Every blade of grass, bush, twig, and tree had a covering of hoar-frost; even the fir trees were decked in white robes for the coming Christmas carnival. Later in the day the sun turned on his flashlight, showering all with diamond dust as a finishing touch. Such purity, such whiteness and glitter! Our little hill-guarded glen was for two whole days a veritable fairy-land, and we were grateful for the usual holiday setting, though the festivities were lacking. But on Saturday evening dull leaden clouds came up from the sea, and an hour later we groaned in spirit as the rain poured heavily upon the roof. Sunday morning we found all our frosty splendor vanished; the firs were in their sober every-day gowns, with misty veils flying about their heads, while down from the hills floated a tearful Miserere. Perhaps, having shown a foolish pride in their snowy vestments, Dame Nature had as a punishment folded them away and condemned the firs to the “wearing of the green” again, with banishment from the Santa Claus pageant.
That evening, as the rain tinkled against the window-panes, Tom said, “This isn’t very Christmasy, but let’s read the old Carol again, just for luck.”
For many years, at this season, it has been our custom to read aloud Dickens’s Christmas Carol, just to get in
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