Christmas Tree

The tree stood alone, sheltered on all sides by a tall stand of aspen. It was not a large balsam but it was well shaped and on all sides the branches had grown full and thick, and at the top was a cluster of brown, well-opened cones. That I knew was the tree I wanted to take home with me. That little balsam would bring with it the real cheer of Christmas.

I had tramped a long way to find the right tree, and as I tramped I thought of the boy who on other Christmases had been with me. To him the getting of the tree was the most important part of the holiday season, not even second to the gifts on Christmas Eve. In fact all other preparations for Christmas were relatively unimportant. The tree was the climax, and when it came into the house Christmas was there with it.

At first I thought it would be foolish to find a tree for just us, but his mother and I talked it over and decided it would make him happy knowing that we kept Christmas just as he remembered it, that if we didn't have a tree, he would really miss something even though he was not there to see it. So I went out alone and picked exactly the kind of a tree I knew he would like, brought it home and set it up as we always used to do.

The old decorations came out, the little star with its shiny point that always went on top, the silver birds, the colored glass balls, the hanging tinsel and then the colored lights. I could feel him there with us as we worked, could hear his happy laughter when the lights went on. Though he was far away this Christmas, we knew his spirit was there with us, that in his memories he was reliving on Christmas Eve the many joys of his childhood.

After we had finished, we turned the lights low and listened to the strains of Silent Night over the radio. It was snowing, big soft flakes coming quietly down. In the morning the earth would be clean and white. I sat back and admired the tree and was glad I had brought it in. That tree could serve no more important role than this, and I liked to think it had grown for only one purpose--to give happiness and cheer to us.

How much better than if it had been allowed to grow and then was cut for lumber. In this way the spirit of the tree had been saved. As a symbol it could serve no higher or more exalted purpose. In the morning I must write that boy and tell him all about it, perhaps enclose a spray so that he could rub it in his hands and catch the faint odor of balsam resin. That would bring it back to him and he could close his eyes and remember.