Now it is hard on Christmas. Uncles come over the bays without boats, with icicles on their grizzled moustaches an a pocketful of seasoned pine to whittle into fine boats for a young boy. Aunts gather and talk of steamed puddings an hooked-rug patterns; one works a hen that is so wooden she must lay Connecti- cut nutmegs. The biggest gander is shut up in a pen, and he wonders at the mess of sweet turnips he is fed five times a day. The girls go for ground pine an running evergreen. But the small boy is trusted with the best axe and goes to bring in the fir tree. His breath is big and blue around him. It is his first Christmas tree. Last year the big brother got it. Now he has inherited the honor. He finds the right tree by a ledge in the pasture. He walks around it three times to make sure it is full on all sides, the north as well as the south. He fells it, he shoulders it and covers his coat with pitch; he comes home stumbling in the drifts, under the single first star, deep in the tree and Christmas to his eyes an heart. The tree is set in a box. Popcorn strings festoon it. The girls do the indoor trimming. The presents go on slyly. The uncles drink the hard cider deep into the night and talk of the hardness of aunts.
The small boy has hard work to sleep, he counts the rooster's crows, the stars slide over slow. But the window grows a little gray at the third cockcrow. He gets one stocking on inside out, forgets the latches to his breeches, tumbles downstairs, and opens the long package with his name. It is what he has ache for: a twenty-two rifle, longer and better than the one descended to him from his big brother! He sits on the peak of his life, from now on it will be all downhill. He wraps the gun up and steals back up to dreams of bringing down a buck in the balsams. The girls shout through the house from the morning star till breakfast. It is flapjacks and maple syrup, hulled corn and molasses. The girls all have sleds, and the boy breaks them in for them on the orchard hill. The gander comes smoking in his fat, Father saves the boy the outside piece with the crackling skin. It is steamed apple pudding cut with a string, and more cider for all the uncles. Grandma in her Boston rocker reads the chapter in Matthew in the old family Bible. The melodeon is warmed up. The boy, on all fours, helps pump the pedals with both hands. Aunts who sing only once a year let themselves out. The shrill children's voices quaver.
Shepherds sat upon the ground, Fleecy flocks were scattered round, And the brightness filled the sky, And the angels sang for joy On that Christmas morning!
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