ere must be fine skating," she broke off abruptly.

"Likely," answered Dorothy, "but I am anxious to get the tree, and if we
do not get it before the storm comes we will have to take a boughten one.
But I do so love a hand-picked tree. It has always been a part of our
Christmas to get one."

Tavia was not at all particular about that part of it--whether it was
hand-picked or peddler-purchased, and she said so promptly.

But the severe cold of the morning precluded the idea of an auto ride in
search of the tree, and the time was spent in many little preparations for
the holiday--odds and ends that ever hang on, in spite of the most
carefully-laid plans to get through in good time.

By noon, however, the weather had moderated. Clouds hung thick and heavy,
and not a glimmer of sun appeared, but the cold was less keen and the
winds had almost entirely subsided.

Joe and Roger went off to the skating-pond directly after luncheon, and
Dorothy, eager to get the tree before the storm should break (for every
one said it would surely snow before nightfall), proposed the trip to the
woods.

Nat and Ned, as well as Tavia, readily agreed, and with plenty of extra
wraps, as well as the patent foot-warming attachment from the auto
radiator in operation, the party started off.

"Now, where?" asked Ned, who was at the wheel.

"I saw a dear little tree over Beechwood way," said Dorothy, "but perhaps
you boys know where we might find a larger one."

"Never bother about pines or cedars," answered Nat, "but I would first
rate like a spruce--I love the smell of a good fresh spruce. Makes me
think of--a good smoke!"

"Next day in the best lace curtains," added Tavia. "That's about how much
spruce smells like real smoke."

"Try the Duncan place," interposed Nat. "Used to be plenty of pretty trees
about there."

Following this suggestion the Fire Bird was directed toward the Glen,
where, set in a deep clump of trees, could be seen one of the very old
residences of the township.

"Is it inhabited?" asked Tavia as they swung into the rough drive.

"Oh, yes," replied Nat. "Old Cummings and his wife live there. It's a
fine old place, too. Pity all the old places are allowed to go to rack and
ruin."

"No Christmas trees around here," declared Ned, wheeling about along the
turn in the drive. "Queer, I would have bet I saw spruce in this grove."

"I'll tell you," exclaimed Nat. "Tanglewood Park. That's the very place
for a choice s