one piece of
magic that is looked on with kindness by a grown-up world. The magic of
swimming holes, for example, is largely a forbidden magic; the magic of
loud noises, of fast motion, of living things in pockets, of far
journeys, of going off alone, of digging caves, of building fires, of
high places, of many closed doors, words, mechanisms, foods, ownerships,
manners, costumes, companions, and holidays are denied them. But in
Christmas their affinity for mystery is recognized, encouraged,
gratified, annually provided for. The little group on the baggage truck
chanted their watch over a dead body of Christmas, but its magic was
there, inviolate. The singsong verses had almost the dignity of lyric
expression, of the essence of familiarity with that which is unknown. As
if, because humanity had always recognized that the will to Christmas
was greater than it knew, these words had somehow been made to catch
and reproduce, for generations, some faint spirit of the midwinter
mystery.

The 'bus rattled up to the platform and Buff Miles leaped down and
blanketed his horses, talking to them as was his wont.

"So, holly and mistletoe,
So, holly and mistletoe,
So, holly, and mistletoe,
Over and over and over, oh...."

he was singing as he came round the corner of the station.

"It ain't Christmas yet," he observed defensively to Mary. "It ain't
forbid except for Christmas Day, is it?"

He went and bent over the children on the truck.

"Look alive as soon as you can do it," Mary heard him say to them, and
wondered.

She stood looking up the track. Across the still fields, lying empty
and ready for some presence, came flashing the point of flame that
streamed from the headlight of the train. The light shone out like a
signal flashed back to the star standing above the town.

XII

Ten minutes after Mary Chavah had left her house, every window was
lighted, a fire was kindled in the parlour, and neighbours came from the
dark and fell to work at the baskets they had brought.

It was marvelous what homely cheer arose. The dining-room table,
stretched at its fullest length and white-covered, was various with the
yellow and red of fruit and salads, the golden brown of cake and rolls,
and the mosaic of dishes. The fire roared in the flat-topped stove on
whose "wings" covered pans waited, and everywhere was that happy stir
and touch and lift, that note of preparation which informs a time as
sunshine