After all, if it were not for old
associations' sake, it would seem that one might fitly celebrate the
birthday of the Christ-child under sunshine as warm and skies of the
same blue as those that sheltered the heavenly Babe in old Judea.
During the late days of October and the early days of November the
long drought of summer had been broken, and it had rained steadily,
copiously, refreshingly. Since then there had been day after day of
brilliant, cloudless sunshine, and the moist earth, warmed gratefully
through to the marrow, stirred and trembled and pushed forth myriads
of tender shoots from the seeds that were hidden in its bosom; and
the tender shoots themselves looked up to the sun, and, with their
roots nestled in sweet, fragrant beds of richness, thought only of
growing tall and green, dreamed only of the time when pink pimpernels
would bloom between their waving blades, and when tribes of laughing
children would come to ramble over the hillsides. The streets of the
city were full of the fragrance of violets, for the flower-vendors
had great baskets of them over their arms, and every corner tempted
the passers-by with the big odorous purple bunches that offered a
royal gift of sweetness for every penny invested.
Atlantic and Pacific Simonson had previously known little, and Marm
Lisa less, of Christmas-time, but the whole month of December in
Mistress Mary's garden was a continual feast of the new-born Babe.
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