For my Mom, who chose "tree".
The tree lot was looking rather picked over by Christmas Eve. This was to be expected, according to the Wise Old Willow who lived just beyond the little Christmas tree lot.
"Yessir, I seen it happen year aff'er year," the Wise Old Willow said.
"They always pick more trees what then they can sell."
A young little fir (one that was too young to be sold this year) piped up a question.
"What will happen to the rest of us?"
"Well, now, I can't say as I know," the Wise Old Willow replied, "but I reckon that you'll go back to the forest until next year."
The little fir thought about this for a moment.
"Will it hurt?"
"Now don't you go worryin' about that," the Wise Old Willow replied.
"They'll just replant you with nice of warm soil. The folks here take good care of their trees."
This seemed to satisfy the little fir and it settled down to sleep. It was almost asleep when it thought of one last question.
"But will Santa be able to find us? I asked him for a shiny red ornament this year."
The Wise Old Willow chuckled.
"I reckon so."
This pleased the little fir and it soon drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a red ornament and, for some reason, a pale blue blanket.
No comments:
Post a Comment