The Land of Lure: A Story of the Columbia River BasinSmith, Elliott
General
The Land of Lure: A Story of the Columbia River Basin
Smith, Elliott
Frontier and pioneer life -- Fiction; Northwest, Pacific -- Fiction
Taking up the work where the men had left off, they readjusted the
indiscriminate distribution of the fleecy cotton, sprinkling it with the
glistening powder so commonly used to produce the sparkling, frosty
effect, clipping an unruly bough here and there, placing the glittering
tin candle holders, with their assorted colored candles, so as to avoid
contact with the cotton when lighted, and after filling many small red,
green and blue stocking shaped mosquito netting bags with candies and
nuts, after which a tag bearing the name of some child of the
neighborhood was attached, these they distributed among the branches of
the tree, festooning the whole with a bewildering mass of yards of pure
white popcorn strung on a thread for the occasion, tissue paper designs
and sparkling tinsel that reflected the lights of the many candles in
rapidly changing hues and giving it the effect of a dazzling fountain
that persisted in its activities, though in the grasp of the frost king.
Before the completion of the decoration of the tree and for several
hours after the neighboring homesteaders began to arrive with their
families, each bringing their share of the Christmas packages and boxes
of lunch. Many and varied were the expressions of amazement and delight
that greeted the workers upon the arrival of each family. "Isn't it
lovely, and made of sagebrush, too. How did you do it?" Some, more
inquisitive than others, would have to handle the branches to convince
themselves that it was purely a local product. "Well, it beats the trees
we used to have back home. I wish they could see it," many would
exclaim.
As the neighbors arrived, their packages were taken and either hung on
the tree or placed conveniently near its base.
It was a happy gathering of pioneers. The little school building, though
being used for a purpose other than for which it was built, radiated
with warmth from the one huge sheet iron stove that stood in its center
and into which was being constantly fed handful after handful of crushed
and twisted sagebrush. As evening approached and the last of those who
were expected arrived and were met at the door and relieved of their
bundles and wraps, places were made for them near the stove that they
might warm their frosted fingers and toes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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