By Lalia Mitchell Thornton
He always knew the very place
To find the nicest Christmas tree,
And when and how it should be cut.
“That one’s too tall,” he’d say to me.
“And that too thin, and that one leans
Against the wind. Up there a bit
Is just the kind would last a month.”
And then, he’d plan for sawing it.
There was a wood road, not too poor,
And not too narrow or too far,
A little rutted, but I knew
We could have made it with the car.
But Granther always shook his head
And brought old Nellie from her stall
And hitched her to the stone-boat for
That’s how we went, or not at all.
Yes, Granther liked to have his way,
But Granther’s tree was always fine,
He wouldn’t have a hemlock, and
He was distrustful of a pine.
Then, home at last, we brought it in
And edged it through the open door
Where Grandma waited, and despite
His bluffing, he was boss no more.
She told him how to set it up,
Just where she wanted it to stand.
And when it came to trimming, why
She wouldn’t let him lend a hand.
But Granther chuckled, and I knew
That was the way it ought to be,
A man to bring it from the woods,
And then a wife to trim a tree.