ABSTRACT
Packing away the Christmas gimcracks again, the vermilion, blue, and emerald glistening bubbles, and the silver and gold ones; the small, white-browed angel from the top of the little fir tree lay in the palm of my hand. She was looking dingy, wasn't she? Better get a fresh angel next year. I like the way the fir tree seems to whisper, how if you quietly open the door of the room in which it sits, there is a murmuring going on as if the tree were talking to itself.
