I found her standing on the hearth with her nose buried in a branch from a balsam fir, which she had hung over the fireplace. With it hung a harness strap of sleigh bells. The branch had unquestionably been whacked from a tree in the woods behind our son’s house in Maine and had made the long trip south. It wore the look and carried the smell of authenticity. “There!” said my wife, as though she had just delivered a baby.

E.B. White

E.B. White did the impossible, brought Christmas to Florida.

White, E. B.. Essays of E. B. White. United States: HarperCollins, 2014. pg 192