There certainly was something the matter with the Christmas tree that year.
It grew. But it didn't grow very fast.
My father said that perhaps the fertilizer hadn't been rich enough.
My mother said that maybe all Christmas trees were blooming rather late this year. Seasons changed so.
My father and mother didn't go away to town at all. Not for a single day.
Late at night after we'd gone to bed we heard them hammering things and running the sewing-machine.
Carol thought it smelt like kites.
Rosalee said it sounded to her like a blue silk waist.
It looked like a worry to me.
It got colder and colder. It snowed and snowed.