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In the Minnesota countryside, farmers split the last sheaf of wheat from their harvest, one half is left on a stake for the birds and the other is baked into a Christmas loaf - a practice brought there from Sweden. Stores up and down the land are filled with a sea of Christmas shoppers beating their way to the cashier's desk, wave upon wave of them bearing reams of cards, gift tags, ribbons and wrapping paper in rainbow hues. How many forests shall we fell this Christmas, I wonder? The sound of Christmas is the pure soprano of choirboys, echoing in an ancient abbey. Nothing lifts the spirit like a traditional candle-lit service in a country church. Churches are the essential buildings of England. They are the visible sign of the continuity of [English] history. Almost everything else they have built is transient, liable to be replaced when it has ceased to be of use. And that was always true. A church is different. It is both ancient and modern. It is a monument to what went before and a promise of what is to come. People go to church, to their church, as they have always gone to pray, to celebrate, to be baptised, confirmed, wed. And to depart this life. And their church is unique. They all are. No two churches are exactly alike. Walking to the midnight service you feel that Christmas is wrapping the whole year in a festive package, gathering up the loose ends with greetings and goodwill to all whose company you have relished over the past twelve months. After the service, overflowing with fine feeling, we snuggle into home with those nearest and dearest to our hearts. "What's the matter, Eeyore? ..." "I don't know how it is, Christopher Robin, but what with all this snow and one thing and another, not to mention icicles and such-like, it isn't so hot in my field about three o'clock in the morning as some people think it is." [Theme and variations was assembled from bits and pieces taken from "Countryside" (U.S.) December, 1991 and "Country Living" (U.K.) also December, 1991] HERO'S WELCOME: A CHRISTMAS STORY My 81-year-old father had flown for the first time to visit us in the Netherlands. He returned to England just before Christmas, and I had told him all about the duty-free shops in Amsterdam airport. I learned later that he had enthusiastically purchased way beyond his personal allowance: fine cigars, pipe tobacco and other luxuries he could never ordinarily have afforded. ....../3