An essay by Henry Beetle Hough on the coming season from his book Singing in the Morning.

The darkest of months is one of the most cheerful because the early nightfalls are lighted in good mellow fashion, and all the lights seem to have warmth and feeling.

The cities do these things on a grander scale, but we doubt if they can ever get the effects which come naturally in small towns. The cities have too little darkness to start with or, at least, too little natural darkness. It takes the sense of the natural outdoors, the shadows of trees and separate houses, the pools of blackness under the open sky, to make the passer-by feel the meaning of a light. It takes the contrast of an ordinary street to give point to the cheer of red and green and yellow at the Christmas season, and they do not have the contrast in many places. A little extra color is nothing but gaudiness, whereas on our Island it is a profession of belief, of a desire to share, of a human hunger for realization through the symbolism of outward signs.

Illumination meant so much in generations past because light was scarce and precious. So it still is, the proper sort of light, and the shining lights of December in the deepening blackness of chilly evenings give a lift to the heart of all who live in small places, closely neighboring the larger loneliness and mystery.