Canary, a new yellow-berried holly, has bright yellow berries and dark green foliage and is the hardiest of the yellow-berried hollies.
The parent tree, now destroyed, stood for many years high up in the Great Smoky Mountains.
A lady living near this tree sent me a few branches several years ago.
I grew a half dozen small trees from the cuttings but thought little about them until one planted in my yard bore fruit.
The berries hold their color all winter, and plants placed among red-berried hollies stand out in strong contrast.
So many folks enjoying the hollies in our holly orchard spied the little tree that Mrs.
Dilatush and I decided to drive down to the Great Smokies in our pick-up and bring home a lot of cuttings to propagate.
We found the lady we sought easily and then met with a series of disappointments.
Everybody seemed to know of the holly in question, but no one would take me to it.
Their excuses seemed quite legitimate, yet I could not but feel that I was put off – not welcome.
Finally, an old trapper said he would help if I gave him 10 dollars. I agreed, and my wife waited in the pick-up alongside the cabin while I followed my guide.
We walked miles uphill and down through thickets of rhododendrons which were at times almost impassable.
We passed several little corn fields that interested me because I could see no way corn could be transported to the highway.
When questioned, my guide said that real farmers like myself knew little or nothing of the hardships of the hill people.
First Glance
I was completely tired out when we reached our goal, but I wish I had words to describe the thrill of my first sight of the holly the natives all seemed to know but which I learned afterward that few outsiders had seen.
It stood on a small bluff at the junction of a dry gulch and a rushing mountain stream.
It was probably 100 years old and was as straight as tulip poplar and covered with berries.
And about 15′ feet away, a red-berried holly was even larger. The limbs of the two trees interlaced so that masses of red berries were mingled with the bright yellow ones.
Those two hollies growing side by side, deep in the forest, made a greater impression on me than any others I have yet seen.
I marvel every time I think of the wondrous way nature works. Branches of each tree extended way into the other, yet the same pollen, brought by bees, made yellow berries on one branch and red on the other.
With arms full of yellow-berried branches, we started back to the truck.
The distance seemed even farther than the trip down, and somehow I felt, most of the time, that we were walking in something other than the direction of the cabin.
I could see by the sun that sometimes we were even going back in the direction of the tree.
When I got the holly packed in wet burlap and was ready to depart, the old fellow asked just one question. He wanted to know if I felt I could find the tree again.
My answer, a plain “No,” seemed to please him, but after driving only a few yards down the road, we topped a little hill, and they were less than half a mile away. I saw the bluff where the holly stood.
Probably you have already guessed what I was so slow in realizing. Everybody there knew that yellow-berried holly because it marked the exact location of a still.
I guess it is good that I was so dumb, for I would never have taken the chances I did if I had realized what was under the roots of the parent tree of the holly named “Canary.”
44659 by Earle Dilatush