en and beasts--and slay them upon the altar of the
thunder-god. There in the darkness was wrought many an evil deed, while
human blood was poured forth and watered the roots of that gloomy tree,
from whose branches depended the mistletoe, the fateful plant that
sprang from the blood-fed veins of the oak. So gloomy and terror-ridden
was the spot on which grew the tree that no beasts of field or forest
would lodge beneath its dark branches, nor would birds nest or perch
among its gnarled limbs.

Long, long ago, on a white Christmas Eve, Thor's priests held their
winter rites beneath the Thunder Oak. Through the deep snow of the
dense forest hastened throngs of heathen folk, all intent on keeping
the mystic feast of the mighty Thor. In the hush of the night the folk
gathered in the glade where stood the tree. Closely they pressed around
the great altar-stone under the overhanging boughs where stood the
white-robed priests. Clearly shone the moonlight on all.

Then from the altar flashed upward the sacrificial flames, casting their
lurid glow on the straining faces of the human victims awaiting the blow
of the priest's knife.

But the knife never fell, for from the silent avenues of the dark forest
came the good Saint Winfred and his people. Swiftly the saint drew from
his girdle a shining axe. Fiercely he smote the Thunder Oak, hewing a
deep gash in its trunk. And while the heathen folk gazed in horror and
wonder, the bright blade of the axe circled faster and faster around
Saint Winfred's head, and the flakes of wood flew far and wide from the
deepening cut in the body of the tree.

Suddenly there was heard overhead the sound of a mighty, rushing wind. A
whirling blast struck the tree. It gripped the oak from its foundations.
Backward it fell like a tower, groaning as it split into four pieces.

But just behind it, unharmed by the ruin, stood a young fir tree,
pointing its green spire to heaven.

Saint Winfred dropped his axe, and turned to speak to the people.
Joyously his voice rang out through the crisp, winter air:--

"This little tree, a young child of the forest, shall be your holy tree
to-night. It is the tree of peace, for your houses are built of fir. It
is the sign of endless life, for its leaves are forever green. See how
it points upward to heaven! Let this be called the tree of the Christ
Child. Gather about it, not in the wildwood, but in your own homes.
There it will shelter no deeds of blood, but lo