Thither, under cover of night, heathen priests
were wont to bring their victims--both men 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 loving
gifts and rites of kindness. So shall the peace of
the White Christ reign in your hearts!''

And with songs of joy the multitude of heathen
folk took up the little fir tree and bore it to the
house of their chief, and there with good will and
peace they kept the holy Christmastide.