came—for old customs are difficult to kill.”
“Yes—I suppose it’s better to keep to old customs, and give them a new meaning,” said Susan, wisely.
“That’s very well put,” said her father, pleased. “That’s exactly what you might say about the mistletoe. Centuries and centuries ago, the Druids, who were the priests of the folk of long ago, worshipped the oak-tree, and worshipped also the mistletoe that grew on it.”
“Did they really?” said Peter. “It seems odd to worship trees.”
“Oh, people have worshipped and prayed to many odd things,” said Daddy. “The sun—and the moon—and the stars—trees and animals—all kinds of things, even idols of stone and wood that they themselves have made.”
“Still, it does seem queer to worship a funny-plant like mistletoe, just because it grew on the sacred oak,” said Peter. “I wouldn’t have, if I’d lived in those days!”
“Oh yes you would!” said Daddy. “You believe what you are taught, no matter in what century you live. There are very few people who are strong enough to think out everything for themselves, so nearly all of us believe what we are told to believe, worship what we see other people worshipping, and follow the customs we have known from childhood.”
“Well, anyway I shall find out if I can how all these old customs began,” said Peter, stoutly. “I don’t believe that mistletoe is sacred and ought to be worshipped, but I like to know who first taught that it should be.”
“Quite right,” said Daddy. “Find out all you can. Well, as I said, the old priests, the Druids, worshipped the mistletoe because it grew on their sacred tree, the oak. They used to chant songs and carols when they cut sprays to hang up at their festivals—just as we cut it now to hang up at our festival at Christmas-time.”
“Why did the long-ago folk think that they ought to worship the mistletoe, just because it grew on the oak?” wondered Susan.
“Well, one reason was that the oak-leaves died in the winter, but the mistletoe on the oak remained green as you see it now,” said Daddy, beginning to walk home again. “So they said ‘Ah, the life of the oak has gone into the mistletoe. The spirit of the oak is in that tuft. We must be careful of it, and worship it, for it now contains the life of the sacred oak.’ Then, when the leaves of the oak grew green again, they said that the life of the oak had gone from the mistletoe back to the tree.”
“What queer ideas,” said Susan. “Of course we know that the mistletoe is only a half-parasite, planted by a bird—so we don’t have those strange ideas.”
“The mistletoe has always been used as a kind of charm by peoples of many countries,” said her father. “Sometimes it was used for driving away evil spirits. Sometimes the leaves were powdered and scattered over the fields to make crops grow well. Sometimes hunters carried a sprig of it hoping that it would give them success in their hunting!”
“I think I shall wear a sprig and see if it brings me good luck,” said Ann, at once. She broke off a little spray and stuck it into her hat. “There. We’ll see if the mistletoe is still as lucky as the old folk used to think!”
Everyone laughed. “Ann would do something like that,” said Susan. “Is the mistletoe supposed to do anything else queer, Daddy?”
“It was supposed to open all locks and doors,” said her father, opening the gate of their garden.
“Oh,” said Peter, “perhaps it would open my old money-box, Daddy. I’ve lost the key.”
“Well, really!” said Daddy, “I’m not telling you all these things for you to try out yourselves. I’m only telling you what long-ago, ignorant people believed in the childhood of the world.”
“I know,” said Peter. “But I’ll just see if the mistletoe will open that box.”
Mother came to meet them. “What a long time you have been,” she said.
“Well—we had a lot to talk about,” said Susan. “Mother, Daddy knows such a lot about the mistletoe.”
“Well, does he know why we are supposed to hang it from something, instead of putting it behind pictures as we do holly?” said Mother, laughing. “Can he tell me that? No-one has ever told me why.”
“Yes, I can tell you,” said Daddy. “It once killed a beautiful god, called Balder, and ever since then it has been made to grow high on a tree, out of harm’s way. It must not touch the earth or anything on it—so we have to hang it, instead of letting it rest against our walls. Ah—I knew that, you see.”
“Who was Balder?” asked Susan, who was always on the look-out for a story.
“I’ll tell you after tea,” said Daddy. “My voice is getting hoarse from talking so much. Wait till we’re sitting round the fire, and I’ll tell you.”
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