doing a thing like that, Daddy—they are such friendly little creatures, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are,” said her father. “I suppose that is why we put them on Christmas cards. Also because they are still with us at Christmas-time. They seem to suit the kindly, friendly spirit of Christmas-time.”
“Here’s a big crumb for you, robin red-breast,” called Ann, and threw out a bit of biscuit. The robin flew down to it, gave a little creamy carol, picked it up and flew off with it.
“I love his rich little voice,” said Susan. “Well, Daddy—shall we go back to the holy tree, now, to ‘Christ’s thorn,’ and cut a few more sprays for decoration?”
“We will,” said Daddy, and up they all got, leaving the summer-house to the little robin, who at once flew down and perched on the handle of the empty cocoa-jug.
Soon they had finished cutting the holly, and they took it into the house to put up.
“A big bunch over the doorway, please,” said Mother.
“That’s where the old, old folk used to hang evergreens,” said Daddy, laughing. “Here you are—here’s a lovely bunch for the doorway.”
“I’ll decorate the pictures in the hall,” said Susan. “Ann, you go up to the nursery with these little sprays and do your share there.”
“And here’s a beautiful piece for the pudding,” said Daddy, taking the little berried spray from his coat.
“How lovely the holly looks, shining brightly all round the rooms!” said Mother. “Now—what about some mistletoe? You had better get that after dinner. There’s not enough time now.”
“Right,” said everyone. And after dinner off they trooped to get the mistletoe.
The Curious Mistletoe
Forth to the wood did merry-men go
To gather in the mistletoe.
Walter Scott
“I do think it’s funny to see the mistletoe growing so high up, on another tree,” said Ann, puzzled, when she and the others stood, after dinner, in the farmer’s field, looking up at a great tuft of mistletoe growing on an oak tree.
“Well, it’s what we call a parasite,” said Daddy, leaning the tall ladder against the sturdy oak-tree.
“What’s that?” asked Peter.
“A parasite is something that lives and feeds on something else,” said Daddy, “it gets its food from its host, as we call the plant or animal it lives on.”
“Does the mistletoe find its food in the oak-tree, then?” asked Susan. “How does it?”
“The seed sends down little threads or sinkers,” said her father, climbing up the ladder. “These sink into the branch of the tree, and feed on the sap there. Then up come two rather dingy green leaves, and hey presto! that is the beginning of one of the great tufts of mistletoe you see up here!”
“I’m coming up the ladder too,” said Benny. “I’ll throw down what you cut to the others.”
Daddy had to climb right into the tree to get to the mistletoe. It stuck out of the trunk and branches of the oak in great, bushy tufts. It glistened with pearly berries.
“It’s not really very pretty,” said Benny, throwing down a big piece to the others. “Not nearly so pretty as the holly. Why do we have it for decoration? I suppose there are all kinds of tales about the mistletoe too.”
“Oh yes,” said Daddy. “I’ll tell you them this evening, after tea. Now—here’s a nice bit—catch!”
“We’ll hang that up in the front porch,” cried Susan, as it came down to her. “People always kiss each other under the mistletoe, Daddy, don’t they? Do you know why?”
“Well, the mistletoe was dedicated to the goddess of love in the old days,” said Daddy, coming down the ladder, “so I suppose it was natural to kiss under the mistletoe.”
“What a nice lot we’ve got,” said Ann, picking up the pearly sprays. “Does it only grow on oak-trees, Daddy?”
“It grows on poplars too,” said her father, “and on apple-trees, hawthorn and lime-trees as well. It is only half a parasite really, because it has green leaves which do work like the green leaves of other plants. But its sinkers steal sap, as I told you before.”
“Who plants the mistletoe?” said Benny, puzzled. “And how is it planted? Did the farmer plant it on these trees?”
“Oh no, Benny!” said Daddy, laughing. “Of course not. The birds plant the mistletoe. The mistle-thrush plants most of it, I suppose.”
“However does it do that?” said Benny, astonished.
“Well, the mistle-thrush is very fond of the mistletoe berries,” said Daddy. “He feasts on them, and then finds that some of the seeds have stuck to his beak. Squash a mistletoe berry, will you—and see how sticky it is.”
Each of the children squeezed a berry between finger and thumb. “Gracious! It’s as sticky as glue!” said Ann.
“Yes—the seeds are very very sticky,” said Daddy. “Well, when the thrush finds his beak sticky with them, he flies off to a tree and wipes his beak carefully on a bough to clean it. He probably leaves behind one or two of the sticky seeds. They don’t fall off the bough—they stick there tightly.”
“And they grow there!” cried Peter. “So that’s how the mistle-thrush plants them—but he doesn’t know it.”
“He certainly doesn’t know it,” said Daddy, smiling. “He flies off with a nice clean beak. The seeds he has left roll stickily down to the under part of the bough, stay there for a while, and then send out their sinker-threads. As soon as they reach the sap in the bough, they are able to feed on it and make leaves—then up grows a mistletoe bush, and when it has its berries, along comes the mistle-thrush and has a feast again!”
“I could plant some mistletoe myself, couldn’t I?” said Ann, pressing a seed into a crack on the underside of an oak branch. “There, sticky seed. Hold on tightly, put out your sinkers, and grow into a mistletoe bush for me, just for me.”
The others laughed. “I suppose you think that by tomorrow there will be a nice big tuft of mistletoe for you, complete with berries!” said Peter. “It will take ages to grow, won’t it, Daddy?”
“Yes,” said his father, “but no doubt in a few years there will
