{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_16134/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_16134","id":"gutenberg_16134","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16134","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christmas","Christmas stories"],"text":"E-text prepared by Michael Gray (Lost_Gamer@comcast.net)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 16134-h.htm or 16134-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/1/3/16134/16134-h/16134-h.htm)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/1/3/16134/16134-h.zip)\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE\n\nA Story of the Forest\n\nby\n\nHENRY VAN DYKE\n\nIllustrated by Howard Pyle\n\nCharles Scribner's Sons\nNew York\nUniversity Press:\nJohn Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.\n\nMDCCCXCVII\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration--So they took the little fir from its place]\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n     I  The Call of the Woodsman\n\n    II  The Trail Through the Forest\n\n   III  The Shadow of the Thunder-Oak\n\n    IV  The Felling of the Tree\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n   Photogravures from Original Drawings by Howard Pyle.\n\n   So they took the little fir from its place . . . (Frontispiece)\n   The fields around lay bare to the moon . . .\n   The sacred hammer of the God Thor . . .\n   Then Winfried told the story of Bethlehem . . .\n\n\n\nI\nTHE CALL OF THE WOODSMAN\n\n\nI\n\nThe day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722.\n\nBroad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks of the river\nMoselle; pallid hill-sides blooming with mystic roses where the\nglow of the setting sun still lingered upon them; an arch of\nclearest, faintest azure bending overhead; in the center of the\naerial landscape of the massive walls of the cloister of Pfalzel,\ngray to the east, purple to the west; silence over all,--a\ngentle, eager, conscious stillness, diffused through the air like\nperfume, as if earth and sky were hushing themselves to hear the\nvoice of the river faintly murmuring down the valley.\n\nIn the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset hour. All\nday long there had been a strange and joyful stir among the nuns.\nA breeze of curiosity and excitement had swept along the\ncorridors and through every quiet cell.\n\nThe elder sisters,--the provost, the deaconess, the stewardess,\nthe portress with her huge bunch of keys jingling at her\ngirdle,--had been hurrying to and fro, busied with household\ncares. In the huge kitchen there was a bustle of hospitable\npreparation. The little bandy-legged dogs that kept the spits\nturning before the fires had been trotting steadily for many an\nhour, until their tongues hung out for want of breath. The big\nblack pots swinging from the cranes had bubbled and gurgled and\nshaken and sent out puffs of appetizing steam.\n\nSt. Martha was in her element. It was a field-day for her\nvirtues.\n\nThe younger sisters, the pupils of the convent, had forsaken\ntheir Latin books and their embroidery-frames, their manuscripts\nand their miniatures, and fluttered through the halls in little\nflocks like merry snow-birds, all in black and white, chattering\nand whispering together. This was no day for tedious task-work,\nno day for grammar or arithmetic, no day for picking out\nilluminated letters in red and gold on stiff parchment, or\npatiently chasing intricate patterns over thick cloth with the\nslow needle. It was a holiday. A famous visitor had come to the\nconvent.\n\nIt was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman tongue was\nBoniface, and whom men called the Apostle of Germany. A great\npreacher; a wonderful scholar; he had written a Latin grammar\nhimself,--think of it,--and he could hardly sleep without a book\nunder his pillow; but, more than all, a great and daring\ntraveller, a venturesome pilgrim, a high-priest of romance.\n\nHe had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he would not\nstay in the rich monastery of Nutescelle, even though they had\nchosen him as the abbot; he had refused a bishopric at the court\nof King Karl. Nothing would content him but to go out into the\nwild woods and preach to the heathen.\n\nUp and down through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along\nthe borders of Saxony, he had wandered for years, with a handful\nof companions, sleeping under the trees, crossing mountains and\nmarshes, now here, now there, never satisfied with ease and\ncomfort, always in love with hardship and danger.\n\nWhat a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a spear and\nstrong as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the smooth\nskin was bronzed by wing and sun. His gray eyes, clear and kind,\nflashed like fire when he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil\ndeeds of the false priests with whom he had contended.\n\nWhat tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacred\nrelics; nor of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though\nhe knew much of these things, and had been at Rome and received\nthe Pope's blessing. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings\nby sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears\nand fierce snowstorms and black nights in the lonely forest; of\ndark altars of heaven gods, and weird, bloody sacrifices, and\nnarrow escapes from wandering savages.\n\nThe little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had\ngrown pale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted\nlips, entranced in admiration, twining their arms about one\nanother's shoulders and holding closely together, half in fear,\nhalf in delight. The older nuns had turned from their tasks and\npaused, in passing by, to hear the pilgrim's story. Too well they\nknew the truth of what he spoke. Many a one among them had seen\nthe smoke rising from the ruins of her father's roof. Many a one\nhad a brother far away in the wild country to whom her heart went\nout night and day, wondering if he were still among the living.\n\nBut now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hours\nof the evening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were\nassembled in the refectory.\n\nOn the dais sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King\nDagobert, looking a princess indeed, in her violet tunic, with the\nhood and cuffs of her long white robe trimmed with fur, and a\nsnowy veil resting like a crown on her snowy hair. At her right\nhand was the honoured guest, and at her left hand her grandson,\nthe young Prince Gregor, a big, manly boy, just returned from\nschool.\n\nThe long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown raters and beams; the\ndouble rows of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the\nruddy flow of the slanting sunbeams striking upwards through the\ntops of the windows and painting a pink glow high up on the\nwalls,--it was all as beautiful as a picture, and as silent. For\nthis was the rule of the cloister, that at the table all should\nsit in stillness for a little while, and then one should read\naloud, while the rest listened.\n\n\"It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day,\" said the abbess to\nWinfried; \"we shall see how much he has learned in the school.\nRead, Gregor; the place in the book is marked.\"\n\nThe tall lad rose from his seat and turned the pages of the\nmanuscript. It was a copy of Jerome's version of the Scriptures in\nLatin, and the marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the\nEphesians,--the passage where he describes the preparation of the\nChristian as the arming of a warrior for glorious battle. The\nyoung voice rang out clearly, rolling the sonorous words, without\nslip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter.\n\nWinfried listened, smiling. \"My son,\" said he, as the reader\npaused, \"that was bravely read. Understandest thou what thou\nreadest?\"\n\n\"Surely, father,\" answered the boy; \"it was taught me by the\nmasters at Treves; and we have read this epistle clear through,\nfrom beginning to end, so that I almost know it by heart.\"\n\nThen he began again to repeat the passage, turning away from the\npage as if to show his skill.\n\nBut Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of the hand.\n\n\"No so, my son; that was not my meaning. When we pray, we speak to\nGod; when we read, it is God who speaks to us. I ask whether thou\nhast heard what He has said to thee, in thine own words, in the\ncommon speech. Come, give us again the message of the warrior and\nhis armour and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so that all can\nunderstand it.\"\n\nThe boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to\nWinfried's seat, bringing the book. \"Take the book, my father,\" he\ncried, \"and read it for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though\nI love the sound of the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines\nof our faith, and the life of priests and nuns in the cloister,\nfor which my grandmother designs me, though it likes me little.\nAnd fighting I know, and the life of warriors and heroes, for I\nhave read of it in Virgil and the ancients, and heard a bit from\nthe soldiers at Treves; and I would fain taste more of it, for it\nlikes me much. But how the two lives fit together, or what need\nthere is of armour for a clerk in holy orders, I can never see.\nTell me the meaning, for if there is a man in all the world that\nknows it, I am sure it is none other than thou.\"\n\nSo Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping the boy's hand\nwith his own.\n\n\"Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers,\" said he, \"lest\nthey should be weary.\"\n\nA sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring of\nsweet voices and a soft rustling of many feet over the rushes on\nthe floor; the gentle tide of noise flowed out through the doors\nand ebbed away down the corridors; the three at the head of the\ntable were left alone in the darkening room.\n\nThen Winfried began to translate the parable of the soldier into\nthe realities of life.\n\nAt every turn he knew how to flash a new light into the picture\nout of his own experience. He spoke of the combat with self, and\nof the wrestling with dark spirits in solitude. He spoke of the\ndemons that men had worshipped for centuries in the wilderness,\nand whose malice they invoked against the stranger who ventured\ninto the gloomy forest. Gods, they called them, and told strange\ntales of their dwelling among the impenetrable branches of the\noldest trees and in the caverns of the shaggy hills; of their\nriding on the wind-horses and hurling spears of lightning against\ntheir foes. Gods they were not, but foul spirits of the air,\nrulers of the darkness. Was there not glory and honour in fighting\nwith them, in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in\nputting them to flight with the sword of truth? What better\nadventure could a brave man ask than to go forth against them, and\nwrestle with them, and conquer them?\n\n\"Look you, my friends,\" said Winfried, \"how sweet and peaceful is\nthis convent to-night, on the eve of the nativity of the Prince of\nPeace! It is a garden full of flowers in the heart of winter; a\nnest among the branches of a great tree shaken by the winds; a\nstill haven on the edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what\nreligion means for those who are chosen and called to quietude and\nprayer and meditation.\n\n\"But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are\nraving to-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are\nstill? who knows what haunts of wrath and cruelty and fear are\nclosed to-night against the advent of the Prince of Peace? And\nshall I tell you what religion means to those who are called and\nchosen to dare and to fight, and to conquer the world for Christ?\nIt means to launch out into the deep. It means to go against the\nstrongholds of the adversary. It means to struggle to win an\nentrance for their Master everywhere. What helmet is strong enough\nfor this strife save the helmet of salvation? What breastplate can\nguard a man against these fiery darts but the breastplate of\nrighteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of these journeys but\nthe preparation of the gospel of peace?\"\n\n\"Shoes?\" he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had\nstruck him. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide\nboot, laced high about his leg with thongs of skin.\n\n\"See here,--how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen\nthe boots of the Bishop of Tours,--white kid, broidered with silk;\na day in the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the\nsandals that the monks use on the highroads,--yes, and worn them;\nten pair of them have I worn out and thrown away in a single\njourney. Now I shoe my feet with the toughest hides, hard as iron;\nno rock can cut them, no branches can tear them. Yet more than one\npair of these have I outworn, and many more shall I outwear ere my\njourneys are ended. And I think, if God is gracious to me, that I\nshall die wearing them. Better so than in a soft bed with silken\ncoverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a woodsman,--these\nare my preparation of the gospel of peace.\"\n\n\"Come, Gregor,\" he said, laying his brown hand on the youth's\nshoulder, \"come, wear the forester's boots with me. This is the\nlife to which we are called. Be strong in the Lord, a hunter of\nthe demons, a subduer of the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith.\nCome!\"\n\nThe boy's eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. She shook\nher head vigorously.\n\n\"Nay, father,\" she said, \"draw not the lad away from my side with\nthese wild words. I need him to help me with my labours, to cheer\nmy old age.\"\n\n\"Do you need him more than the Master does?\" asked Winfried; \"and\nwill you take the wood that is fit for a bow to make a distaff?\"\n\n\"But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for him. He will\nperish with hunger in the woods.\"\n\n\"Once,\" said Winfried, smiling, \"we were camped by the bank of the\nriver Ohru. The table was spread for the morning meal, but my\ncomrades cried that it was empty; the provisions were exhausted;\nwe must go without breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could\nescape from the wilderness. While they complained, a fish-hawk\nflew up from the river with flapping wings, and let fall a great\npike in the midst of the camp. There was food enough and to spare.\nNever have I seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging\nbread.\"\n\n\"But the fierce pagans of the forest,\" cried the abbess,--\"they\nmay pierce the boy with their arrows, or dash out his brains with\ntheir axes. He is but a child, too young for the dangers of\nstrife.\"\n\n\"A child in years,\" replied Winfried, \"but a man in spirit. And if\nthe hero must fall early in the battle, he wears the brighter\ncrown, not a leaf withered, not a flower fallen.\"\n\nThe aged princess trembled a little. She drew Gregor close to her\nside, and laid her hand gently on his brown hair.\n\n\"I am not sure that he wants to leave me yet. Besides, there is no\nhorse in the stable to give him, now, and he cannot go as befits\nthe grandson of a king.\"\n\nGregor looked straight into her eyes.\n\n\"Grandmother,\" said he, \"dear grandmother, if thou wilt not give\nme a horse to ride with this man of God, I will go with him\nafoot.\"\n\n[Illustration--The fields around lay bare to the moon.]\n\n\n\nII\n\nTHE TRAIL THROUGH THE FOREST\n\n\nII\n\nTwo years had passed, to a day, almost to an hour, since that\nChristmas eve in the cloister of Pfalzel. A little company of\npilgrims, less than a score a men, were creeping slowly northward\nthrough the wide forest that rolled over the hills of central\nGermany.\n\nAt the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a tunic of fur,\nwith his long black robe girt high about his waist, so that it\nmight not hinder his stride. His hunter's boots were crusted with\nsnow. Drops of ice sparkled like jewels along the thongs that\nbound his legs. There was no other ornament to his dress except\nthe bishop's cross hanging on his breast, and the broad silver\nclasp that fastened his cloak about his neck. He carried a strong,\ntall staff in his hand, fashioned at the top into the form of a\ncross.\n\nClose beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade, was the\nyoung Prince Gregor. Long marches through the wilderness had\nstretched his limbs and broadened his back, and made a man of him\nin stature as well as in spirit. His jacket and cap were of\nwolfskin, and on his shoulder he carried an axe, with broad,\nshining blade. He was a mighty woodsman now, and could make a\nspray of chips fly around him as he hewed his way through the\ntrunk of spruce-tree.\n\nBehind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters, guiding a rude\nsledge, loaded with food and the equipage of the camp, and drawn\nby two big, shaggy horses, blowing thick clouds of steam from\ntheir frosty nostrils. Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their\nlips. Their flanks were smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at\nevery step in the soft snow.\n\nLast of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and javelins. It\nwas no child's play, in those days, to cross Europe afoot.\n\nThe weird woodland, sombre and illimitable, covered hill and vale,\ntableland and mountain-peak. There were wide moors where the\nwolves hunted in packs as if the devil drove them, and tangled\nthickets where the lynx and the boar made their lairs. Fierce\nbears lurked among the rocky passes, and had not yet learned to\nfear the face of man. The gloomy recesses of the forest gave\nshelter to inhabitants who were still more cruel and dangerous\nthan beasts of prey,--outlaws and sturdy robbers and mad\nwere-wolves and bands of wandering pillagers.\n\nThe pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the Tiber to the\nmouth of the Rhine must travel with a little army of retainers, or\nelse trust in God and keep his arrows loose in the quiver.\n\nThe travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees, so vast, so\nfull of endless billows, that it seemed to be pressing on every\nside to overwhelm them. Gnarled oaks, with branches twisted and\nknotted as if in rage, rose in groves like tidal waves. Smooth\nforests of beech-trees, round and gray, swept over the knolls and\nslopes of land in a mighty ground-swell. But most of all, the\nmultitude of pines and firs, innumerable and monotonous, with\nstraight, stark trunks, and branches woven together in an unbroken\nHood of darkest green, crowded through the valleys and over the\nhills, rising on the highest ridges into ragged crests, like the\nfoaming edge of breakers.\n\nThrough this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of shining\nwhiteness,--an ancient Roman road, covered with snow. It was as if\nsome great ship had ploughed through the green ocean long ago, and\nleft behind it a thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track\nthe travellers held their way,--heavily, for the drifts were deep;\nwarily, for the hard winter had driven many packs of wolves down\nfrom the moors.\n\nThe steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the sledges creaked\nover the dry snow, and the panting of the horses throbbed through\nthe still, cold air. The pale-blue shadows on the western side of\nthe road grew longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch,\ndropped behind the tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, as if it\nhad been a bird of prey waiting for this sign to swoop down upon\nthe world.\n\n\"Father,\" said Gregor to the leader, \"surely this day's march is\ndone. It is time to rest, and eat, and sleep. If we press onward\nnow, we cannot see our steps; and will not that be against the\nword of the psalmist David, who bids us not to put confidence in\nthe legs of a man?\"\n\nWinfried laughed. \"Nay, my son Gregor,\" said he, \"thou hast\ntripped, even now, upon thy text. For David said only, 'I take no\npleasure in the legs of a man.' And so say I, for I am not minded\nto spare thy legs or mine, until we come farther on our way, and\ndo what must be done this night. Draw the belt tighter, my son,\nand hew me out this tree that is fallen across the road, for our\ncampground is not here.\"\n\nThe youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help him; and\nwhile the soft fir-wood yielded to the stroke of the axes, and the\nsnow flew from the bending branches, Winfried turned and spoke to\nhis followers in a cheerful voice, that refreshed them like wine.\n\n\"Courage, brothers, and forward yet a little! The moon will light\nus presently, and the path is plain. Well know I that the journey\nis weary; and my own heart wearies also for the home in England,\nwhere those I love are keeping feast this Christmas eve. But we\nhave work to do before we feast to-night. For this is the\nYuletide, and the heathen people of the forest have gathered at\nthe thunder-oak of Geismar to worship their god, Thor. Strange\nthings will be seen there, and deeds which make the soul black.\nBut we are sent to lighten their darkness; and we will teach our\nkinsmen to keep a Christmas with us such as the woodland has never\nknown. Forward, then, and let us stiffen up our feeble knees!\"\n\nA murmur of assent came from the men. Even the horses seemed to\ntake fresh heart. They flattened their backs to draw the heavy\nloads, and blew the frost from their nostrils as they pushed\nahead.\n\nThe night grew broader and less oppressive. A gate of brightness\nwas opened secretly somewhere in the sky; higher and higher\nswelled the clear moon-flood, until it poured over the eastern\nwall of forest into the road. A drove of wolves howled faintly in\nthe distance, but they were receding, and the sound soon died\naway. The stars sparkled merrily through the stringent air; the\nsmall, round moon shone like silver; little breaths of the\ndreaming wind wandered whispering across the pointed fir-tops, as\nthe pilgrims toiled bravely onward, following their clue of light\nthrough a labyrinth of darkness.\n\nAfter a while the road began to open out a little. There were\nspaces of meadow-land, fringed with alders, behind which a\nboisterous river ran, clashing through spears of ice.\n\nRude houses of hewn logs appeared in the openings, each one\ncasting a patch of inky blackness upon the snow. Then the\ntravellers passed a larger group of dwellings, all silent and\nunlighted; and beyond, they saw a great house, with many\noutbuildings and enclosed courtyards, from which the hounds bayed\nfuriously, and a noise of stamping horses came from the stalls.\nBut there was no other sound of life. The fields around lay bare\nto the moon. They saw no man, except that once, on a path that\nskirted the farther edge of a meadow, three dark figures passed\nby, running very swiftly.\n\nThen the road plunged again into a dense thicket, traversed it,\nand climbing to the left, emerged suddenly upon a glade, round and\nlevel except at the northern side, where a swelling hillock was\ncrowned with a huge oak-tree. It towered above the heath, a giant\nwith contorted arms, beckoning to the host of lesser trees.\n\"Here,\" cried Winfried, as his eyes flashed and his hand lifted\nhis heavy staff, \"here is the Thunder-oak; and here the cross of\nChrist shall break the hammer of the false god Thor.\"\n\n[Illustration--The sacred hammer of the god Thor]\n\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE SHADOW OF THE THUNDER-OAK\n\n\nIII\n\nWithered leaves still clung to the branches of the oak: torn and\nfaded banners of the departed summer. The bright crimson of autumn\nhad long since disappeared, bleached away by the storms and the\ncold. But to-night these tattered remnants of glory were red\nagain: ancient bloodstains against the dark-blue sky. For an\nimmense fire had been kindled in front of the tree. Tongues of\nruddy flame, fountains of ruby sparks, ascended through the\nspreading limbs and flung a fierce illumination upward and around.\nward and around. The pale, pure moonlight that bathed the\nsurrounding forests was quenched and eclipsed here. Not a beam of\nit sifted down-ward through the branches of the oak. It stood like\na pillar of cloud between the still light of heaven and the\ncrackling, flashing fire of earth.\n\nBut the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his companions.\nA great throng of people were gathered around it in a half-circle,\ntheir backs to the open glade, their faces towards the oak. Seen\nagainst that glowing background, it was but the silhouette of a\ncrowd, vague, black, formless, mysterious.\n\nThe travellers paused for a moment at the edge of the thicket, and\ntook counsel together.\n\n\"It is the assembly of the tribe,\" said one of the foresters, \"the\ngreat night of the council. I heard of it three days ago, as we\npassed through one of the villages. All who swear by the old gods\nhave been summoned. They will sacrifice a steed to the god of war,\nand drink blood, and eat horse-flesh to make them strong. It will\nbe at the peril of our lives if we approach them. At least we must\nhide the cross, if we would escape death.\"\n\n\"Hide me no cross,\" cried Winfried, lifting his staff, \"for I have\ncome to show it, and to make these blind folk see its power. There\nis more to be done here to-night than the slaying of a steed, and\na greater evil to be stayed than the shameful eating of meat\nsacrificed to idols. I have seen it in a dream. Here the cross\nmust stand and be our rede.\"\n\nAt his command the sledge was left in the border of the wood, with\ntwo of the men to guard it, and the rest of the company moved\nforward across the open ground. They approached unnoticed, for all\nthe multitude were looking intently towards the fire at the foot\nof the oak.\n\nThen Winfried's voice rang out, \"Hail, ye sons of the forest! A\nstranger claims the warmth of your fire in the winter night.\"\n\nSwiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes were bent\nupon the speaker. The semicircle opened silently in the middle;\nWinfried entered with his followers; it closed again behind them.\n\nThen, as they looked round the curving ranks, they saw that the\nhue of the assemblage was not black, but white,--dazzling,\nradiant, solemn. White, the robes of the women clustered together\nat the points of the wide crescent; white, the glittering byrnies\nof the warriors standing in close ranks; white, the fur mantles of\nthe aged men who held the central place in the circle; white, with\nthe shimmer of silver ornaments and the purity of lamb's-wool, the\nraiment of a little group of children who stood close by the fire;\nwhite, with awe and fear, the faces of all who looked at them; and\nover all the flickering, dancing radiance of the flames played and\nglimmered like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood on snow.\n\nThe only figure untouched by the glow was the old priest, Hunrad,\nwith his long, spectral robe, flowing hair and beard, and dead-pale\nface, who stood with his back to the fire and advanced slowly to\nmeet the strangers.\n\n\"Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek you here?\" His voice\nwas heavy and toneless as a muffled bell.\n\n\"You kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood,\" answered Winfried,\n\"and from England, beyond the sea, have I come to bring you a\ngreeting from that land, and a message from the All-Father, whose\nservant I am.\"\n\n\"Welcome, then,\" said Hunrad, \"welcome, kinsman, and be silent;\nfor what passes here is too high to wait, and must be done before\nthe moon crosses the middle heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some\nsign or token from the gods. Canst thou work miracles?\"\n\nThe question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had\nflashed through the tangle of the old priest's mind. But\nWinfried's voice sank lower and a cloud of disappointment passed\nover his face as he replied: \"Nay, miracles have I never wrought,\nthough I have heard of many; but the All-Father has given no power\nto my hands save such as belongs to common man.\"\n\n\"Stand still, then, thou common man,\" said Hunrad, scornfully,\n\"and behold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night\nis the death-night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved\nof gods and men. This night is the hour of darkness and the power\nof winter, of sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great\nThor, the god of thunder and war, to whom this oak is sacred, is\ngrieved for the death of Baldur, and angry with this people\nbecause they have forsaken his worship. Long is it since an\noffering has been laid upon his altar, long since the roots of his\nholy tree have been fed with blood. Therefore its leaves have\nwithered before the time, and its boughs are heavy with death.\nTherefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in battle.\nTherefore the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have\nravaged the folds, and the strength has departed from the bow, and\nthe wood of the spear has broken, and the wild boar has slain the\nhuntsman. Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings, and\nthe dead are more than the living in all our villages. Answer me,\nye people, are not these things true?\"\n\nA hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A chant, in\nwhich the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrill\nwind in the pine-trees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall,\nrose and fell in rude cadences.\n\nO Thor, the Thunderer,\nMighty and merciless,\nSpare us from smiting!\nHeave not thy hammer,\nAngry, against us;\nPlague not thy people.\nTake from our treasure\nRichest of ransom.\nSilver we send thee,\nJewels and javelins,\nGoodliest garments,\nAll our possessions,\nPriceless, we proffer.\nSheep will we slaughter,\nSteeds will we sacrifice;\nBright blood shall bathe thee,\nO tree of Thunder,\nLife-floods shall lave thee,\nStrong wood of wonder.\nMighty, have mercy,\nSmite us no more,\nSpare us and save us,\nSpare us, Thor! Thor!\n\nWith two great shouts the song ended, and a stillness followed so\nintense that the crackling of the fire was heard distinctly. The\nold priest stood silent for a moment. His shaggy brows swept down\nover his eyes like ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face\nand spoke.\n\n\"None of these things will please the god. More costly is the\noffering that shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson\ndew that shall send new life into this holy tree of blood. Thor\nclaims your dearest and your noblest gift.\"\n\nHunrad moved nearer to the handful of children who stood watching\nthe red mines in the fire and the swarms of spark-serpents darting\nupward. They had heeded none of the priest's words, and did not\nnotice now that he approached them, so eager were they to see\nwhich fiery snake would go highest among the oak branches.\nForemost among them, and most intent on the pretty game, was a boy\nlike a sunbeam, slender and quick, with blithe brown eyes and\nlaughing lips. The priest's hand was laid upon his shoulder. The\nboy turned and looked up in his face.\n\n\"Here,\" said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick\nrope is strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, \"here is\nthe chosen one, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the\npeople. Hearken, Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the\nheroes dwell with the gods, to bear a message to Thor?\"\n\nThe boy answered, swift and clear:\n\n\"Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it far away?\nShall I run quickly? Must I take my bow and arrows for the\nwolves?\"\n\nThe boy's father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his\nbearded warriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on\nthe handle of his spear that the wood cracked. And his wife, Irma,\nbending forward from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair\nfrom her forehead with one hand. The other dragged at the silver\nchain about her neck until the rough links pierced her flesh, and\nthe red drops fell unheeded on the snow of her breast.\n\nA sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur of the forest\nbefore the storm breaks. Yet no one spoke save Hunrad:\n\n\"Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou have, for the way\nis long, and thou art a brave huntsman. But in darkness thou must\njourney for a little space, and with eyes blindfolded. Fearest\nthou?\"\n\n\"Naught fear I,\" said the boy, \"neither darkness, nor the great\nbear, nor the were-wolf. For I am Gundhar's son, and the defender\nof my folk.\"\n\nThen the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb's-wool to a\nbroad stone in front of the fire. He gave him his little bow\ntipped with silver, and his spear with shining head of steel. He\nbound the child's eyes with a white cloth, and bade him kneel\nbeside the stone with his face to the east. Unconsciously the wide\narc of spectators drew inward toward the centre, as the ends of\nthe bow draw together when the cord is stretched. Winfried moved\nnoiselessly until he stood close behind the priest.\n\nThe old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone from the\nground,--the sacred hammer of the god Thor. Summoning all the\nstrength of his withered arms, he swung it high in the air. It\npoised for an instant above the child's fair head--then turned to\nfall.\n\nOne keen cry shrilled out from where the women stood: \"Me! take\nme! not Bernhard!\"\n\nThe flight of the mother towards her child was swift as the\nfalcon's swoop. But swifter still was the hand of the deliverer.\n\nWinfried's heavy staff thrust mightily against the hammer's handle\nas it fell. Sideways it glanced from the old man's grasp, and the\nblack stone, striking on the altar's edge, split in twain. A shout\nof awe and joy rolled along the living circle. The branches of the\noak shivered. The flames leaped higher. As the shout died away the\npeople saw the lady Irma, with her arms clasped round her child,\nand above them, on the altar-stone, Winfried, his face shining\nlike the face of an angel.\n\n[Illustration--Then Winfried told the story of Bethlehem]\n\n\n\nIV\n\nTHE FELLING OF THE TREE\n\n\nIV\n\nA swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a huge rock\ntumbling from the hill-side and falling in mid-stream; the baffled\nwaters broken and confused, pausing in their flow, dash high\nagainst the rock, foaming and murmuring, with divided impulse,\nuncertain whether to turn to the right or the left.\n\nEven so Winfried's bold deed fell into the midst of the thoughts\nand passions of the council. They were at a standstill. Anger and\nwonder, reverence and joy and confusion surged through the crowd.\nThey knew not which way to move: to resent the intrusion of the\nstranger as an insult to their gods, or to welcome him as the\nrescuer of their darling prince.\n\nThe old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting counsels\ntroubled the air. Let the sacrifice go forward; the gods must be\nappeased. Nay, the boy must not die; bring the chieftain's best\nhorse and slay it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree\nloves the blood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet;\nseize the stranger whom the gods have led hither as a victim and\nmake his life pay the forfeit of his daring.\n\nThe withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered overhead. The\nfire flared and sank again. The angry voices clashed against each\nother and fell like opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar\nstruck the earth with his spear and gave his decision.\n\n\"All have spoken, but none are agreed. There is no voice of the\ncouncil. Keep silence now, and let the stranger speak. His words\nshall give us judgment, whether he is to live or to die.\"\n\nWinfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a roll of\nparchment from his bosom, and began to read.\n\n\"A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits on a golden\nthrone, to the people of the forest, Hessians and Thuringians,\nFranks and Saxons. _In nomine Domini, sanctae et individuae\ntrinitatis, amen!\"_\n\nA murmur of awe ran through the crowd. \"It is the sacred tongue of\nthe Romans: the tongue that is heard and understood by the wise\nmen of every land. There is magic in it. Listen!\"\n\nWinfried went on to read the letter, translating it into the\nspeech of the people.\n\n\"'We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him\nyour bishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and\nbaptize you, and lead you back from the ways of error to the path\nof salvation. Hearken to him in all things like a father. Bow your\nhearts to his teaching. He comes not for earthly gain, but for the\ngain of your souls. Depart from evil works. Worship not the false\ngods, for they are devils. Offer no more bloody sacrifices, nor\neat the flesh of horses, but do as our Brother Boniface commands\nyou. Build a house for him that he may dwell among you, and a\nchurch where you may offer your prayers to the only living God,\nthe Almighty King of Heaven.'\"\n\nIt was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful, loving. The\ndignity of the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the\npeople. They were quieted as men who have listened to a lofty\nstrain of music.\n\n\"Tell us, then,\" said Gundhar, \"what is the word that thou\nbringest to us from the Almighty. What is thy counsel for the\ntribes of the woodland on this night of sacrifice?\"\n\n\"This is the word, and this is the counsel,\" answered Winfried.\n\"Not a drop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has\ndrawn from the breast of your princess, in love for her child. Not\na life shall be blotted out in the darkness tonight; but the great\nshadow of the tree which hides you from the light of heaven shall\nbe swept away. For this is the birth-night of the white Christ,\nson of the All-Father, and Saviour of mankind. Fairer is He than\nBaldur the Beautiful, greater than Odin the Wise, kinder than\nFreya the Good. Since He has come to earth the bloody sacrifices\nmust cease. The dark Thor, on whom you vainly call, is dead. Deep\nin the shades of Niffelheim he is lost forever. His power in the\nworld is broken. Will you serve a helpless god? See, my brothers,\nyou call this tree his oak. Does he dwell here? Does he protect\nit?\"\n\nA troubled voice of assent rose from the throng. The people\nstirred uneasily. Women covered their eyes. Hunrad lifted his head\nand muttered hoarsely, \"Thor! take vengeance! Thor!\"\n\nWinfried beckoned to Gregor. \"Bring the axes, thine and one for\nme. Now, young woodsman, show thy craft! The king-tree of the\nforest must fall, and swiftly, or all is lost!\"\n\nThe two men took their places facing each other, one on each side\nof the oak. Their cloaks were flung aside, their heads bare.\nCarefully they felt the ground with their feet, seeking a firm\ngrip of the earth. Firmly they grasped the axe-helves and swung\nthe shining blades.\n\n\"Tree-god!\" cried Winfried, \"art thou angry? Thus we smite thee!\"\n\n\"Tree-god!\" answered Gregor, \"art thou mighty? Thus we fight\nthee!\"\n\nClang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the hard,\nringing wood. The axe-heads glittered in their rhythmic flight,\nlike fierce eagles circling about their quarry.\n\nThe broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening gashes in the\nsides of the oak. The huge trunk quivered. There was a shuddering\nin the branches. Then the great wonder of Winfried's life came to\npass.\n\nOut of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing noise\nsounded overhead.\n\nWas it the ancient gods on their white battle-steeds, with their\nblack hounds of wrath and their arrows of lightning, sweeping\nthrough the air to destroy their foes?\n\nA strong, whirling wind passed over the tree-tops. It gripped the\noak by its branches and tore it from its roots. Backward it fell,\nlike a ruined tower, groaning and crashing as it split asunder in\nfour great pieces.\n\nWinfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a moment in the\npresence of almighty power.\n\nThen he turned to the people, \"Here is the timber,\" he cried,\n\"already felled and split for your new building. On this spot\nshall rise a chapel to the true God and his servant St. Peter.\n\n\"And here,\" said he, as his eyes fell on a young fir-tree,\nstanding straight and green, with its top pointing towards the\nstars, amid the divided ruins of the fallen oak, \"here is the\nliving tree, with no stain of blood upon it, that shall be the\nsign of your new worship. See how it points to the sky. Let us\ncall it the tree of the Christ-child. Take it up and carry it to\nthe chieftain's hall. You shall go no more into the shadows of the\nforest to keep your feasts with secret rites of shame. You shall\nkeep them at home, with laughter and song and rites of love. The\nthunder-oak has fallen, and I think the day is coming when there\nshall not be a home in all Germany where the children are not\ngathered around the green fir-tree to rejoice in the birth-night\nof Christ.\"\n\nSo they took the little fir from its place, and carried it in\njoyous procession to the edge of the glade, and laid it on the\nsledge. The horses tossed their heads and drew their load bravely,\nas if the new burden had made it lighter.\n\nWhen they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade them throw open\nthe doors of the hall and set the tree in the midst of it. They\nkindled lights among the branches until it seemed to be tangled\nfull of fire-flies. The children encircled it, wondering, and the\nsweet odour of the balsam filled the house.\n\nThen Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the dais at\nthe end of the hall, and told the story of Bethlehem; of the babe\nin the manger, of the shepherds on the hills, of the host of\nangels and their midnight song. All the people listened, charmed\ninto stillness. But the boy Bernhard, on Irma's knee, folded by\nher soft arm, grew restless as the story lengthened, and began to\nprattle softly at his mother's ear.\n\n\"Mother,\" whispered the child, \"why did you cry out so loud, when\nthe priest was going to send me to Valhalla?\"\n\n\"Oh, hush, my child,\" answered the mother, and pressed him closer\nto her side.\n\n\"Mother,\" whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains\nupon her breast, \"see, your dress is red! What are these stains?\nDid some one hurt you?\"\n\nThe mother closed his mouth with a kiss. \"Dear, be still, and\nlisten!\"\n\nThe boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep. But he heard the\nlast words of Winfried as he spoke of the angelic messengers,\nflying over the hills of Judea and singing as they flew. The child\nwondered and dreamed and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright.\nHe put his lips close to Irma's cheek again.\n\n\"Oh, mother!\" he whispered very low, \"do not speak. Do you hear\nthem? Those angels have come back again. They are singing now\nbehind the tree.\"\n\nAnd some say that it was true; but others say that it was only\nGregor and his companions at the lower end of the hall, chanting\ntheir Christmas hymn:\n\nAll glory be to God on high,\nAnd to the earth be peace!\nGood-will, henceforth, from heaven to men\nBegin, and never cease.","title":"The First Christmas Tree: A Story of the Forest","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":7495}