Читать книгу The Christmas Book - Enid blyton - Страница 8

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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 be a nice little mistletoe plant there for Ann, and she will be very proud to pick it.”

“We’ve got enough mistletoe now, haven’t we?” said Susan. “Let’s take it indoors. Daddy, did the early Christians use mistletoe? Is that why we put it up at Christmas-time?”

“Oh, mistletoe has been a holy and sacred plant for thousands of years,” said Daddy. “Long before Jesus Christ was born. Christians took over a great many old customs and used them in their own way. Some of the things we do in our Christian religion were done by pagan peoples centuries before Jesus 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.”