It was the Thunder Oak of the war-god Thor.
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.
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