Swiftly the saint drew
from his girdle a shining axe. Fiercely he smote
the Thunder Oak, hewing a deep gash in its
trunk. And while the heathen folk gazed in horror
and wonder, the bright blade of the axe
circled faster and faster around Saint Winfred's
head, and the flakes of wood flew far and wide
from the deepening cut in the body of the tree.
Suddenly there was heard overhead the sound
of a mighty, rushing wind. A whirling blast
struck the tree. It gripped the oak from its
foundations. Backward it fell like a tower,
groaning as it split into four pieces.
But just behind it, unharmed by the ruin,
stood a young fir tree, pointing its green spire to
heaven.
Saint Winfred dropped his axe, and turned to
speak to the people. Joyously his voice rang out
through the crisp, winter air:--
``This little tree, a young child of the forest,
shall be your holy tree to-night. It is the tree of
peace, for your houses are built of fir. It is the
sign of endless life, for its leaves are forever green.
See how it points upward to heaven! Let this be
called the tree of the Christ Child. Gather about
it, not in the wildwood, but in your own homes.
There it will shelter no deeds of blood, but loving
gifts and rites of kindness. So shall the peace of
the White Christ reign in your hearts!''
And with songs of joy the multitude of heathen
folk took up the little fir tree and bore it to the
house of their chief, and there with good will and
peace they kept the holy Christmastide.
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