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Lift your eyes to the mistletoe waving 

 overhead. A rare clump truly thick-sown 

 with greenish pearl. It feeds, too, upon 

 oak-sap. In time of the Druids such root- 

 hold had made it sacred. At Beltane, the 

 year's high holyday, the chief priest had 

 come with all his train to cut the bough 

 with a golden knife and bear it in state to 

 the altar. Rarities, you see, have always 

 been precious. Mistletoe grows for the 

 most part on other than oak-trees. Like 

 most parasites, it loves best the succulence 

 of water -side growths. Almost you can 

 trace the creek's windings through the 

 wood by the yellow-green blotches of it, 

 splashed through the bare tree-tops. 



An uncanny growth, this rooted vampire ! 

 The stiff, thick, straight-branched stems are 

 just the green of the small leaves. It owns 

 no grace, no sweetness even in fullest 

 berry. Like some uninteresting persons it 

 boasts only " the claim of long descent," the 

 charm of tradition. In virtue of them give 

 it plentiful room. Hang it high in hall and 

 stair let it droop from your lintel, whitely 

 bestar your garland. The wood yields it 

 lavishly. Take of its abundance with open 

 hand. 



Take, too, dark trails of cross-vine. The 



