December, 1918 
41 
SOME RANDOM THOUGHTS on a PAGAN 
The Christmas Mistletoe 
Several Worse 
Tradition Is Many Centuries Old, But There 
Subjects for the Hammer of the Iconoclast 
PLANT 
A re 
T HE mistletoe season is at hand. Hear, 
then, these wayward thoughts. 
Mistletoe is primarily a plant with a legend. 
In the good old days when Druids were in 
flower, it entered to no slight degree into the 
ceremonies of their cult. Their strange relig¬ 
ious rites were often performed in oak groves. 
Did mistletoe grow on the rugged limbs of the 
trees, so much the better; a Druid, clothed in 
white, would climb among the branches and, 
with a golden knife, cut free the plants, while 
a companion stationed below stood ready to 
catch them in a spotless cloth. Just what fol¬ 
lowed our historian does not relate, but we 
fancy there was considerable hopping about 
among the dolmens, a Celtic chorus or so, and, 
toward the conclusion of the party, perhaps 
some careless throwing about of cromlechs on 
the part of the less responsible participants. 
Note, however, that no mention was made 
of the modem significance of mistletoe, the 
Yuletide possibilities it offers when hung from 
the parlor chandelier or other point of vantage. 
That came later, in the decadent days when 
cave-man tactics were yielding to more diplo¬ 
matic methods. If we are to believe the evi¬ 
dence presented by Caesar and his contempo¬ 
rary historians, the early Europeans were men 
enough to take their kisses where they found 
them, without waiting for such faint-hearted 
excuses as a cluster of greenish berries and 
waxen leaves overhead. Had they lived today 
they would have made ideal Tank Corps re¬ 
cruits, for we have it from a high official source 
that the motto most frequently carved on the 
lintels of their dank abodes was Crom draoi tol 
—-“Treat ’em rough.” 
I CONOCLASM is a dangerous pastime. 
From Voltaire to H. L. Menken, idol- 
breakers have courted death by violence, sans 
trial by jury or otherwise. Not without trepi¬ 
dation can one contemplate the shattering of 
the half gods; yet until these go it is well 
known that the real gods cannot arrive. 
The Christmas mistletoe tradition is entitled 
to some consideration because of its antiquity. 
The plant’s definite connection with the day’s 
celebration began in England, we are told. Let 
me set down a few facts, though, to show how 
false is the basis of its claim to continued popu¬ 
larity as a demi-god of sentiment. 
Firstly, mistletoe flowers are dioecious at 
their nodes. Think of it—and such innocent¬ 
looking blossoms, too! If they were cleistog- 
amous, or even cespitosely pedunculate, one 
might feel less harshly toward them. But 
dioecious, especially at the nodes—why, the 
thing is unpardonable! Are there any depths 
of infamy, of deception, of Hunnish crime, to 
which dioecious flowers would not descend? 
We could almost conceive of their sinking so 
low as to live in indehiscent stipels. 
This fact is overshadowed, however, by the 
far more serious accusation of glabrosity which 
we are forced to admit the whole plant only too 
justly deserves. No one characteristic could be 
less in harmony with the modem role of mis¬ 
tletoe at Christmas time. It is no more than 
humane to warn the public of the dangers that 
lurk in this trait of glabrosity, especially to 
ROBERT S. LEMMON 
those of both sexes who chance to pause, even 
for but a moment, beneath a plant in which it 
is inherent. Misinterpretation, jealousy, hectic 
mothers-in-law, dire consequences of many 
sorts—-these are risks not lightly to be mn. 
Crowning all is the existing uncertainty as 
to the ancestry of mistletoe. Some authorities 
assert it is descended from the Viscums, an old 
Latin family which for generations has lived in 
the temperate and warmer portions of the 
globe. Were the Viscums pure blooded we 
should not regard them so much askance. 
Truth compels me to state, however, that 
whereas some branches of the connection are 
of a red-brown complexion, others are practi¬ 
cally white. Just when the colored strain made 
its appearance I have been unable to determine 
accurately—therein lies the great shame. It is 
difficult to reconcile our ideals of racial purity 
with such concrete evidences of a careless an¬ 
cestry. 
Two other names inevitably obtrude them¬ 
selves into every discussion of the mistletoe's 
family connections: the Loranthuses and the 
Phoradendrons. As to the former, the less said 
the better. The founder of the Phoradendron 
family was a Greek whose name really signi¬ 
fied “Thief Tree.” Details of his married life 
are lacking, but the fact that through the suc¬ 
ceeding generations the stigma of thievery has 
never been dissociated from the name is rather 
significant. 
As a matter of fact, all of the mistletoe’s 
family connections are notorious for their klep- 
tic tendencies. They have always preyed on 
others, settling down for an indefinite stay in 
any home hospitable enough to allow them 
across its threshold, true parasites in the most 
despicable sense of the word. Bed and board, 
once offered them in a misguided moment of 
hospitality, are never relinquished. They are 
as persistent as a poor relation after the two 
weeks’ invitation is long outworn. Rare indeed 
is the host with strength sufficient to eject them 
neck and crop. 
On one other point geneologists are unani¬ 
mous ; I refer to the lack of culture so painfully 
evident throughout all branches of the family. 
“The Phoradendrons are not cultivated,” says 
one authority; “Cultivation is rare among the 
Viscums,” states another; “Attempts to culti¬ 
vate Loranthus seldom succeed,” is the verdict 
of a-third. 
On three distinct counts, then, the indict¬ 
ment is complete. A doubtful ancestry, dis- j 
honesty, lack of culture—do not these proven 
facts alone justify distrust? 
F OR many months America has striven to j 
determine just what constitutes the essen- j 
tiality of an industry. Munitions making, 
farming, shipbuilding, railroading—these we | 
know to be just causes for military exemption. 
Conversely, most of us are as one in believing | 
that checking hats in a restaurant, tending bar, i 
bobbing the hair and praising New York’s new 
subway system were not necessary to winning 
the war. It has even been suggested that mis¬ 
tletoe gathering be listed as a non-essential. 
Our Christmas supply of kissing berries 
comes mainly from New Mexico, Oklahoma, , 
Arkansas, Tennessee and Kentucky. The West¬ 
ern and Central States alone have been accus¬ 
tomed to use from 15,000 to 20,000 pounds 
from these sections. Why, it must be quite an 
industry, for remember that you cannot go out 
and chop down a big tree of the stuff, just like j 
that—mistletoe leads a wild, scattered life, as 
do most criminal characters. You have to go 
on a regular hunt for it; take along an axe, 
trace it to its lair, slay it with one deadly stroke. | 
Essential labor, forsooth! Gather ye holly 
while ye may, make glad the house of Christ¬ 
mas with its honest red and lusty green. But 
away with less worthy subjects. 
W HY should mistletoe ever have been 
chosen to play a part in the Christmas 
festivities? A parasite among plants, a horti¬ 
cultural vampire subsisting on the strength and 
good nature of sturdier things, it lacks even 
the warm coloring and cheery aspect that epito¬ 
mize the day. How absurdly incongruous with 
the crackle of blazing logs are its anaemic look¬ 
ing berries, how out of key with the laden ban¬ 
quet table, the blaze of light, the chatter of 
voices with their undercurrent of good cheer! 
For Christmas is a season of ruddy well¬ 
being. Our modern philosophy will not permit 
of its being colorless and subdued. Can a man 
rejoice heartily with a pale face? Does true 
thankfulness wear a waxen mask? Think of 
what the day commemorates, of what the Event 
has meant to the world. Surely it is not sacri¬ 
legious to own a face glowing with health, to 
live among colors reflecting optimism and joy¬ 
ousness and strength, to cast out all that is chill 
and has no honest earth-striking roots. 
The spirit of Christmas is a sacred thing. 
The holly wreaths hanging in a thousand win¬ 
dows, the tinseled trees and gifts for the chil¬ 
dren, the assemblings from far and near for 
the one great occasion of the year when family 
ties are paramount—these things are symbols 
without which we should be poor indeed. Not 
for worlds would we relinquish them, for they 
signify that which lies very close to our hearts. 
The true traditions of Christmas, the tradi¬ 
tions which mark the love and reverence of 
countless generations for the real spirit of the 
day—hold them fast. That home is a better 
place to live in where sentiment is more than a 
mere word, tradition more soundly based than 
on a cluster of cheerless berries still cold with 
the Paganism of two thousand years ago. 
