Rydingsvard - The Christmas Spruce Tree - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

Old reader textbooks are a view into the childhood of our grandparents and those however many "great" grandparents. Some of it is too dated to tell now, but The Wide Awake Third Reader  by Clara Murray in 1912 has a story worth remembering, "The Christmas Spruce Tree" by Anna von Rydingsvard. The "a" in Rydingsvard has an umlaut over it, but I'm not using a keyboard able to give it.

I sometimes feel sad seeing trees cut down for Christmas, but maybe I should remember this little tale. Yes, it's anthropomorphic, giving human characteristics to a tree, but science has proven even trees have feelings and thoughts of a sort, so maybe this could happen.

THE CHRISTMAS SPRUCE TREE

Among the tall trees in the forest grew a little spruce tree. It was no taller than a man, and that is very short for a tree.

The other trees near it grew so tall and had such large branches that the poor little tree could not grow at all.

She liked to listen when the other trees were talking, but it often made her sad.

“I am king of the forest,” said the oak. “Look at my huge trunk and my branches. How they reach up toward heaven! I furnish planks for men from which they build their ships. Then I defy the storm on the ocean as I did the thunder in the forest.”

“And I go with you over the foaming waves,” said the tall straight pine. “I hold up the flapping sails when the ships fly over the ocean.”

“And we warm the houses when winter comes and the cold north wind drives the snow before him,” said the birches.

“We have the same work to do,” said a tall fir tree, and she bowed gracefully, drooping her branches toward the ground.

The little spruce tree heard the other trees talking about their work in the world. This made her sad, and she thought, “What work can I do? What will become of me?”

But she could not think of any way in which she could be useful. She decided to ask the other trees in the forest.

So she asked the oak, the pine and the fir, but they were so proud and stately they did not even hear her.

Then she asked the beautiful white birch that stood near by. “You have no work to do,” said the birch, “because you can never grow large enough. Perhaps you might be a Christmas tree, but that is all.”

“What is a Christmas tree?” asked the little spruce.

“I do not know exactly,” replied the birch. “Sometimes when the days are short and cold, and the ground is covered with snow, men come out here into the forest. They look at all the little spruce trees and choose the prettiest, saying, ‘This will do for a Christmas tree.’

“Then they chop it down and carry it away. What they do with it I cannot tell.”

The little spruce asked the rabbit that hopped over the snow, the owls that slept in the pines, and the squirrels that came to find nuts and acorns.

But no one knew more than the birch tree. No one could tell what men did with the Christmas trees.

Then the little spruce tree wept because she had no work to do and could not be of any use in the world.

The tears hardened into clear, round drops, which we call gum.

At last a boy came into the forest with an axe in his hand. He looked the little tree all over. “Perhaps this will do for a Christmas tree,” he said. So he chopped it down, laid it on a sled, and dragged it home.

The next day the boy sold the tree, and it was taken into a large room and dressed up with pop corn and gilded nuts and candles. Packages of all sizes and shapes, and tiny bags filled with candy, were tied on its branches.

The tree was trembling with the excitement, but she stood as still as she could. “What if I should drop some of this fruit,” she thought.

When it began to grow dark, every one left the room and the tree was alone. It began to feel lonely and to think sad thoughts.

Soon the door opened and a lady came in. She lighted all the candles.

How light and glowing it was then!

The tree had never even dreamed of anything so beautiful!

Then the children came and danced about the tree, singing a Christmas song. The father played on his violin, and the baby sat in her mother’s arms, smiling and cooing.

“Now I know what I was made for,” thought the spruce tree; “I was intended to give joy to the little ones, because I, myself, am so small and humble.”

******

Whether you choose a live tree or an artificial one, I hope your holiday is able to give the joy this story describes and whatever you may need from it.

***

This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “PublicDomain Story Resources."

Pratt - The Dying Baldur - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

I'm posting today's story early as Saturday I will be telling stories of Holidays Around the World at Pere Marquette District Library in Clare at the time I usually publicize my blog.

There are so many holidays and stories within those holidays I must give their stories fairly briefly. One of those stories is how we came to associate mistletoe with this time of year.

Many books tell this Norse mythological tale. I've tried to find one that stays fairly concise. Mara L. Pratt came very close to that in her Legends of Norseland , which is liberally illustrated by A. Chase. Even at that I must add a brief bit at the end to tie the mistletoe legend together with an explanation about kissing under the mistletoe. 

One quick note on names in the story, most people write Loki instead of Loke. Baldur is sometimes written Balder, but that might be mistaken for a head without hair! Also female names often have an "a" on the end.

THE DYING BALDUR.

Ages upon ages had rolled away. And now the day of sorrow, which always Odin had known must come, drew near.

Already the god of song had gone with his beautiful wife Idun down into the dark valley of death; and there was a new strange rustle among the leaves of Ygdrasil, like the rustling of leaves that were dead.

Odin’s face grew sad; and, try as he would, he could not join with the happy gods about him in their joys and festal games.

“Odin,” said Frigg one day, “tell me what grieves thee; what weighs thee down and puts such sadness into thine eyes and heart.”

“Baldur himself shall tell you all,” answered Odin sadly.

Then Baldur seated himself in the midst of the gods and said: “Always, since Odin drank at the Well of Wisdom, and learned the secrets of the past and of the future, has he known that a time would come when the light must go out from Baldur’s eyes; and he, although a god, must go down into the dark valley. Now that time draws near. Already have Brage and Idun gone from us; and with them have gone song and youth. Soon will Baldur go, and with him must go the light and warmth he has always been so glad to bring to Asgard and to Midgard both.”

“O Baldur! Baldur! Baldur! My Child! my child! my child!” cried Frigg. “This cannot be! this shall not be! I will go down from Asgard. I will go up and down the earth, and every rock and tree and plant shall pledge themselves to do no harm to thee.”

“Dear mother Frigg,” sighed Baldur, “you cannot change what is foretold. From the beginning of time this was decreed, that one day the light should go out from heaven and the twilight of the gods should fall.”

There was a long silence in the hall of Asgard. No god had courage to speak. Their hearts were heavy, and they had no wish to speak.

The sun sank behind the western hills. Its rich sunset glow spread over the golden city and over the beautiful earth below. Then darkness followed slowly, slowly creeping, creeping on, up the mountain side, across the summit, until even the shining city stood dark and shadowy beneath the gathering twilight.

“Like this, some day, the twilight will fall upon our city,” said Odin; “and it will never, never rise again.”

The mother heart of Frigg would not accept even Odin’s word. And when the sun’s first rays shot up above the far-off hills, Frigg stole forth from Asgard down the rainbow bridge to Midgard.

To every lake, and river, and sea, she hurried, and said: “Promise me, O waters, that Baldur’s light shall never go out because of you.”

“We promise,” the waters answered. And Frigg hurried on to the metals. “Promise me, O metals, that Baldur’s light shall never go out because of you.” 

“We promise,” answered the metals. And Frigg hurried on to the minerals. “Promise me, O minerals,” she said, “that Baldur’s light shall never go out because of you.”

“We promise,” answered the minerals. And Frigg hurried on to the fire, the earth, the stones, the trees, the shrubs, the grasses, the birds, the beasts, the reptiles; and even to the abode of pale disease she went. Of each she asked the same earnest, anxious question; and from each she received the same kind, honest answer.

As the sun sank behind the high peaks of the Frost giants’ homes, Frigg, radiant and happy, her eyes bright and her heart alive with hope, sped up the rainbow bridge. Triumphant, she hurried into the great hall to Odin and Baldur.

“Be happy again, O Odin! Be happy again, O Baldur! There is no danger, no sorrow to come to us from anything in the earth or under the earth. For every tree has promised me; and every rock and every metal; every animal and every bird. Even the waters and the fire have promised that never harm through them shall come to Baldur.”

But, alas, for poor Frigg. One little weed, a wee little weed, hidden beneath a rock, she had overlooked. Loke, who had followed closely upon her in all her wanderings through the day, had not failed to notice this oversight of Frigg’s. His wicked face shone with glee. His eyes gleamed; and as the radiant Frigg sped up the rainbow bridge, he hurried away to his home among the Frost giants to tell them of the little weed which, by and by, should work such harm to Baldur, in shutting out his life and light from Asgard and the earth.

The ages rolled on. Every one in Asgard, save Odin, had long ago thrown off the shadow of fear. “No harm can come to Baldur,” they would say; and all save Odin believed it.

But a day came when Odin, looking down into the home of the dead, saw there the [spirits moving about, hastening hither and thither.

“Something is happening there in the pale valley,” said Odin. “They are preparing for the coming of another shade. And it must be some great one who is to come. See how great the preparation is they make.”

“We prepare for the coming of Baldur,” answered the shades as Odin came upon them, busy in their work. “We prepare a throne for Baldur. We prepare a throne for Baldur.”

“For Baldur?” asked Odin, his heart sinking. “For Baldur!” chanted the shades. “For Baldur! Baldur cometh! Baldur cometh!”

And Odin, his godlike heart faint and sick at the thought, turned away and went slowly up the rainbow bridge.

There, in the great garden of the gods, he found Thor and Baldur and their brother 

Hodor playing at tests of strength. Behind Hodor, invisible, stood Loke. In his hand he held a spear.

“Shame upon you, Hodor,” whispered Loke, “that you, the strong and mighty Hodor, cannot overcome Baldur in a test of strength. Baldur may be beautiful and sunny, and he is a great joy to the world; that we know. But what is he compared with Hodor for strength?”

“But the spears will not touch him. See how they glance away. Indeed it is true: Light cannot be pierced.” answered Hodor, good-naturedly.

“Take this spear,” said Loke, quietly. “It is less clumsy than those you throw.”

BALDUR, THE BEAUTIFUL, IS DEAD.

Hodor took it, never thinking of any harm. Alas for Baldur and Asgard and all the happy smiling Earth! It was a spear tipped with the mistletoe—the one plant that Frigg had failed to find. The one plant that had not promised to do no harm to Baldur.

Quickly the spear flew through the air. One second, and Baldur the Summer Spirit, Baldur the Light of the Earth fell—dead.

“O, Asgard! Baldur is dead!” groaned Odin. “O Asgard, Asgard! Baldur is dead!”

Hodor, Thor, the gods, one and all, stood pale and white. A terrible fear settled over their faces. They shook with terror.

And even as they stood there, speechless in their grief, a twilight dimness began to fall lightly, lightly over all. The shining pavements grew less bright; the blue of the great arch overhead deepened; and in the valleys of Midgard there were long black shadows. Baldur was dead. The light had failed. The golden age was at an end. Now, even the gods must die. 

***

The shortest explanation of mistletoe and kissing is given in this "AI Overview"

Mistletoe is featured in many mythologies and has been associated with a variety of meanings, including fertility, love, and peace: Norse mythology

• In this myth, the god Loki tricked the god Hodur into killing Baldur, the god's twin brother, with an arrow made from mistletoe. Frigga, the mother of Baldur and Hodur, wept tears that turned into mistletoe berries. Mistletoe became a symbol of love and peace in Scandinavia, and the custom of calling a truce under mistletoe may have originated from this myth. 

Remember not to eat the berries as they are poisonous! So keep them away from children -- another good reason to hang them high and out of reach. May you stay around mistletoe, kissing or not, with plenty of love and peace for the holidays.

***** 

This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “PublicDomain Story Resources."

Cowles - Why the Wind Wails - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

The only rule for weather predictions for most locations is that it will change. . . and it definitely has!

We may not have received the nation's worst, but Michigan, especially the west and north, is bad enough. Erie Pennsylvania, your residents must love winter. Since winter and cold are my least favorite time of year, anybody there who doesn't love winter has my sympathy.

We had been having above normal weather and I was foolish enough to think that was a trend!

Julia Darrow Cowles and her book Indian Nature Myths hasn't been here in years -- their posting here spans from 2013 - 2017. That first story back in 2013 was before I found ways to reproduce pages better than a simple scan of my own books. That first story was her retelling of the Schoolcraft tale, "How the Seasons Came to Be." Definitely appropriate now. I suggest going to the book listed above at Project Gutenberg as the entire book is a treat for nature lovers.

Cowles notes the nations responsible for her stories, often the Anishinaabe (listing as Ojibwa or Chippewa) but several, including today's story, are merely attributed to the Algonquian. Our area's native people are part of that larger group and stories do travel. For more about the Algonquian peoples go to that link to understand this most populous and widespread North American indigenous North American group. Cowles briefly mentioned such story traveling in her Preface.

Wind chills have made the weather transition particularly brutal, so this Algonquin story is on my mind as the wind howls or it invisibly tries to beat me.

WHY THE WIND WAILS

(Algonquin)

WHEN the pale moon looks down from the sky, and when the wind cries mournfully around the wigwam, this is the story that the old man of the tribe tells to the Indian children:

Many, many moons ago the great chief of our tribe had a very beautiful daughter.

“She shall marry a great warrior,” said the Chief, “and a mighty hunter. Then she will be well cared for, and I shall be happy.”

So the great Chief kept watch of the young men of the tribe, to see which one would prove worthy of his daughter.

One day, as the Chief sat in the door of his lodge, there came a sudden rushing sound, and a young man stood before him. It was the Wind, who had made himself visible that he might talk with the Chief.

When he had saluted, he said, “Great Chief, I love your daughter. May I carry her away to my lodge, and make her my wife?”

The Chief looked at the Wind, and he answered, “No. My daughter is not for such as you. You are no warrior. You are no hunter. You love to play pranks. You cannot marry my daughter.”

So the Wind went away sorrowing, for he loved the Indian maiden.

The next day the maiden came to her father and said, “Father, I love the Wind better than any young warrior of our tribe. May I go to his lodge, and be his wife?”

The Chief looked at his daughter and said, “No. The Wind is no mate for you. He is no warrior. He is no hunter. He loves only to play pranks. You cannot marry him.”

The maiden went away sorrowing, for she loved the Wind.

The next day when the maiden went out to gather sweet marsh grass for her basket weaving, she heard a sudden rushing sound above her head. She looked up, and as she looked the Wind swept down and carried her in his arms far away to his lodge.

There they lived happily together, for the maiden became his wife. But the great Chief was full of wrath. He hunted through all the land for the lodge of the Wind, but he could not find it for many moons. Still he would not give up the search, for his heart was hot with wrath.

One day the Wind heard a great crashing sound among the trees near his lodge, and his heart stood still.

“It is your father,” he cried, and he hid the Chief’s daughter in a thicket, while he made himself invisible, that he might stay close beside her.

The great Chief looked inside the lodge of the Wind, but he found it empty. Then he went through the brush, striking to right and left with his heavy club, and calling, “My daughter: my daughter!”

And when the Wind’s wife heard her father’s voice, she answered, “Oh, my father, strike not! We are here.”

But before her words could reach him, the Chief swung his great club once more, and it fell upon the head of the invisible Wind, who, without a sound, dropped unconscious upon the ground. And because he was invisible, neither the Chief nor his daughter knew what had happened.

Then the Chief took his daughter in his arms and hastened back to his tribe. But each day she grew more and more sorrowful, and longed for her husband, the Wind.

For many hours the Wind lay unconscious beside his lodge. When he awakened, the Chief and his daughter had gone. Sorrowfully he set out in search of his wife. He traveled to her father’s tribe, and there at last he found her. But she was in a canoe with her father, far out upon the lake.

Then the Wind cried, “Come to me, my loved one,” and his voice swept out over the water.

The Chief said, “The winds are blowing,” but his daughter knew her husband’s voice. She could not see him, for he was still invisible, but she lifted herself up in the canoe and stretched out her hands toward the shore. As she did so a breeze stirred the water, and the canoe overturned.

The Chief’s daughter threw up her arms, and the Wind tried to catch her in his embrace, but he was too late. The Great Spirit bore her far up into the sky, and there he gave her a home where she would live

“THE WIND TRIED TO CATCH HER IN HIS EMBRACE”

The great Chief was drowned in the waters of the lake.

Night after night his daughter looks down upon the earth, hoping for a sight of her lost lover. But though the Wind still roams about the earth in search of his bride, he has never, since the Chief’s blow fell upon his head, had the power to become visible to men.

And now you will understand why the voice of the Wind is so mournful as it wails about the wigwam; and why the Moon Maiden’s pale face is always turned downward toward the earth.

***

The book ends with another Algonquin wind tale, "Keepers of the Winds", but it's best saved for a warmer time. 

For my fellow storytellers I want to repeat Cowles' note that appeared right before the stories: 

Before reading or telling the Indian Nature Myths to the children, it is best to explain that just as they love to wonder and imagine about the new and strange sights and sounds of the world, so the early races of men, the children of time, loved to wonder and imagine. And so these stories of nature grew out of their imaginings; and some of the stories are so beautiful, and some of them are so odd, that men have repeated them from one generation to another, ever since,—for even when they no longer believed them to be true, they loved them.

Other anthologies title this story "Bride of the Wind." Florence Holbrook's The Book of Nature Myths and Mary F. Nixon-Roulet's Indian Folk Tales  are two Public Domain books with that title.

 ******************

This is part of a series of postings of stories under the category, “Keeping the Public in Public Domain.” The idea behind Public Domain was to preserve our cultural heritage after the authors and their immediate heirs were compensated. I feel strongly current copyright law delays this intent on works of the 20^th century. My own library of folklore includes so many books within the Public Domain I decided to share stories from them. I hope you enjoy discovering them.

At the same time, my own involvement in storytelling regularly creates projects requiring research as part of my sharing stories with an audience.  Whenever that research needs to be shown here, the publishing of Public Domain stories will not occur that week.  This is a return to my regular posting of a research project here.  (Don't worry, this isn't dry research, my research is always geared towards future storytelling to an audience.)  Response has convinced me that "Keeping the Public in Public Domain" should continue along with my other postings as often as I can manage it.

See the sidebar for other Public Domain story resources I recommend on the page “PublicDomain Story Resources."