"There are not many of us left now, but it's been handed down to me from my forefathers that, right back to the times of the ancient Britons, there was a grove of us oaks in this very spot. Those were the times when we were thought a mighty lot of by the poor heathen who dwelt in this country then; they didn't know anything about the true God, and so they worshipped in their blindness the sun and the moon and the stars and gods of their own creation. Beside that, they counted all of us oak trees sacred. I don't know why that was, but of course they couldn't help seeing we were the finest-looking trees in all the forest, so they took care of us and blessed us, and even the mistletoe (the seed of which sometimes drops upon us from a bird's mouth and takes root and makes its home on our boughs), even that the Druid priests used to revere, and only allow it to be cut with a golden knife at their sacrificial feasts. "But though they were considerate for us, they were very cruel to their enemies, and often poor captives were brought out and judged in the open courts in the woods, and offered as sacrifices in our beautiful shady oak groves. Stories have been handed down through past generations of those poor people who suffered; but happier times have come since. Folks here don't worship their cruel gods Woden and Thor now, though they seem to keep them in remembrance by still using Thursday and Wednesday in their week's list of days, which names mean, as I understand it, Thor's day and Woden's day. "I'm very glad those heathen times are over here, and that the people who come and rest in my trunk, or sit at my feet, know about the wonderful true God Who created everything for His glory; not only the boys and girls, but in His Book it says, 'The trees _of the Lord_ are full of sap,' and I like that--trees of the Lord; it shows we belong to Him. He doesn't forget us, either, for He waters us with the rain which we suck up into our roots, and drink into our leaves, through the tiny mouths with which we breathe the beautiful forest breezes, and by the warm yellow sun the great God sends the colour flushing into all our veins, and into all the outer skin of the bark that covers us. Through our pores, which widen in the hot weather, the sweet air rushes, and gives us fresh life and growth, and under the tiny air-bags are the canals where the sap runs and rises in the spring, right from the very roots, travelling over our branches until it fills even our leaves, and makes us able to put forth new growth and life.