The Christmas Book. Enid blyton

supposed to do anything else queer, Daddy?”

      “It was supposed to open all locks and doors,” said her father, opening the gate of their garden.

      “Oh,” said Peter, “perhaps it would open my old money-box, Daddy. I’ve lost the key.”

      “Well, really!” said Daddy, “I’m not telling you all these things for you to try out yourselves. I’m only telling you what long-ago, ignorant people believed in the childhood of the world.”

      “I know,” said Peter. “But I’ll just see if the mistletoe will open that box.”

      Mother came to meet them. “What a long time you have been,” she said.

      “Well—we had a lot to talk about,” said Susan. “Mother, Daddy knows such a lot about the mistletoe.”

      “Well, does he know why we are supposed to hang it from something, instead of putting it behind pictures as we do holly?” said Mother, laughing. “Can he tell me that? No-one has ever told me why.”

      “Yes, I can tell you,” said Daddy. “It once killed a beautiful god, called Balder, and ever since then it has been made to grow high on a tree, out of harm’s way. It must not touch the earth or anything on it—so we have to hang it, instead of letting it rest against our walls. Ah—I knew that, you see.”

      “Who was Balder?” asked Susan, who was always on the look-out for a story.

      “I’ll tell you after tea,” said Daddy. “My voice is getting hoarse from talking so much. Wait till we’re sitting round the fire, and I’ll tell you.”