irly groaned under its weight of
good cheer. At its head sat the kings and the earl-folk; and before
them, on a silver platter of rare workmanship, was the head of a huge
wild boar,--the festal offering to the good Frey, in honor of whom
the Yule-feast was held. For now the sun, which had been driven by the
Frost-giants far away towards the South-land, had begun to return, and
Frey was on his way once more to scatter peace and plenty over the land.

The harp and the wassail-bowl went round; and each one of the company
sang a song, or told a story, or in some way did his part to add to the
evening's enjoyment. And a young sea-king who sat at Siegfried's side
told most bewitching tales of other lands which lie beyond Old AEgir's
kingdom. Then, when the harp came to him, he sang the wondrous song of
the shaping of the earth. And all who heard were charmed with the sweet
sound and with the pleasant words. He sang of the sunlight and the south
winds and the summer-time, of the storms and the snow and the sombre
shadows of the North-land. And he sang of the dead Ymir, the giant whose
flesh had made the solid earth, and whose blood the sea, and whose bones
the mountains, whose teeth the cliffs and crags, and whose skull the
heavens. And he sang of Odin, the earth's preserver, the Giver of life,
the Father of all; and of the Asa-folk who dwell in Asgard; and of
the ghostly heroes in Valhal. Then he sang of the heaven-tower of the
thunder-god, and of the shimmering Asa-bridge, or rainbow, all afire;
and, lastly, of the four dwarfs who hold the blue sky-dome above them,
and of the elves of the mountains, and of the wood-sprites and
the fairies. Then he laid aside his harp, and told the old but
ever-beautiful story of the death of Balder the Good.

The Story.

Balder, as you know, was Odin's son; and he was the brightest and
best of all the Asa-folk. Wherever he went, there were gladness and
light-hearted mirth, and blooming flowers, and singing birds, and
murmuring waterfalls. Balder, too, was a hero, but not one of the
blustering kind, like Thor. He slew no giants; he never went into
battle; he never tried to make for himself a name among the dwellers of
the mid-world; and yet he was a hero of the noblest type. He dared to do
right, and to stand up for the good, the true, and the beautiful. There
are still some such heroes, but the world does not always hear of them.

Hoder, the blind king of the winter months, was Ba