At Christmas we remember how God sent His son to this old world to give us hope. It only seems right to be full of joy. We decorate a tree. We got a house full of yule logs and mistletoe. Through the years many men much wiser than me, have told stories explainin' how these traditions come to be part of celebratin' the Savior's birth. Before my eyes grow dim and while a pen can still be held in my hand, I will put the words on paper, told me by my great grandpappy. It's the same story that always brought a gleam to great grandpappy's eye. It's the legend of the Christmas tree.

It all came about through a man named Maynard P. Seymour. Maynard P. Seymour was a rich man. The richest man in Landerbury. Fact is, most folks say, he owned Landerbury. The only thing there was that surpassed his riches was his meanness. Folks say too, he was the meanest man in Landerbury. The meanest man until that day... now I'm getting ahead of myself. Maybe I should tell you about his boyhood. Then you might better understand how Maynard P. Seymour came to be the man he was.

Maynard was the only child of Charles P. Seymour, a lovin' father, and Anna B. Seymour who died at Maynard's birth. Now Charles P. Seymour was an honest man, as honest as the day is long. And hard workin' too. Always told his boy, Maynard, "Many a good thing is made from muscle and sweat." And sweat he did. Worked some days ten, twelve hours, at the factory, but he always had time for his son. How he loved that boy. But one day when Maynard was seven, Charles P. went to the factory and never came home. He died a hero, saving a young man from the clutches of the machinery, but could not save himself.

That left Maynard alone. Alone except for an uncle, that is. Quinter Seymour. He was the brother of Maynard's father, but did not possess the family qualities that his father did. He never done an honest day's work in his life. He made his money gamblin' and mostly just cheatin' other folks. He never did care about anyone but himself. Now, he had this boy to look out for. He didn't do much of a job at that. He left that boy home alone for days at a time. He never bought him a stitch of new clothes. Never bought him a toy. Many a night Maynard went to bed with a hungry belly.

Uncle Quinter's house was right next to the factory. Maynard slept in a room upstairs that had a window overlookin' the factory. He spent most all his time in that room just lookin' out the window. He looked at the factory. The factory that took his father's life. He would watch when the whistle would blow to see the workers file out. Some of the men would be greeted by their sons waitin' at the gate, just like Maynard used to do sometimes. These are the same boys who laughed at Maynard and made fun of him because of his ragged clothes and general lack. Maynard hated the factory and everyone in it. The only friends Maynard had was the birds. He watched them fly and light on the branches of the tree just outside his window. He'd leave crumbs on the sill for the birds. They'd eat them and even thanked him with a little song. The only thing Maynard loved was those birds and I think they loved him too. He'd watch them birds for hours.

As Maynard grew, he used that muscle and sweat that his pappy talked about, but stayin' with his uncle Quinter with his wicked ways, it wasn't used for good. He cheated and swindled and stole from everyone he could. He got right good at it too. He become a full time gambler. And what he didn't win, he'd steal, cause he didn't care about nothin' or no one except them birds. He won his uncle Quinter's house in a card game and that old man died three months later at the poor farm. Maynard didn't go to the funeral, and never been to the grave.

Maynard took all that money he got with his evil deeds and started investin' in property. Bought up most the houses in his neighborhood, and many a house in Landerbury. Hard times hit the country. Hit especially hard in cities like Landerbury. Maynard took full advantage of it. Bought lots more houses. Cheap, too. Like I said, times were bad, so bad, the factory was fixin' to close. Most of the townfolk worked at that factory. It sure would of been the end of Landerbury, but Maynard stepped in. He bought the factory for pennies on the dollar. Now Maynard P. Seymour about owned Landerbury.

The boys that made fun of Maynard were now men, and they worked for him at his factory for paltry wages. And they lived in his houses payin' rent so high that they could hardly afford to feed their families.

As the years passed by, Maynard P. Seymour's heart grew harder and colder, which brings me back to where I began. Remember, this is "the legend of the Christmas tree."

No one ever dreamed of havin' a decorated tree inside their house. Of course, gift givin' was part of celebratin' the birth of the Savior. Now Maynard P. Seymour was an old man. A mean old man. He never married, so he was alone. He still lived in that big house overlookin' the factory, and still spent many an hour lookin' out that window. He still loved them birds, but hated people.

As it was gettin' close to Christmas, he watched from that window. People was wishin' each other Merry Christmas'. But not Maynard P. Seymour. He wished no one well, and no one extended him holiday greetin's. For all those years, he never got or give a Christmas gift. Not since he was a boy. Not since his pappy was alive.

This year would be different though. He decided to give a gift. A gift to the only ones he loved. The birds. I'm not so sure if it was cause of his love for the birds or spite for the people, but as the folks were gettin' ready for Christmas, Maynard made gifts for his only friends. He strung popcorn and berries and hung it on all the trees that lined the street around the factory. I guess you're beginnin' to see where the Christmas tree is startin' to take up. To Maynard, those trees were more than just a gift to his friends. They also stood to show people, he despised them.

Maynard went to bed that night ever so proud of himself. He got up the next mornin' expectin' to see them birds just a flutterin', and a eatin', and a chirpin'. But he looked at them trees and saw not a berry. Not a kernel of corn. Not a crumb. He was furious! Those people mock me, he thought. Durin' the night they steal what little source of happiness I have. I'll not have it. Maynard put him together some more berries and popcorn, and strung it up. But the next day it was gone. Maynard was not goin' to allow some thief to take what his hands had made. He saw this as an attack against him. This time when he strung up them berries and corn, he lighted candles on them trees, and he sat up in the window all night waitin' to catch that thief in the act.

Just before dawn Maynard saw some movement down by those trees. It wasn't just one sneak thief like he thought takin' and hidin' those treats from his birds. He saw many little faces by the glow of them candles. Like I said, times was hard, especially with the wages Maynard paid and rent he charged. It wasn't some thief takin' these things to do wrong by Maynard. It was children, little children, hungry little children, puttin' berries in their mouth and popcorn in their pockets. Now you might think knowin' how Maynard was hungry as a boy, that he'd have compassion on them. You know, takin' berries from a tree on the street isn't exactly what's thought of as stealin' to a hungry bellied boy, even if they was strung up. But to Maynard, the whole lot of them were thievin' little scoundrels. That old man run just as fast as any young man out there, to catch them berry pickin' thieves. Well, he might have run fast for an old man, but bein' an old man, he couldn't run far. He caught him only one boy. The littlest one. A boy who run, not because he was caught doin' somethin' wrong, but for the fact he was bein' chased by mean, old, Maynard P. Seymour.

A hold of the boy by the shirt collar, Maynard demanded what the boy's name was. Scared half to death, the boy managed to stammer out his name. Lawrence A. Parsons III. Maynard knew that name well. That would be the son of Lawrence A. Parsons Jr. Grandson of Lawrence A. Parsons, the young man that Maynard's own father died savin' at the factory so many years ago. Why, if Maynard's father had not give his life for Lawrence A. Parsons, there would be no Lawrence A. Parsons Jr. and no Lawrence A. Parsons III. And he a thief and a scoundrel. Not a sweet child. For this his father gave up his life? Maynard was furious!

Maynard's thoughts went back to his pappy. A good man. The anger raged! Maynard threw his fist in the air. "Why? Why would a man give his life for a thief and a scoundrel?"

Wide eyed and innocent, Lawrence A Parsons III said, "That's why we celebrate Christmas. My grandpappy told me Jesus loves us so much, he came to give his life for all the bad things we've done."

Maynard's heart melted at that moment, cause he remembered that's what his pappy told him, too. All his life, he thought nobody loved him. Yet, Jesus gave His life for a cheatin' scoundrel like him. Well, needless to say, that day little Lawrence A. Parsons III went home with his pockets bulgin' of berries and corn. And Maynard P. Seymour was never the same!

Now that happened to be the day before Christmas. That day Maynard strung those trees with corn and berries, and he added candy canes and ginger cookies and treats more suitable for children, than birds. The children woke up on Christmas mornin' to trees strung with goodies they never even dreamed of. And under the trees, gifts. Shoes, and hats, and socks, and gloves, and toys, dolls and skates. You never did see such a sight, all up and down the street. The children of course, thought Santa Claus brought these things. The adults didn't know what to think. They begin to catch on though, when everyone at the factory got a raise and even a Christmas bonus. And Maynard wasn't the meanest man in Landerbury anymore. In fact, he soon become one of the nicest. Whenever you'd pass him on the street, he'd be whistlin' just as pretty as them birds he loved so much.

Well, Maynard was an old man, and didn't live to see another Christmas. But come Christmas time, one by one, the folk of Landerbury began stringin' berries and popcorn for the trees. The whole city was lit up with them. And every year after, they decorated those trees and their children did too, and their children after them. As folk moved away from Landerbury, they took this idea of decoratin' a Christmas tree with them. Course through the years, the decorations got a little fancier, and the trees come inside. Now, people around the world include a tree as part of celebratin' the Savior's birth.

Like I said, many people tell a lot of stories of how these traditions come to be. But my grandpappy knows for sure, cause he was that little boy, Leonard A. Parsons III and he knew the man that thought Christmas was for the birds.



About 2,000 years ago, shepherds announced the birth of Jesus.

For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. Luke 2:11

This baby that was born in Bethlehem, grew to be a man. A perfect man. Yet he was nailed to a cross. He suffered and died, not for any wrong He committed, but this Savior took the punishment in our place so that our sins would be forgiven.

If we believe that Jesus died for our sins and ask him to forgive us, and we are willing to turn from our sins and follow Jesus, when this life is over, we can have a home in heaven.