ittle Hilda Peterson sat by a table in her mother's room studying her
spelling lesson. Suddenly she startled her mother by giving the table a
sharp rap with her pencil and saying:

"What a queer name for a day! Why didn't the people who named the days
give them numbers instead of names? I can never remember how to spell
Wednesday. What is the use of the third letter in it?"

"My little girl, when you have finished your lesson I will tell you a
story; then I think you will always remember where the fourth day got
its name."

It did not take Hilda many minutes to finish her studying, with the
promise of a story before her.

This is the old Norse tale her mother told:

"Long years ago, before our fatherland, Norway, became a Christian
country, our people were taught that they must worship many gods. Nearly
all of these they feared; a very few they loved. The greatest was Woden.
When little children looked at the moon and stars, they were told that
Woden made them. When they asked about the clouds, everyone said, 'Woden
made them.'

"In the spring they were told that Woden made the leaves come and the
flowers open. No one knew the true God then. Everyone said that Woden
lived in a beautiful city in the sky, north of our own Northland. All
the houses there were gold and silver, and the most splendid one was
Woden's royal palace. This was called Valhalla. To reach it one had to
ride or walk the whole length of the rainbow, as it arched from land to
land. But there was a sharp-eyed watchman at the gate who stopped anyone
who had no right to cross that seven-hued bridge.

"In Valhalla, Woden's people were always happy. They were never sick;
they never died. There were no little girls and no little boys in this
golden palace, only soldiers; and some of these were women! Woden
often sent his shield-maidens, as they were called, to battlefields to
carry to Valhalla the souls of brave men.