After Celia Thaxter

: CHRISTMAS DAY
: Good Stories For Great Holidays

In the sunny land of France there lived many years ago a sweet little

maid named Piccola.



Her father had died when she was a baby, and her mother was very poor

and had to work hard all day in the fields for a few sous.



Little Piccola had no dolls and toys, and she was often hungry and cold,

but she was never sad nor lonely.



What if there were no children for her to play with! W
at if she did not

have fine clothes and beautiful toys! In summer there were always the

birds in the forest, and the flowers in the fields and meadows,--the

birds sang so sweetly, and the flowers were so bright and pretty!



In the winter when the ground was covered with snow, Piccola helped her

mother, and knit long stockings of blue wool.



The snow-birds had to be fed with crumbs, if she could find any, and

then, there was Christmas Day.



But one year her mother was ill and could not earn any money. Piccola

worked hard all the day long, and sold the stockings which she knit,

even when her own little bare feet were blue with the cold.



As Christmas Day drew near she said to her mother, "I wonder what the

good Saint Nicholas will bring me this year. I cannot hang my stocking

in the fireplace, but I shall put my wooden shoe on the hearth for him.

He will not forget me, I am sure."



"Do not think of it this year, my dear child," replied her mother. "We

must be glad if we have bread enough to eat."



But Piccola could not believe that the good saint would forget her. On

Christmas Eve she put her little wooden patten on the hearth before the

fire, and went to sleep to dream of Saint Nicholas.



As the poor mother looked at the little shoe, she thought how unhappy

her dear child would be to find it empty in the morning, and wished that

she had something, even if it were only a tiny cake, for a Christmas

gift. There was nothing in the house but a few sous, and these must be

saved to buy bread.



When the morning dawned Piccola awoke and ran to her shoe.



Saint Nicholas had come in the night. He had not forgotten the little

child who had thought of him with such faith.



See what he had brought her. It lay in the wooden patten, looking up at

her with its two bright eyes, and chirping contentedly as she stroked

its soft feathers.



A little swallow, cold and hungry, had flown into the chimney and down

to the room, and had crept into the shoe for warmth.



Piccola danced for joy, and clasped the shivering swallow to her breast.



She ran to her mother's bedside. "Look, look!" she cried. "A Christmas

gift, a gift from the good Saint Nicholas!" And she danced again in her

little bare feet.



Then she fed and warmed the bird, and cared for it tenderly all winter

long; teaching it to take crumbs from her hand and her lips, and to sit

on her shoulder while she was working.



In the spring she opened the window for it to fly away, but it lived

in the woods near by all summer, and came often in the early morning to

sing its sweetest songs at her door.



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