How excited she was, and how glad the children were when she first stepped into the garden!  She wore her best dress, a long, bright-colored woolen skirt and a white waist.  Round her neck was a string of beads, and on her feet were little wooden shoes.  It would seem very strange to us—­would it not?—­to wear wooden shoes; but Piccola and her mother had never worn anything else, and never had any money to buy stockings.  Piccola almost always ran about barefooted, like the kittens and the chickens and the little ducks.  What a good time they had that day, and how glad Piccola’s mother was that her little girl could have such a pleasant, safe place to play in, while she was away at work!

By and by December came, and the little Americans began to talk about Christmas.  One day, when Piccola’s curly head and bright eyes came peeping through the hole in the wall, and they ran to her and helped her in; and as they did so, they all asked her at once what she thought she would have for a Christmas present.  “A Christmas present!” said Piccola.  “Why, what is that?”

All the children looked surprised at this, and Rose said, rather gravely, “Dear Piccola, don’t you know what Christmas is?”

Oh, yes, Piccola knew it was the happy day when the baby Christ was born, and she had been to church on that day and heard the beautiful singing, and had seen the picture of the Babe lying in the manger, with cattle and sheep sleeping round about.  Oh, yes, she knew all that very well, but what was a Christmas present?

Then the children began to laugh and to answer her all together.  There was such a clatter of tongues that she could hear only a few of the words now and then, such as “chimney,” “Santa Claus,” “stockings,” “reindeer,” “Christmas Eve,” “candies and toys.”  Piccola put her hands over her ears and said, “Oh, I can’t understand one word.  You tell me, Rose.”  Then Rose told her all about jolly Santa Claus, with his red cheeks and white beard and fur coat, and about his reindeer and sleigh full of toys.  “Every Christmas Eve,” said Rose, “he comes down the chimney, and fills the stockings of all the good children; so, Piccola, you hang up your stocking, and who knows what a beautiful Christmas present you will find when morning comes!” Of course Piccola thought this was a delightful plan, and was very pleased to hear about it.  Then all the children told her of every Christmas Eve they could remember, and of the presents they had had; so that she went home thinking of nothing but dolls and hoops and balls and ribbons and marbles and wagons and kites.

She told her mother about Santa Claus, and her mother seemed to think that perhaps he did not know there was any little girl in that house, and very likely he would not come at all.  But Piccola felt very sure Santa Claus would remember her, for her little friends had promised to send a letter up the chimney to remind him.

Christmas Eve came at last.  Piccola’s mother hurried home from her work; they had their little supper of soup and bread, and soon it was bedtime,—­time to get ready for Santa Claus.  But oh!  Piccola remembered then for the first time that the children had told her she must hang up her stocking, and she hadn’t any, and neither had her mother.