How sad, how sad it was!  Now Santa Claus would come, and perhaps be angry because he couldn’t find any place to put the present.

The poor little girl stood by the fireplace, and the big tears began to run down her cheeks.  Just then her mother called to her, “Hurry, Piccola; come to bed.”  What should she do?  But she stopped crying, and tried to think; and in a moment she remembered her wooden shoes, and ran off to get one of them.  She put it close to the chimney, and said to herself, “Surely Santa Claus will know what it’s there for.  He will know I haven’t any stockings, so I gave him the shoe instead.”

Then she went off happily to her bed, and was asleep almost as soon as she had nestled close to her mother’s side.

The sun had only just begun to shine, next morning, when Piccola awoke.  With one jump she was out on the floor and running toward the chimney.  The wooden shoe was lying where she had left it, but you could never, never guess what was in it.

Piccola had not meant to wake her mother, but this surprise was more than any little girl could bear and yet be quiet; so she danced to the bed with the shoe in her hand, calling, “Mother, mother! look, look! see the present Santa Claus brought me!”

Her mother raised her head and looked into the shoe.  “Why, Piccola,” she said, “a little chimney swallow nestling in your shoe?  What a good Santa Claus to bring you a bird!”

“Good Santa Claus, dear Santa Claus!” cried Piccola; and she kissed her mother and kissed the bird and kissed the shoe, and even threw kisses up the chimney, she was so happy.

When the birdling was taken out of the shoe, they found that he did not try to fly, only to hop about the room; and as they looked closer, they could see that one of his wings was hurt a little.  But the mother bound it up carefully, so that it did not seem to pain him, and he was so gentle that he took a drink of water from a cup, and even ate crumbs and seeds out of Piccola’s hands.  She was a proud little girl when she took her Christmas present to show the children in the garden.  They had had a great many gifts,—­dolls that could say “mamma,” bright picture books, trains of cars, toy pianos; but not one of their playthings was alive, like Piccola’s birdling.  They were as pleased as she, and Rose hunted about the house until she found a large wicker cage that belonged to a blackbird she once had.  She gave the cage to Piccola, and the swallow seemed to make himself quite at home in it at once, and sat on the perch winking his bright eyes at the children.  Rose had saved a bag of candies for Piccola, and when she went home at last, with the cage and her dear swallow safely inside it, I am sure there was not a happier little girl in the whole country of Italy.

[*] From “The Story Hour,” by Wiggins and Smith.  Published by consent of the authors and also the publishers—­Houghton, Mifflin and Company.