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 a 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 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 old 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.

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.