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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