A Beautiful Silver Star

When the Allied forces made their big push into Germany, it was the duty of my military police battalion to take prisoners from the front lines into crudely constructed stockades. I shall never forget December 24, 1944 and the German prisoner of war who helped to make it more memorable for me.

It was a bitter cold night and I found myself on duty helping to guard more than twelve hundred German prisoners. To say we were a homesick group of men would be an understatement. The fact that is was Christmas Eve only added to our depression. One of our company, a man from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, stopped blowing on his hands long enough to say, “What a cold, miserable Christmas! Just because we are stuck out here doesn’t mean we can’t do something about it. I’m going out and find a tree.”

“Forget it!” another M.P. shouted. “There are no trees around here; besides, we haven’t anything to decorate with anyway.”

Not to be discouraged, Smoky went into the darkness and later returned with a bedraggled specimen.

“You call that thing a tree?” our heckler continued. “In Texas we’d plow that under for a bush.”

With a positive attitude, Smoky began to decorate his tree with ornaments made from gum wrappers, candy wrappers, etc. Several of the men not stationed directly at the stockade began to help our zealous friend with his seemingly impossible task. As we worked, I suddenly heard a voice calling from the stockade, “American, American.” Turning toward the compound, I saw a German prisoner with one hand extended through the barbed wire. With his other hand, he was motioning toward me. I quickly threw a shell into the chamber of my rifle and approached him with caution.

What I saw in his hand astounded me. This prisoner had made a beautiful silver star entirely from gum foil that was a work of art. He placed the star in my hand and motioned to the top of our tree. Hoping he spoke some English, I said, “This star has such detail, are you a professional artist?” By his puzzled expression it was obvious he spoke no more English than I spoke German, so I took his contribution over and placed it atop our tree.

“Well, I’ll be!” the heckler began again. “I hate to admit this, but that bush is beginning to look like a real tree. Guess I should have kept my mouth shut, eh, Smoky?” (A loud cheer of agreement resounded from all of the men.)

As we completed our tree, we began singing Christmas carols, and I noticed several of the prisoners joined in on “Silent Night”. The last strains were fading into the night when I heard the same voice call, “American”.

This time the prisoner had both hands extended through the barbed wire. Again I approached with caution, rifle ready, and again I was amazed at what he held in his hands. This German sculptor had made intricate figures of Joseph, Mary, and the Christ Child. He pointed under the tree as he handed me his detailed work. I nodded my thanks and carefully placed the delicate figures where he had indicated.

As I placed the tiny figure of the Christ Child, made from a stick base and professionally covered with foil, the light from our fire actually seemed to give it a heavenly glow. I thought of how far we had strayed from the teachings of Jesus and felt tears sting my eyes.

Looking at the stockade, I saw that the prisoner was still by the barbed wire, so I hurried back, smiled, and warmly shook his hand. He returned my smile and the firelight caught the tears that were in his eyes.

Since the close of World War II, I have thought of this German prisoner of war numerous times. Our meeting was brief; we were two ships that passed in the night, and yet I feel this man would agree that our only hope for lasting world peace would be a return to the teachings of the tiny figure he so beautifully molded that cold December night. One thing is certain: If we love the Lord, we also have a genuine concern for all mankind - the two are synonymous.

-- Ivan T. Anderson

Gate 67

Usually, however, the special spirit of the season somehow finds its way into our hearts and into our lives despite the difficulties and distractions which may occupy our time and energy.

Many years ago I read of an experience at Christmastime which took place when thousands of weary travelers were stranded in the congested Atlanta, Georgia, airport. An ice storm had seriously delayed air travel as these people were trying to get wherever they most wanted to be for Christmas—most likely home.

It happened in December of 1970. As the midnight hour tolled, unhappy passengers clustered around ticket counters, conferring anxiously with agents whose cheerfulness had long since evaporated. They, too, wanted to be home. A few people managed to doze in uncomfortable seats. Others gathered at the newsstands to thumb silently through paperback books.

If there was a common bond among this diverse throng, it was loneliness—pervasive, inescapable, suffocating loneliness. But airport decorum required that each traveler maintain his invisible barrier against all the others. Better to be lonely than to be involved, which inevitably meant listening to the complaints of gloomy and disheartened fellow travelers.

The fact of the matter was that there were more passengers than there were available seats on any of the planes. When an occasional plane managed to break out, more travelers stayed behind than made it aboard. The words “Standby,” “Reservation confirmed,” and “First-class passenger” settled priorities and bespoke money, power, influence, foresight—or the lack thereof.

Gate 67 in Atlanta was a microcosm of the whole cavernous airport. Scarcely more than a glassed-in cubicle, it was jammed with travelers hoping to fly to New Orleans, Dallas, and points west. Except for the fortunate few traveling in pairs, there was little conversation at Gate 67. A salesman stared absently into space, as if resigned. A young mother cradled an infant in her arms, gently rocking in a vain effort to soothe the soft whimpering.

Then there was a man in a finely tailored grey flannel suit who somehow seemed impervious to the collective suffering. There was a certain indifference about his manner. He was absorbed in paperwork—figuring the year-end corporate profits, perhaps. A nerve-frayed traveler sitting nearby, observing this busy man, might have identified him as an Ebenezer Scrooge.

Suddenly, the relative silence was broken by a commotion. A young man in military uniform, no more than 19 years old, was in animated conversation with the desk agent. The boy held a low-priority ticket. He pleaded with the agent to help him get to New Orleans so that he could take the bus to the obscure Louisiana village he called home.

The agent wearily told him the prospects were poor for the next 24 hours, maybe longer. The boy grew frantic. Immediately after Christmas his unit was to be sent to Vietnam—where at that time war was raging—and if he didn’t make this flight, he might never again spend Christmas at home. Even the businessman looked up from his cryptic computations to show a guarded interest. The agent clearly was moved, even a bit embarrassed. But he could only offer sympathy—not hope. The boy stood at the departure desk, casting anxious looks around the crowded room as if seeking just one friendly face.

Finally the agent announced that the flight was ready for boarding. The travelers, who had been waiting long hours, heaved themselves up, gathered their belongings, and shuffled down the small corridor to the waiting aircraft: twenty, thirty, a hundred—until there were no more seats. The agent turned to the frantic young soldier and shrugged.

Inexplicably, the businessman had lingered behind. Now he stepped forward. “I have a confirmed ticket,” he quietly told the agent. “I’d like to give my seat to this young man.” The agent stared incredulously; then he motioned to the soldier. Unable to speak, tears streaming down his face, the boy in olive drab shook hands with the man in the gray flannel suit, who simply murmured, “Good luck. Have a fine Christmas. Good luck.”

As the plane door closed and the engines began their rising whine, the businessman turned away, clutching his briefcase, and trudged toward the all-night restaurant.

No more than a few among the thousands stranded there at the Atlanta airport witnessed the drama at Gate 67. But for those who did, the sullenness, the frustration, the hostility—all dissolved into a glow. That act of love and kindness between strangers had brought the spirit of Christmas into their hearts.

The lights of the departing plane blinked, starlike, as the craft moved off into the darkness. The infant slept silently now in the lap of the young mother. Perhaps another flight would be leaving before many more hours. But those who witnessed the interchange were less impatient. The glow lingered, gently and pervasively, in that small glass and plastic stable at Gate 67.

Ray Jenkins, “The Quiet Drama at Gate 67, in Atlanta,” The New York Times, Dec. 25, 1979, 23.

My brothers and sisters, finding the real joy of the season comes not in the hurrying and the scurrying to get more done or in the purchasing of obligatory gifts. Real joy comes as we show the love and compassion inspired by the Savior of the World, who said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these ... ye have done it unto me.”

Thomas S. Monson - First Presidency Christmas Devotional 2009

Christmas Blessings

by Elder Robert E. Wells

It was the afternoon of December 24th. All Church employees had been given the day off, but I had some business matters that I wanted to finish, so I was still in my office in the high-rise Church Office Building. Helen and the children were expecting me home for last-minute Christmas preparations before our traditional Christmas Eve dinner and family program.

I was hurrying to finish a long and complicated matter so I could go home when the phone rang. It was President Spencer W. Kimball, the president of the Quorum of the Twelve at that time. All he said was, "Robert, are you busy?"

I felt that he must need me for something so my answer was, "Not at all. What can I do for you?" We had developed a relationship over the years when he had stayed in our home in South America and I had traveled with him and translated for him down there. From time to time, now that I was living in Salt Lake City and working for the Church, he would ask me to drive him somewhere or accompany him to a conference. I was always flattered and happy to have the privilege of serving or helping this great man. His response was as I expected: "Robert, thanks. Could you please meet me by my car?"

I answered, "Yes, of course." He hung up without another word, so I called Helen and explained that there would be a further delay in my arriving home. I hurried down to the parking level. President Kimball had already arrived and was waiting. We got into his car, and as we drove out he explained. "I have a distant relative with a small son in the Primary Children's Hospital and they have asked me to give the boy a blessing, but the father can't be there. Also I have heard of a child from South America who needs a blessing, too. So I thought of asking you to go with me. Is that all right?"

I assured him that it was perfectly all right and that it was both a privilege and an honor to be his junior companion anytime he could use me. After we gave the two blessings that he had mentioned, he suggested, "Robert, I think there must be some Lamanite children here in this hospital who would like a blessing on Christmas Eve. Shall we go find them?" I was fascinated and delighted. I thought, "What a kind thing for this busy servant of Christ to think of doing."

I found myself accompanying President Kimball from nurses' station to nurses' station in that large hospital where we would ask, "Are there any Indian children here? Are there any Latin American or South American children here? Are there any Lamanite children from the islands of the seas? We would like to visit each one and give them a blessing. May we do that, please?" President Kimball was so loving and kind and tender that no one turned him down. The Spirit was with him in a beautiful way.

So we went from room to room and from bed to bed to give blessings. I did the translating when the children spoken only Spanish or Portuguese. I couldn't help much with one young Navajo boy who spoke little English, but it was obvious that he wanted a blessing and that he appreciated the spirit that President Kimball reflected that Christmas Eve.

As we drove back to the Church Office Building several hours later, President Kimball mentioned that his family was waiting for him just as mine was waiting for me. Then he added, "But they will forgive us, I am sure. What better thing could we do than give the gift of blessings of the priesthood on Christmas Eve? Isn't that what the Savior would want us to do?"

I treasure in my memory and in my heart that interlude on a Christmas Eve when this great apostle who would shortly become the President of the Church took some valuable hours away from his dear wife and family so that he could minister to the children in a hospital because that was "what the Savior would want us to do."

The Undelivered Letter

Some years ago there lived in an English city a man whom I shall call Fred Armstrong. He worked in the local post office, where he was called 'dead-letter man' because he handled missives whose addresses were faulty or hard to read. He lived in an old house with his little wife and even smaller daughter and tiny son. After supper he liked to sit in his easy chair and tell his children of his latest exploits in delivering lost letters. He considered himself quite a detective. There was no cloud on his modest horizon. No cloud -- until one sunny morning when his little boy suddenly fell ill. Within 48 hours the child was dead.

In his sorrow, Fred Armstrong's soul seemed to die. The mother and their little daughter, Marian, struggled to control their grief, determined to make the best of it. Not so with the father. His life was now a dead letter with no direction. In the morning, Fred rose from his bed and went to work like a sleep walker. He never spoke unless spoken to and he ate his lunch alone. He sat like a statue at the supper table and went to bed early. Yet, his wife knew that he lay most of the night with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

As the months passed, his apathy seemed to deepen. His wife told him that such despair was unfair to their lost son and unfair to the living. But nothing that she said seemed to reach him. It was coming close upon Christmas.
One bleak afternoon at work Fred sat on his high stool and moved a new pile of letters under the electric lamp. On the top of the stack was an envelope that was clearly undeliverable. In crude block letters were penciled the words: SANTA CLAUS NORTH POLE. Fred started to throw it away, when some impulse made him pause.

He opened the letter and read:

"Dear Santa Claus,

We are very sad in our house this year, and I don't want you to bring me anything. My little brother went to heaven last spring. All I want you to do when you come to our house is to take Brother's toys to him. I'll leave them in the corner by the kitchen stove; his hobby horse and train and everything. I know he'll be lost up in heaven without them, most of all his horse. He always liked riding it so much. So you must take them to him, please. And, you needn't mind leaving me anything. But, if you could give Daddy something that would make him like he used to be, and make him tell me stories, I do wish you would. I heard him say to Mommy once that only Eternity could cure him. Could you bring him some of that and I will be your good little girl.

Love, Marian."

That night Fred walked home at a faster gait. In the winter darkness he stood in the dooryard garden for just a moment. Then, he opened the kitchen door. He hugged his wife and asked his little daughter if she was ready to hear a story.

The Last Straw

by Paula McDonald

Everyone, unfortunately, was cooped up in the house that typical gray winter afternoon. And, as usual, the four little McNeals were at it again, teasing each other, squabbling, bickering, and always fighting over their toys.
At times like this, Ellen was almost ready to believe that her children didn't love each other, even though she knew that wasn't true. All brothers and sisters fight sometimes, of course, but lately her lively little bunch had been particularly horrid to each other, especially Eric and Kelly, who were only a year apart. The two of them seemed determined to spend the whole long winter making each other miserable.

"Give me that. It's mine!" Kelly screamed, her voice shrill.

"It is not! I had it first," Eric answered stubbornly.

Ellen sighed as she listened to the latest argument. With Christmas only a month away, the house seemed sadly lacking in Christmas spirit. This was supposed to be the season of sharing and love, of warm feelings and happy hearts. A home needed more than just pretty packages and twinkling lights on a tree to fill the holidays with joy.
Ellen had only one idea. Years ago, her grandmother had told her about an old custom that helped people discover the true meaning of Christmas. Perhaps it would work for her family this year. It was certainly worth a try.

She gathered the children together and lined them up on the couch, tallest to smallest - Eric, Kelly, Lisa and Mike.

"How would you kids like to start a new Christmas tradition this year?" she asked. "It's like a game, but it can only be played by people who can keep a secret. Can everyone here do that?

"I can!" shouted Eric.

"I can keep a secret better than him!" yelled Kelly.

"I can do it!" chimed in Lisa.

"Me too. Me too," squealed little Mike. "I'm big enough."

"Well then, this is how the game works," Ellen explained. "This year we're going to surprise Baby Jesus when He comes on Christmas Eve by making Him the softest bed in the world. We're going to fill a little crib with straw to make it comfortable. But here's the secret part. The straw we put in will measure the good deeds we've done, but we won't tell anyone who we're doing them for."

The children looked confused. "But how will Jesus know it's His bed!" Kelly asked.

"He'll know," said Ellen. "He'll recognize it by the love we put in to make it soft."

"But who will we do the good deed for?" asked Eric, still a little confused.

"We'll do them for each other. Once a week we'll put all of our names in a hat, Daddy's and mine too. Then we'll each pick out a different name. Whoever's name we draw, we'll do kind things for that person for a whole week. But you can't tell anyone else whose name you've chosen. We'll each try to do as many favors for our special person as we can without getting caught. And for every good deed we do, we'll put another straw in the crib."
"Like being a spy!" squealed Lisa.

"But what if I pick someone's name that I don't like?" Kelly frowned.

Ellen thought about that for a minute. "Maybe you could use an extra fat piece of straw. And think how much faster the fat straws will fill up our crib. We'll use the cradle in the attic," she said. "And we can all go to the field behind the school for the straw."

Without a single argument, the children bundled into their wool hats and mittens, laughing and tumbling out of the house. The field had been covered with tall grass in summer, but now, dead and dried, the golden stalks looked just like real straw. They carefully selected handfuls and laced them in the large box they had carried with them.
"That's enough," Ellen laughed when the box was almost overflowing. "Remember it's only a small cradle."

So home they went to spread their straw carefully on a large tray Ellen never used. Eric, because he was the eldest, was given the responsibility of climbing into the attic and bringing down the cradle.

"We'll pick names as soon as Daddy comes home for dinner, Ellen said, unable to hide a smile at the thought of Mark's pleased reaction to the children's transformed faces and their voices, filled now with excited anticipation rather than annoyance.

At the supper table that night, six pieces of paper were folded, shuffled and shaken around in Mark's furry winter hat, and the drawing began. Kelly picked a name first and immediately started to giggle. Lisa reached into the hat next, trying hard to look like a serious spy. Mike couldn't read yet, so Mark whispered the name in his ear. Then Mike quickly ate his little wad of paper so no one would ever learn the identity of his secret person. Eric was the next to choose, and as he unfolded his scrap of paper, a frown creased his forehead. But he stuffed the name quickly into his pocket and said nothing. Ellen and Mark selected names and the family was ready to begin.

The week that followed was filled with surprises; it seemed the McNeal house had suddenly been invaded by an army of invisible elves. Kelly would walk into her room at bedtime to find her nightgown neatly laid out and her bed turned down. Someone cleaned up the sawdust under the workbench without being asked. The jelly blobs magically disappeared from the kitchen counter after lunch one day while Ellen was out getting the mail. And every morning, when Eric was brushing his teeth, someone crept quietly into his room and made the bed. It wasn't made perfectly, but it was made. That particular little elf must have had short arms because he couldn't seem to reach the middle.

"Where are my shoes?" Mark asked one morning. No one seemed to know, but suddenly, before he left for work, they were back in the closet again, freshly shined.

Ellen noticed other changes during that week too. The children weren't teasing or fighting as much. An argument would start, and then suddenly stop right in the middle for no apparent reason. Even Eric and Kelly seemed to be getting, along better and bickering less. In fact, there were times when all the children could be seen smiling secret smiles and giggling to themselves. And slowly, one by one, the first straws began to appear in the little crib. Just a few, then a few more each day. By the end of the first week, a little pile had accumulated.

Everyone was anxious to pick new names and this time there was more laughter and merriment than there had been the first time. Except for Eric. Once again, he unfolded his scrap of paper, glanced at it, and stuffed it in his pocket without a word.

The second week brought more astonishing events, and the little pile of straw in the manger grew higher and softer. There was more laughter, less teasing, and hardly any arguments could be heard around the house. Only Eric had been unusually quiet, and sometimes Ellen would catch him looking a little sad. But the straws in the manger continued to pile up.

At last, it was almost Christmas. They chose names for the final time on the night before Christmas Eve. As the sat around the table waiting for the last set of names to be shaken in the hat, the children smiled as they looked at their hefty pile of straws. They all knew it was comfortable and soft, but there was one day left and they could still make it a little deeper, a little softer, and they were going to try.

For the last time the hat was passed around the table. Mike Picked out a name, and again quickly ate the paper as he had done each week. Lisa unfolded hers carefully under the table, peeked at it and then hunched up her little shoulders, smiling. Kelly reached into the hat and grinned from ear to ear when she saw the name. Ellen and Mark each took their turn and handed the hat with the last name to Eric. As he unfolded the scrap of paper and glanced at it, his face crumpled and he seemed about to cry. Without a word, he turned and ran from the room.
Everyone immediately jumped up from the table, but Ellen stopped them. "No!" Stay where you are," she said firmly. "I'll go."

In his room, Eric was trying to pull on his coat with one hand while he picked up a small cardboard suitcase with the other.

"I'll have to leave," he said quietly through his tears. "If I don't, I'll spoil Christmas."

"But why? And where are you going?"

"I can sleep in my snow fort for a couple of days. I'll come home right after Christmas. I promise."

Ellen started to say something about freezing and snow and no mittens or boots, but Mark, who had come up behind her, gently laid his hand on her arm and shook his head. The front door closed, and together they watched from the window as the little figure with the sadly slumped shoulders trudged across the street and sat down on a snow bank near the corner. It was dark outside, and cold, and a few flurries drifted down on the small boy and his suitcase.

"Give him a few minutes alone," said Mark quietly. I think he needs that. Then you can talk to him."
The huddled figure was already dusted with white when Ellen walked across the street and sat down beside him on the snow bank.

"What is it, Eric? You've been so good these last weeks, but I know something's been bothering you since we first started the crib. Can you tell me, honey?"

"Ah, Mom . . . don't you see?" he sniffled. "I tried so hard, but I can't do to it anymore, and now I'm going to wreck Christmas for everybody. With that, he burst into sobs and threw himself into his mother s arms.

"Mom." The little boy choked. "You just don't know, I got Kelly's name every time! And I hate Kelly! I tried Mom. I really did. I snuck in her room every night and fixed her bed. I even laid out her crummy nightgown. I let her use my race car one day, but she smashed it right into the wall like always! Every week, when we picked names, I thought it would be over. Tonight, when I got her name again, I knew I couldn't do it anymore. If I try, I'll probably punch her instead. If I stay home and beat Kelly up, I'll spoil Christmas for everyone."

The two of them sat there, together, quietly for a few minutes and then Ellen spoke softly. "Eric I'm so proud of you. Every good deed you did should count double because it was hard for you to be nice to Kelly for so long, but you did those good deeds anyway, one straw at a time. You gave your love when it wasn't easy to give. And maybe that's what the spirit of Christmas is really all about. And maybe it's the hard good deeds and the difficult straws that make that little crib special. You're the one who's probably added the most important straws this year." Ellen paused, stroking the head pressed tightly against her shoulder. "Now, how would you like a chance to earn a few easy straws like the rest of us? I still have the name I picked in my pocket, and I haven't looked at it yet. Why don't we switch, for the last day? And it will be our secret."

Eric lifted his head and looked into her face, his eyes wide. "That's not cheating?"

"It's not cheating." And together they dried the tears, brushed off the snow, and walked back to the house.

The next day, the whole family was busy, cooking and straightening up the house for Christmas Day, wrapping last minute presents and trying hard to keep from bursting with excitement. But even with all the activity and eagerness, a flurry of new straws piled up in the crib, and by nightfall the little manger was almost overflowing. At different times while passing by, each member of the family, big and small, would pause and look at the wondrous pile for a moment, then smile before going on. But . . . who could really know? One more straw still might make a difference.

For that reason, just before bedtime, Ellen tiptoed quietly to Kelly's room to lay out the little blue nightgown and turn down the bed. But she stopped in the doorway surprised. Someone had already been there. The nightgown was laid across the bed, and a small red race car had been placed next to it on the pillow.
The last straw was Eric's after all.

A Boy Learns a Lesson

by Thomas S. Monson

In about my tenth year, as Christmas approached, I longed for an electric train. The times were those of economic depression, yet Mother and Dad purchased for me a lovely electric train.

Christmas morning bright and early I was thrilled when I noticed my train. The next few hours were devoted to operating the transformer and watching the engine pull its cars forward--then backward around the track.
Mother said that she had purchased a wind-up train for Widow Hansen's boy, Mark, who lived down the lane at Gale Street. As I looked at his train, I noted a tanker car which I so much admired. I put up such a fuss that my Mother succumbed to my pleadings, and gave me the tanker car. I put it with my train set and felt pleased.

Mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine down to Mark Hansen. The young boy was a year or two older than I. He had never anticipated such a gift. He was thrilled beyond words. He wound the key in his engine, it not being electric, nor expensive like mine, and was overjoyed as the engine and three cars, plus a caboose, went around the track.

I felt a horrible sense of guilt as I returned home. The tanker car no longer appealed to me. Suddenly, I took the tank car in my hand, plus an additional car of my own, and ran all the way down to Gale Street and proudly announced to Mark, "We forgot to bring two cars which belong to your train."

I don't know when a deed has made me feel any better than that experience as a ten-year-old boy.

The Great Walled Country

Raymond MacDonald Alden

Away at the North End of the World, farther than men have ever gone with their ships or their sleds is a land filled with children. It's filled with children because nobody who lives there ever grows up. The king and queen, the princes and the courtiers, may be as old as you please, but they are children for all that. They play a great deal of the time with dolls and tin soldiers, and every night at seven o'clock have a bowl of bread and milk and go to bed.

There are all sorts of curious things about the way they live in the Great Walled Country, but this story is only of their Christmas season. One can imagine what a fine thing their Christmas must be so near the North Pole, with ice and snow everywhere; but this is not all. Grandfather Christmas lives just on the north side of the country, so that his house leans against the great wall and would tip over if it were not for its support. Grandfather Christmas is his name in the Great Walled country; no doubt we would call him Santa Claus here. At any rate, he is the same person, and best of all the children in the world, he loves the children behind the great wall of ice.

One very pleasant thing about having Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor is that in the Great Walled Country they never have to buy their Christmas presents. Every year on the day before Christmas, before he makes up his bundles for the rest of the world, Grandfather Christmas goes into a great forest of Christmas trees that grows just in back of the homes and fills the trees with candy and books and toys and all sorts of good things. So when night comes, all the children wrap up snugly, and they go into the forest to gather gifts for their friends. Each one goes by himself, so that none of his friends can see what he has gathered, and no one ever thinks of such a thing as taking a present for himself. The forest is so big that there is room for all the people and no one sees the secrets and presents, and there are always enough nice things to go around.

But there was once a time, so many years ago that they would have forgotten about it if the story were not written in their Big Book and read to them every year, when the children in the Great Walled Country had a very strange Christmas. There came a visitor to the land. He was an old man, and was the first stranger, for very many years, who had succeeded in getting over the wall.

When this old man inquired about their Christmas celebration, and was told how they carried it out every year, he said to the king, "That is very well, but I should think that children who have Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor could find a better and easier way. You tell me you all go out on Christmas Eve to gather presents to give to one another the next morning. Why take so much trouble, and act in such a round-about way? Why not go out together, and everyone get his own present? That would save the trouble of dividing them again, and everyone could pick out just what he wanted for himself!

They decided it was a very practical idea and so the proclamation was made, and the plan seemed as wise to the children of the country as it had to the king and his counselors. Everyone at some time had been a little disappointed with his Christmas gifts, and now there would be no danger of that.

On Christmas Eve they always had a meeting at the palace, and sang carols until the time for going to the forest. When the clock struck ten, everyone said, "I wish you a Merry Christmas!" to the person nearest him, and then they separated to go on their way to the forest. On this particular night it seemed to the king that the music was not quite so merry as usual, and that when the children spoke to one another their eyes did not shine as gladly as he had noticed them in other years; but there could be no reason for this, since everyone was expecting a better time than usual. So he thought no more of it.

There was only one other person at the palace that night who was not pleased with the new proclamation about the Christmas gifts. This was a little boy name Inge, who lived not far from the palace with his sister. Now his sister was a cripple, and had to sit all day looking out of the window from her chair; and Inge took care of her, and tried to make her life happy from morning to night. He had always gone to the forest on Christmas Eve and returned with his arms and pockets full of pretty things for his sister, which would keep her amused all the coming year. And although she was not able to go after presents for her brother, he did not mind at all, especially as he had other friends who never forgot to divide their good things with him.

But now, said Inge to himself, what would his sister do? For the king had ordered that no one should gather presents except for himself, or any more than he could carry away at once. All of Inge's friends were busy planning what they would pick for themselves, but the poor crippled child could not go a step toward the forest. After thinking about it for a long time, Inge decided that it would not be wrong, if, instead of taking gifts for himself, he took them altogether for his sister. This he would be very glad to do; for what did a boy who could run about and play in the snow, care for presents, compared with a little girl who could only sit still and watch others having a good time? Inge did not ask the advice of anyone, for he was a little afraid others would tell him not to do it, but he silently made up his mind not to obey the proclamation.

And now the chimes had struck ten, and the children were making their way toward the forest, in starlight that was so bright that it almost showed their shadows on the sparkling snow. As soon as they came to the edge of the forest, they separated, each one going by himself in the old way, though now there was really no reason why they should have secrets from one another.

Ten minutes later, if you had been in the forest, you might have seen the children standing in dismay with tears on their faces, and exclaiming that they had never seen such a Christmas Eve before. For as they looked eagerly about them to the low-bending branches of the evergreen trees, they saw nothing hanging from them that they had seen other Christmas Eves. No presents. No one could guess whether Grandfather Christmas had forgotten them, or whether some dreadful accident had kept him away.

As the children were trooping out of the forest after hours of weary searching, some of them came upon little Inge, who carried over his shoulder a bag that seemed to be full to overflowing. When he saw them looking at him he cried; "Are they not beautiful things? I think Grandfather Christmas was never so good to us before."
"Why, what do you mean?" cried the children. "There are no presents in the forest!"

"No presents!" Inge said. "I have a bag full of them." but he did not offer to show them, because he did not want the children to see that they were really all for his sister, instead of him.

Then the children begged him to tell them in what part of the forest he had found his presents, and he turned back and pointed them to the place where he had been.

"I left many more behind than I brought away," he said. "There they are! I can see some of the things shining on the trees even from here."

But when the children followed his footsteps in the snow to the place where he had been, they still saw nothing on the trees, and thought that Inge must be walking in his sleep, and dreaming that he had found presents. Perhaps he had filled his bag with the cones from the evergreen trees.

On Christmas Day there was sadness all through The Great Walled Country. But those who came to the house of Inge and his sister saw plenty of books and dolls and beautiful toys piled up about the little cripple’s chair, and when they asked where those things came from and were told, "Why, from the Christmas tree forest." And they shook their heads, not knowing what it meant.

The king held a council and appointed a committee to go on a very hard journey to visit Grandfather Christmas and see if they could find out what was the matter.

They had to go down Father Christmas's chimney and when they reached the bottom of it they found themselves in the very room where Grandfather Christmas lay sound asleep. It was very difficult to wake him, but when they finally did, the prince, who was in charge of the committee said, "Oh, sir! We have come from the king of The Great Walled Country, who has sent us to ask why you forgot us this Christmas, and left no presents in the forest?"

"No presents?" said Grandfather Christmas. "I never forgot anything. The presents were there. You did not see them, that's all."

The children told him they had searched long and hard and found nothing. "Indeed!" said Grandfather Christmas.
"And did little Inge, the boy with the crippled sister find none?" The committee had heard about that and didn't know what to say.

"The presents were there, but they were not intended for children who were looking only for themselves. I am not surprised that you could not see them. Remember, that not everything that wise travelers tell you is wise."

The Proclamation was made next year that everyone was to seek gifts for others!