Merrythought struggled up the path through the deep snow and peeped in the window.
As we know, he had expected to see a Christmas Tree laden with gay balls and chains and ornaments of every kind and hue. He thought he might see stockings in a row. He was sure he would see bunches of holly and sprays of mistletoe.
But the room into which he looked had not a sign of Christmas anywhere.
It was a bare little room with a bed in one corner and an old cook-stove that quite filled one side of the wall.
And in the room were seven children, all wide awake as could be, just as if it were not Christmas Eve, when every wise little boy or girl goes to sleep the moment his bed-time comes. The seven children were in their night-gowns, all but one, the oldest, a girl, and they had huddled round their shoulders bits of shawls and blankets to keep them warm. But in spite of this and the fire in the stove their noses were red with cold and they blew upon their fingers every now and then.
They were watching the stove, the oven of the stove, and all seven were sniffing, sniffing the air. And first one and then the other would call out, ‘I smell them! I smell them! I know I do!’
At this they would become so excited that they would jump up and down and lose off their blankets and bits of shawls. Then the biggest girl would have to go round among them and wrap them up again.
All this Merrythought could hear and see quite plainly, for his nose was pressed flat against the window-pane.
‘They must have a Christmas Turkey in the oven,’ thought he. ‘But what a strange time to cook it. And where are their toys and their Tree and their father and mother, too?’