In a large and pleasant room sat little Bertha, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. The fire crackled and burnt; and shadows, cast by its flickering light, danced on the wall. But little Bertha’s thoughts were far away, and she heeded them not. For many weeks, she had been looking forward to this very night; and now she was trying to conjecture what gifts good St. Nicholas had in store for her. At length she grew weary of conjecture, took a lamp from the table, and went up stairs to bed. It was a neat little chamber; and the counterpane on Bertha’s bed rivalled in whiteness the falling snow without. Bertha looked out of the window, against the panes of which the snow was beating noisily.
“It is a cold night,” thought she. “St. Nicholas will have a hard time of it. What if he should not come at all?”
Bertha’s apprehensions were soon dispelled; for, as she looked out, the sound of silvery bells came nearer and nearer, till at length it paused under her window, and, a moment afterwards, was heard in an opposite direction. Bertha rubbed her eyes, and strove to distinguish the sleigh from which these sounds proceeded; but she could distinguish nothing.
“Can it be St. Nicholas?” thought she.
Even as she spoke, mingling with the sound of the retreating bells, she thought she could distinguish the words of a song. She listened attentively; and these were the words which the wind bore to her:—
“The path I have chosen
Is covered with snow;
The streams are all frozen;
Yet onward I go.