And the children would come flying like the gray palomas when corn is thrown for them in the Plaza. Ah, how many children there were in that little street! There were José and Miguel, and the niños of Enrique, the cobbler, Alfredito and Juana and Esperanza; and the little twin sisters of Pancho, the peddler; and Angela, Maria Teresa, Pedro, Edita, and many more. Last of all there were Manuel and Rosita. They had no father, and their mother was a lavandera who stood all day on the banks of the river outside the city, washing clothes.
When Doña Josefa had called the children from all the doorways and the dark corners she would sit down in the middle of the street and gather them about her. This was safe because the street was far too narrow to allow a horse or wagon to pass through. Sometimes a donkey would slowly pick its way along, or a stupid goat come searching for things to eat, but that was all.
It happened on the day before Christmas that Doña Josefa had finished her work and sat, as usual, with the children about her.
“To-day you shall have a Christmas story,” she said, and then she told them of the three kings and the promise they had made the Christ-child.
“And is it so—do the kings bring presents to the children now?” Miguel asked.
Doña Josefa nodded her head.
“Yes.”
“Then why have they never left us one? The three kings never pass this street on Christmas Eve. Why is it, doña?”
“Perhaps it is because we have no shoes to hold their gifts,” said Angela.
And this is true. The poor children of Spain go barefooted, and often never have a pair of shoes till they grow up.