So Sandy did not hear the approach of anybody till there came a hail at the door. Pulling away the spruce that blocked it, Sandy was surprised to see a great, burly man enter, with a sheep under one arm and half a dozen panting after him.
“Saw your firelight, neighbor,” he said. “Just out trying to save my sheep in the storm. Thought I’d never make it. But here we are.” And shepherd and sheep crowded into the room.
“Come right along,” said the father. “It’s a bitter night. Seems as if the cold grew worse since the wind dropped. Come on in and sit down by the fire. Fine Christmas, eh?”
The man with the sheep sat down, throwing off his pack and using it as a chair. Puffing and blowing, pulling icicles from his beard, he rumbled: “Fine Christmas, you say? Well now, I’m glad of a place to be in out of the cold. This looks fine enough to me. Thought I’d never make it.” And he continued combing the ice from his beard and mustache. “Fine Christmas when I thought it was going to be a case of freeze and lose all the sheep, and then get them safe into a nice snug place like this. This is fine Christmas luck!”
“Sure it’s fine,” laughed Sandy, whose feet were now warm again. “And just look! If that isn’t the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.” And he pointed to the tree in the window.
It really was wonderful. Back of the tree blazed a big star, just as if it hung on the topmost twig. Scores of others twinkled through the evergreen boughs. The northern lights crackled and shone mysteriously; and against the lit sky they could see the birds crouching—crows, iridescent, jays, gaudy blue, meadow-larks, with breasts dipped in gold, quail, grouse, and snowbirds in lovely markings and shadings, all perched on the tree, chuckling and crooning as though come there specially to decorate it. Great icicles hung down glittering in the low glow of the fire; and over all, the powdered snow glittered like diamonds.
“It’s a fine Christmas tree, and I’m going to hang my stockings on it when I go to bed.”
“Much good it’ll do you, Sandy,” grinned his father; “no Christmas, no Santa this time.” Then, turning to the shepherd, he explained grumpily, “Out of work; goin’ for a job; caught in this storm; stony broke—at Christmas time.”
“Hard lines,” said the shepherd, soberly; “but that’s a fine boy you have. Seems a bright youngster and just as chipper as can be.”
“Anyhow,” said Sandy, as he curled in his blanket before the fire, “I’ve hung up my stockings. Maybe good old Santa will remember me after all.”