He really didn’t expect anything, you know; but still he was a cheery soul. And as he slept, he dreamed—dreamed a big, strong, genial Santa came and filled his stockings with the nicest things—dreamed, and mumbled in his sleep, “Well, anyhow, it’s a good Christmas, after all.”
But the others just slept—Father and Mother too sad and tired even to dream, till they were roused in the early dawn of Christmas by a wild yell from Sandy. There he stood in his blanket, hauling out gift after gift from his stockings, from the twigs of the trees, and even some from beneath the tree.
He never knew how they got there. But Sandy’s father told me that the shepherd had them all in his pack, bringing them home for his own family Christmas tree. But the storm that stopped Sandy’s father, stopped him too. And seeing Sandy so sturdy and brave in the cold and night, he thought he would give the presents to him and then buy others, since he couldn’t get home in time for Christmas eve.
But Sandy never knew how they came. His eyes simply grew big and shining in his six-year-old face. His squeals of joy rang through the cabin, till even the sheep huddled together a little nervously and watched him with shy eyes. The birds of the tree chuckled and flew out into the new dawn of Christmas day. The shepherd’s sleigh came along and gave them all a lift to town. And Father got his new job!
As the party separated in town, the shepherd took little Sandy in his big strong arms as the boy said: “Well, we had a merry Christmas, didn’t we? I think it was fine.”
And the shepherd gave him an extra hug as he answered: “Sandy, you have the best Christmas gift of all. A Merry Christmas comes from inside a man, from his happy and live soul, from his brave spirit. The boy that has a gift like that doesn’t need anything else. He’ll have a Merry Christmas anywhere.”
Sandy didn’t entirely understand. He just shook hands cheerily with the shepherd, waved an arm to the sheep, now huddled cosily in the straw of the sled, picked up his bundle, and walked on with a grin of joy.
“And anyhow,” he said that night, as he heard his father telling about the terrible Christmas eve they had had, “anyhow, we had a real tree and real birds and real stars and real snow powder and real sheep and—a real shepherd! I think it was just the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.”
[19] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.