ccola helped her
mother, and knit long stockings of blue wool.

The snow-birds had to be fed with crumbs, if she could find any, and
then, there was Christmas Day.

But one year her mother was ill and could not earn any money. Piccola
worked hard all the day long, and sold the stockings which she knit,
even when her own little bare feet were blue with the cold.

As Christmas Day drew near she said to her mother, "I wonder what the
good Saint Nicholas will bring me this year. I cannot hang my stocking
in the fireplace, but I shall put my wooden shoe on the hearth for him.
He will not forget me, I am sure."

"Do not think of it this year, my dear child," replied her mother. "We
must be glad if we have bread enough to eat."

But Piccola could not believe that the good saint would forget her. On
Christmas Eve she put her little wooden patten on the hearth before the
fire, and went to sleep to dream of Saint Nicholas.

As the poor mother looked at the little shoe, she thought how unhappy
her dear child would be to find it empty in the morning, and wished that
she had something, even if it were only a tiny cake, for a Christmas
gift. There was nothing in the house but a few sous, and these must be
saved to buy bread.

When the morning dawned Piccola awoke and ran to her shoe.

Saint Nicholas had come in the night. He had not forgotten the little
child who had thought of him with such faith.

See what he had brought her. It lay in the wooden patten, looking up at
her with its two bright eyes, and chirping contentedly as she stroked
its soft feathers.

A little swallow, cold and hungry, had flown into the chimney and down
to the room, and had crept into the shoe for warmth.

Piccola danced for joy, and clasped the shivering swallow to her breast.

She ran to her mother's bedside. "Look, look!" she cried. "A Christmas
gift, a gift from the good Saint Nicholas!" And she danced again in her
little bare feet.

Then she fed and warmed the bird, and cared for it tenderly all winter
long; teaching it to take crumbs from her hand and her lips, and to sit
on her shoulder while she was working.

In the spring she opened the window for it to fly away, but it lived
in the woods near by all summer, and came often in the early morning to
sing its sweetest songs at her door.

THE STRANGER CHILD

A LEGEND

BY COUNT FRANZ POCCI (TRANSLATED)

There once lived a laborer who earned his daily bread by cutting wood.
His