Christmas Eve came at last. Piccola's mother hurried home from her
work; they had their little supper of soup and bread, and soon it was
bedtime,--time to get ready for Santa Claus. But oh! Piccola
remembered then for the first time that the children had told her she
must hang up her stocking, and she hadn't any, and neither had her
mother.

How sad, how sad it was! Now Santa Claus would come, and perhaps be
angry because he couldn't find any place to put the present.

The poor little girl stood by the fireplace, and the big tears began
to run down her cheeks. Just then her mother called to her, "Hurry,
Piccola; come to bed." What should she do? But she stopped crying, and
tried to think; and in a moment she remembered her wooden shoes, and
ran off to get one of them. She put it close to the chimney, and said
to herself, "Surely Santa Claus will know what it's there for. He will
know I haven't any stockings, so I gave him the shoe instead."

Then she went off happily to her bed, and was asleep almost as soon as
she had nestled close to her mother's side.

The sun had only just begun to shine, next morning, when Piccola
awoke. With one jump she was out on the floor and running toward the
chimney. The wooden shoe was lying where she had left it, but you
could never, never guess what was in it.

Piccola had not meant to wake her mother, but this surprise was more
than any little girl could bear and yet be quiet; so she danced to the
bed with the shoe in her hand, calling, "Mother, mother! look, look!