I closed the door to the warmly lit home and was taken aback by the cold blast of air that drove through my winter cloak. I pulled the edges of my cape closer to my body, but it did little to warm me. I was chilled to the bone. I shrugged, knowing I had nothing warmer to look forward to at home. 

Looking back at the soft glow of candles in the windows of my employer’s mansion, I sighed as I trudge off into the dark night. Snow was falling around me, gliding softly to the ground and creating a layer of fresh powder. It stuck to my hair. I pulled my cap down tighter, but it couldn't protect my cold nose.  

I rubbed my worn hands together to warm them, but even that did little good. I wrapped them both tightly at my sides in frustration. My overshoes were not as tall as the three-foot snow banks I was forced to wade through. I could feel my feet freezing. The cold flew in my eyes, glossing them over with tears. 

I turned my mind away from my misfortune to the even greater cold growing inside my heart. I walked slower despite the chill, my entire being weighed down by the responsibility on my shoulders. 

The money I made most days at the general store was enough to buy the family food and some logs for the fire, but that was all. Our family debt was rising as steadily as Mother’s pneumonia was progressing. I hadn’t seen much hope for a change this Christmas, until I'd taken on the additional task of cleaning the Willis's home. Even still, it was never enough. 

Things would be so different if Father was home. Though he sent as much money as he could, the army wasn’t paying well, and he couldn’t leave the Union forces in the middle of their advance on Georgia. General Sherman was a harsh man and wouldn’t allow it. I shook my head in despair, unaware that I had stopped in my tracks.  

Wait. I felt a twinge of hope when I remembered what I had worked for today. I was still unable to afford Mother's medical bills, but there was another way that I could help. 

My pace quickened as was I filled with a warm sense of purpose. When I last checked the mantel clock at the Willis’s mansion, it was only half past nine. It couldn’t be any later than 9:45 right now, I thought. 

I ran towards the lights of town until I arrived at the main road. I peered down the street. I was relieved to find that the bell tower at the courthouse had not yet struck ten. If it had, the tavern across the street would be closing. I smiled, cheerily skipping down the snow-covered sidewalk, my cold limbs forgotten. I felt as though I was sharing the Christmas cheer with the few passing strangers in the street. 

I barely saw the Cuthberts wave hello to me, though, or hear the carolers singing, “Joy to the World.” 

George was the only thing on my mind. 

I could already see my little brother’s smile and hear his delighted laugh as I handed him the little wooden horse he had been wanting for over six months now. 

I strolled happily down the street, knowing there would be one special toy set aside in the back of the general store for my little brother. From the pocket of my dress I pulled out the one dollar I had made by cleaning the Willis’s home. I clutched it tightly in my fist. The prize would be worth the work, seeing my little Georgie smile again. 

This had been my secret mission for months, and I had taken on this extra job – tonight, of all nights – to see George’s dreams become a reality. It would make Mother happy too. 

Mr. Jubal’s store was just ahead now, the lamps still lit, shining like a beam of hope in this dark night.  

I ran down the street as fast as my worn boots would allow but stopped short at the sight of an old man sitting on the bench near the store's door. He was in even worse shape than me, his gray beard covered with snow and no hat on his balding head. His face was red from windburn and wrinkled with old age. His thin, frail body heaved with every inhale. 

He sat stiff-legged with his arms wrapped tightly across his hollow body, trying to draw warmth from his torn, tattered blanket. His overcoat was patched in multiple places, and his trousers were torn at the knees beyond hope of repair. He wore no shoes.  

I couldn’t look away. I wanted to do something, to give him something. After all, he was all alone…on Christmas Eve. 

I clenched my fists tightly in anger at his condition and felt the papery rubbing of the one dollar in my left palm. It was almost as if God was saying, “This is what you can give.” 

But I denied it. I clenched my fist tighter. What can one dollar do? 

I paused for a moment, recalling the wool blanket I had seen in the back corner of the shop earlier this morning. Exactly one dollar. 

The old man lifted his head and I saw his eyes. His grey, sad eyes that seemed to beg for any assistance he could get. The clock struck ten and the city bells rang, but I didn’t hear them. I stood speechless, staring into eyes without warmth on what was supposed to be the happiest day of the year. 

He smiled at me but did not speak, and neither did I. We simply stared at each other, unmoving, barely breathing, carrying out a secret conversation in our minds. 

I awoke from my daze, stunned by what I had been considering. With a shake of my head, I took a step away from him. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to leave this man as he was, but I could not – I would not - give up my little George’s Christmas for someone I didn’t even know. 

I walked past him and into the store. His eyes followed me all the way. 

Mr. Jubal was not very pleased with me taking him away from his family on Christmas Eve, but I barely heard his chafing remarks. I mentioned the man to him, but Mr. Jubal brushed it aside, saying the old cobbler would soon return to his home and family. 

I knew otherwise – I had seen it in the old man's eyes. Still, I said nothing. I bought my little brother his horse, halfheartedly smiling when I paid for it. 

But no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I was doing the right thing, I could not force myself to believe it. 

I left the store in a hurry, Mr. Jubal locking up right behind me and returning to his home above the store. I tried not to look at the old man, but I could still feel his piercing, pleading gaze stuck on me. It set me on edge. I quickly walked home, trying not to look back. But as soon as I was out of sight, I stopped and stood quietly in the silent snow. 

I peeked back at the old man’s silhouette under the street’s gas lights. He was pulling up his stiff legs onto the bench and laying his head down to sleep. 

I wanted to do something, but what could I do? I considered inviting him to come home with me for Christmas but quickly hid this thought away. I didn’t know him. He could be dangerous. He could be a Confederate soldier in disguise, for all I knew, or a spy. Besides, I thought, looking back over my shoulder as he spread his overcoat across his body like a blanket, it’s not like home is much warmer anyway. We barely have any logs for the fire. And we barely have enough food to feed ourselves, let alone another mouth. 

I looked down at the toy I carried in my hand. This was more important.  

I scampered home quickly, eager to see the happy face of my brother and wanting to be rid of the feel of the old man’s gaze, which seemed to be following me. 

I dashed down the street and up the lane of my family’s small house, stopping to catch my breath at the door. As I took in deep gulps of winter air, I peered through the window and smiled at what I saw. 

George and Mother were sitting around our little Christmas tree – if you could call it that – waiting for me to come home. Mother was smiling her pale – but beautiful – smile, wrapped in a blanket that she had knit and holding Georgie in her arms. They sat close to the two-log fire. George, wide awake despite the late hour, had wrapped himself deep in the blanket and laid his small head on Mother’s lap. I put my hand on the door handle, holding the beloved horse under my cloak to conceal it best I could. 

A fresh burst of chill entered the house with me, but Mother and George were overjoyed to see me. While Mother started preparing me a plate of food, Georgie excitingly told me about their Christmas dinner – real roast beef! – and he raved about Mom’s plum pudding.  

Of course, my six-year-old brother was quick to switch the topic to Christmas presents. He proudly showed me the three pieces of molasses candy St. Nicholas had left him in his stocking. Then he triumphantly held out the little wooden horse Mother had bought him for Christmas. My horse. The exact same one.  

I stood, shell-shocked, conflicted in so many ways at this unexpected surprise. It…it was all for nothing? 

Thankfully, George kept rambling on, giving me time to recover myself, though I couldn’t help but shed a tear. Everything I did…useless. 

I wrapped the horse I still held in my cloak and hid it in a corner. No one seemed to notice my distress. Mother had me sit and eat. 

The feast was extravagant compared to our usual bread and cabbage, but still everything seemed wrong now. The roast beef was too rich, the plum pudding too thick, the potatoes too salty, the fruit cake too hard, and the eggnog simply didn’t taste good. I tried to ignore my feelings and put on a smile for my family, complimenting Mother on her amazing cooking and Georgie for his help in making the fruit cake. But I felt numb. 

I claimed to be exhausted and asked to go to bed, but Mother unknowingly prolonged my suffering by having me open my Christmas presents. Deep in my stocking I found a perfectly ripe orange from Georgie. These were my favorite treat, and I hadn’t had one since last Christmas, but today it brought me no joy at all. I was also given two yards of ribbon for my best dress. I recognized it as the ribbon from the general store I had been admiring for months. 

But despite knowing it had cost Mother a whole two dollars, I could not properly fake the Christmas spirit or truly thank her for the present. 

I still hadn’t said a word when Mother said it was time for bed. After tucking George into bed and singing him a lullaby, Mother sat me down by the fire and read me a letter from Papa. He said that the march on Savannah, Georgia, was over and that he would ask to be discharged so he could come home to his family. He hoped to be home within a month. Mother was overjoyed. This was evident by the bright glow of life she had not had since the pneumonia attacked her a year ago. I wanted to be happy for her, for our family, but I could not, even at this joyous news, get over the damper of my feelings. 

Mother noticed my silence and asked me what was bothering me. Instead of telling her, I got up slowly and grabbed my cloak, unrolling it to reveal the little wooden horse which had caused me so much trouble. Everything I worked for tonight, and everything else I’d sacrificed – nothing was worth it. At this point I broke down, and Mother, instantly understanding, held me in her arms and comforted me with her silence, running her fingers through my hair and rocking me back and forth. 

Once I had stopped crying, she apologized for not knowing that I had worked so hard to get little Georgie the horse. She explained that she had bought the toy two months back with a loan from Mrs. Willis. She also apologized for putting me, her twelve-year-old girl, in this adult situation of having to work all the time and support the family. I sat silently and listened to her, not holding it against her but still upset at how things had occurred. But with her reassurance that father’s return would allow me to go back to school and resume life as it was before the war, I was slightly encouraged that this dark night would soon be over. 

Mother gave me advice about how to handle the disappointment of George’s present. While I felt that it was an error that couldn’t be fixed, Mother insisted I could return the little wooden horse the next day. That way I could get my one dollar back and take George to pick out a different gift. This idea satisfied me, and I, slightly comforted, bid my mother good night and went up to bed. 

But I couldn’t sleep; my thoughts drifted back and forth from my belief that I had let my brother down to my guilt of not helping the old man. I managed to lull myself to sleep by staring at the snow’s gentle descent, but even sleep did not relieve me of my misery. I dreamed that I was back in the town square, back at Mr. Jubal’s general store, and in front of me sat the old man. He looked up, now seeming skinnier and even more sparsely clothed. His eyes screamed, pleading for food and shelter. 

I was stunned and turned to run, but my feet were as heavy as lead, and the road seemed to stretch on indefinitely. When I did manage to escape, I found myself sitting on the bench in the place of the old man, watching myself leave. And once I had walked out of sight, there was nothing but the gentle falling snow. Falling, falling, falling, until it covered me in a frozen blanket.