As Christmas approached we made decorations for our schoolroom. Miles of red and green paper strips were pasted into interlocking loops to form paper chains as we listened to Handel's Messiah. Pictures of Santa Claus were drawn and painted with water colors. Stained-glass windows were approximated as Miss Heacock ironed our crayon drawings between pieces of scrap paper. A Christmas tree was placed in one front corner of the room, and the odor of pine replaced the particularly pungent aroma of oil that arose from the decades-old hardwood floors of our classroom. It was then that Miss Heacock announced we were to have a Christmas party on the day we were released for Christmas vacation. We were all excited.

  Fate had blessed us with a peculiar situation that year. There were exactly as many girls as boys in our class. Miss Heacock decided, perhaps in an attempt to introduce us to the social graces, that each of us would purchase a gift for another student in the room. Each boy would supply a gift for a girl and vice versa. The gifts were to cost no more than twenty-five cents. There have been moments in my life when I have known exactly what was going to happen. I claim no great gift of prophecy, but, nevertheless, I have known. As Miss Heacock began walking down the aisles, a box of boys' names in one hand, one with girls' names in the other, I knew the name I'd draw would be Violet's.

  Violet was a sorry little girl who had been placed in our class that year. She was very plain and did little to help her looks. Her hair was rarely combed, she wore the same dress every day, and, worst of all, she wet the bed and rarely bathed. Violet sat in the back corner of the room, partially because she chose to sit there, but also because the rest of us had moved away from her. When the room warmed up, the aroma of Violet mixed with the perfume of floor oil and became almost overpowering. Seven- and eight-year-old children can be cruel, very cruel. Violet had been the target of most of our cruelty during the school year.

  Miss Heacock approached my desk with the box of girls' names. I reached into the box, shuffled the names around, and finally withdrew the folded scrap of paper. I placed it before me on my desk. My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. There it was, as I knew it would be: “Violet.” I quickly wadded up the paper and shoved it into my pants pocket. The bell rang for recess.

  “Who'd you get?” asked my best friend, Allen.

  I panicked. I couldn't let anyone know I'd gotten Violet. “We're supposed to keep it secret.”

  “Sure, but you can tell me,” Allen probed. “I'll tell you who I got. Just between us, okay?”

  “Miss Heacock said to keep it secret.” My voice squeaked a little.

  Suddenly Allen smiled. Earlier in the year I had made the mistake of telling him I thought one of the girls in our class, Margo of the honey-colored hair, was pretty. I had endured considerable abuse since that disclosure. “I'll bet you got Margo's name. That's why you won't tell. You got Margo!” Immediately he was running around the playground shouting that I'd gotten Margo's name. So much for Allen's ability to keep a secret.

  I slunk back into the school, face aflame. The rest of that Friday crawled by. Finally the last bell rang. As I was pulling on my galoshes I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Is something wrong?” I looked up into Miss Heacock's emerald eyes. “You seemed awfully quiet this afternoon.”

  “I'm okay,” I stammered. My mind had been struggling with the Violet problem all afternoon. I had reached a possible solution; I wouldn't get Violet anything. Since we were maintaining secrecy, no one would know. “Maybe,” I said, “I won't be able to get a present. My father makes me earn all my spending money,” I lied, “and I might not have a quarter to buy a present.”

  A look of concern came over Miss Heacock's face. “If you can't afford a quarter, I'll give you one. It will be our little secret.”

  I trudged home through the snow. No other brilliant escapes from the situation entered my mind. Christmas was the following Thursday, and the party would be on Tuesday. I had only three days to find a way out of my misery. Perhaps I could become sick, but that path was fraught with peril, since my mother made us stay in bed all day when we were sick, and I might be in bed Christmas Day if she suspected I was really not sick. At last I reached home.

  The house smelled wonderful. I could tell my mother had been baking bread. I hurried to the kitchen in hopes of melting gobs of butter on a slice of warm bread. My mother greeted me. “Miss Heacock phoned. I'm sure your father and I can come up with a quarter for a Christmas present.” My heart sank into my galoshes. Now there was no way out.

  Saturday morning it was snowing. My mother exulted about a white Christmas while I pulled on my snowsuit and galoshes and prepared for the four-block trek to the Economy Drug Store. My mother gave me a quarter and a dime “just in case” and sent me off to do my Christmas shopping. I took time to investigate everything along the way, prolonging the inevitable as long as possible.

  Since the previous evening, I had been contemplating what to buy for Violet. Nothing seemed really appropriate. As I wandered up and down the aisles of the Economy Drug, galoshes squeaking mournfully, I discovered my choices were somewhat narrowed by the twenty-five-cent limit. I considered purchasing five nickel candy bars but discarded that idea, since Violet probably liked candy bars. As I reached the end of the counter, I saw the gift, and a terrible plan exploded full-blown in my mind. Not only did I see the gift, but I knew how I would present it to Violet. There on the shelf were small, crown-shaped bottles of cologne. I selected one from the display and twisted off the lid. Years later when I read novels that used the phrase “she reeked of cheap perfume,” my mind always flashed back to the first whiff of cologne from that bottle in the Economy Drug. It had only one redeeming feature. It cost a quarter.

  I sloshed back home with my purchase. Thankfully, my mother did not sniff the cologne. She merely commented on how lovely the little bottle was. She helped me find a box and wrap my gift. I went to my room, found a pencil and paper, and wrote the following poem:

  Roses are red,

  Violets are blue,

  Put this stuff on

  So we can stand you.

  I did not sign it. I sealed it in an envelope and taped it to the gift.

  Monday morning I left for school earlier than usual. When I arrived I went to my classroom. The door was open, but Miss Heacock was not in her room. Quickly and furtively I placed the gift under the Christmas tree. So far so good.

  By the time the school bell rang, Miss Heacock was playing Christmas carols on the phonograph, and more and more gifts were being placed under the tree. We became more excited about tomorrow's Christmas party as the day wore on. Miss Heacock carefully looked at each gift and checked off names in her roll book.

  On Tuesday our party was preceded by a semi-annual desk clean out. At last all of the papers had been removed, crayon boxes lined up neatly, and pencils sharpened and put away. It was time for the party!

  We drank punch from paper cups and ate cookies and candy canes, and then it was time to distribute gifts. As we sat in our seats Miss Heacock selected a present from beneath the tree and called out, “Sandra.” Sandra, somewhat embarrassed, walked to the front of the room and took her present back to her desk. She was unsure whether she should open it or not. “You may open it, Sandra,” said Miss Heacock.

  Several more presents were distributed before Miss Heacock called out, “Violet.” Violet walked slowly to the front of the room. Miss Heacock extended her hand and delivered my gift. Violet, eyes glistening, walked back to her seat. I shifted in my seat so I could see her reaction. She placed the unopened gift on her desk and opened the envelope. Suddenly she began to quiver; a tear formed in the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek. Violet began to sob. She grabbed her present and ran from the room. Miss Heacock, reaching for a gift, did not see her go.

  The enormity of what I had done sank home. Tears filled my eyes. There have been moments in my life when I wished I could back up ten minutes and correct errors I had made. This was one of those moments. I am sure my name was eventually called. I am sure I was given a gift. Iremember nothing of this. I merely wallowed in guilt. Finally the party ended, and I walked home.

  As Christmas vacation came to an end I began to realize I would have to face Violet when I went back to school. Even though I had not signed my name, I was certain she had figured out who had written that terrible poem. How could I face her? But like it or not, school began again. It began without Violet. Her seat was empty. It was empty the next day and the next. Violet had moved.

  Twelve years passed. I entered a classroom at the University of Utah and took my seat. The professor began to call the roll. “Violet,” he called. The girl in the seat directly behind mine answered, “Here.” My blood ran cold. As discreetly as possible I turned and looked at her. She had matured, she had changed from an ugly duckling into a swan, but there was no doubt it was Violet.

  When class ended I turned to her. “Violet,” I said, “I don't know if you remember me. We were in the same class in third grade at Emerson School.”

  She looked at me, and her forehead wrinkled. “I'm sorry, I really don't remember your name. I was only in that class for part of the year.”

  “Violet, may I take you to lunch? I need to ask your forgiveness.”

  “For what?” She looked puzzled. “I'll tell you at lunch, okay?”

  We walked silently to the Union Building, through the cafeteria line, and to a table. “What do you need to talk to me about?”

  “How much do you remember about our third grade class?” I asked.

  “The music,” she answered. “Our teacher played such beautiful music. I think she's the reason I'm a music minor today.

  “It had been such a tough year for my family. My father died that July, and we found a little house to rent. It was so crowded with six children. I had to sleep with my two little sisters, and they both wet the bed. I can remember how embarrassed I was to come to school smelling so bad, but the bathtub didn't work, and we had to wash out of a washtub after heating the water on our coal stove. Usually there wasn't time to bathe in the morning.” The words were tumbling out as Violet remembered bitterly that third grade experience. “I used to come to school and hide in the back corner.”

  I was finding it harder and harder to confess. As Violet spoke, the coals were heaped higher and higher upon my head. At last she was silent. “Violet, do you remember the Christmas party?”

  Tears formed in her eyes. “Oh, yes.” “Violet, can you ever forgive me? I was the one who wrote that terrible poem that sent you sobbing from the room.”

  She looked puzzled. “What poem? I was crying because I hadn't had a quarter to buy a gift and yet someone had given a gift to me. I couldn't stand the guilt and the shame.”

  “Violet, there was a card attached to your gift. On it I wrote a terrible poem. Don't you remember?”

  Violet tipped her head back and laughed. “I couldn't read in the third grade. I don't think I even looked at your poem.” Then the knife twisted. “What did it say?”

  “Violet, it doesn't matter. Just forgive me, please.”

  “Come on, what was the poem?”

  I chose not to compound my guilt with a lie, so I quoted it to her.

  “It seems appropriate to me,” she laughed. “I forgive you.”

  We finished lunch, and I walked out of the Union Building with a lighter heart. However, every December 23, I still do penance for the cruelty of youth.

  IN THE BLEAK MID-WINTER

  Christina Georgina Rossetti

  In the bleak mid-winter

  Frosty wind made moan,

  Earth stood hard as iron,

  Water like a stone;

  Snow had fallen,

  snow on snow, Snow on snow,

  In the bleak mid-winter

  Long ago.

  Our God, Heaven cannot hold him

  Nor earth sustain;

  Heaven and earth shall flee away

  When he comes to reign:

  In the bleak mid-winter

  A stable-place sufficed

  The Lord God Almighty,

  Jesus Christ... .

  What can I give Him,

  Poor as I am?

  If I were a shepherd

  I would bring a lamb,

  If I were a Wise Man

  I would do my part—

  Yet what I can I give him,

  Give my heart.

  THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

  Hans Christian Anderson

  It was bitterly cold, snow was falling and darkness was gathering, for it was the last evening of the old year—it was New Year's Eve.

  In the cold and gloom a poor little girl walked, bareheaded and barefoot, through the streets. She had been wearing slippers, it is true, when she left home, but what good were they? They had been her mother's, so you can imagine how big they were. The little girl had lost them as she ran across the street to escape from two car- riages that were being driven terribly fast. One slipper could not be found, and a boy had run off with the other, saying that would come in very handy as a cradle some day when he had children of his own.

  So the little girl walked about the streets on her naked feet, which were red and blue with the cold. In her old apron she carried a great many matches, and she had a packet of them in her hand as well. Nobody had bought any from her, and no one had given her a single penny all day. She crept along, shivering and hungry, the picture of misery, poor little thing!

  The snowflakes fell on her long golden hair which curled so prettily about her neck, but she did not think of her appearance now. Lights were shining in every window, and there was a glorious smell of roast goose in the street, for this was New Year's Eve, and she could not think of anything else.

  She huddled down in a heap in a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected further out into the street than the other, but though she tucked her little legs up under her she felt colder and colder. She did not dare go home, for she had sold no matches and earned not a single penny. Her father would be sure to beat her, and besides it was so cold at home, for they had nothing but the roof above them and the wind whistled through that, even though the largest cracks were stuffed with straw and rags. Her thin hands were almost numb with cold. If only she dared pull just one small match from the packet, strike it on the wall and warm her fingers!

  She pulled one out—scr-r-ratch!—how it spluttered and burnt! It had a warm, bright flame like a tiny candle when she held her hand over it—but what a strange light! It seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting in front of a great iron stove with polished brass knobs and brass ornaments. The fire burnt so beautifully and gave out such a lovely warmth. Oh, how wonderful that was! The child had already stretched her feet to warm them, too, when—out went the flame, the stove vanished and there she sat with the burnt match in her hand.

  She struck another—it burnt clearly and, where the light fell upon the wall, the bricks became transparent, like gauze. She could see right into the room, where a shining white cloth was spread on the table. It was covered with beautiful china and in the centre of it stood a roast goose, stuffed with prunes and apples, steaming deliciously. And what was even more wonderful was that the goose hopped down from the dish, waddled across the floor with carving knife and fork in its back, waddled straight up to the poor child! Then—out went the match, and nothing could be seen but the thick, cold wall.

  She struck another match, and suddenly she was sitting under the most beautiful Christmas tree. It was much larger and much lovelier than the one she had seen last year through the glass doors of the rich merchant's house. A thousand candles lit up the green branches, and gaily coloured balls like those in the shop windows looked down upon her. The little girl reached forward with both hands—then, out went the match. The many candles on the Christmas tree rose higher and higher through the air, and she saw that they had now turned into bright stars.

  One of them fell, streaking the sky with light.

  “Now someone is dying,” said the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever been good to her but who was now dead, had said, “Whenever a star falls, a soul goes up to God.”

  She struck another match on the wall. Once more there was light, and in the glow stood her old grandmother, oh, so bright and shining, and looking so gentle, kind and loving. “Granny!” cried the little girl. “Oh, take me with you! I know you will disappear when the match is burnt out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the lovely roast goose and the great glorious Christmas tree!”

  Then she quickly struck all the rest of the matches she had in the packet, for she did so want to keep her grandmother with her.

  The matches flared up with such a blaze that it was brighter than broad daylight, and her old grandmother had never seemed so beautiful before, so stately before. She took the little girl in her arms and flew with her high up, oh, so high, towards glory and joy! Now they knew neither cold nor hunger nor fear, for they were both with God.

  But in the cold dawn, in the corner formed by the two houses, sat the little girl with rosy cheeks and smiling lips, d e a d — f r o z e n to death on the last evening of the old year. The dawn of the new year rose on the huddled figure of the girl. She was still holding the matches, and half a packet had been burnt.

  “She was evidently trying to warm herself,” people said. But no one knew what beautiful visions she had seen and in what a blaze of glory she had entered with her dear old grandmother into the heavenly joy and gladness of a new year.

  WHAT SHALL I DO THEN WITH JESUS WHICH IS CALLED CHRIST?

  President Gordon B. Hinckley

  At this Christmas season, may I share a few thoughts concerning him whose birth we commemorate—the Man of Miracles, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Although he healed the sick, raised the dead, caused the lame to walk, and made the blind to see, there is no miracle comparable to the miracle of Christ himself.

  We live in a world of pomp and muscle, of strutting that glorifies jet thrust and far-flying warheads. It is the same kind of strutting that produced the misery of the days of Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Hitler. In this kind of world it is not easy to recognize that—