“And you are, um—” the secretary scanned her appointment book.

“Rachael, 7:10, here,” Rachael pointed to her name, trying hard to look casual while placing her finger over her last name. Behind her, a wall clock chimed the hour.

“Y-es, I see,” Molly Frampton, according to the gold nameplate on her desk, said. “Well, they’ll be with you in a moment, Miss—uh, Rachael.” She looked down at Rachael’s instrusive finger.

“Do the building lights always glint the snow like that?” Rachael smiled and gestured toward the window, leaning away from Ms. Frampton’s desk as unconcernedly as possible.

Her nonchalance worked. Ms. Frampton turned to the full-wall window and sighed. “Yes, it does, but it’s getting worse, and it’s not going to be nice to go out in it.” Still frowning out the window, the secretary absently closed her appointment book. Mission accomplished, and, apparently, Rachael was the final interview of the evening.

“This isn’t quite where you want to be at seven o’clock in Christmas Eve, is it?” Rachael said, trying to continue the easy conversation. It was the best way to relax her nerves. Besides, she could just imagine the poor secretary taking five minutes to pack up for the day but having to sit around, staring out the window and jiggling her crossed leg, for the remaining forty-five minutes until Rachael’s interview was over so she could go home.

Ms. Frampton looked up sharply, and Rachael remembered too late that if she got this job, she would be one of Molly Frampton’s many superiors. So much for harmless chit chat to calm her nerve. She should have realized that this wasn’t an office where joking or light-hearted sarcasm was appreciated or encouraged.

In an attempt to avoid further awkwardness, Rachael stood and pretended to examine the blizzard more closely while trying not to pace.

Although she had been in denial for years, she had always known—ever since choosing her career path as an undergraduate—that she would one day be in this trying predicament. It was a nasty trick of fate that made her occupation the same as his, but there was nothing she could do about it. Her success in getting to this point proved that. When all was said and done, all paths in this field led to Donlan & Associates, the best in the business, so here she was.

But besides unavoidable inherent discomfort of the situation, she was dealing with it much better than she had imagined. Years ago, she could only think of an interview like this ending in a shouting match, but now she didn’t care about confrontation, or blame, or anything anymore. She wanted this job—the best she could get at this point in her career—and she wanted it despite the awkwardness. Still, she couldn’t stop the fleeting thought that everything would have been easier if she was married by now. But, then again, she was still working on trusting males—about personal things—fifteen years later, thanks to him.

At 7:10, on the dot, the door to the conference suite behind Ms. Frampton’s desk opened. A disheveled man emerged from the room, the strained, fake smile melting off his face as he turned himself out of the door. He strode down the hall toward the elevators without a word to Rachael or the secretary, but he was muttering to himself and raking his fingers through his hair.

Rachael’s best defense at a terrifying moment like this was to pretend that she had no fears at all, so she was smiling when Ms. Frampton said, “They’re ready for you, uh, Rachael.” She looked down at her closed appointment book, that little frown lining her forehead once again, but Rachael moved forward immediately, gave her as much of a smile as her terribly dry mouth would allow, and headed toward the foreboding door.

There were five of them, as she had known there would be, although she had only met one of them in person before. These opening formalities were easy. It wasn’t the first time that she was in the room with a handful of very rich and powerful business executives who happened to be all grey-haired and male—quite the opposite of her. She was well practiced at making her round about the room in greeting quickly enough so they could only half rise to shake her hand. She knew that they loved being excused as much as possible from the formality of playing the gentlemen.

Luck was on her side that Mr. James E. Donlan was the last in the circle that she had to greet. That made it easy for her to make the obligatory handshake as brisk as possible and eye contact nonexistent. It also meant that her chair—the closest to the door—was also farthest from him.

“Miss, uh—” the man in the middle—Mr. Jeremy P. Grace—looked down at his papers as if he had forgotten her name, but his uncomfortable glance around at the others, and pointed look at Mr. Donlan, gave him away.

“Rachael, please,” she cut in. Her smile was confident, approachable, yet competent.

“Er, yes,” Mr. Grace looked around at his colleagues, but none of them seemed bothered by her insisted informality—the best way she could think of to deal with the situation. They were all looking at either her or Mr. Donlan, who was apparently reading a portfolio brief and not paying attention at all. That was fine with her—it would be very even easier if he decided not to take an active part.

“Well, then, Ms. Rachael, do you know how many candidates you have been competing with over the past several weeks?” Mr. Grace said.

It was an odd opening question, but Rachael knew that this interview would be full of surprises. “Twelve at this point, I assume, sir, and I’d assume ten times that initially.” It was a quick calculation. At seven o’clock in the evening, they would have been working for twelve hours, with one for lunch, and they would have had applicants from all over the world.

“Yes, you’re quite correct. Quick, even,” Mr. Grace said, frowning and looking around.

Ten years ago, Rachael would have fretted that she had come off too smart, but she had learned that it was confidence and equal competency that men wanted from female colleagues in the business world, not weak submission. Even though she was young and female, there was no reason to hold back her skills or her intelligence. Using everything she had was what had made her so successful so far.

“You will understand then, Ms. Rachael,” Mr. Grace continued, “that this position is of utmost importance to our company. We take our director hires very seriously and we require a unanimous decision from this board before we can move forward.” His eyes scanned the table briefly and rested longest on old Mr. Donlan.

Ah, so they definitely knew. All the better, Rachael thought. They knew, but she was still here. That meant that—to them—it didn’t matter.

“Yes, of course,” Rachael replied.

And so it began. The rest of the hour was the grueling, strenuous, and taxing ordeal that she had anticipated—the hardest interview she had experienced yet, of course. But Donlan’s insistent apathy to the rest of the room simplified things immensely.

But after forty arduous minutes of picking out her professional weaknesses, regurgitating a full history of Donlan & Associates products and profits for the past five years, and speculating advantageous directions for their future, the pummeled questions slowed and then stopped altogether. Rachael wanted to whip her head back and forth to follow all the silent messages—raised eyebrows, tactful shrugs, discreet nods—whizzing around the room, but instead she kept her face open and relaxed as she pretended to ignore the silent meeting—about her—that she wasn’t invited to.

After a brief but excruciating pause, Mr. Grace cleared his throat—which must have been a signal to end the mute conversations—and addressed Rachael once again.

“We appreciate your time, Ms. Rachael.” She almost looked down and slumped, that preamble sounded so much like an apology before a flat-out rejection, but held her emotions back as Mr. Grace continued. “You are the last of a long, tiring day.” He looked around at the gaunt faces around him, Mr. Donlan’s still immersed in what must have been the most interesting report ever submitted. Rachael was sure she had failed.

“Yes, a long, tiring day,” Mr. Grace repeated, “and a great attempt to find anyone who would outshine you.” Rachael clamped her mouth close to keep herself from gaping in shock. “To be completely frank with you, Ms. Rachael, you are our top candidate for this position.” Now she had to keep from beaming. “Your qualifications are outstanding,” he looked down at the resume and portfolio that she could easily recognize from half a table away, “and your experience valuable. We would be happy to snatch you away from your current employer as soon as possible,” Rachael was ready to burst her acceptance, “but there is just one more question that we wish to ask.”

So there was a catch. Maybe everything was too good to be true.

“We want to know why, if you really want to work at Donlan & Associates, you haven’t applied here sooner?” As Mr. Grace spoke, all eyes were focused on Rachael, except Mr. Donlan’s, but she had noticed that he hadn’t turned a page for a long time now. “We could have used your professionalism and skill set much earlier in your career,” Mr. Grace said. “Most of the other division directors have been trained up within our own company. So if you didn’t want to work with Donlan & Associates before, when we certainly would have considered you as at least a manager several years ago, why do you feel we are a good fit now?”

There was no doubt that the eight eyes fixed on her were all avoiding looking a Mr. Donlan. But it was the type of question that Rachael had expected, and she had her honest answer ready.

“Well, to be honest, I knew that Donlan & Associates was the best in the business the day I started training for my career. But while most of my peers shot for Donlan & Associates right away, I knew there was wisdom in waiting—waiting for Donlan & Associates to be ready for me and for me to be ready for you.”

She stopped talking, hoping that her brief, honest answer would be adequate. At first it seemed that the room accepted what she had said—and what she had meant—positively, but it only brought on another agonizing pause. She kept looking at Mr. Grace expectantly, but Mr. Grace wouldn’t catch her eye. They were all looking—peripherally, of course—in the direction of Mr. Donlan. It was such a marked and awkward silence that the corner of Rachael’s eye was drawn involuntarily in that direction as well. Only the hum of the ventilation system made a noise in the quiet conference room, despite the vicious—yet silent—blizzard lashing at the full-wall glass window that was certainly the best city view this side of town when unobstructed by snow.

“Well, come in Monday morning,” broke in the gruff, hoarse voice at the end of the table that she hadn’t heard in fifteen years. “Ms. Frampton will take care of the necessary paperwork,” Mr. Donlan said as he dropped the ever-enthralling report in front of him. He looked up briefly and saw her looking at him, but he didn’t smile and she flicked her eyes away as instantly as possible.

The whole room relaxed into a relieved sigh, and the faces before her—excepting Mr. Donlan’s—now wore tired, assuaged smiles instead of stern blankness. She was given hearty handshakes all around, but when she got to Mr. Donlan’s end of the table, she just saw the edge of his briefcase striding from the room with Mr. Grace jogging behind in close wake. Only then did Rachael let herself relax. In spite of everything, she had done it.

She smiled at the remaining three executives’ friendliness as they chattered about how “they knew it had to be her, from the start,” “She’d be reporting to Charlie”—that is Charles J. Bennett, Sr.—“anyway,” and, “It’s not like there was ever any legal obstruction, after all.” Amidst all these relieved comments, Rachael kept thinking to herself in half disbelief that it was over with and things were going to be fine. She was going to be reporting to Charlie. The contact she had with Donlan tonight was all that would be necessary for a long time. They would continue living separate lives just as they had for fifteen years. Sixty floors was going to be enough space for two members of a severed family to not have to interact more than necessary.

As if confirming the easy solution, the executives’ conversation walking out of the tortuous interview room rapidly turned to a burst of holiday spirit as the three partners began bantering about their grandchildren and Santa Claus plans. They gave Rachael friendly waves on their way to the elevator while Rachael stayed behind to make her appointment with Ms. Frampton.

“Whew, it’s over.” Rachael exhaled herself into the leather armchair she had barely touched an hour before.

Ms. Frampton looked surprised again but this time more curious than shocked or incredulous.

“I suppose you’ll need an appointment to complete the hiring papers on Monday, then, ma’am?” Ms. Frampton clipped.

“Oh, no, Molly,” Rachael smiled, purposely retaining her collapsed slouch.

“You don’t want—” Ms. Frampton began. She didn’t know that the poor secretary’s eyebrows could lift even higher.

“No, no,” Rachael laughed, a real, friendly laugh that she truly felt. “Not ‘ma’am,’ please, Molly. Just Rachael.”

Molly Frampton looked shocked for a second more, but gradually her face hesitantly relaxed. “Monday morning then—Rachael?”

“Yes,” Rachael smiled again. “When do you come in?”

“Uh, six-thirty, but the bosses won’t be here until seven. But exactly seven,” she emphasized.

Rachael laughed again. “Oh, I know enough about Donlan & Associates to thoroughly understand the mandate for punctuality.”

“Well,” Molly’s mouth slid into a faint smile, “I guess knew that already. You don’t want to know what a raking eleven o’clock got this morning.”

“You’re right. I don’t,” Rachael said in full honestly. “Well, let’s get out of here, huh?”

She grabbed her bag and waited for Molly to pull on her coat so they could head to the elevator together. Molly looked just briefly puzzled at this consideration, but she brushed her skepticism away almost immediately.

“You know,” Molly said conversationally as the elevator descended, leaving her secretary façade up on the sixtieth floor, “I never knew that ‘Donlan’ was such a common last name.”

Rachael finished pulling on her gloves with forced calm before looking up. The question would have come sometime anyway, easier to just get it out now. And there was no sense lying. “Well, it’s not really,” she said.

Molly’s brow furrowed. “So are you—”

“Yes,” Rachael said, a little too soon. She smiled again to make up for the brief sharpness. “Well, I used to be, I mean. His daughter.”

“Used to be—” Molly looked more puzzled than ever, but Rachael didn’t mind. She had thought about this question often, but she had never pictured her “interrogator,” as she called them in her mind, as kindred of a spirit as Molly. But despite the difference, the moment proved that it didn’t matter who the asker was. Her answer would have to be the same.

Maybe someday she would let it all out, all of it. She’d tell about being adopted and not knowing about it until she was fifteen when her dad walked out on Mom right in the middle of her first chemo treatment, how it was easy to cut her tie to that failed father as part of the divorce proceedings when there was never any biology involved anyway, and how she had made her successful way in the world alone, after Mom’s passing, despite an ex-father living in the same city for all these years. She could tell how she had always known that their common industry would one day lead her to his doors, but she had wanted to make it there on her own merits. It had seemed a hideous possibility to work for him when she started her career, but now it had been long enough that she’d cried and hurt as much as she could over him. Now it was time to rise above. He was going to stop ruining her life because she was not James E. Donlan’s daughter anymore.

“Yes,” Rachael said firmly, “used to be.”

Molly looked puzzled for another moment, but then she busied herself with tying her scarf. The elevator opened into the abandoned lobby, and they finished their bundling and buttoning on their way to the street doors.

“Well, see you, Rachael,” Molly said brightly but so naturally that Rachael really believed that she didn’t mind her lack of explanation. Maybe moving on was going to work.

“Yeah, see you,” Rachael said, trying to smile a thank-you for Molly’s kind acceptance and genuine tact. “Oh, and Merry Christmas.”

“You too,” Molly said warmly. She pulled her collar up, took a deep breath, and plunged into the street.

Rachael took one last look at the empty lobby, “Donlan & Associates” in bold brass letters high on the wall, grateful that, despite the possibilities, it hadn’t been another worst day of her life after all. Instead her Christmas wish for a fresh, new beginning was coming true.

Nancy had never felt more awkward in her life. She blinked and looked from the closed living room door, to the bedroom door, and then back to the living room door again.

Slowly she felt her senses turn back on. Her hands felt wet. She looked down and saw that she was still holding a freshly peeled potato under the kitchen faucet. She tasted the stale gum in her mouth smashed paper-thin between her clenched teeth. Relaxing her jaw, she forced herself to take a deep breath. Five minutes ago, the kitchen was full of Christmas cheer as she chatted amiably to Julie, Chad’s arm around her waist, with Fred interjecting something silly with every armful of firewood he brought in from the garage. Now the house felt like a funeral home. Even the CD of classic Christmas songs had gone silent, as if Bing and Frank found it too awkward to make any noise.

Nancy felt angry, embarrassed, and confused. A moment ago, she was telling herself how smoothly things were going with both Julie and Fred giving her thumbs up behind Chad’s back. Now here she was, alone with her boyfriend in the kitchen, wondering what would happen. What did he think? She’d never worried about Julie and Fred being a problem, but now she felt desperate. How could Chad keep liking her if his only encounter with her sister and brother-in-law was a sudden fight ending in two slammed doors?

Eventually she looked over at Chad who looked like he was coming out of his own stupor. He looked around, made brief eye contact, and then slowly started peeling another potato.

“What was that all about?”

Nancy shrugged. “I–I don’t know. I’ve never seen them fight like that.” She turned off the faucet and grabbed a towel to dry her hands.

Chad kept peeling his potato without saying anything, and she just stood there looking at him. Flick, flick, flick. He was peeling the same spot on the potato over and over, his brow deeply furrowed. Flick, flick, flick. She crept a few feet toward the living room door. She couldn’t hear Fred. Flick, flick, flick. She saw Chad rotate his potato, but his face was still clouded over. Nancy crept over to the bedroom door. No sound from Julie. She lifted her hand to knock but withdrew it. Hands at her sides, she walked back to the kitchen.

Flick, flick, flick.

She felt like crying. She wanted Chad to hold her, but what was he thinking? Maybe he wanted out of this crazy family before he even entered it.

She walked over to the CD player and restarted the music. Ella’s voice filled the room. The sound of “Silent Night” dampened the beat of Chad’s peeler, but the house still felt terribly empty and still.

“My parents argued like this a lot before the divorce,” Chad said without looking up. He put his potato in the pan and started on another.

Nancy walked closer to him, her hands jammed in her pockets. “Yeah. What did you do?”

Chad stopped peeling and a small grin spread across his face. “One time I ran around the house yelling ‘Fire! Fire!'”

Nancy looked at him. “How did that work out?”

Chad went back to peeling. “Not well, they took turns blaming each other for my delinquency.”

Nancy sat down next to Chad and started on her own potato. She chanced a glance at the two guilty doors but they remained closed. “It’s Christmas Eve, they have to forgive each other, right?”

Chad shrugged. “They sure took the Christmas cheer with them, didn’t they?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, I didn’t think this would happen. They’ve only been married for a couple of years, and they’ve always been fine when I’m around them.”

Chad stopped peeling. “What’s that supposed to mean? Only a couple of years? Do you mean it’s okay for couples to fight if they’ve been married for, what, five years? Ten?”

Nancy looked over at him. His face looked strange. She’d never seen him looked so steeled.

She looked back down quickly and felt hot tears swell in her eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m just surprised and–and embarrassed. I wanted this visit to be about them getting to know you, not,” she gestured at the closed front room door, “this.”

Chad was silent for a minute and she heard the flick, flick, flick of his peeler again. They’d never made mashed potatoes together before, and she was impressed at how well he was doing. It made her feel even worse that he was angry.

Flick, flick, flick. Soon there was only one potato left. Nancy grabbed the cutting board and started chopping the pile of potatoes while Chad started peeling the last one. She wondered how long Julie and Fred would stay in their respective fortresses. Maybe they did this all the time; maybe they would stay in there all night.

Nancy watched Chad put the last potato in her pile and then slink off to look at the pile of unlit wood in the fireplace. “We used to have a fireplace when we lived in Colorado,” he said, almost to himself. Nancy stopped chopping. “I used to lie on my stomach, watching the sparks float up the chimney and wonder where they went. One time Dad told me they turned into fireflies.”

Nancy got up and took a furtive step toward him. “I love the fire, too,” she said. “Every Christmas I’ve stayed at school that’s what I’ve missed the most. I was really glad when Julie invited me over because I knew we’d have a crackling fire.”

Chad glanced over at the living room door. “Yeah, I guess we will if they ever come out.”
Nancy took another step closer, and then another, until she was only a foot away from him. “I bet I could find the matches. Dad kept them above the mantle before he died. I bet that’s where Fred keeps them.”

Chad looked over at her. “I wouldn’t know how to start it. After the divorce, Mom moved into an apartment. The few times I saw Dad we never went camping or anything. Can you start it?”

“No, Dad always did it. Then Mom couldn’t handle the smoke once she got sick.”

They stared at the stack of wood. Nancy tried to think of something to say, but she didn’t know what. Maybe this was the end, maybe not. Chad had mentioned how much he hated couples fighting one time, but she didn’t know he would be this sensitive.

A creaking noise made them both look up. Julie’s tear-stained face poked around the corner. Nancy ran over to her and gave her a hug. She heard Julie mutter something but couldn’t understand it. She glanced over at Chad but he was staring at the fireplace again.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Julie finally said, and Nancy released her grip. They walked into the kitchen. Julie blew her nose and picked up the knife. “I guess we’d better finish making dinner.”

“I’ll get another knife,” Nancy said and started rummaging through drawers. She looked over at Chad again to see if he would join them, but he stood there with his back to them, still staring at the fireplace.

They finished chopping the potatoes and put them in the pot of water. It had just started bubbling when Fred’s face appeared in the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Julie burst into tears, ran to him, and threw her arms around him. He staggered backward under this sudden attack but soon regained his balance. He put one hand around her back and started stroking her hair with the other. After a moment, they both straightened up and looked at Nancy and Chad.

“Sorry about that,” Fred said, “I guess I lost my temper.”

“It’s okay,” Nancy said, feeling the words tumble out too quickly.

“You can light the fire if you want, Chad,” Fred said after taking a deep breath. “The lighter’s just above the mantle.” He looked down at Julie. “Julie’s Dad always kept the matches there, and I wanted to keep up the tradition, you know.”

“I’ve never lit a fire before,” Chad said. “I guess I’ve always been afraid I’d get burned.”

“Can’t say I’ve never been burned,” Fred shrugged, “but an unlit fire won’t keep you warm. Here, let me show you.” Fred pulled the lighter off the top of the mantle and held it out to him.

“Okay,” Chad said with a quick glance at Nancy, “I’ll give it a shot.”

There are all sorts of elves in the world. There are toy-maker elves, there are shoe-maker elves, there are cookie maker elves, and there are even mean, trouble-maker elves. Impellakrykustenapo was a snow elf, with a typical snow elf name, but his friends called him Stan.

Deep underground, where it stays cold all year, Stan woke from his summer hibernation. He stretched. And he yawned. And he scratched his belly. Sniffing the air, he could tell that the weather outside was nice and frosty. He hopped out of bed with thoughts of all the frozen fun that awaited him.

Stan went to his closet and picked out a green pair of pants, a green shirt with white trim, and a sparkling white cap. He dressed as quickly as he could and dashed out of his home to look for his friends.

First he went to the meadow next to farmer Frank’s barn. – No one was there.

Then he ran over the mountain to where the stream trickled through the hidden dale. No one was there – except for a pair of squirrels sitting in their tree.

And finally, he traveled along the river, past the old mill, and next to the waterfall where his friend Cecil lived. He called for Cecil to come out and play, but Cecil didn’t answer.

Leaves still gathered at the entrance of Cecil’s home. When he peeked inside everything looked neatly put away, just like Stan’s home in the spring, before he hibernated. Stan heard the whistling sounds of Cecil snoring.

Stan didn’t want to wake up his friend. Especially if winter hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe he had woken up early, which he sometimes did. So, he skipped through the hills, and the forest, and farms until he reached the nearest town.

On tippy-toes he sneaked into the candy shop. Then he waited for the candy-maker to walk into the back of his shop. When the man left, Stan hopped up on the counter and looked at the calendar that hung on the wall.

It was December 23rd.

How could that be? It was almost Christmas and none of the other snow elves were awake. If the snow elves didn’t get together and dance and sing, there would be no snow. Who ever heard of Christmas without snow?

This was serious. Snow elves had the most important job of all the elves – making snow for Christmas and they were almost too late.

Stan ran all the way back to Cecil’s and didn’t even bother asking to come in. He went right up to Cecil, sleeping in his bed, and shook him.

Cecil didn’t budge.

Stan pulled the covers off Cecil and shouted out his full snow elf name: Beguscelidosilatu.

Cecil snorted once and turned over.

Something was horribly wrong. It was plenty cold enough that the rest of the elves should be awake by now. They should have been awake for Thanksgiving.

In Cecil’s closet, Stan found a storm horn. He grabbed it, took a big breath, and blew it at Cecil. Then he blew it again. Louder.

Cecil’s eyes opened just a tiny bit and he said, “Go away Stan. I don’t want to wake up.”

Then Cecil closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Stan tooted the horn, shook the bed, and shouted at Cecil, but he couldn’t wake him up again.

Maybe he didn’t need the other elves to make it snow. After all, he was in charge of the entire area between the Wilson’s pond and the line of oak trees that bordered the Desmond Dairy, and from Mary Mosswood’s picket fence to Mockingbird road.

He dashed home to get everything ready for a grand winter party. Stan took his finest string of jingly bells from under his bed. He mixed a big batch of Ice Punch and put it in a jug to keep it chilled. Then he visited his cousins, the cookie-making elves, and got a whole bag of snow-flake shaped cookies.

Stan went to the clearing where all the snow elves gathered. He ate some cookies. He drank some punch. He took out the string of bells and jingled them as he danced around an old evergreen tree.

He continued until all the cookies were eaten, all the was gone, and his feet hurt from all the dancing. No snow fell.

It sounded like Christmas. It smelled like Christmas. It even tasted like Christmas. But it didn’t feel like Christmas. And if it didn’t snow it wouldn’t look like Christmas.

Something was preventing the rest of the elves from waking up and it was preventing Stan from making snow. He decided to go into town and see if he could find what that something was.

From the church bell tower, Stan watched the people below. He watched until it was dark. He watched all night. And he watched in the morning. Finally, it came to him.

There was no Christmas spirit. It wasn’t anywhere to be found. People passed each other in the street without saying hello. They didn’t even smile. With packages clutched tightly in their arms, they bustled from place to place without any of the warmth that made Christmas special.

While it was true that heat made snow elves sleepy, the Christmas spirit was a different kind of warmth. It made the elves want to dance and sing with one another. When they did that, it snowed. The merrier the gathering the more it snowed. However, unless something changed the cold hearts of the townspeople, there would be no snow this year.

Stan knew just what to do.

He climbed down the bell tower, into the church, where he borrowed some children’s clothing that he found in the donation box. He dressed so that nobody would recognize him as an elf and then walked outside.

An old woman shuffled slowly on the icy side walk. She carried many packages and looked as if she might fall.

Stan skipped over to her and said, “Please may I help with your packages? I can carry them and you can take my hand so that you don’t slip on the ice.”

The woman scowled at Stan.

But Stan didn’t care. He smiled back at her. He smiled until her frown went away and she handed the packages to him. They walked across the street and down the block until they reached a small green house. Stan waited for her to open the door and then took the packages inside and laid them on the kitchen table.

“Merry Christmas,” he shouted as passed the woman on his way out.

She waved good-bye. “Merry Christmas to you,” she said with a smile.

That made Stan feel good inside. It felt like Christmas.

Walking down the street, Stan came across a hospital. If any place needed a little cheer, it certainly had to be here.

In one of the rooms a little boy sat in a bed. He was all alone in the room and looked very sad.

Stan walked in and said, “Would you like to hear a story.”

The boy sat up straighter and nodded his head.

“Once upon a time,” Stan began the story. Then he told the little boy about a shoe-maker elf who liked children and made them magical shoes. He happened to know that particular elf pretty well, but told the story as if it were make believe.

When he had finished the story he told the boy good-bye.

“Thank you, friend,” the boy said. “I’m so glad that you came to visit me.”

So was Stan. He didn’t know the boy. Still, he was glad he had come and visited him, all the same.

As he walked out of the hospital and along the sidewalk, Stan whistled. At the end of the block, a man worked in his yard, raking up leaves. It was a big yard. There were a lot of leaves.

“If you have another rake,” said Stan. “I can help you and we’ll get these leaves raked up twice as fast.”

The man’s face brightened at the suggestion. He went into his tool shed and came back with another rake.

Because the rake was so big and Stan was so elf-sized, it took him a little while to get used to raking the leaves. The man introduced himself as Mr. Henke and the two of them sang Christmas songs while they worked. Before he realized it, they had finished raking the entire yard. It had hardly seemed like work at all.

“Now I have time to help Mrs. Sutters,” said Mr. Henke. “I can fix her door and then she won’t have any more trouble getting in and out of her house.”

Mr. Henke shook Stan’s hand and then put the rakes away and walked over to the house next door.

Now it really felt like Christmas.

Stan returned to the gathering place. He picked up his jingly bells and started to dance and sing. This time it was different. He thought of all the giving he had done today and it brightened his heart. As he danced, a snow flake drifted down from the sky and landed on his nose. Then a few more came down and rested on his shoulder.

He started to dance again. Only this time, Cecil was there to join him. They took either end of the string of bells and danced around the old evergreen tree.

One by one, the rest of the snow elves joined Stan and Cecil. Some brought bells. Some brought flutes. And Lora brought a huge pot of Ice Punch.

They danced and they sang until morning. And when they returned to their homes, the town and all its surroundings was covered with a blanket of pure, white snow.