A Christmas Tale
Once upon a time there were two little girls on Christmas Eve, pulling their white nightgowns over their heads and wishing and wishing for a horse of their own. They fell asleep wishing, and dreamt of horses, horses with flying manes and tails, foals with big wondering eyes and delicate legs like young deer, horses standing in long stables, softly whooshing their breath as they contentedly munched their oats and nibbled at their Christmas hay.
It's a glorious thing to dream of your wishes, and never more so than at Christmastime.
They woke early, and pelted down the stairs to the landing window, their heels twinkling below their long white gowns as they ran. Perhaps, just perhaps, one of those dream horses was a real live flesh and blood horse, standing on the snowy lawn, or waiting at the gate of the tiny stable (which looked very like a garden shed, but as anyone knows, a garden shed is just a stable waiting to happen).
The two girls, Clara and Emma, pressed their noses against the cold window panes, their breath making smudges against the glass. There were no hoof prints in the freshly fallen white snow, and the garden shed still looked sadly like what it was. Their hearts fluttered with sadness, but the stars were shining bright, like handfuls of diamonds on a dark velvet blanket. It was Christmas, after all, and there would be other Christmases, and perhaps with enough wishing one day it would come to pass.
They continued down the curving wooden staircase, the glow of the Christmas tree casting shadows against the walls. The tree was a small one this year, fat and round and jolly, with long loops of red cranberries they had strung themselves, and peppermint candy canes, and glass balls as delicate as soap bubbles, every color of the rainbow, and small glass animals quite crowding every inch of the little tree. The girls felt the familiar happiness bubbling up in their chests, remembering the presents they had tucked under it the night before, gifts that had been long in the making, small things, but crafted with an uncommen love, for they loved to give gifts and always had half a dozen in the making at any one time.
Clara untied a tiny package from one of the branches and handed it to Emma, her outstretched hand a little shy, as is the manner of someone giving a small piece of themselves away on a Christmas morning. "Here, this one is yours- I made it for you. Merry Christmas." Emma unwrapped it, also a little shy, as is someone receiving a piece of someone else.
A little box fell from the gilded wrappings and she opened it, turning it round and round. It was just the size of a matchbox, and Clara had painted a winter scene inside, with a little lake made from a broken piece of mirror, and tiny figures cut from cardboard skating on it. The blue snowy hills had been painted on in watercolors, and gold stars twinkled in the sky. Flecks of golden glitter twinkled around the frozen pond, looking very much like candles for a skating party, as they were supposed to.
Emma cupped it safely in her hand, "I love this- Thank you," she said. They smiled softly at each other and then both turned again to the tree. Something gleamed, brown and shining from beneath the branches. A brown china horse was grazing from a painted china feedbox, a red halter on his finely shaped face. His neck arched and curved,
and on his back was a red and gold saddle. The girls took turns holding him, looking at him first one way and then another. One of his back hooves was a pale pink, like the inside of a shell, and his eyes were deep and lustrous.
Around his neck was tied a card with a silk ribbon; "To our dear girls Emma and Clara- may the dear Father in heaven always smile upon your dreaming. All our love, Mama and Papa"
He was the most magnificent toy they had ever seen, and they hugged him to themselves, exhulting in his beauty. The day passed in a happy blur, the gifts all given and properly exclaimed over, the Christmas feast a success, and the goodnight kisses given and received.
The china horse was put to bed in the playroom, the little china manger put close by him in case he should feel a little hungry in the night, and a cream pitcher borrowed from a doll's tea set was pressed into service for his water.
Again the two girls went to bed in their long white gowns, and again they slept, deeply and sweetly, this time about a horse with a red and gold saddle and eyes dark as chocolate.
Again they awoke early (but perhaps not as early as before), and remembering the china horse they again ran eagerly down the steps and around the corner, this time to the playroom, Emma (who was littlest,) bumping into Clara as she stopped still in the doorway.
They heard a soft whooshing sound, and a low gentle nickering. Papa was there, and beside him was a horse. Not a painted china stallion, but a real live horse, looking old enough to be wise with children but young enough to be a friend for many years. The girls still stood in the doorway, breathless; "Don't you even want to meet her?" said Mama, coming smiling down the hallway, the fullness of a Christmas miracle quite shining out of her eyes. "She's for you.. She's yours!" Papa said, laughing at their still startled faces.
Clara reached out gently, slowly, touching the soft velvet nose, running her hand under the warmth of the long black mane. They took her through the house and across the snowy lawn, heading towards the garden shed that now looked more than ever like a stable, with a bucket and rake leaning up against it, the fresh smell of new hay coming out over the half door.
The girls never forgot that morning - the first time they they saw a wish and a dream, living and breathing before their very eyes.
