How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas Read Online Free

was pleased to distribute the remaining grain to the men he’d hired. They, in turn, could sell the grain in other markets and use the money to feed and clothe their wives and children for a little while. This was one public task Uncle Silas gladly shared with me. I loved going with him to the nomad camps and handing the small sacks of grain to the hungry, ragged people there, though afterward I remembered their thin cloaks and thinner bodies and wished I could do even more. Twice, Uncle Silas punished me for giving my nice sandals to nomad girls who were barefoot. My punishment was only being sent to bed without supper. Even when he ordered me to go to my blankets, Uncle Silas added that he understood why I had done it.

    Uncle Silas
    â€œIt’s a sad thing, Layla, to see the poverty in this world,” he said, gently patting my shoulder. “But you must learn, girl, that there’s only so much any of us can do to help other people. If they’re meant to be hungry or barefoot, that can’t be any of our concern.”
    â€œWho means them to be hungry or barefoot?” I asked. “If I could, I would spend my whole life bringing gifts to people.”
    Uncle Silas sighed the way grown-ups often do when children ask difficult questions.
    â€œI suppose God decides who is rich and who is poor,” he said. “We must leave these things to him. As for you, girl, no life of gift-giving is possible. Get that thought out of your mind. You’re almost twelve now, and in another year or two it will be time for you to take a husband and have a family of your own. Think of that instead.”
    I was thinking of that, when I wasn’t dreaming of traveling the world and going out anonymously in the night to give gifts to the poor. All the other girls my age in Niobrara acted obsessed with the idea of marriage. They seemed to believe they would be asked to marry a young man, move into a home with him, have and raise children, and live happily ever after. When they talked about it, they never mentioned the endless chores that made up most of a married woman’s life. I didn’t mind chores, ever, if I thought they were accomplishing something worthwhile. Planting wheat would have been exciting, had Uncle Silas allowed me to do it, because stalks would grow and grain would be harvested and people would eat. But sweeping a floor just moved dust from one place to another. It seemed to me there was no real accomplishment in that. I had nothing against marriage, either, if I could be an equal partner rather than my husband’s servant.
    Because Niobrara was a small town, everyone knew everyone else and families often planned from the time of their children’s birth who might grow up to marry whom. Though Aunt Lodi understood my dreams of travel and independence, Uncle Silas made a point on too many nights of mentioning various village boys to me, always adding what there might be about them that would make them desirable husbands.
    â€œHave you noticed Hiram’s son Matthew lately?” he might ask Aunt Lodi over dinner, pretending to be talking to her but really intending to be heard by me. “He’s just turned sixteen, and he’s a strapping young fellow, a very good worker. Of course, he’s got three older brothers and Hiram’s farm isn’t big enough to support all the extra families when the four boys marry, but if Matthew married the right girl who inherited her own place, I think he’d be a fine provider.”
    At twelve, I was not pretty and seemed unlikely ever to become so. My jaw was long, and everyone said my eyes had the unwomanly quality of looking right through people, instead of my gaze being modestly cast down at the ground, which was more proper for a nice girl. No prospective husband was likely to want me for my looks, or for my attitude.
    But I was going to inherit Uncle Silas’s farm when he and Aunt Lodi passed away, and a very good