Timko and the Letter to Saint Nicholas

Late autumn came. The leaves in Oak Grove had all fallen, and the hedgehog family was getting ready for its winter sleep.

Timko went to the old oak to say goodbye to Granny Owl. And behind him, pitter-patter-pitter, trotted Lily. She followed her big brother everywhere now and repeated everything he said.

“Granny Owl, what will happen in winter while we’re asleep?”

“Hoo! Lots of things,” said the Owl from her hollow. “There will be snow. And on the sixth of December Saint Nicholas comes. He quietly slips presents under children’s pillows.”

“Pwesents!” squeaked Lily.

Timko jumped up. And then he frowned.

“But how will he find me? I’ll be sleeping under the roots, not in a bed!”

The Owl did not answer. She only hooted, and behind her round glasses her amber eyes gave a sly twinkle.

At home Timko felt even gloomier. Because he remembered yesterday. Lily had grabbed his pencils and scribbled all over his drawing of the squirrel. Timko had been so angry that he stamped his paw and shouted, “Go away!”

“Mom,” he asked quietly, “does Saint Nicholas only come to the good children? I was angry with Lily yesterday.”

Mom sat down beside him and hugged him.

“Everybody gets angry sometimes, sunshine. And a present is not something you have to earn. People give presents because they love you.”

“That’s right,” Dad nodded. “Go on, draw a letter to Saint Nicholas. Now where’s my pencil?”

Timko pointed at Dad’s ear. Dad smiled and gave the pencil to him.

But what should he ask for? Timko looked at Lily. She was sitting on the floor, turning his shortest little pencil in her paws. She had no pencils of her own.

So Timko drew a little hedgehog girl in a pink bonnet, and beside her a box of pencils. Big ones, in all the colors. Her very own.

“And for you?” asked Mom.

Timko shrugged. He hadn’t thought of anything for himself.

Dad drew a new line on the height plank, and next to it he drew a tiny envelope. And Mom tied on her sky-blue apron.

“I’ll bake a pie, just in case. What if Saint Nicholas gets cold on the way?”

Toward evening Timko stood under the oak with the letter in his paws. His heart was thumping: thump-thump-thump. He gave a little snort through his nose.

“Breathe in, breathe out, and off we go!”

“Bweathe in, bweathe out, and off we go!” Lily repeated.

Timko held out the letter to Granny Owl. And Mom held out a warm pie wrapped in a towel.

“I don’t sleep in winter,” said the Owl, tucking the letter under her wing. “I’ll deliver it. I promise.”

Soon the whole family settled down under the roots of the oak, in a nest of leaves and moss. Timko laid his head on a little pillow of dry grass, curled up into a ball, and fell asleep.

He woke up only in spring. Melting snow went drip-drip, and the air smelled of wet earth. Timko stretched, slipped his paw under the pillow, and froze. Something was rustling there.

Two little parcels! One had a pink bonnet drawn on it, the other a red scarf.

“Lily! Wake up! Saint Nicholas came!”

Lily unwrapped her parcel, and inside were pencils. Big ones, in all the colors. Her very own.

“Mine!” she squealed, and hugged the box tight.

In Timko’s parcel lay a sketchbook. And a gray feather and a little note. Timko read it slowly, syllable by syllable:

“Hoo! Here’s a riddle for you… Who doesn’t sleep in winter, sees in the dark, flaps her wings ever so softly, and shows Saint Nicholas the way to the oak?”

Timko looked up. On a branch sat Granny Owl. Her glasses were gleaming, and she looked as innocent as could be.

“Hoo,” she said. “Now who could that be?”

Timko pressed the feather to his nose and laughed. He had not asked for anything for himself. And the present had found him anyway, under the roots of the oak, because someone had stayed awake all winter and remembered him.