While his father was being turned down for more credit at one end of the counter, little Timmy was gazing rapturously at the multi-colored toy steam shovel on the other end of the counter.

"That's what Santa is going to bring me for Christmas," he told the dour man waiting for his turn to be served.

"What did you do to deserve a present?" the man asked.

Timmy was confused.

"What do you mean?"

"Kids today think they should just be given things. When I was little I had to go out and work for the money to buy the things I wanted." That wasn't quite true. When he was small the country was in the great depression, and there were no jobs for someone who wanted something. His turn came, and he moved up to the counter.

"What were you talking to Mr. Garn about," Timmy's father asked.

"I don't call him Mr. Garn," Timmy said. "I call him Mr. Mean. He thinks I should have to work for that steam shovel."

"Mr. Garn was raised in different times from us. Things were hard for him. Even harder than it is for us, now. He isn't mean. He just puts a different value on things."

Christmas eve, Jim Garn pulled aside the heavy drapes that helped keep out the cold. It had been snowing intermittently for three days and there was a foot of the white stuff on the ground.

"Anyone would have to be a damned fool to go out in this weather," he told Thomas the cat. "Even for an emergency."

He could see the house where Timmy and his family lived. There were no lights. Kerosene for the lamps had to be skimped on. He thought of the colorful steam shovel Timmy had his heart set on. The price tag had said $1.49. That family had as much chance of paying $1.49 for a toy as they had paying the overdue bill for the milk and eggs he had delivered for the past three weeks.

Emotion overtook him. He pulled on his boots, wrapped a scarf around his neck, struggled into his heaviest coat and pulled a toboggan cap down over his ears.

The three-mile walk to the mercantile left his with shortness of breath and extreme fatigue. The way back wore him down even more. It was dark when he came to his neighbor's farmhouse. There were still no lights. He knew they were all in bed early to save on heat. The door was unlocked, as always. He placed the steam shovel on the mantle, and put the bill for the milk and eggs, marked "Paid", beside it. Then quietly pulled the door closed behind him.

Back home, it took some time for the chill to wear off. He sat with a blanket over his legs and feet and drank a cup of hot tea.

"Don't you look at me as if I'm out of my mind," he told Thomas the cat. "It's Christmas. If a man doesn't ever do something for somebody else, what is he here for?"

"Meow" said Thomas. In his world and vocabulary that sized up the situation perfectly.