Mykhailik lived with his mother in a small hut on the outskirts of the village. They lived poorly. Dad had been gone for a long time — he had gone to work and never returned. Mom worked in the fields, washed floors at school, and sewed shirts for neighbors. But there was still not enough money.
Before Christmas Eve, Mykhailik came to his mother:
— Mom, will we have a Christmas tree?
Mom was silent for a long time. Then she hugged him and stroked his head.
"Not this year, son. There's no money. Maybe next year..."
Mykhailik nodded. He didn't cry—he was a brave boy. But at night he sat by the candle for a long time. And he thought: what if I'm alone? There are pine trees in the forest. There's no need to chop a tiny one, I'll break a branch. He took his father's old axe. He put on a patched fur coat. And quietly slipped away into the night.
The forest was deep and quiet. Mykhailik walked and walked. At first he knew the way - behind the oak tree to the left. And then - the snow covered the tracks. Dark. Cold. He stopped. He got lost.
Mykhailik sat down under a pine tree. He cried. Quietly, so that no one would hear — he was brave. The tears froze on his cheeks.
Suddenly, a light shone between the trees. It wasn't moonlight—it was something else, warm. Mykhailik raised his head. A tall old man in white robes with gold was walking toward him. His head was in a golden mitre. In his hand was a crutch that was barely glowing.
"Why are you, little one, alone in the forest at night?"
"I... I'm getting a Christmas tree. For mom. We don't have one.".
Saint Nicholas squatted down. He looked Mykhaylik in the eyes. He smiled affectionately.
"Well done. You're not going for yourself, you're going for your mother. Come on, I'll take you out. And we'll get the Christmas tree. See, here's a small branch of a green pine. That'll be enough for you.".
He broke off a small green twig. He gave it to Mykhailik. He took his hand. And led him. The road suddenly turned out to be short - in a few steps Mykhailik could already see the light in the window of his hut.
"Thank you, uncle," whispered Mykhailik. He turned around - and the Saint was gone. Only the trace of his crutch was left in the snow.
At home, mom cried, hugged, scolded, kissed. Mykhailik showed her a twig. «Look, mom, I brought it.» They put the twig in a jug of water on the windowsill. And went to bed.
In the morning, Mom was the first to wake up and gasped. Overnight, the twig had become a real little pine tree—as tall as Mykhailik. Green, fluffy, with shimmering drops, as if there were little silver stars on it. And under the pine tree—a loaf of fresh bread, a bowl of nuts, and a red handkerchief for Mom. No note. But Mom and Mykhailik knew who was coming. And that Christmas Eve, their little hut smelled of fresh resin, warm bread, and things that no amount of money could buy.
💛 A gift from the heart always grows bigger than one from the wallet.