Free The Twenty-four Days Before Christmas by Madeleine L'Engle

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    D ECEMBER is probably my favorite month.
    And on the first day of December we were out of bed before Mother came to call us.
    I ran to the window to see if maybe it had snowed during the night. But the ground was still bare, the grass tawny, with a few last leaves fluttering over it. The trees were shaking dark branches against a grey sky.
    â€œAny snow?” Suzy asked. Suzy’s my little sister. She’s only four, and I’ve just turned seven. I can read. Of course, so can John. He’s ten. I answered, “Not a smidgin. And the sky isn’t white enough for snow today. But it doesn’t matter—it’s the first day of December!”
    One of the reasons we love December so is Christmas, not only that Christmas is coming, but that we
do something special every single day of the month to prepare for the twenty-fifth day.
    John was up and out of the house before Suzy and I were dressed. He has a paper route, every morning before breakfast, and he’s allowed to ride all over the village on his bike. I’m the middle Austin and the ugly duckling. If I had more time to remember and think about it, I’d be very sad. I’m skinny and as tall as the eight-year-olds and my legs are so long I keep falling. And I was awake early because this was a specially special December for me. I was to be the angel in the Pageant at church on Christmas Eve—the biggest and most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. I was to wear a golden halo and a flowing white costume and wings, the loveliest wings anyone could imagine. Mother made them.
    Suzy is four and she’s the baby and all cuddly and beautiful and her hair is curly and the color of sunshine. She has great shining eyes that are the purple-blue of the sky just after sunset. She has a rosebud for a mouth, and she isn’t skinny; she’s just right.

    We dressed quickly, because even if there wasn’t any snow it was cold, and we ran downstairs just as John came in from delivering his papers, his cheeks shiny-red as apples from the cold. The dogs came running in after him, barking: Mr. Rochester, our big brindle Great Dane, and Colette, our little silver poodle. They’re very good friends.
    Our kitchen is a big wandery room that turns corners and has unexpected nooks and crannies. In the dining room section in the winter the fire crackles merrily, and this morning the smell of applewood mingled with the smell of pancakes and maple syrup and hot chocolate. One of the cats was sleeping, curled up on a cushion in front of the fire. Our father had already had his breakfast and gone out; he’s a doctor and Mother said he’d gone out several hours ago to deliver a baby.
    At that we looked at Mother, and the lovely bulge in her dress, and Mother smiled and said, “Daddy thinks the baby should come along sometime the first week in January.”

    â€œAnd then I won’t be the baby anymore!” Suzy said. “And I’ll help you with the new baby.”
    Suzy’s mind flits from thought to thought, just as she herself does, like a butterfly. Now she asked, “What’s the surprise for the first day of December?”
    It wasn’t completely a surprise, because each year it’s an Advent calendar, but it’s partly a surprise, because it’s always a new one. Advent means coming, and it’s the four weeks that lead up to Christmas. Mother and Daddy read serious things in the evening, and talk about them, a book called The Four Last Things, for instance.

    This year the calendar was a beautiful one, and had come all the way across the ocean, from Denmark. We take turns every day opening one of the windows to see what surprise picture is waiting behind. The twenty-fourth day, when the windows open, they reveal the stable, and Mary and Joseph and the baby.
    Today Suzy opened, because she’s the youngest
and goes first. Inside was a baby angel, who looked just like