Hal woke up very early on Christmas morning, so early that it was still quite dark.

He crept out of bed and ran to the chimney, got his stocking, which had been hung there the night before, and carried it back to bed with him.

Oh, what a delightful fat, lumpy stocking it was! Why did not the daylight come, so that he might see what was in it?

This was an orange on top; he could tell that without seeing it. And this long, soft thing, which jingled as he pulled it out? Oh, a pair of reins! How nice! But what was this that came next?

Ah! little Hal must wait till daylight for that, for his tiny fingers refused to tell him what it was.

Wait he did, very impatiently, consoling himself with his orange.

But at last a little gray light came stealing in at the window, and two little bare feet went trotting across the floor, and two little hands held up a mysterious object to the light.

It was a chicken! a most beautiful yellow chicken, with bright black eyes and a little sharp beak, and,—oh! what was this? Why! why! the chicken’s head came off, and the chicken’s body was all full of sugar-plums!

“Oh! oh! oh!” cried little Hal. “Mammy! Mammy! come and look at dis chicken! He can spit his head out!”