It was Christmas Eve the one night in the year when 7-year-old Bobby was in a hurry to go to bed. His stocking was tacked to the mantel; the beautiful tree stood in the corner. He kissed his mother and father good night. Then he raced upstairs and leaped into bed.

It seemed to Bobby that he hadn’t been asleep any time when a harsh voice shouted “Get up!” He opened his eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight. Then he remembered what day it was. With a joyful shout he hurried into his clothes and bounded down the stairs. On the bottom step he stopped. No stocking hung from the mantel. The Christmas tree was gone too. “But . . . but I put the angel on myself,” Bobby began, when the shrill whistle from the factory made him jump.

“The factory can’t be open on Christmas!” Bobby thought, as he pu…