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Christmas Day in the Morning--Pearl S. Buck
He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! His father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he still woke at four o'clock in the morning. But this morning, because it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep again.
Yet what was the magic of Christmas now? His childhood and youth were long past, and his own children had grown up and gone.
Yesterday his wife had said, "It isn't worthwhile, perhaps— "
And he had said, "Yes, Alice, even if there are only the two of us, let's have a Christmas of our own."
Then she had said, "Let's not trim the tree until tomorrow, Robert. I'm tired."
He had agreed, and the tree was still out by the back door.
He lay in his bed in his room.
Why did he feel so awake tonight? For it was still night, a clear and starry night. No moon, of course, but the stars were extraordinary! Now that he thought of it, the stars seemed always large and clear before the dawn of Christmas Day.
He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.
"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast, and he needs his sleep. I wish I could manage alone."
"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk, "Besides, he isn't a child any more. It's time he took his turn."
"Yes," his father said slowly, "But I sure do hate to wake him."
