Where's Nicky?

        Five year-old Nicky was lost in the Christmas rush. The big day was less than a week away, and things were hectic at the North Pole. The elves worked in round-the-clock shifts. The reindeer pawed the ground, eager to fly. Nicky’s older brothers and sisters were given tasks in the mailroom, but he had nothing to do.

        “Where’s Nicky?” Mrs. Santa asked.

        A pointy-eared elf answered, “I saw him in Santa’s office.”

        She found him hiding under her husband’s desk. “What are you doing? Is there something you want to tell me, son?”

        “All I want for Christmas is Daddy.”

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Surprise!

        Six days a week for the past thirty-three years, Rosie had wakened at 3:00 a.m. and gone to work at the bakery. Doughnuts needed an early start. This morning memories filled her thoughts when she turned the key and opened the door.    

        “Surprise!” her friends shouted. “Happy Birthday!” They sang the song as numbers 6 and 5 were lit on a cake.

        Laughing, Rosie thanked them. She made a wish and blew.

        “Will you retire now?” someone asked.

        “What would I do?”

        “Travel.”

        “Where would I go?”

        “Las Vegas—white-hair heaven.”

        She frowned. “I’m too old to start again.”

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Annabelle's Secret

        Annabelle was ten years old, the only child of a wealthy banker. Pampered and spoiled, she lived in a mansion on the Hudson River. Every afternoon, her governess, Miss McGrady, drank Lydia Pinkham’s elixir to calm her nerves. She’d sleep, freeing Annabelle. The child got into all sorts of mischief, until the day Annabelle found a locked door in the east wing.

        As we all know, there is nothing as tempting as a locked door. She knocked first and then peeked through the keyhole. Annabelle’s screams woke the governess.

        Seventy years later, Annabelle still wouldn’t tell anyone what she saw.

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Curious Lookey-Loo

        

        “Are they still there?” Jim asked from behind the counter.

        “Yeah.” I had been watching them quarrel through the window—our store manager and the customer. “I think the boss is winning.”

        Jim smirked. “Are you sure? Isn’t the customer always right?”

        “Not when she walks out of the store without paying.” I sprayed Windex on the glass and rubbed circles, my ploy for being at the window and not behind the counter. “Uh, oh. Here come the cops.”

        “What’s she doing now?”

        “Running! And guess what she left behind?”

        “The stolen goods?”

        “Nah. “ I laughed. “Her high-heeled shoes.”

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