A street urchin, pinched cheeks chapped by the bitter cold, gazes wistfully at the snow-covered trees.
“Please, sir, ‘ow much is that one?” She points to a woeful spindly specimen.
“Ow much ‘ave you got?”
“Nobbut a farthing, sir,” the urchin offers her brown coin.
“That’ll not fill my pouch,” the vendor growls, but takes her proffered coin.
“God bless you, sir.” She cradles her Christmas gift.
Snowflakes drip from the farthing tree’s branches…or are they tears of joy.