A few days before Christmas in 1961， when I was driving home after a client's office Christmas party， I suddenly remembered my wife Joy Marie's parting words as I left for work that morning. "If somebody I know is not in possession of a fine， upright Christmas tree when he returns this evening， it will be somewhat difficult getting into this house where the climate will be a lot cooler than the climate outside." With this little warning ringing in my ears， I quickly made the rounds of a few tree lots and purchased a fine balsam， which I knew would serve as the fee for getting into the house.

　　I started right in with the chore of getting it into the stand and properly secured， as straight as possible. I had been working on the project only a short time when I saw what looked like a small roll of paper covered with black plastic， and tied to the trunk with black thread. I tore it off and tossed it to Joy Marie who was busily separating the decorations and lights.

　　"What's that？" she asked.

　　It is well-known in the Detroit area that a lot of our trees come from Canada， so I rather flippantly answered，

　　"Probably a note from some kid up in Canada， and he no doubt wants something for Christmas."

　　I was joking， but in fact I couldn't have made a more accurate statement. Joy Marie and I read the note we found， and it was indeed from a little Canadian boy asking for skates for Christmas.

　　The note was nicely written， but we couldn't be sure if the town was spelled Legere or Lagare， or if it was in New Brunswick or Nova Scotia. So now the great search began. I checked maps， asked friends and called all of the Canadian freight lines with whom I did business， but all to no avail， and Christmas was rapidly approaching.

　　In the meantime， Joy Marie had adopted a hands-off attitude about the whole thing. She is the kindest and most generous person I know， but she is a little suspicious about anyone who uses Christmas trees as a means of carrying correspondence regarding gifts. She and her friends discussed it thoroughly， and they decided a kid that age could not write that well， and probably had little knowledge of English， and that there was a large cartel in Canada dealing in ice skates and other toys from unsuspecting and gullible American folks.

　　God didn't make me a stubborn Irishman for nothing， so I immediately took the opposite position. I announced loudly and clearly to anyone who would listen， "I don't care if the whole thing is a fraud or a joke. If I can find a kid named Egbert McGraw somewhere in New Brunswick or Nova Scotia， Canada， he's going to get a pair of the finest skates I can find！"

　　On December 24th， I was having a cup of coffee at my local diner， talking to Sid， the owner， explaining my problem. He said， "Why don't you tell the guy at the end of the counter？ He's been bugging me because he can't find someone he can help， and he says it's his job at Christmas time. Probably works for some charity. I don't know what he's talking about， but tell him your story and maybe he'll get off my back."

　　I needed no further urging. I noticed the young man was dressed in a gray suit， white shirt and tie. I introduced myself， and poured out my story. I finished with， "Sid said you might be able to give me some advice."

　　He said， "Thank you. I was beginning to think I wouldn't be able to do my job this year， but you present me with a very easy problem. Why don't you just contact the post office？"

　　I felt a little foolish as I heard myself saying， "Why didn't I think of that？" I thanked the man profusely， wished him a very Merry Christmas and said， "You're an angel." He did have a white feather with a gold tip stuck in his lapel.

　　I then hurried to the public phone and dialed the post office. I silently prayed that someone would answer who had enough time at this busy season to help me. A kindly sounding gentleman finally answered， listened to my tale， and put me on hold. I really didn't expect much， but after a few minutes waiting， I heard him say， "I find a Legere office in Tracadie， New Brunswick."

　　I wrote it down， thanked him， hung up and hurried back to tell my new friend. He was gone. The bartender said， "I didn't even see him leave. He just disappeared."

　　"Well，" I said， "if he returns， tell him he did his job. He made my Christmas， and I hope I helped him with his." I had an enjoyable Christmas， but knew I'd be up early the next day shopping. Now that I had the address situation straightened out， I ran smack into another problem. I hadn't realized how arduous it would be to buy a pair of ice skates for a little boy the day after Christmas. I tried every department store， toy store and sporting goods store， and could find nothing in a kid's size.

　　The next day I was once again telling my problem to Sid， when who should walk in， but my recent helper with the gold-tipped feather in his lapel. I said by way of starting the conversation， "I suppose that feather has something to do with your work."

　　He answered， "I guess you could say that， but what's your problem now？ You have that same perplexed look on your face."

　　I filled him in on the lack of skates the day after Christmas and he asked， "Did you try Sears on the corner of Van Dyke and Gratiot？" I told him I did， and he said， "Try them again， I'm sure you'll have better luck this time."

　　Sears was very busy with after-Christmas shoppers， but I caught a sales clerk in the sporting goods department and said， "A friend of mine said you might have a pair of skates for a small boy."

　　He said， "I doubt it very much， but I'll look. This morning we only had a few very large sizes left."

　　He returned a few minutes later with an expression of total confusion， carrying a pair of super hockey skates that looked like they would fit an eight-year-old boy just right. He said， "They weren't here this morning， and I don't know where they came from， but they're yours." The next morning the skates were packaged， safely in the hands of the postal service， and on the way to Egbert in far-off New Brunswick. We received a "thank you" note in a few weeks， and since my writing is illegible at best， I asked Joy Marie to drop Egbert a few lines. She still wasn't convinced that the boy even existed， but she agreed to write a note， and she also included some recent photographs of the two of us.

　　As the months flew into vacation time， Joy Marie continued her correspondence with Egbert. We had never visited the East Coast and the New England states， so that became our vacation destination. Some dear friends moved to Delaware， so we decided to visit them， and then extend our vacation by driving north to Maine. I mentioned to Joy Marie that when we got to Maine， if we still had enough vacation time left， we might head farther north to Tracadie. I also reminded her that in her last letter to Egbert， she told him that we might be in the Northeast on our vacation and would try to pay a visit if at all possible.

　　When we arrived in Bar Harbor， Maine on a Friday， that's exactly what we decided to do. We checked into a hotel on Saturday in Newcastle， New Brunswick， a short distance from Tracadie， and Joy Marie called Egbert's grandmother's house because she had learned he and his brother were living there. Grandmother answered with a decidedly French Canadian accent， and she and Joy Marie had a very enthusiastic conversation. Then came the moment of truth. Joy Marie asked， "May I talk to Egbert？"

　　After a moment of silence， while Joy Marie and I held our breath， grandmother answered， "I'm sorry， but Egbert does not speak English." Grandma explained that she wrote the original note， and Egbert had climbed up on a railroad flat car and tied it to the trunk of one of the many trees scheduled for shipment to Detroit. She had written all of the other notes we'd received but always as if Egbert wrote them. It was good to now know the complete unusual story and we were even more eager to meet the entire McGraw family.

　　On the short trip to Tracadie the next day， Joy Marie asked， "How are we going to find the house？"

　　I said， "We'll probably stop at the only gas station in town， and the attendant will point to it，" which is what happened.

　　When we pulled into the driveway at the grandparents' house， we were astonished at the number of children and others who turned out to welcome us. One nice old neighbor gentleman in the crowd had gotten up early to go out and pick a basket of succulent wild berries for us. Apparently we were an event in the very modest but clean neighborhood.

　　When we entered the living room， we noticed a fine， old， upright piano. On the top， to one side， stood a picture of the Queen of England and Prince Philip. On the opposite side， a photo of Joy Marie and myself. In the middle， were the skates still in the carton. Grandma said it was the nicest present Egbert had ever received， and he just liked looking at them and told everyone， "Nobody touch the skates."

　　Egbert turned out to be a good-looking lad， who seemed like he could handle a pair of ice skates and maybe a hockey stick. Communication with him was difficult， but with lots of pointing， waving and help from Grandma， we managed. Further conversation would have to wait a few years.

　　The older children had some knowledge of English， learned in school， and Joy Marie has a limited knowledge of French， learned as a student of St. Mary's Academy in Windsor， Canada， across the river from Detroit， so they all enjoyed an afternoon of smoothing out the language barrier.

　　One of the children came into the house and whispered to Grandma， and she said， "The kids wondered if you could take them for a ride in your car with the top down." I had just purchased a new convertible， and I spent the best part of the afternoon driving up and down the highway with as many kids as I could safely pile into the car， with Egbert at my side on every trip. Convertibles are rare in that area where the economy is based solely on fishing and lumber.

　　Our stay was far too short， and although we could not talk to Egbert， Joy Marie and I relied on kisses and hugs. As we drove off， we agreed that we had never met such a lovely group of people， and had never been treated so royally.

　　A few years ago our doorbell rang， and when Joy Marie answered it， there， on our front porch， were a man， a woman and a little boy. She didn't recognize them until the man said， "Hello， Mrs. Beckwell. I'm Egbert， and this is Nicole and Pierre Luc."

　　Joy Marie was flabbergasted. Egbert was attending an educational seminar in Windsor. We enjoyed a very nice visit.

　　As they were leaving， I said， "Egbert， you didn't seem to have any trouble finding our house. How did you do it？"

　　He said， "Oh， I'm sorry. I've had such a pleasant time that I almost forgot. I've read so many fine things about Father Solanus and the Capuchin Monastery in Detroit， and have become such a fan and devotee， that when we found out we'd be passing quite closely to the monastery on the way here， we decided to stop to visit his grave site. We knew that someone there could give us directions to your neighborhood. As we neared the heavy wooden and very impressive-looking front doors， they creaked open， and there stood a tall young man， who， without asking where we wanted to go， took us directly to Father Solanus's tomb and memorial.

　　"When we prepared to leave， I asked the stately young man for directions to St. Clair Shores. He smilingly gave us not only that， but also directions to your street and house. This did not really surprise me because he looked like a man who would be knowledgeable about almost anything. Then he handed me an envelope and said， 'Please give this to Mr. Beckwell. He'll know what it means."'

　　Egbert handed me an envelope， which I eagerly tore open and found a small， pure white feather with a gold tip. From an angel's wing？ I wondered.

　　Then I smiled and quietly murmured， "God's angels certainly have beautiful calling cards."

　　Edward J. Beckwell

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