"Good night, girls." I pin a ribbon in Hannah's hair and place her next to Giselle. "No giggling."

The ballerinas smile back at me with painted lips. Their tutus are fluffed. Their toes are pointed. All have ribbons in their hair and a bracelet on their arm. Each wears a locket. There are eight of them, lined up against the headboard in my spare room: Alicia, Breanne, Carley, Danice, Emma, Francine, Giselle who wears a crown of white feathers, and now Hannah. By the 20th of December, when it is time for them to leave for their new homes, there will be a doll for every letter of the alphabet. A note with their vital statistics will be tied to each right arm.

For instance, Alicia's says: My name is Alicia and I am 8 years old. I love to dance. Do you? I need somebody to take care of me and love me. The locket and bracelet are Santa's present to you.

Every September I begin to work on my dolls. By then, my sewing room is crammed with sale items I've picked up throughout the year. Silky ribbon and bits of frothy lace poke out of brown paper shopping bags. Pink satin for ballerina legs and yards and yards of filmy, gauzy material for tutus has been carefully pressed and hidden on the top shelf away from nosey cats. There's curly-haired wigs in blonde, brunette and auburn, baubles and beads for trim, and jewelry to please a young lady's fancy. Every doll will wear a gold locket and a bracelet and each will carry a tiny purse that holds one toonie (our Canadian two dollar coin).

This tradition started nearly sixty years ago. Let me tell you how it began:

A long time ago, in the time of the Great Depression, a young family was preparing for Christmas. Times were hard; the father was out of work and money was scarce. The three children, Jack, Gwennie and Viv, had been told that Santa wouldn't be bringing any toys that year. The mother had explained that sometimes Santa just couldn't bring toys to every girl and boy. The children had listened, but they'd still sent away their letters to the North Pole, their eyes bright with the knowledge that Santa would come that year like he did every year. They didn't have long lists like children do today. The girls each wanted a doll, the boy skates.

That particular year, during the long, cold evenings, when the children were tucked in homemade quilts under the eaves, the mother sat by the fire knitting. In the closet, wrapped in brightly coloured tissue paper, was a sweater for each child. Jack's sweater was blue, his favourite colour, and had a hockey design on the back. Gwennie's was green to match her eyes, with a ruffled collar that had taken ages to complete. Viv, the youngest, was getting a pink one with angora bunnies on the front. And although each stitch had been knit with love and every row was even and straight, and there wasn't one mistake, the mother was still afraid the children would be disappointed. How could a sweater, even one that had taken hours and hours to knit, compare with a doll or skates? She had prayed very hard to find some way so that on Christmas morning her children would wake to find that Santa had left two baby dolls and a pair of skates under the tree. Now, it was Christmas Eve and so far God hadn't answered her prayers.

She chided herself a little. She knew they were lucky to have a turkey to roast the next day; some families didn't even have enough to eat. They would have the tree and a nice meal and the kids would have their new sweaters. It would be enough.

As was their custom, the tree waited on the porch until Christmas Eve when the father brought it in, all fresh and smelling of pine, and placed it in the front window. On that particular Christmas Eve, the children were sitting at the big, round, maple table stringing together garlands of cranberries and popcorn. A pot of cider, fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, warmed on the wood stove and in the oven, cookies baked alongside apple and pumpkin pies. Outside the wind howled.

Gwennie stopped chewing popcorn for a second. "I think I heard somebody knocking at our door."

They all paused a moment and listened. Sure enough there came a tiny rap.

"Whoever could be out on a stormy night like this?" the mother asked.

"Maybe it's Santy Claus," Viv said.

"Don't be stupid," Jack said. "Santa comes down the chimney. He don't come knocking at doors."

Two young women wearing Salvation Army uniforms stood on the porch. "We've brought these for the children," one said.

"Be on your way," the father said. "And take these things. We don't need your charity here!"

"It isn't charity; just a gift for the kiddies. Santa left them at our church. Your children's names are on the card." And so they were.

The smallest one, Viv, squealed, "Momma look! Dollies." The mother touched the father's arm. "Oh, Dub, please."

The father loved the mother very much and could deny her nothing. His dark eyes softened and the two young women were invited in for a glass of cider and some cookies.

The baby dolls were dressed in new clothes, sewn with tiny stitches. Each had a note tied to her arm with a scrap of ribbon and each lay in a cradle made from a six-quart basket that was trimmed with layers of ruffles and lace. Gwennie's doll was named Grace; Viv's, Barbara. There was a hockey stick for Jack and skates with new yellow laces. (They fit perfectly when worn over two pair of heavy socks.)

The next day, these same two young women shared Christmas dinner with this family. They did so every year until their Lord called them on another mission. By this time there were two other young women to take their place. Over the years it became the practice of this family to reserve two places at the Christmas table for strangers who were alone on this most holy of days. Usually they came back year after year to share Christmas dinner; they weren't strangers any longer but friends.

That mother and father was my grandmother and grandfather; the boy Jack, my dad. They are all gone now. Viv, the last one, died last year just before Christmas. The dolly Barbara has moved in with me. I can see her from where I'm sitting; she's sleeping in her six-quart basket cradle beside the big, green rocker. This Christmas, like every Christmas for about sixty years, she'll be placed under the tree. And this year, my family will sit around that same maple table and we'll share our Christmas dinner with two strangers. I will tell them the story of the two young women from the Salvation Army who came calling so many years ago. And like that time so long ago, by the end of our dinner they won't be strangers any longer but friends.

Anna Hood lives in Prince Edward Island, Canada with her husband and two Siamese cats. You may find her flying kites in the Pownal Highlands or wading in the tide pools on the south shore. Her ambition is to fly in a hot air balloon over Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania.