Starlit night, crisp, cold.

Hoofbeats, late at night.

Made it, though -- Christmas Eve at home.

Lonely sound on a special evening.

How many years? Seems a lifetime.

Lonely house lately, don't know why.

There's Cochise, Buck, Chubb, even my Sport.

The boys are here; safe, happy.

Tucked in warm stalls; contented nickers.

But not all of them.

Dark room, lit by a banked fire.

How is he?

Nobody's here? Awful cold tonight.

His letters say much, but little.

Hope there's hot coffee in the kitchen.

Nothing to ease a father's cold heart.

Can smell Pa's tobacco.

Why did I buy that book?

There's the checkerboard; wonder who's winning?

He can get it more easily in Boston.

Good tree, beautiful.

I'll just have to mail it --

Bet Joe picked it, made Hoss carry it.

He probably already owns a copy.

Yep, these presents will fit under the tree.

Who's downstairs? Warm slippers, robe.

One for me? But they didn't know . . .

Chest tightens, eyes fill.

A creak on the stairs --

He looks so cold, lonely; shivering, wondering . . .

I just had a feeling, son.

I just had a feeling, son.

I'm warm enough now.

I see the joy of summertime in his eyes.