My eyes lit up when the fellow asked me if I had ever seen an old Stevens rifle. He had my interest when he held up the single-shot .22 caliber rifle with the unique lever action and the octagon barrel.

The stock had a few blemishes, but the patina on the bluing on the metal parts was good and the rifling in the barrel was excellent.

With little hesitation, I took the rifle off his hands and decided it would be a project gun for the winter. I most likely wouldn't shoot it. Instead, I'd find a place for it on my wall of interesting collectables.

Sitting by the fire and listening to the droning of the TV soon had me falling asleep with the rifle across my lap.

It was nearly Christmas and the young boy stood in front of the company store for the hundredth time looking through the big plate glass window for his dream purchase.

There it was, a Stevens model 1915 Old Favorite single- shot .22 rifle. It was still there and the price tag of $18 dollars was still hanging, too, looking slightly faded from the sunlight.

It was hard times in the little rural community and the men worked hard to feed their families by busting out limestone to feed the needs of the booming steel industry. The young boy already knew about the adult choices facing him at age 12.

Until this time he was too young to work in any regular job, but at 12 they would take him to work because he was strong for his age. The boy worked all year long doing odd jobs and errands, weeding fields and gardens, hauling coal and stacking wood, anything to earn the nickels and dimes to buy that rifle.

He finally had earned nearly $20 and was planning to go down to the store with his Pa when he was feeling better and buy that rifle. Pa had injured his foot when a slab of limestone fell on him and his buddy. Pa was the lucky one.

The boy was worried, though. His little sister had the flu and everyone said that without doctoring it would be bad for her.

In those days there was no health plan, and, with two sick people in the family, times were dark.

The doctor came and examined Pa and little sister, and Mother handed over the last of their meager savings.

The doctor told them that Pa would be fine in a few weeks, but he was worried about little sister. There was some new medicine at the company store that would help, but it was expensive.

The boy knew what he had to do, so he went to his tin box, pulled out his savings and went to the store.

When he arrived the storekeeper smiled and said, "I know what you're here for," and handed the rifle to the boy.

The boy shook his head and handed back the rifle.

"I need medicine for my sister, a doll, boots for my father and some of the sweet candy my mother likes," he said.

The boy took his bundles with him as a kind stranger opened the door for him. The boy barely held back his tears as he thanked the stranger and went home for it was Christmas Eve.

A knock on the door awoke the family on Christmas morning and there was a package of brown paper wrapped with string. On it was a tag with this message: "Merry Christmas, boy. Thank you for reminding me of what it all means."

The boy opened the package and there was the Old Favorite. It was the best Christmas ever.

The story goes that the stranger was a big shot from the city sent away from his family to check on the mines during Christmas, but we'll never really know

The sound of a door closing woke me up from a nice afternoon nap, and I realized that the rifle was still across my lap by the fire.

I looked at that nearly 100- year-old rifle and wondered just what it's story was as I hung it on the wall.

Merry Christmas!