St. Martin’s Day is a holiday in a country named Holland. The “St.” in St. Martin stands for the word saint. St. Martin was a man who did kind things for many people in need. He was a soldier who spent his life helping others. The people of Holland remember him every year on November 11.

Greta rode her bicycle down the path with her classmates. In Holland this was the way most children traveled back and forth to school. They pedaled past the rivers and meadows of their little town. One by one, the children parted as they came to their houses.

“See you later!” Greta called to her friends. She turned into her yard. As she parked her bike, she heard a noise in the grass. She jumped back suddenly, dropping her books. At her feet was a small gray cat.

“That old cat keeps scaring me!” she complained as she walked in the door.

“It doesn’t mean any harm,” said her father.

“Why doesn’t it just go home and stay out of our yard?” she grumbled. She frowned but could not stay angry for long. It was St. Martin’s Day.

“We must eat before we celebrate,” Mother said. She placed steaming bowls of stew called hutspot on the table.

Greta’s younger brother Peter joined them. He was singing happily, “St. Martin walking home one day, St. Martin with his cape of gray.” Then he stopped. “Who was St. Martin anyway?”

Greta laughed. “St. Martin was a man who lived long ago,” she explained. “One chilly winter day he was walking home. He wore a cape to keep warm and had a small piece of bread to eat.”

“Yes,” said Mother. “Then he saw a stranger on the side of the road. The man sat on the ground, hugging his knees to keep warm. He was hungry and had no home.”

Father finished the story. “St. Martin took his sword and cut his cape in two. He gave the man half of his warm cape. Then he gave the man half of his bread.”

“So we celebrate St. Martin’s Day,” said Peter, “because he was kind to the man who didn’t have anything?”

“Yes,” answered Mother. “St. Martin had great sympathy for others, and we should be concerned about others, too.”

As always on St. Martin’s Day, Greta and her family enjoyed their dinner. Then they carried a lantern out into the dark night. Other families carrying lanterns joined them. Together they knocked on neighbors’ doors. The visitors sang and were given sweet breads.

At the end of the evening, Greta’s family walked back home. Just inside her yard, Greta heard a noise again. She dropped her bag of sweets as a gray shadow leaped across her feet.

“You wait a minute!” she called as she chased after the cat. She caught it and picked it up. “Why are you always frightening me?”

She noticed the cat’s dirty paws and matted fur. The cat had probably never been brushed, and it didn’t have a collar. “I don’t think this cat has a home,” Greta said.

Peter reached up and petted the cat gently. “I know what St. Martin would do,” he said.

Greta looked at the cat that had frightened her. Suddenly it didn’t look so scary. It didn’t even struggle as she held it in her arms. She opened her bag of treats. Taking out a sweet roll, she offered half to the cat. The cat hungrily ate the roll.

“May we make a box for it to sleep in?” Greta asked her mother.

“I can tear my sweater in half to keep the cat warm,” offered Peter.

Mother smiled. “I think an old towel would be better,” she said.

They fixed up a box and put it in a safe place. Peter returned with a bowl of milk. The cat lapped it up. “Tomorrow I’ll see whether it belongs to anyone,” said Greta.

“If not, may we keep it?” asked Peter.

Mother and Father looked at each other. “We’ll see,” they said.

As everyone returned to the warm house, Greta stayed with the cat. She rearranged the towel. It was cold and dark outdoors, but Greta felt content.

“Good night, Martin,” she said, suddenly deciding on the cat’s name.

The little cat purred.