They say the age of miracles is past. They say the prophets are all dead, that shining angels no longer fly down from the realm above, bringing the divine to mortal men, handing out rewards to the good and punishment to the guilty. All of which is true, of course. One seldom meets a prophet these days, and angels are a remarkably scarce commodity, even in story books.

But neither prophets nor angels are absolutely essential to a miracle. Rewards-or punishment-may come at the hands of the most unlikely individuals, and the most mundane of gifts may waken wonder in the eyes of small boy. Let me tell you the story of Joey's bicycle.

It happened in the depths of the great depression of the thirties. I had come up from the hills to find a good steady job in the city. There I meet Betty, and we fell in love and were married. Soon we bought a nice house in a good neighborhood and settled down for life, or so we thought. But you know the saying about the best-laid plans of mice and men. Came the Depression and I lost my job. We were faced with house payments, a family to feed and clothe, and very little money in the bank. Like many others, I could see very little hope of any better times in the near future.

Now it so happened I had a little farm back in the hills, which I had inherited from my grandfather. Many times, throughout the years, friends had urged me to sell it, to invest the money, or use it to help ray for my city place. But I had stubbornly held on to it, partly because it made a nice vacation retreat, and partly because I loved the old place, the first home I had ever known.

So at this juncture, faced with the prospect of losing everything we owned, we decided to cut our losses and get out while we still had something left. We sold our home for just enough to pay off the mortgage, a size-able loss, but we were fortunate to get off so lightly. At least we still had a home back in the hills, not much it is true, but free and clear of any encumbrance. We had 40 acres on which to raise our food at least. We were better off than thousands of others. So on a clear spring morning we set off, with all our possessions following in a truck, to make our home in a little cabin in the hills.

Throughout the months, because of doctor's bills, taxes, and other unavoidable expenses, our savings slowly dwindled. I had bought a couple of cows, some chickens, and some pigs, and we managed to raise enough food for our own use, plus a little to sell. But of course, prices were very low, and after al1, how much can one raise on 40 hilly acres?

We were facing our second Christmas on the farm, and prospects were very poor. Our older children, David, 12, and Melissa, 10, were old enough to understand our poverty. They could accept the fact of having only an extra-good dinner, plus maybe some warm socks or mittens, for Christmas. But Joey was 6, and Joey wanted a bicycle. Useless to explain to him that bicycles cost a lot of money, and only rich little boys could afford such luxuries. He was firmly convinced Santa Claus would bring him one. No use, either, to tell him Santa Claus didn't come to see poor little boys. Santa Claus had been to see him before, and he didn't understand the difference. With the help of his sister, he wrote a letter to the old-saint, and gave it to me to mail.

Some time later, his friends at school must have cast some doubt on the power, or maybe even the existence, of Santa Claus. Or perhaps he simply decided to take his problem to a higher power. At any rate, he came to me one evening as I read the paper, after the chores were done.

'I'm sure I'll get my bicycle now, Dad," he said.

"Why is that?" I asked absently.

"'Cause Johnny said, if you pray to God, you're sure to get your wish." Johnny was his best school friend. "And that's just what I'm gonna' do," he concluded.

"Oh, Joey, Joey"- I took him in my arms- "don't you know God can't grant every wish we make? What if there’s some other little boy, one who needs a bike worse than you do? Wouldn't God have to grant his wish instead?"

He wasn't convinced. "I don't know about needs," he said confidently, "but I'm sure God could never find a boy who wants one more."

So things stood on Saturday, just a week before Christmas. Joey still included a plea for his bicycle every time he said his prayers. And he went around with such a cheerful smile, as though the coveted property were already on the back porch. He was so good it was almost insufferable.

We had saved up a whole crate of eggs, which I intended to sell in the city, as well as a considerable quantity of turnips, a few apples, and a few potatoes we thought we could spare. On that Saturday morning I set out for the city, determined to sell my produce to the greatest advantage and get what little Christmas I could for everyone. Joey had wanted to go along, but 1 wouldn't permit it, for the weather was bitter cold, and it was a long trip. Besides, I expected to spend a lot of time walking the streets. It would he too much for a 6-year-old. Later, l was glad I hadn't brought him.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when I had finally sold my produce, and such shopping as I could afford was done. I had parked my car and walked over much of the business section, since I had a trailer and couldn't park it easily. I was cold, bone weary, and my feet were soaking wet from walking in the snow. Because of this, I took a shortcut through the alley, past the police station. Thus it was that I came upon the auction.

The police department employees, as they do periodically, were auctioning off an accumulation of unclaimed articles. Already, when I came on the scene, they had sold a surprising miscellany of lost, abandoned, or confiscated items: two old cars, guns, bicycles, luggage, clothing, even one sad-looking, half-frozen hound dog.

The last item of the day was on the block, a little boy’s 16 inch bicycle. It was a sad little wreck- its paint gone, its fenders bent, one tire flat, and the handlebars drooping. Still, with a little paint, a little hammer and wrench work, and with that tire patched, how different it would look! Trouble was, after such little Christmas shopping as I had done, and buying enough gasoline to get me back home, I had only a single half dollar in my pocket.

The auctioneer, a big paunchy, red-faced police sergeant, was calling desperately for bids. In vain he called for $5, $2-$1. Nobody seemed interested. Finally, just as he seemed on the point of losing his voice completely, he stopped shouting, looked over the crowd in a kind of exasperated way, then said in a voice half pleading, half threatening, "Please, for Heaven's sake, won't somebody give me a bid, just any bid- but get it started." That half dollar burned like a red hot coal in my pocket. Should I try it? It was ridiculous, of course. Start it that low, and somebody was sure to top my bid. And I didn't have any more money, not a single penny, to bid any higher. But I had to do it.

"Fifty cents," I called out.

"Bang," went the gavel.

"Mister," said the old sergeant, "you've bought a bicycle."

I've had a soft place in policemen ever since.

Some fellow in the crowd started to protest, saying he hadn't been given a chance to bid before it sold. He didn't like such high-handed tactics, and he was making no hones about it. The sergeant turned on him with a baleful scowl. "True," he stormed, "you wasn't. And where was you, may I ask, when I was standin' here screamin' myself hoarse, just to get an openin' bid? It's cold in this here shed, an' I been standin' here all afternoon, just tryin' to coax another nickel out of you tightwads. It's near my quittin' time, an' I got a lot of work to do yet, writin' up the records of these sales. I'm quittin' here an' now. This gentleman bought the bike, an' there's an end to it!"

I took my purchase away, loaded it in my trailer, and covered it with the sacks in which I had hauled my turnips to town. Christmas day, its tire patched, its fenders and handlebars straightened, and with a bright new coat of paint, it stood beneath our Christmas tree. And if that old sergeant could have seen the joy on the face of one little boy, I'm sure he would have been glad for all the cold and hoarseness he suffered on account of it.

Joey took it all very much for granted. "See, daddy," he told me very confidently. "God didn't find another little boy who needed a bike more than me. Or at least not one who wanted it more," he added. That bicycle proved to be of much better stuff than its first appearance indicated. Joey rode it up hill and down dale, till he had quite outgrown it. In fact, you can still see it hanging from a couple of pegs on my garage wall, and it still looks better than it did the day I bought it.

Of course, Joey is a grown man now, with a little Joey of his own. More than six feet two, he is a big strapping fellow who did his stint in the Marines during the Korean war and came home to fill a much better job than his daddy ever had. A hardheaded, intensely practical individual, you would say, with no nonsense about him. But if ever you should meet him, don't tell him the age of miracles is past. He'd never believe you.