Christmas Books category archive

The Gift of the Magi – O. Henry


by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling–something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: “Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation–as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value–the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends–a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do–oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?”

At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two–and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again–you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice– what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you–sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year–what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs–the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims–just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”

The magi, as you know, were wise men–wonderfully wise men–who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Wisdom at Christmas & every day!

Wisdom at Christmas & every day!

It was quiet at the retirement home, each elderly person had their memories, some filled with a special family Christmas and some not so joyful times. As Lynn and Diane stood there carefully analyzing each one, they whispered to each other as if discussing their very own children and suddenly their eyes met unspoken thoughts whirled through their minds for it was clear that these people had become the children of yesterday.

Nana just turned 84 on Dec. 14th, she wanted one thing for christmas. She wanted to see her husband, Charley but this was impossible to give her. Diane managed to get lots of pictures of Charley and put them in a beautifully wrapped box. Mary wanted Pork Chops for dinner, that was in addition to Turkey and Gravy of course. Richard wanted to get his drivers license, not to drive, but to be able to tell his son that he could drive if he wanted to. Mary Catherine wanted a good looking man, you know the kind that is a smooth dancer. Her daughter kept telling her, “mom, dad didn’t dance?” Mary Catherine would just grin. Norman just hoped he’d get a card from one of his five children, this was a thirty year old wish, but maybe this was the Christmas. Joe wanted his Doctor to tell Diane to let him have all the Bayer Aspirin he wanted on Christmas day so he’d be able to dance the Irish jig, in spite of his Arthritis. Dorothy wanted to watch one soap opera after another all Christmas day without being disturbed by the foolishness of a Holiday dinner or singing Christmas Carols. She didn’t want some foolish phone call from New York either. Zola never verbalized what she desired but every day thanked God for the beauty of being alive. Each individual, each child the same, so different, so unique.

If Diane or Lynn had the power to give them anything, they agreed, it would be peace of mind in knowing that their time on earth was well spent. Why? Each person had a legacy they had sprinkled in the lives of these young folks, as they called them. They had taught them that life is the gift, wisdom is the gift, aging is the reward, and Christmas is a symbol of desires never expected to be.

Today is Christmas for Lynn and Diane. The Retirement home is closed for good, all the folks have passed away except Zola who lives with her son now. Lynn is sitting on the sunporch telling the proprietor of the home where he now resides that he’d sure like to get his driver’s license, just to show his son he could still drive. Diane is trying to tell the cook that Porkchops would taste a lot better than Turkey. Time has passed but people stay the same. Enjoy your Christmas and every day for one day you too might be that someone else and believe me it will happen. –Anonymous

The Tumbleweed; a Christmas Story

The Tumbleweed; a Christmas Story

Many years ago, when my son was 4 and I was struggling to make ends meet, I couldn’t afford a tree for Christmas. I was so distraught, and felt like a failure not being able to get a tree for my precious boy. At that time there were no charities that gave out trees and gifts for the financially challenged, and I was way too proud to go to my parents for help.

On the evening of the 23rd, on my way home from work at a guest ranch in a small Wyoming town, the largest tumbleweed I had ever seen blew across the road in front of me. Inspiration fell upon me like the proverbial ton of bricks. I knew I had to have that tumbleweed! I pulled my pick-up over to the side of the road, and chased the tumbleweed to a snaggled end at a barbed wire fence. Wresting my prize from the fence, I realized the tumbleweed was a full 6 feet in diameter and at least 4 feet tall. After depositing my new found friend in the camper-covered bed of my old pick-up, I sped home.

Both the babysitter and my son looked at me as if I had lost my mind when I brought the giant ball of tangles into the house. I hurriedly paid the sitter, and fed my son dinner. After putting him to bed, I took the tumbleweed downstairs and spray-painted it gloss red. I left it to dry overnight.

Christmas Eve was usually a big day in my family and I wanted it to be good for my son too. After breakfast I brought the shiny, bright transformed tumbleweed upstairs to decorate it for our tree. I dropped little blinky lights into the glossy globe and handed my son a box of foil tinsle, which he proceeded to throw at the tumbleweed. He was ecstatic! What fun he had tossing the shiny, slick stuff at the tumbleweed, me, the cat, and even on the windowsills.

Laughing and playing and having fun, my son didn’t know that we were really broke, and that Santa probably wouldn’t make it to our house. The doorbell rang. I opened the door to find my dad standing there with several boxes of food and wrapped packages for us. My son ran excitedly to his beloved granddad, and pulled him to see the “Christmas weed” as he called it. Smiling and giggly my son gave his granddad a hand full of tinsle and showed him how to throw it. My dear dad turned to me with tears running down his face, and said he didn’t realize how strapped we were, but was proud of me for finding something for my most loved son.

Now, many years later, we still talk of the “Christmas weed” and how it brought my son, my dad and me closer together. It’s my fondest Christmas memory.

— Submitted by Renee McCarty.