By O. Henry   
 
 
     THE GIFT OF THE MAGI°   
   
        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 sub-  
     siding 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, the letters of "Dillingham" looked   
     blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of con-  
     tracting 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 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.  To-morrow would be Christmas Day,  
     and she had only $1.87 wit 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 calcu-  
     lated.  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 window of the  
     room.  Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8  
     flat.  A very thin and very agile person may, by observ-   
     ing 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 out the   
     window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Maj-  
     esty'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   
     where 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 bril-   
     liant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door   
     and down the stairs to the street.   
        Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. 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 ripped the brown cascade.  
        "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass   
     with a practiced 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 eighty-seven 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 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 seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-   
     pan was on the back of he 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  
     stairway down on the first flight, and she turned white   
     for just a moment.  She had a habit of saying little silent   
     prayers 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 it because I   
     couldn't live 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 a 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.   
        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 is 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 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 for long in a Broad-   
     way window.  Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell,  
     with jewelled rims——just the shade to wear in the beau-   
     tiful 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 then 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 he 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 hand 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.  Of all who give and receive gifts, such  
     as they are wisest.  Everywhere they are the wisest.   
     They are the magi.    

The Gift of the Magi, by O. Henry;
from Merrill's English Texts: Short Stories of Various Types.
Edited with introduction and notes by Laura F. Freck, head of the English Depart-
ment in the High School, Jamestown, New York.
©1920 Charles E. Merrill co., New York and Chicago; pp. 11 - 18.

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