Category Archives: English

Witche’s Loaves

Posted on by
Reply

 Miss Martha Beeecham owned the little bakery on the corner. One where you go up three steps and a little bell tinkles when you open the door.

 Miss Martha was forty, her bankbook showed the savings of two thousand dollars, and she had two false teeth and a kind heart. Over the years Miss Martha had many opportunities to get married but she never did.

 Two or three times a week a man came into her bakery. She began to take an interest in him. He was middle-aged, wore glasses, and spoke with a strong German accent. His clothes were a little worn and wrinkled but he looked neat and had very good manners.

 He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh bread was five cents a loaf. Stale ones were two for five. He never bought anything but stale bread.

 Once Miss Martha noticed a red and brown stain on his fingers. She decided he must be an artist and very poor. He probably lived in a small rented room, where he painted pictures, ate stale bread and dreamed of the good food in Miss Martha’s bakery.

 Often when miss Martha sat down th eat her dinner she would sigh. She felt sorry for the artist. She wished that he would share her delicious meal instead of eating his stale bread in his cold little room. Miss Martha’s heart, as you have been told, was kind.

 One day she decided to test her theory that he was an artist. She bought a painting at a sale and hung it on the wall behind the bread counter.

 It was a painting of Venice. There ware beautiful marble buildings, water with boats in it, and a lady sitting in one of the boats admiring the sunset. An artist would certainly notice it.

 Two days later the customer came in.

 “Two loafs of stale bread, please,” he said in his strong accent. “You have a fine picture here madam,” he said while she was putting the bread in a bag.

 “Yes?” said Miss Martha, smiling to herself. “I do admire art and…” No, she thought. It was too early to say “artists”… “and… paintings,” she said instead. “Do you think it’s a good picture?”

 “That palace has not been drawn correctly,” said the customer. “The perspective is not accurate. Have a good morning, madam.”

 He took his bread, bowed and hurried out.

 Yes, he must be an artist. Miss Martha put the picture in her room.

 How kind and gentle his eyes shone behind his glasses! He had such an intelligent mind! He could judge perspective in a second – and he lived on stale bread! But great artists often have to struggle before they become famous.

 What a great thing it would be for the art world if a talent like his was helped by two thousand dollars, a bakery and a kind heart. These were Miss Martha’s daydreams.

 He began to stop for a chat when he came into the bakery. He seemed to enjoy Miss Martha’s company.

 He continued buying stale bread. He never bought a cake or pie or any of the other delicious food.

 She thought he began to look thinner and a little sad. She desperately wanted to give him something good to eat, but she couldn’t. She knew that artists were proud people, and she didn’t want to hurt his pride.

 Miss Martha began to wear her favorite blue dress in the bakery. She also bought a special face cream to improve her complexion.

 One day the customer came in as usual, put his five cents on the counter, and asked for two loaves of stale bread. While miss Martha was reaching to get them a fire truck went past.It was tooting its horn and ringing its bell. The customer hurried to the door to look, as anyone would.

 At that moment Miss Martha had an idea. She quickly made a deep cut in both the loaves, and put in a big piece of fresh butter in each one. Then she pressed the loaves tightly together again.

 When the customer turned around she was putting the loaves in a bag. Then they had a very pleasant little chat. After he had gone Miss Martha smiled to herself, and felt her heart beating faster.

 She wondered if she had been too bold. Would he be offended? But surely it was all right for a baker to give some butter to a customer.

 For a long time that day she thought about her gift. She imagined what would happen when he discovered the butter.

 He would put down his paintbrush and paints. The picture he was painting would have perfect perspective. He would be hungry. He would slice into his stale loaf and – ah!

 Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed the butter there while he ate it? Would he…

 The front door bell rung loudly. Somebody was coming in making a lot of noise. Miss Martha hurried to the front.

 Two men were there. One was a young man she had never seen before. The other was her artist. His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head and his hair was messy. He shook both his fists furiously at Miss Martha.

 “You idiot!” he shouted very loudly. And then he shouted some other words in German which she didn’t understand.

 The young man tried to lead him out of the bakery.

 “I will not go!” he said angrily, “until I have told her.” He hit the top of Miss Martha’s counter with his fist.

 “You have ruined my life,” he cried, his blue eye burning behind his glasses. “I will tell you how, you silly old cat!”

 Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves. The young man took him by the collar.

 “Come on,” the young man said, “you’ve said enough.” He dragged his angry companion out the door to the street, and then came back.

 “I guess I should tell you, madam, what the problem is,” he said. “That’s Mr.Blumberger. He’s an architect. We work in the same office.

 “He’s been working for three months on a plan for the new city hall. It was a prize competition. He finished drawing the lines in ink yesterday. You know that a draughtsman always draws his lines in pencil first. When the drawing’s finished he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of stale breadcrumbes. It works better than any eraser.

 “Blumberger’s been buying the bread here. Well, today – well, you know, madam, that butter… Blumberger’s drawing has been ruined.”

 Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off her favorite blue dress and put on the old brown one that she used to wear. Then she picked up her special face cream and dropped it out the window.

Hearts and Hands

Posted on by
Reply

At Denver many travellers got on the express train. It was heading east. In one coach there sat a very pretty young woman dressed in stylish clothes. She was surrounded by expensive suitcases and bags, and looked like an experienced travellers. Among the crowd of newcomers on the train were two young men. One was handsome, and well-dressed, with a confident and open manner. The other was an untidy, overweight, unhappy-looking person. The two were handcuffed together.

 They walked down the aisle of the coach. The only vacant seats were facing the attractive young woman. Here the two men sat down. The young lady glanced at them briefly, then her face brightened into a lovely smile. She held out a small, gloved hand. When she spoke, her voice was warm and sweet.

 “Well, Mr.Easton, if you will make me speak first, I suppose I must. Don’t you recongnize old friends when you meet them in the West?”

 The younger man looked up quickly in surprise. He seemed slightly embarrassed for a moment, then took her fingers with his left hand.

 “It’s Miss Fairchild,” he said with a smile. “Please excuse my other hand, it’s a little busy at the moment.”

 He slightly raised his right hand, bound at the wrist with a shining handcuff to the left hand of his companion. The happy look in the girl’s eyes changed to confused horror. The glow faded from her cheeks. Her chin trembled as if she might cry. Easton gave a little laugh and was about to speak again when his companion interrupted him. The sad-looking man had been watching her face closely.

 “Please excuse me for speaking, Miss, but I see you know the marshal here. He’s taking me to Leavenworth prison. I’ve been sentenced to seven years for counterfeiting money. I wonder if you could ask the marshal to say a good word for me at prison – it would make things a little easier for me there.”

 “Oh!” said the girl, and the color returned to her face. “So that is what you’re doing out here. You’re a marshal?”

 “My dear Miss Fairchild,” said Easton, calmly. “I had to do something. It takes money to keep up with our crowd of friends in Washington. I saw this job advertised, and well – a marshal isn’t quite as good a job as an ambassador, but…”

 “The ambassador,” said the girl, a little angrily, “doesn’t call me any more. And he should never have called me. I didn’t like him. You ought to know that. And so now you are one of those brave western marshals who rides horses, shoots guns and gets into all kinds of danger. That’s much different from the Washington life. Our old crowd has missed you.”

 The girls eyes went back to rest on the shining handcuffs.

 “Don’t you worry about them, Miss,” said the other man. “all marshals handcuff themselves to their prisoners to stop them from getting away. Mr.Easton knows his business.”

 “Will we see you again soon in Washington?” asked the girl.

 “Not soon, I think,” said Easton. “My days of parting in Washington are over, unfortunately.”

 “I love the West,” said the girl. Her eyes shone softly as she stared out the coach window. She began to speak truly and simply, without any high class Washington manners. “Mamma and I spent the summer in Denver. She went home a week ago because father had bad cold. I could live and be happy in the West. I love the weather. Money isn’t everything. But people always misunderstand things, and remain stupid…”

 “Say, Mr. Marshal,” growled the sad-faced man. “This isn’t fair. I need a drink, and I haven’t had a smoke all day. Haven’t you talked long enough? Take me to the smoking coach, will you? I’m dying for a cigarette.”

 The joined travellers stood up. Easton smiled.

 “I can’t deny a prisoner’s request for tobacco,” he said lightly. “It’s the only friend they have. Good-bye Miss Fairchild. I have a job to do.”

 “It’s too bad you’re not going East,” she said, slipping back to her usual manner and style. “But you must go on to Leavenworth, I suppose?”

 “Yes,” said Easton, “I must go on to Leavenworth.”

 The two men walked slowly down the aisle toward the smoking coach.

 The two passengers in a seat nearby had heard most of the conversation. One said, “That marshal’s a good man. Some of those Westerners are all right.

 “He’s pretty young to be a marshal, isn’t he?” said the other.

 “Young!” exclaimed the first speaker, “Why – didn’t you see what happened here? Have you ever known a marshal to handcuff a prisoner to his right hand?”

The Mammon and the Archer

Posted on by
Reply

 Old Anthony Rockwell had retired. He had made a fortune as owner of Rockwell’s Soap. Now he sat in the library of his New York mansion and looked out the window. He watched his aristocratic neighbor, G. Van Schuylight Suffolk-Jones, walk out to his waiting car. His neighbor always looked over at the big Italian statue of the soap palace’s front, and wrinked his nose in disgust. Anthony grinned.

 “I’ll have my soap palace painted red, white and blue,” hi said. “That will make his aristocratic nose turn up even higher!”

 And them Anthony Rockwell, who didn’t like ringing bells for servants, shouted “Mike!” as loudly as he could. His voice was so loud that it used to peel paint in his Kansas soap factory.

 “Tell me son,” said Anthony to the servant, “to come in here before he leaves the house.”

 When young Richard Rockwell entered the library the old man put down his newspaper. He looked at his son kindly.

 “Richard,” he said, “How much money do you pay for the soap you use?”

 Richard was a little surprised. He had just returned home from university, and he never knew what his father would do next.

 “Six dollars a dozen, I think, dad.”

 “And your clothes?”

 “I suppose about sixty.”

 “You’re a gentleman,” said Anthony firmly. “I’ve heard of some young men spending $24 for a dozen cakes of soap, and more than a hundred for clothes. You’re as rich as any of them. But you are sensible and moderate. Now, I still use old Rockwell’s soap – it’s the purest soap ever made. Whenever you pay more than 10 cents for a cake of soap you buy bad perfume and brand names. If you’re spending 50 cents for a cake of soap, that’s good. For a young man your generation and position. As I said, you’re a gentleman. My money made you one. God, it even nearly made me into a gengleman – I’m nearly as rude and disagreeable as both my fancy neighbors. They can’t sleep at night because I moved in between them.”

 “There are some things money can’t buy,” said young Rockwell, gloomily.

 “Now don’t say that,” said old Anthony, shocked. “I’m up to Y in the encyclopedia looking for something that money can’t buy. Tell me something it won’t buy.”

 “Money won’t make you a member of high circles of society,” said Richard, and he sighed.

 “That’s what I was coming to,” said the old man. “That’s why I asked you to come in. There’s something wrong with you, my boy. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ve noticed you’ve been gloomy for two weeks. Do you need a holiday? You can go to the Bahamas tomorrow.”

 “You’re right, dad. Something’s wrong, but it’s not a holiday I need.”

 “Ah,” said Anthony, “what’s her name?”

 Richard began to walk up and down the library floor.

 “Why don’t you ask her to marry you?” demanded old Anthoy. “You’ve got the movey and the looks and you’re a decent boy. Your hands are clean. You’ve been to university, but she’ll forgive you.:

 “I haven’t had a chance,” said Richard.

 “Just take her for a walk in the park, or walk home from church with her. It’s easy!”

 “You don’t understand the way high sociey works, dad. Every minute of her time is booked for days in advance. I must have that girl, dad. Or this city will become a black swamp for me. But I can’t write to her – I can’t do that.”

 “Come on.” said the old man. “You mean with all of my money, you can’t get an hour or two of a girl’s time for yourself?

 “I’ve waited too long. She’s going to sail for Europe in two days. She’ll stay there for two years. I’ll see her alone tomorrow evening for a few minutes. She’s staying out of town at her aunt’s, but I can’t go there. I’m only allowed to pick her up at Grand Central Station from the 8:30 train. Then we will drive down Broadway at a gallop to Wallack’s Theater. Her mother and family will be waiting for us in the lobby. So I will only have six or eight minutes with her. In this situation what chance would I have to tell my feelings? None. No, dad this is one problem your money won’t solve. You can’t but one minute of time with cash. If we could, rich people would live forever. There’s no hope of talking to Miss Lantry before she sails away to Europe.”

 “All right, Richard, my boy,” said old Anthony, cheerfully. “You may go to your club now. You say that money can’t but time. I guess it’s true that you can’t order eternity wrapped-up and delivered to you home. But always remember to burn incense and pray to the great god Mammon now and again.”

 That night Anthony’s sister, Ellen, came to visit. She began to talk about Richard’s problem.

 “He told me all about it,” said Anthony, yawning. “I told him he was rich and a gentleman. Then he criticized money, and said it couldn’t help. He said the rules of society couldn’t be moved a meter by a team of ten milliionaires.”

 “Oh, anthony,” said Ellen. “I wish you would not think so much of money. Love is more powerful. He should have spoken to her earier. Then she wouldn’t have refused our Richard. But now I fear it’s too late. He won’t have the chance to speak to her. Even all your gold cannot bring happiness to your son.”

 At eight o’clock the next evening, Ellen gave an old gold ring to Richard.

 “Wear it tonight, nephew,” she begged. “Your mother gave it to me. She said it was good luck for love. She asked me to give it to you when you had found the one you loved.”

 Young Rockwell took the ring with great respect. He tried to put it on his little finger, but it would not fit. So he put it in his pocket. And then he phoned for his cab.”

 At the station he found Miss Lantry in the crowd at eight thirty two.

 “We mustn’t keep mother and the others waiting,” she said.

 “To Wallack’s Theater as fast as you can drive!” said Richard.

 They raced up Fory-second Street and down Broadway. At Thirty-fourth Street young Richard ordered the cabman to stop.

 “I’ve dropped a ring,” he apologized, as he climbed out. “It was my mother’s, and I’d hate to lose it. Just wait a minute – I know where it fell.”

 In less than a minute he was back in the cab with the ring.

 But within that minute a car had stopped in front of the cab. The cabman tried to pass to the left, but a heavy express wagon blocked the way. He tried to the right but had to back away from a furniture van. He was stuck in a tangled mess of vehicles and horses.

 “Why don’t you drive on?” said Miss Lantry, impatiently. “We’ll be late.”

 Richard stood up in the cab and looked around. He saw a flood of wagons, trucks, cabs, vans and cars. And more were coming all the time, adding to the noise and confusion. Even the oldest New Yourker had not seen such a terrible traffic jam.

 “I’m very sorry,” said Richard, as he sat down again,  “but it looks like we’re stuck for at least an hour. It was my fault. If I hadn’t dropped this ring we…”

 “Let me see the ring,” said Miss Lantry. “There’s nothing we can do about this traffic. I don’t care. I think the theater is stupid, anyway.”

 At 11 o’clock that night Ellen knocked lightly on Anthony Rockwell’s door.

 “Come in!” shouted Anthony, who was reading a book of pirate stories.

 “They’re engaged, Anthony,” she said softly. “She had promised to marry our Richard. On the way to the theater there was a traffic jam, and it was two hours before their cab could get out of it.”

 “So Anthony, never boast about the power of money again,” she continued. “A little symbol of true love – a ring – was the cause of Richard’s happiness. He dropped it in the street, and got out to find it. And before they could continue they got caught in the traffic jam. He spoke to his love and won her while the cab was stuck. Money is nothing compared to love, Anthony.”

 “All right, sister,” said old Anthony. “I’m glad the boy got what he wanted. Now my pirate is in big truble. His ship is sinking. And I really want to finish this chapter.”

 The story should end here. I wish it would end here. And I’m sure that most readers would like the story to end here. But we must go on to find the truth.

 The next day a person with red hands and a blue polka-dot necktie came to see Anthony Rockwell. His name was Kelly, and he was invited into the library.

 “Well,” said Anthony, reaching for his checkbook. “How much do I owe you?”

 “I paid out $300 of my own money. It cost a little more than I expected. I got the express wagons and cabs for $5 each; but the trucks and two-horses teams cost me $10. The motormen wated $10. The cops cost me the most – $50. But didn’t it work beautifully, Mr. Rockwell? And we had no rehearsal, either! Everyone was on time to a fraction of a second. It was two hours before a snake could get through.”

 “Thirteen hundred dollars – there you are, Kelly,” said Anthony, tearing off a check. “Your thousand and the $300 you put in. You don’t hate money, do you, Keely?”

 “Me?” said Kelly. “No, but I’d like to punch the man who invented poverty.”

 Anthony called to Kelly when he was at the door.

 “You didn’t notice,” he said, “anywhere in the traffic jam, a fat boy without any clothes on shooting arrows with a bow, did you?”

 “No,” said Kelly, scratching his head, “I didn’t. Maybe the cops arrested him before I got there.”

 “I didn’t think the little guy would be there,” chuckled Anthony. “Goodbye, Kelly.”

After Twenty Years

Posted on by
Reply

 It was nearly 10 o’clock at night when the policeman strolled up the avenue. Chilly gusts of wind and showers of rain had emptied the streets.

 He made sure that doors were locked, and swung his club as he walked along. Now and then he turned to look down side streets with his watchful eyes. With his powerful build he was a fine protector of the peace. The area was one that closed early. Only a couple of cigar stores and all-night restaurants were open. Most of the doors belonged to business places and had closed long ago.

 Halfway down one of the blocks, the policeman slowed his walk. Inn the doorway of a darkened clothes shop he saw a man. The man leaned against the door with an unlit cigar in his mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man spoke quickly.

 “It’s all right officer,” he said, “I’m just waiting for a friend. It’s an appointment we made twenty years ago. That sounds a little funny to you, doesn’t it? Well, Id like to explain everything. About twenty years ago this clothes shop used to be a restaurant – ‘Big Joe’ Brady’s restaurant.”

 “It was until five years ago,” said the policeman.

 The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face, with intense eyes. He had a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His tie clip was a large diamond.

 “Twenty years ago tonight,” said the man, “I dined here at ‘Big Joe’ Brady’s with Jimmy Wells, my best friend, and the finest man in the world. We both grew up here in New York, and we were like brothers. I was eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was going out West to make my fortune. But Jimmy wouldn’t come. He thought New York was the only place in the world. Well, we agreed that night to meet here again in exactly twenty years, no matter what we were doing, or how far we had to come. We thought that in twenty years each of us would have chosen our way in life, and made our fortunes, whatever they would be.”

 “It sounds pretty interesting,” said the policeman. “But it seems too long between meetings to me. Haven’t you contacted your friend since you left?”

 “Well, yes, we wrote letters for a while. But after a year or two we lost contact. You see, the West is a big place, and I moved around a lot. But I know Jimmy will meet me here if he’s alive. He was always the most honest and loyal guy in the world. He’ll never forget. I came a thousand miles to stand here tonight. And it will be worth it if Jimmy turns up.”

 The waiting man looked at his watch. It was set with small diamonds.

 “Three minutes to ten,” he said. “It was exactly ten o’clock when we parted at the restaurant door.”

 “You made a lot of money in the West, didn’t you?” said the policeman.

 “Absolutely! I’ll be happy if Jimmy has done half as well as me. He was a great guy, but a little bit slow and careful. I had to compete with the toughest people to make my fortune. A man gets in a routine in New York. If Jimmy had come out West with me he would have learnt a lot.”

 The policeman swung his club around and started to walk away.

 “Gook luck. How long will you wait?”

 “I’ll wait half an hour at least. If Jimmy’s alive on earth he’ll be here. Goodbye, officer.”

 “Goodnight, sir,” said the policeman, continuing his patrol, checking doors as he walked.

 There was now steady, cold drizzle falling. The wind was blowing harder. The few people our walking hurried past silently, with their coat collars turned up, and their hands in their pockets. And in the darkened door of the clothes shop the man who had come a thousand miles to keep a twenty year appointment, smoked a cigar and waited.

 For about twenty minutes he waited. And then a tall man in an overcoat, with the collar turned up to his ears, hurried across the road. He went straight to the waiting man.

 “Is that you, Bob?” he asked, uncertainly.

 “Is that you, Jimmy Wells?” cried the man in the door.

 “My god!” exclaimed the new arrival, taking both the other’s hands in his. “It’s you, Bob! I knew I’d find you here. Well, well, well! Twenty years! It’s a long time, the restaurant’s gone, Bob. I wish we could have had another meal there. What happened to you in the West?”

 “It was great. I got everything I wanted. You’ve changed, Jimmy. You’ve got taller.”

 “Oh! I kept growing after I was twenty.”

 “Are you doing well in New York, Jimmy?”

 “I’m doing pretty well. I have a position in a city department. Come on, Bob, we’ll go to a place I know, and have a good long talk.”

 The two men walked up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West started to tell his story. The other, hidden in his overcoat and hat, listened with interest.

 At the corner stood a cigar shop, bright with electric lights. They both turned to look at the other’s face.

 The man from the West stopped suddenly, and pulled away his arm.

 “You’re not Jimmy Wells,” he said. “Twenty years is a long time, but it doesn’t change a man’s eye color.”

 “It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one,” said the tall man. “You’re under arrest, ‘Silky’ Bob. The Chicago department warned us that you might be coming here. Now, before we go to the station here’s a note I was asked to had you. You may read it here, in the light. It’s from Officer Wells.”

 The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little when he finished. The note was very short.

 Bob: I was there right on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldn’t arrest you. So I got someone else to do the job.

 Jimmy.

The Gift of the Magi

Posted on by
Reply

 One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies were saved one and two at a time by bargaining hard with the butcher and the vegetable man. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day was Christmas.

 There was nothing to do but lie down ot the little old couch and cry. So Della did it. It seems that life is made up of sobs, sniffles and smiles – but mainly sniffles.

 While Della was moving from sobs to sniffles, take a look at the home. A furnished flat that cost $8 a week. It was cheap and it looked cheap.

 In the entrance way below was a broken letter-box, and an electric bell which didn’t work. On the letter-box was a card with the name “Mr.James Dillingham Young.”

 The “Dillingham” had been added to the card when its owner was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income had decreased to $20, the “Dillingham” looked too fancy, as if it should decrease to a more modest “D.” But whenever Mr James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by his wife, Della. Which is all very good.

 Della finished crying and dried her cheeks. She stood by the window and looked out at a gray cat walking on a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she only had $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months. Jims salary wasn’t much. And expenses had been greater than she expected. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a presnt for Jim. Her Jim. She had spent many happy hours planning something nice for him. Something fine and rare and expensive – something that was good enough to be owned by Jim.

 Then Della saw her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes shone, but her face lost all its color. She quickly removed her hair clips and let her hair fall down to its full length.

 Now, there were two things Mr. and Mrs. Young had of which they were both very proud. One was Jims’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. So now Della’s beautiful hair hung down, shining. It reached down below her knees and was almost like a coat for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. She paused for a moment and two tears fell on the worn red carpet.

 Then she put one her old brown jacket and her old brown hat, and ran out the door to the street.

 She stopped at a sign that read: “Madam Sofronie. Hair goods of all kinds.” Della ran up the stairs, and stod paning in the shop.

 “Will you buy my hair?” she asked.
 
 “I buy hair,” said Madam. she was large, very white, and unfriendly. “Take your hat off and let me see it.”

 Down came the shining waterfall.

 “Twenty dollars,” said Madam, lifting the heavy hair with her hand.

 “Give it to me quick,” said Della.

 The next two hours flew by as Della happily shopped for Jim’s present. She found it at last. It must have been made for Jim and no one else. There was nothing else like it in any of the stores. It was a platinum watch chain, simple and classic in design. It was 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 fitted them both. It coast twenty-one dollars. She hurried home with 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim could now look at the time when he was with wealthy people. As grand as the watch was, he sometimes had to secretly look at it because he was embarrassed of the old leather strap he used instead of a chain.

 When Della reached home her happiness gave way a little to caution and reason. She worried about what Jim would think when he saw her hair was gone. She got out her curling irons and began to repair the damage. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny curls which made her look like a school girl. She looked at her reflection in the mirror for a long time.

 “I don’t think Jim will kill me,” she said to herself, “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 sausages.

 Jim was never late. Della held the watch chain in her hand and sat waiting for him. Then she heard him coming up the stairs, and she turned white for a moment. She whispered a little prayer, “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 man, he was only twenty-two – and he had a wife to look after. He needed a new overcoat and was without gloves.

 Jim stopped like a statue. His eyes were fixed on Della. He stared at her. She could not understand his expression, and it terrified her.

 She jumped up and went over to 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 have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow back. You don’t mind, do you? I just had to do it. My hair grows very 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?” Jim asked slowly, as if he couldn’t understand.

 “Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me anyway? I’m still me without my hair.”

 Jim looked around the room curiously.

 “You say your hair is gone?” he said, like a small child.

 “You won’t find it here,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you. Sold and gone. It’s Christmas Eve, be good to me. I sold it for you. Maybe the hairs on my head were numbered,” she wnet on with a sudden, serious sweetness, “but nobody could erver count my love for you. Shall I put the sausages on, Jim?”

 Jim seemd to wake up. He hugged Della for ten seconds, then he took a package from his overcoat pocket and put it on the table.

 “Don’t worry about me, Dell,” he said. “No haircut, shave or shampoo could ever make me dislike you. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why I was shocked for a while.”

 Della opened the package and gave a scream of joy. A seond later she burst into tears, and Jim had to use all his power to comfort her.

 For there lay The Combs – the set of combs that Della had worshipped for months in a big store window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled edges – the perfect color to wear in her beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew. Her heart had desperately wanted them without any hope of having them. And now, they were hers. Bur her hair was gone.

 But she hugged them tightly to her chest. After a while, she looked up with teary eyes and a smile, and said, “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

 And then Della leapt up like a little burnt cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

 Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him. The precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection inviof her bright and passion-ate spirit.

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

 But Jim dropped down on the couch, put his hands behind his head, and smiled.

 “Dell,” he said. “Let’s put our Chistmas presents away for a while. They’re too nice to use right now. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. Now, Let’s have those sausages.”

 The Magi, as you know, were wise men – wonderfully wise men – who brought figts to the Bebe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts must also have been wise. They were expensive and probably came with a recipt, so that the gifts could be exchanged at the market. And here I have told you a story, not very well, about two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrified their most treasured possessions.

 But of all those people who give gifts, these two were the wisest. People like these are the wisest. The are the Magi.