The Gift of the Magi 1 O. Henry (1906) i i One dollar and eightyseven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it wasin pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing thegrocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burnedwith the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied.Three times Della counted it. One d ollar and eighty-seven cents. And thenext day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couchand howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that lifeis made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles p redominating. While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the firststage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 perweek. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly h ad thatword on the lookout for the mendicancy 2 squad. i i In the vestibule below was a letterbox 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. JamesDillingham Young." The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period ofprosperity when its posse ssor was being paid $30 per week. Now, whenthe income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thi nking seriously ofcontracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. JamesDillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called"Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, alreadyintroduced 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 an d looked out dully at a gray cat walking agray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christ mas Day, andshe had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been savingevery penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars aweek doesn't go far. Expenses had been gre ater 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 sterlin g—something just a little bit near tobeing worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim. There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps youhave seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile personmay, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequ ence of longitudinalstrips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, beingslender, had mastered the art. Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Hereyes were shining brilliantl y, but her face had lost its color withintwenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it f all to its fulllength. i i Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs inwhich they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that hadbeen his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Del la's hair. Hadthe queen of Sheba3 lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della wouldhave let her hair h ang out the window some day to dry just todepreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Sol omon4 been thejanitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would havepulled out hi s watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at hisbeard from envy. So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like acascade of brown waters. It r eached below her knee and made itselfalmost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nerv ously andquickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or twosplashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirlof skirts and with the brilli ant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered outthe door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme.5 Sofronie. Hair Goods of AllKinds." 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 thelooks of it." Down rippled 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 hashedmetaphor. She was ransac king the stores for Jim's present. i i She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.There was no other like it in an y of the stores, and she had turned all ofthem inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and ch aste in design,properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not bymeretricious ornament ation— as all good things should do. It was evenworthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must beJim's. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied toboth. Twentyone dollars they took from her for it, and she hurriedhome with the 87 cents. With that chain on hi s watch Jim might beproperly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watchwas, he s ometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leatherstrap that he used in place of a chain. When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudenceand reason. She got out he r curling irons and lighted the gas and went towork repairing the ravages made by generosity add ed to love. Which isalways a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, closelying curlsthat made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked ather reflection in th e mirror long, carefully, and critically. "If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a secondlook at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But whatcould I do— oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty seven cents?" At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the fryingpan was on the back ofthe stove hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat onthe corner of the table near t he door that he always entered. Then sheheard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, a nd she turnedwhite for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayersabout the sim plest 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 andvery serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two— and to be burdenedwith 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 ofquail. His eyes were fixed upo n Della, and there was an expression inthem that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, norsurprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that shehad been prepa red for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiarexpression 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 offand sold because I couldn' t have lived through Christmas without givingyou a present. It'll grow out again— you won't mind, will you? I just hadto do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let'sbe happy. You don't know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I'vegot for you." "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrivedat that patent fact yet eve n 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. Maybethe hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serioussweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put thechops on, Jim?" i i Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. Forten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequentialobject 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 thewrong answer. The magi brou ght valuable gifts, but that was not amongthem. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon thetable. "Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there'sanything in the way of a hai rcut or a shave or a shampoo that couldmake me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that pac kage you maysee why you had me going a while at first." i White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then anecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change tohysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employme nt ofall the comforting powers of the lord of the flat. For there lay The Combs— the set of combs, side and back, that Dellahad worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful c ombs, puretortoise shell, with jeweled rims— just the shade to wear in the beautifulvanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and h er heart hadsimply craved and yearned over them without the least hope ofpossession. And now, t hey were hers, but the tresses that should haveadorned the coveted adornments were gone. But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to lookup 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 eagerlyupon her open palm. The d ull precious metal seemed to flash with areflection of her bright and ardent spirit. i "Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to lookat the time a hundred tim es a day now. Give me your watch. I want tosee how it looks on it." Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his handsunder the back of his head a nd smiled. "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em awhile. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get themoney to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on." i The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men— whobrought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of givingChristmas presents. Be ing wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones,possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of d uplication. Andhere I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolishchildren in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other thegreatest treasures of their house. But in a las t word to the wise of thesedays let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Oa ll who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere theyare wisest. They are the mag i. A Worn Path Eudora Welty (1941) i It was December— a bright frozen day in the early morning. Farout in the country there was an old Negr o woman with her headtied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small andshe walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a littlefrom side to side in her steps, with the balance d heaviness andlightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried athin, sm all cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kepttapping the frozen earth in fro nt of her. This made a grave andpersistent noise in the still air that seemed meditativ e, like thechirping of a solitary little bird. She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops,and an equally long ap ron of bleached sugar sacks, with a fullpocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she to ok a step shemight have fallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from herunlaced sh oes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were bluewith age. Her skin had a pattern al l its own of numberlessbranching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree stood int he middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath,and the two knobs of h er cheeks were illumined by a yellowburning under the dark. Under the red rag her h air came downon her neck in the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with anodor like c opper. Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenixsaid, "Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits,coons and wild animals! . . . Keep out from un der these feet,little bobwhites . . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don'tlet none of those come runnin g my direction. I got a long way."Under her small blackfreckled hand her cane, limber as a buggywhip, would switch at the brush as if to rou se up any hidingthings. On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made thepine needles almost to o bright to look at, up where the windrocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in thehollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him. i The path ran up a hill. "Seem like there is chains about my feet,time I get this far," she said, in the voice of argument old peoplekeep to use with themselves. "Something al ways take a hold ofme on this hill—pleads I should stay." After she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe lookbehind her where she had come. "Up through pines," she said atlength. "Now down through oaks." Her eyes opened theirwidest, and she started down gently. But before she got to thebottom of the hill a bush caught her dress. 5 i Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full andlong, so that before she could pull them free in one place theywere caught in another. It was not possible to a llow the dress totear. "I in the thorny bush," she said. "Thorns, you doing yourappoin ted work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyesthought you was a pretty little green bush." Finally, trembling allover, she stood free, and after a moment dared to s toop for hercane. "Sun so high!" she cried, leaning back and looking, while thethick tears went over her eyes. "The time getting all gone here." At the foot of this hill was a place where a log was laid acrossthe creek. 1 0 "Now comes the trial," said Phoenix. Putting her right foot out, she mounted the log and shut hereyes. Lifting her skirt, lev eling her cane fiercely before her, like afestival figure in some parade, she began to m arch across. Thenshe opened her eyes and she was safe on the other side. "I wasn't as old as I thought," she said. i i But she sat down to rest. She spread her skirts on the bankaround her and folded her hands over her knees. Up above herwas a tree in a pearly cloud of mistletoe. She did not dare to close her eyes, and when a little boy broughther a plate with a slic e of marblecake on it she spoke to him."That would be acceptable," she said. But when she went to takeit there was just her own hand in the air. 1 5 So she left that tree, and had to go through a barbedwire fence.There she had to creep and crawl, spreading her knees andstretching her f ingers like a baby trying to climb the steps. Butshe talked loudly to herself: she could not let her dress be tornnow, so late in the day, and she could not pay for having her armor her leg sawed off if she got caught fast where she was. i At last she was safe through the fence and risen up out in theclearing. Big dead trees, like black men with one arm, werestanding in the purple stalks of the withered cotto n field. Theresat a buzzard. "Who you watching?" In the furrow she made her way along. "Glad this not the season for bulls," she said, looking sideways,"and the good Lord ma de his snakes to curl up and sleep in thewinter. A pleasure I don't see no two- 2 0 headed snake comingaround that tree, where it come once. It took a while to get byhi m, back in the summer." She passed through the old cotton and went into a field of deadcorn. It whispered an d shook and was taller than her head."Through the maze now," she said, for there wa s no path. Then there was something tall, black, and skinny there, movingbefore her. At first she took it for a man. It could have been a man dancingin the field. But she sto od still and listened, and it did not makea sound. It was as silent as a ghost. i "Ghost," she said sharply, "who be you the ghost of? For I haveheard of nary death clo se by." But there was no answer—only the ragged dancing in the wind. 2 5 She shut her eyes, reached out her hand, and touched a sleeve.She found a coat and i nside that an emptiness, cold as ice. i "You scarecrow," she said. Her face lighted. "I ought to be shutup for good," she said with laughter. "My senses is gone. I tooold. I the oldest people I ever know. Dance, ol d scarecrow," shesaid, "while I dancing with you." She kicked her foot over the furrow, and with mouth drawndown, shook her head on ce or twice in a little strutting way.Some husks blew down and whirled in streamers about herskirts. Then she went on, parting her way from side to side with thecane, through the whisp ering field. At last she came to the end,to a wagon track where the silver grass blew b etween the redruts. The quail were walking around like pullets, seeming alldainty an d unseen. i "Walk pretty," she said. "This the easy place. This the easygoing." She followed the track, swaying through the quiet bare fields,through the little string s of trees silver in their dead leaves, pastcabins silver from weather, with the doors a nd windowsboarded shut, all like old women under a spell sitting there. "Iwalking in their sleep," she said, nodding her head vigorously. i In a ravine she went where a spring was silently flowingthrough a hollow log. Old Ph oenix bent and drank. "Sweet- 3 0 gummakes the water sweet," she said, and drank more. "Nobodyknow who made this well, for it was here when I was born." The track crossed a swampy part where the moss hung as whiteas lace from every li mb. "Sleep on, alligators, and blow yourbubbles." Then the track went into the road. Deep, deep theroad went down between the high greencolored banks.Overhead the live oaks met, and it was as dark as a cave. A black dog with a lolling tongue came up out of the weeds bythe ditch. She was medi tating, and not ready, and when he cameat her she only hit him a little with her cane. Over she went inthe ditch, like a little puff of milkweed. Down there, her senses drifted away. A dream visited her, andshe reached her hand up, but nothing reached down and gaveher a pull. So she lay there and presently wen t to talking. "Oldwoman," she said to herself, "that black dog come up out of theweed s to stall you off, and now there he sitting on his fine tail,smiling at you." i 3 5 A white man finally came along and found her— a hunter, ayoung man, with his dog on a chain. "Well, Granny!" he laughed."What are you doing there?" "Lying on my back like a Junebug waiting to be turned over,mister," she said, reaching up her hand. He lifted her up, gave her a swing in the air, and set her down."Anything broken, Gra nny?" "No sir, them old dead weeds is springy enough," said Phoenix,when she had got her breath. "I thank you for your trouble." "Where do you live, Granny?" he asked, while the two dogs weregrowling at each oth er. "Away back yonder, sir, behind the ridge. You can't even see itfrom here." "On your way home?" "No sir, I going to town." i "Why, that's too far! That's as far as I walk when I come outmyself, and I get somethi ng for my trouble." He patted thestuffed bag he carried, and there hung down a little closed claw.It was one of the bobwhites, with its beak hooked bitterly toshow it was dead. "Now you go on home, Granny!" 4 0 "I bound to go to town, mister," said Phoenix. "The time comearound." 4 5 He gave another laugh, filling the whole landscape. "I know youold colored people! W ouldn't miss going to town to see SantaClaus!" i But something held old Phoenix very still. The deep lines in herface went into a fierce and different radiation. Without warning,she had seen with her own eyes a flashing nickel fall out of theman's pocket onto the ground. "How old are you, Granny?" he was saying. "There is no telling, mister," she said, "no telling." Then she gave a little cry and clapped her hands and said, "Giton away from here, do g! Look! Look at that dog!" She laughed asif in admiration. "He ain't scared of nobody. He a big black dog."She whispered, "Sic him!" 5 0 "Watch me get rid of that cur," said the man. "Sic him, Pete! Sichim!" Phoenix heard the dogs fighting, and heard the man runningand throwing sticks. She even heard a gunshot. But she wasslowly bending forward by that time, further and f urtherforward, the lids stretched down over her eyes, as if she weredoing this in her sleep. Her chin was lowered almost to herknees. The yellow palm of her hand came o ut from the fold ofher apron. Her fingers slid down and along the ground underthe pi ece of money with the grace and care they would have inlifting an egg from under a s etting hen. Then she slowlystraightened up, she stood erect, and the nickel was in he rapron pocket. A bird flew by. Her lips moved. i "God watching me the whole time. I come to stealing." The man came back, and his own dog panted about them. "Well,I scared him off that t ime," he said, and then he laughed andlifted his gun and pointed it at Phoenix. She stood straight and faced him. "Doesn't the gun scare you?" he said, still pointing it. "No, sir, I seen plenty go off closer by, in my day, and for lessthan what I done," she sa id, holding utterly still. He smiled, and shouldered the gun. "Well, Granny," he said, "youmust be a hundred y ears old, and scared of nothing. I'd give youa dime if I had any money with me. But yo u take my advice andstay home, and nothing will happen to you." 5 5 "I bound to go on my way, mister," said Phoenix. She inclined herhead in the red rag. Then they went in different directions, butshe could hear the gun shooting again and again over the hill. She walked on. The shadows hung from the oak trees to theroad like curtains. Then s he smelled woodsmoke, and smelledthe river, and she saw a steeple and the cabins on their steepstep s. Dozens of little black children whirled around her. Thereahead was Natchez shinin g. Bells were ringing. She walked on. 6 0 In the paved city it was Christmas time. There were red andgreen electric lights strun g and crisscrossed everywhere, and allturned on in the daytime. Old Phoenix would h ave been lost ifshe had not distrusted her eyesight and depended on her feet toknow where. She paused quietly on the sidewalk where people were passingby. A lady came along in the crowd, carrying an armful of red-,green- and silverwrapped presents; she gave off perfume likethe red roses in hot summer, and Phoeni x stopped her. "Please, missy, will you lace up my shoe?" She held up her foot. "What do you want, Grandma?" i "See my shoe," said Phoenix. "Do all right for out in the country,but wouldn't look rig ht to go in a big building." 6 5 "Stand still then, Grandma," said the lady. She put her packagesdown on the sidewalk beside her and laced and tied both shoestightly. i "Can't lace 'em with a cane," said Phoenix. "Thank you, missy. Idoesn't mind asking a nice lady to tie up my shoe, when I getsout on the street." Moving slowly and from side to side, she went into the bigbuilding, and into a tower of steps, where she walked up andaround and around until her feet knew to stop. i She entered a door, and there she saw nailed up on the wall thedocument that had be en stamped with the gold seal and framedin the gold frame, which matched the drea m that was hung upin her head. "Here I be," she said. There was a fixed and ceremonial stiffnessover her body. "A charity case, I suppose," said an attendant who sat at the deskbefore her. 7 0 But Phoenix only looked above her head. There was sweat onher face, the wrinkles in her skin shone like a bright net. "Speak up, Grandma," the woman said. "What's your name? Wemust have your histor y, you know. Have you been here before?What seems to be the trouble with you?" i Old Phoenix only gave a twitch to her face as if a fly werebothering her. "Are you deaf?" cried the attendant. 7 5 But then the nurse came in. "Oh, that's just old Aunt Phoenix," she said. "She doesn't comefor herself— she has a little grandson. She makes these trips justas regular as clockwork. She lives away back off the Old NatchezTrace." She bent down. "Well, Aunt Phoenix, why don't you justtake a seat? We won't keep you standing after your long trip."She pointed. The old woman sat down, bolt upright in the chair. "Now, how is the boy?" asked the nurse. Old Phoenix did not speak. 8 0 "I said, how is the boy?" But Phoenix only waited and stared straight ahead, her facevery solemn and withdra wn into rigidity. "Is his throat any better?" asked the nurse. "Aunt Phoenix, don'tyou hear me? Is your grandson's throat any better since the lasttime you came for the medicine?" With her hands on her knees, the old woman waited, silent,erect and motionless, just as if she were in armor. "You mustn't take up our time this way, Aunt Phoenix," thenurse said. "Tell us quickl y about your grandson, and get it over.He isn't dead, is he?' At last there came a flicker and then a flame of comprehensionacross her face, and sh e spoke. "My grandson. It was my memory had left me. There I sat andforgot why I made my l ong trip." 8 5 "Forgot?" The nurse frowned. "After you came so far?" i Then Phoenix was like an old woman begging a dignifiedforgiveness for waking up fr ightened in the night. "I never didgo to school, I was too old at the Surrender," she sai d in a softvoice. "I'm an old woman without an education. It was mymemory fail me. My little grandson, he is just the same, and Iforgot it in the coming." "Throat never heals, does it?" said the nurse, speaking in a loud,sure voice to old Pho enix. By now she had a card withsomething written on it, a little list. "Yes. Swallowed lye. Whenwas it?—January—two, three years ago—" 9 0 Phoenix spoke unasked now. "No, missy, he not dead, he just thesame. Every little wh ile his throat begin to close up again, andhe not able to swallow. He not get his breath . He not able to helphimself. So the time come around, and I go on another trip forthe soothing medicine." "All right. The doctor said as long as you came to get it, youcould have it," said the nu rse. "But it's an obstinate case." i i "My little grandson, he sit up there in the house all wrapped up,waiting by himself," P hoenix went on. "We is the only two left inthe world. He suffer and it don't seem to p ut him back at all. Hegot a sweet look. He going to last. He wear a little patch quiltand peep out holding his mouth open like a little bird. Iremembers so plain now. I not goi ng to forget him again, no, thewhole enduring time. I could tell him from all the other s increation." "All right." The nurse was trying to hush her now. She broughther a bottle of medicin e. "Charity," she said, making a checkmark in a book. Old Phoenix held the bottle close to her eyes, and then carefullyput it into her pocket. 9 5 "I thank you," she said. "It's Christmas time, Grandma," said the attendant. "Could I giveyou a few pennies ou t of my purse?" "Five pennies is a nickel," said Phoenix stiffly. "Here's a nickel," said the attendant. Phoenix rose carefully and held out her hand. She received thenickel and then fished the other nickel out of her pocket andlaid it beside the new one. She stared at her pal m closely, withher head on one side. 1 0 0 Then she gave a tap with her cane on the floor. i "This is what come to me to do," she said. "I going to the storeand buy my child a littl e windmill they sells, made out of paper.He going to find it hard to believe there such a thing in theworld. I'll march myself back where he waiting, holding itstraight up in t his hand." She lifted her free hand, gave a little nod, turned around, andwalked out of the doctor 's office. Then her slow step began onthe stairs, going down. 
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