О

О. 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 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
pierglass 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 of saying a 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 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 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. Of all
who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest.

They are the magi.

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