The Greatest Gift cheeks were pink in the winter air as though they had just been

by Philip Van Doren Stern shaved.

“Wouldn’t do what?” George asked sullenly.
Unable to find a publisher for "The Greatest Gift," Philip Van “What you were thinking of doing.”
Doren Stern printed two hundred copies of the story and used “How do you know what I was thinking?”
them as Christmas cards in 1943. From this humble beginning, “Oh, we make it our business to know a lot of things,” the
a classic was born. Van Doren Stern's story captivated Frank stranger said easily.
Capra, who said he "had been looking for [it] all [his] life." George wondered what the man’s business was. He was a
Capra's beloved adaptation, It's a Wonderful Life, starring most unremarkable little person, the sort you would pass in a
James Stewart, Donna Reed, and Lionel Barrymore, was crowd and never notice. Unless you saw his bright blue eyes,
released in 1946, and while the film, which received Academy that is. You couldn’t forget them, for they were the kindest,
Award nominations for Best Picture, Best Actor, and Best sharpest eyes you ever saw. Nothing else about him was
Director, didn't take home an Oscar, it has secured its place in noteworthy. He wore a moth-eaten old fur cap and a shabby
the American holiday tradition. overcoat that was stretched tightly across his paunchy belly. He
was carrying a small black satchel. It wasn’t a doctor’s bag—it
The Greatest Gift was too large for that and not the right shape. It was a
The little town straggling up the hill was bright with colored salesman’s sample kit, George decided distastefully. The fellow
Christmas lights. But George Pratt did not see them. He was was probably some sort of peddler, the kind who would go
leaning over the railing of the iron bridge, staring down around poking his sharp little nose into other people’s affairs.
moodily at the black water. The current eddied and swirled like “Looks like snow, doesn’t it?” the stranger said, glancing up
liquid glass, and occasionally a bit of ice, detached from the appraisingly at the overcast sky. “It’ll be nice to have a white
shore, would go gliding downstream to be swallowed up in the Christmas. They’re getting scarce these days—but so are a lot
shadows under the bridge. of things.” He turned to face George squarely. “You all right
The water looked paralyzingly cold. George wondered how now?”
long a man could stay alive in it. The glassy blackness had a “Of course I’m all right. What made you think I wasn’t? I
strange, hypnotic effect on him. He leaned still farther over the —”
railing... George fell silent before the stranger’s quiet gaze.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a quiet voice beside him The little man shook his head. “You know you shouldn’t
said. think of such things—and on Christmas Eve of all times!
George turned resentfully to a little man he had never seen You’ve got to consider Mary—and your mother too.”
before. He was stout, well past middle age, and his round
 George opened his mouth to ask how this stranger could I am happy to say, has been granted—officially.”
know his wife’s name, but the fellow anticipated him. “Don’t “Nuts!” George snorted and turned away.
ask me how I know such things. It’s my business to know ’em. The stranger ran after him and caught him by the arm.
That’s why I came along this way tonight. Lucky I did too.” He “You’d better take this with you,” he said, holding out his
glanced down at the dark water and shuddered. satchel. “It’ll open a lot of doors that might otherwise be
“Well, if you know so much about me,” George said, “give slammed in your face.”
me just one good reason why I should be alive.” “What doors in whose face?” George scoffed. “I know
The little man made a queer chuckling sound. “Come, come, everybody in this town. And besides, I’d like to see anybody
it can’t be that bad. You’ve got your job at the bank. And Mary slam a door in my face.”
and the kids. You’re healthy, young, and—” “Yes, I know,” the little man said patiently. “But take this
“And sick of everything!” George cried. “I’m stuck here in anyway. It can’t do any harm and it may help.” He opened the
this mudhole for life, doing the same dull work day after day. satchel and displayed a number of brushes. “You’d be surprised
Other men are leading exciting lives, but I—well, I’m just a how useful these brushes can be as introduction—especially the
small-town bank clerk that even the army didn’t want. I never free ones. These, I mean.” He hauled out a plain little hairbrush.
did anything really useful or interesting, and it looks as if I “I’ll show you how to use it.” He thrust the satchel into
never will. I might just as well be dead. I might better be dead. George’s reluctant hands and began: “When the lady of the
Sometimes I wish I were. In fact, I wish I’d never been born!” house comes to the door you give her this and then talk fast.
The little man stood looking at him in the growing darkness. You say: ‘Good evening, Madam. I’m from the World Cleaning
“What was that you said?” he asked softly. Company, and I want to present you with this handsome and
“I said I wish I’d never been born,” George repeated firmly. useful brush absolutely free—no obligation to purchase
“And I mean it too.” anything at all.’ After that, of course, it’s a cinch. Now you try
The stranger’s pink cheeks glowed with excitement. “Why it.” He forced the brush into George’s hand.
that’s wonderful! You’ve solved everything. I was afraid you George promptly dropped the brush into the satchel and
were going to give me some trouble. But now you’ve got the fumbled with the catch, finally closing it with an angry snap.
solution yourself. You wish you’d never been born. All right! “Here,” he said, and then stopped abruptly, for there was no one
OK! You haven’t!” in sight.
“What do you mean?” George growled. The little stranger must have slipped away into the bushes
“You haven’t been born. Just that. You haven’t been born. growing along the river bank, George thought. He certainly
No one here knows you. You have no responsibilities—no job wasn’t going to play hide-and-seek with him. It was nearly dark
—no wife—no children. Why, you haven’t even a mother. You
couldn’t have, of course. All your troubles are over. Your wish,
and getting colder every minute. He shivered and turned up his FOR RENT OR SALE
coat collar. Apply JAMES SILVA
The street lights had been turned on, and Christmas candles Real Estate
in the windows glowed softly. The little town looked Perhaps it was some boys’ trick, he thought wildly. Then he
remarkably cheerful. After all, the place you grew up in was the saw a pile of ancient leaves and tattered newspapers in the
one spot on earth where you could really feel at home. George bank’s ordinarily immaculate doorway. And the windows
felt a sudden burst of affection even for crotchety old Hank looked as though they hadn’t been washed in years. A light was
Biddle, whose house he was passing. He remembered the still burning across the street in Jim Silva’s office. George
quarrel he had had when his car had scraped a piece of bark out dashed over and tore the door open.
of Hank’s big maple tree. George looked up at the vast spread Jim looked up from his ledgerbook in surprise. “What can I
of leafless branches towering over him in the darkness. The tree do for you, young man?” he said in the polite voice he reserved
must have been growing there since Indian times. He felt a for potential customers.
sudden twinge of guilt for the damage he had done. He had “The bank,” George said breathlessly. “What’s the matter
never stopped to inspect the wound, for he was ordinarily afraid with it?”
to have Hank catch him even looking at the tree. Now he “The old bank building?” Jim Silva turned around and
stepped out boldly into the roadway to examine the huge trunk. looked out of the window. “Nothing that I can see. Wouldn’t
Hank must have repaired the scar or painted it over, for there like to rent or buy it, would you?”
was no sign of it. George struck a match and bent down to look “You mean—it’s out of business?”
more closely. He straightened up with an odd, sinking feeling in “For a good ten years. Went bust. Stranger ’round these
his stomach. There wasn’t any scar. The bark was smooth and parts, ain’t you?”
undamaged. George sagged against the wall. “I was here some time ago,”
He remembered what the little man at the bridge had said. It he said weakly. “The bank was all right then. I even knew some
was all nonsense, of course, but the nonexistent scar bothered of the people who worked there.”
him. “Didn’t you know a feller named Marty Jenkins, did you?”
When he reached the bank, he saw that something was “Marty Jenkins! Why, he—” George was about to say that
wrong. The building was dark, and he knew he had turned the Marty had never worked at the bank—couldn’t have, in fact, for
vault light on. He noticed, too, that someone had left the when they had both left school they had applied for a job there
window shades up. He ran around to the front. There was a and George had gotten it. But now, of course, things were
battered old sign fastened on the door. George could just make different. He would have to be careful. “No, I didn’t know
out the words: him,” he said slowly. “Not really, that is. I’d heard of him.”
 “Then maybe you heard how he skipped out with fifty steps, barking ferociously.
thousand dollars. That’s why the bank went broke. Pretty near “Brownie!” George shouted. “Brownie, you old fool, stop
ruined everybody around here.” Silva was looking at him that! Don’t you know me?” But the dog advanced menacingly
sharply. “I was hoping for a minute maybe you’d know where and drove him back behind the gate. The porch light snapped
he is. I lost plenty in that crash myself. We’d like to get our on, and George’s father stepped outside to call the dog off. The
hands on Marty Jenkins.” barking subsided to a low, angry growl.
“Didn’t he have a brother? Seems to me he had a brother His father held the dog by the collar while George
named Arthur.” cautiously walked past. He could see that his father did not
“Art? Oh, sure. But he’s all right. He don’t know where his know him.
brother went. It’s had a terrible effect on him, too. Took to “Is the lady of the house in?” he asked.
drink, he did. It’s too bad—and hard on his wife. He married a His father waved toward the door. “Go on in,” he said
nice girl.” cordially. “I’ll chain this dog up. She can be mean with
George felt the sinking feeling in his stomach again. “Who strangers.”
did he marry?” he demanded hoarsely. Both he and Art had His mother, who was waiting in the hallway, obviously did
courted Mary. not recognize him. George opened his sample kit and grabbed
“Girl named Mary Thatcher,” Silva said cheerfully. “She the first brush that came to hand. “Good evening, ma’am,” he
lives up on the hill just this side of the church— Hey! Where said politely. “I’m from the World Cleaning Company. We’re
are you going?” giving out a free sample brush. I thought you might like to have
But George had bolted out of the office. He ran past the one. No obligation. No obligation at all...” His voice faltered.
empty bank building and turned up the hill. For a moment he His mother smiled at his awkwardness. “I suppose you’ll
thought of going straight to Mary. The house next to the church want to sell me something. I’m not really sure I need any
had been given them by her father as a wedding present. brushes.”
Naturally Art Jenkins would have gotten it if he had married “No’m. I’m not selling anything,” he assured her. “The
Mary. George wondered whether they had any children. Then regular salesman will be around in a few days. This is just—
he knew he couldn’t face Mary—not yet anyway. He decided to well, just a Christmas present from the company.”
visit his parents and find out more about her. “How nice,” she said. “You people never gave away such
There were candles burning in the windows of the little good brushes before.”
weather-beaten house on the side street, and a Christmas wreath “This is a special offer,” he said. His father entered the hall
was hanging on the glass panel of the front door. George raised and closed the door.
the gate latch with a loud click. A dark shape on the porch
jumped up and began to growl. Then it hurled itself down the
 “Won’t you come in for a while and sit down?” his mother “He’s been dead a long while. He was drowned the day that
said. “You must be tired walking so much.” picture was taken.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do.” He entered the George’s mind flew back to the long-ago August afternoon
little parlor and put his bag down on the floor. The room looked when he and Harry had visited Potter’s studio. On their way
different somehow, although he could not figure out why. home they had gone swimming. Harry had been seized with a
“I used to know this town pretty well,” he said to make cramp, he remembered. He had pulled him out of the water and
conversation. “Knew some of the townspeople. I remember a had thought nothing of it. But suppose he hadn’t been there!
girl named Mary Thatcher. She married Art Jenkins, I heard. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “I guess I’d better go. I hope
You must know them.” you like the brush. And I wish you both a very Merry
“Of course,” his mother said. “We know Mary well.” Christmas.” There, he had put his foot in it again, wishing them
“Any children?” he asked casually. a Merry Christmas when they were thinking about their dead
“Two—a boy and a girl.” son.
George sighed audibly. Brownie tugged fiercely at her chain as George went down
“My, you must be tired,” his mother said. “Perhaps I can get the porch steps and accompanied his departure with a hostile,
you a cup of tea.” rolling growl.
“No’m, don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll be having supper soon.” He wanted desperately now to see Mary. He wasn’t sure he
He looked around the little parlor, trying to find out why it could stand not being recognized by her, but he had to see her.
looked different. Over the mantelpiece hung a framed The lights were on in the church, and the choir was making
photograph which had been taken on his kid brother Harry’s last-minute preparations for Christmas vespers. The organ had
sixteenth birthday. He remembered how they had gone to been practicing “Holy Night” evening after evening until
Potter’s studio to be photographed together. There was George had become thoroughly sick of it. But now the music
something queer about the picture. It showed only one figure— almost tore his heart out.
Harry’s. He stumbled blindly up the path to his own house. The lawn
“That your son?” he asked. was untidy, and the flower bushes he had kept carefully
His mother’s face clouded. She nodded but said nothing. trimmed were neglected and badly sprouted. Art Jenkins could
“I think I met him, too,” George said hesitantly. “His name’s hardly be expected to care for such things.
Harry, isn’t it?” When he knocked at the door there was a long silence,
His mother turned away, making a strange choking noise in followed by the shout of a child. Then Mary came to the door.
her throat. Her husband put his arm clumsily around her At the sight of her, George’s voice almost failed him. “Merry
shoulder. His voice, which was always mild and gentle, Christmas, ma’am,” he managed to say at last. His hand shook
suddenly became harsh. “You couldn’t have met him,” he said. as he tried to open the satchel.
 When George entered the living room, unhappy as he was, Art Jenkins came in. He stood for a moment in the doorway,
he could not help noticing with a secret grin that the too-high- clinging to the knob for support. His eyes were glazed, and his
priced blue sofa they often had quarreled over was there. face was very red. “Who’s this?” he demanded thickly.
Evidently Mary had gone through the same thing with Art “He’s a brush salesman,” Mary tried to explain. “He gave
Jenkins and had won the argument with him too. me this brush.”
George got his satchel open. One of the brushes had a bright “Brush salesman!” Art sneered. “Well, tell him to get outa
blue handle and varicolored bristles. It was obviously a brush here. We don’t want no brushes.” Art hiccupped violently and
not intended to be given away, but George didn’t care. He lurched across the room to the sofa, where he sat down
handed it to Mary. “This would be fine for your sofa,” he said. suddenly. “An’ we don’t want no brush salesmen neither.”
“My, that’s a pretty brush,” she exclaimed. “You’re giving it George looked despairingly at Mary. Her eyes were begging
away free?” him to go. Art had lifted his feet up on the sofa and was
He nodded solemnly. “Special introductory offer. It’s one sprawling out on it, muttering unkind things about brush
way for the company to keep excess profits down—share them salesmen. George went to the door, followed by Art’s son, who
with its friends.” kept snapping the pistol at him and saying: “You’re dead—dead
She stroked the sofa gently with the brush, smoothing out —dead!”
the velvety nap. “It is a nice brush. Thank you. I—” There was Perhaps the boy was right, George thought when he reached
a sudden scream from the kitchen, and two small children the porch. Maybe he was dead, or maybe this was all a bad
rushed in. A little, homely-faced girl flung herself into her dream from which he might eventually awake. He wanted to
mother’s arms, sobbing loudly as a boy of seven came running find the little man on the bridge again and try to persuade him
after her, snapping a toy pistol at her head. “Mommy, she won’t to cancel the whole deal.
die,” he yelled. “I shot her a hunert times, but she won’t die.” He hurried down the hill and broke into a run when he
He looks just like Art Jenkins, George thought. Acts like him neared the river. George was relieved to see the little stranger
too. standing on the bridge. “I’ve had enough,” he gasped. “Get me
The boy suddenly turned his attention to him. “Who’re out of this—you got me into it.”
you?” he demanded belligerently. He pointed his pistol at The stranger raised his eyebrows. “I got you into it! I like
George and pulled the trigger. “You’re dead!” he cried. “You’re that! You were granted your wish. You got everything you
dead. Why don’t you fall down and die?” asked for. You’re the freest man on earth now. You have no ties.
There was a heavy step on the porch. The boy looked You can go anywhere—do anything. What more can you
frightened and backed away. George saw Mary glance possibly want?”
apprehensively at the door. “Change me back,” George pleaded. “Change me back—
please. Not just for my sake but for others too. You don’t know
what a mess this town is in. You don’t understand. I’ve got to by the smooth-flowing black water. He had heard of such
get back. They need me here.” things.
“I understand right enough,” the stranger said slowly. “I just At the corner of Main and Bridge Streets he almost collided
wanted to make sure you did. You had the greatest gift of all with a hurrying figure. It was Jim Silva, the real estate agent.
conferred upon you—the gift of life, of being a part of this “Hello, George,” Jim said cheerfully. “Late tonight, ain’t you? I
world and taking a part in it. Yet you denied that gift.” should think you’d want to be home early on Christmas Eve.”
As the stranger spoke, the church bell high up on the hill George drew a long breath. “I just wanted to see if the bank
sounded, calling the townspeople to Christmas vespers. Then is all right. I’ve got to make sure the vault light is on.”
the downtown church bell started ringing. “Sure it’s on. I saw it as I went past.”
“I’ve got to get back,” George said desperately. “You can’t “Let’s look, huh?” George said, pulling at Silva’s sleeve. He
cut me off like this. Why, it’s murder!” wanted the assurance of a witness. He dragged the surprised
“Suicide rather, wouldn’t you say?” the stranger murmured. real estate dealer around to the front of the bank where the light
“You brought it on yourself. However, since it’s Christmas Eve was gleaming through the falling snow. “I told you it was on,”
—well, anyway, close your eyes and keep listening to the Silva said with some irritation.
bells.” His voice sank lower. “Keep listening to the bells...” “I had to make sure,” George mumbled. “Thanks—and
George did as he was told. He felt a cold, wet snowdrop Merry Christmas!” Then he was off like a streak, running up
touch his cheek—and then another and another. When he the hill.
opened his eyes, the snow was falling fast, so fast that it He was in a hurry to get home, but not in such a hurry that
obscured everything around him. The little stranger could not he couldn’t stop for a moment at his parents’ house, where he
be seen, but then neither could anything else. The snow was so wrestled with Brownie until the friendly old bulldog waggled
thick that George had to grope for the bridge railing. all over with delight. He grasped his startled brother’s hand and
As he started toward the village, he thought he heard wrung it frantically, wishing him an almost hysterical Merry
someone saying “Merry Christmas,” but the bells were Christmas. Then he dashed across the parlor to examine a
drowning out all rival sounds, so he could not be sure. certain photograph. He kissed his mother, joked with his father,
When he reached Hank Biddle’s house he stopped and and was out of the house a few seconds later, stumbling and
walked out into the roadway, peering down anxiously at the slipping on the newly fallen snow as he ran on up the hill.
base of the big maple tree. The scar was there, thank heaven! The church was bright with light, and the choir and the
He touched the tree affectionately. He’d have to do something organ were going full tilt. George flung the door to his home
about the wound—get a tree surgeon or something. Anyway, open and called out at the top of his voice: “Mary! Where are
he’d evidently been changed back. He was himself again. you? Mary! Kids!”
Maybe it was all a dream, or perhaps he had been hypnotized
 His wife came toward him, dressed for going to church, and
making gestures to silence him. “I’ve just put the children to
bed,” she protested. “Now they’ll—” But not another word
could she get out of her mouth, for he smothered it with kisses,
and then dragged her up to the children’s room, where he
violated every tenet of parental behavior by madly embracing
his son and his daughter and waking them up thoroughly.
It was not until Mary got him downstairs that he began to be
coherent. “I thought I’d lost you. Oh, Mary, I thought I’d lost
you!”
“What’s the matter, darling?” she asked in bewilderment.
He pulled her down on the sofa and kissed her again. And
then, just as he was about to tell her about his queer dream, his
fingers came in contact with something lying on the seat of the
sofa. His voice froze.
He did not even have to pick the thing up, for he knew what
it was. And he knew that it would have a blue handle and
varicolored bristles.