Short stories from 00 Selected Stories, by O Henry

✓ The Gift of the Magi

✓ A Cosmopolite in a Café
✓ Between Rounds
✓ The Skylight Room
✓ A Service of Love
✓ The Coming-Out of Maggie
✓ The Cop and the Anthem
✓Memoirs of a Yellow Dog
✓ The Love philtre of Ikey Shoenstein
✓ The Furnished Room
✓ The Last Leaf
✓ The Poet and the Peasant
✓ A Ramble in Aphasia
✓ A Municipal Report
✓ Proof of the Pudding

1
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 cheek 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 left to do bat 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 cer-
tainly had that word on the look-out for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter
would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger
could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing
the name ‘Mr. James Dillingham Young.”
The ‘Dillingham’ had been flung to the breeze during a former
period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per
week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of
‘Dillingham’ looked blurred, as though they were thinking seri-
ously 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
grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. To-morrow
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

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O HENRY —- 100 SELECTED STORIES
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. Some-
thing fine and rare and sterling — something just a little bit near to
being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Per-
haps you have seen a pier-glass 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
colour 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
helen dig airaenigaetge pefelatiaodae alae
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 shin-
ing 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 of the door and down the stairs to the
street.
Where she stopped the sign read: ‘Mme. Sofronie, Hair Goods
of All Kinds.’ One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, pant-
ing. 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
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© HENRY — 100 SELECTED STORIES

‘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 thar it must be Jim’s. [t 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 littl to
prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the
gas and went co 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 berself, ‘before he takes a
second look at me, he’ll say [ look like a Coney Island choras girl.
But what could I do - oh! what could [ do with a dollar and
cighty-seven cents?”
At seven 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
little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now
she whispered: ‘Please God, make him think I am still pretty.
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked
thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two — and
to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he
was without gloves.
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© HENRY —- 100 SELECTED STORIES

Jim stepped 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. Ir
was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any
of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared
at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
‘Jim, darling,’ she cried, ‘don’t look at me that way. I had my
hair cut off and sold it because 1 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
labour.
‘Cat it off and sold it,’ said Della. ‘Don't you like me just as
well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't 1?”
Jim looked about the room curiously.
“You say your hair is gone?’ he said with an air almost of idiocy.
“You needn’t look for it,’ said Della. ‘It’s sold, I tell you - sold
and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went
for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,’ she went on
with a sudden serious sweetness, ‘but nobody could ever count my
love for you, Shall I put the chops on, Jim?’
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his
Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some
inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week
or a million a year — what is the difference? A mathematician or a
wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable
gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be
illuminated later 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 awhile 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.
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O HENRY — 100 SELECTED STORIES

For there lay The Combs — the set of combs, side and back, that
Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful
combs, pure tortoiseshell, 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 ber 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 Chrisomas presents away and keep
*em awhile. 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 unevent-
ful chronicle of cwo foolish children in a flat who most unwisely
sacrificed for cach other the greatest treasures of their house. But
in a last word to the wise of these days, Jet 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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O HENRY — 100 SELECTED STORIES
II

A Cosmopolite in a Café

AT MIDNIGHT THE CAFE was crowded. By some chance the little

table at which I sat had escaped the eye of incomers, and two
vacant chairs at it extended their arms with venal hospitality to the
influx of patrons.
And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them, and I was glad, for
held a theory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has
existed. We hear of them, and we see foreign labels on much
luggage, but we find travellers instead of cosmopolites.
I invoke your consideration of the scene - the marble-topped
tables, the range of leather-upholstered wall seats, the gay com-
pany, the ladies dressed in demi-state toilets, speaking in an
exquisite visible chorus of taste, economy, opulence or art, the
sedulous and largess-loving gargons, the music wisely catering to all
with its raids upon the composers; the mélange of talk and laughter
— and, if you will, the Wiirzburger in the tall glass cones that bend
to your lips as a ripe cherry sways on its branch to the beak of a
robber jay. I was told by a sculptor from Mauch Chunk that the
scene was truly Parisian.
My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan, and he will
be heard from next summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a
new ‘attraction’ there, he informed me, offering kingly diversion.
And then his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and lon-
gitude. He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak,
familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed
of a Maraschino cherry in a table-d’héte grape fruit. He spoke dis-
respectfully of the equator, he skipped from continent to conti-
nent, he derided the zones, he mopped up the high seas with his
napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a certain
bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lap-
land. Zip! Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas at
Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through an Arkansas post-
oak swamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkali plains of his
Idaho ranch, then whirled you into the society of Viennese arch~
dukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in a
Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos
Ayres with a hot infusion of the chuchula weed. You would have