The gift of Mistletoe

Author: (American) O. Henry
Publisher:
Publication Date: 2003-03-01
Features: Seventeen cents. It was all there. Six cents of it in pennies. Those pennies were wrung out of the grocery man and the vegetable man and the butcher boy, one by one. So she had enough to buy a small gift. The next day was Christmas. There was nothing to do but to crease that worn old chair and cry. She did that. And then she had a queer idea. Life is made of crying, of stifled sobs, and of smiles, with sobs the prevailing interest. When the sobs had ceased, she took a good look at the flat. It was a furnished flat at eight dollars a week. Though it was a poor one, and though the descriptions would have to wait, it was a flat. There was a mailbox down in the hall, but it never got a letter. There was a bell push, but nobody ever pushed it. And there was a name plate saying, "Mr. James Dillingham Young." The "Dillingham" had been added by Mr. Young at a time when he was prosperous enough to feel an occasional need for an addition. Every dollar a week he earned at that time. Now he earned twenty a week, but the "Dillingham" looked faded and shabby, as though it had been a foolish fancy, and as though it had been quietly retired to the more modest initial, "D." Whenever Mr. Young came home, his wife, whose name was still Dillingham, though it was a little dimly to most people, would meet him at the top of the stairs and call him "Jim," and would give him a embrace. That was all very well. After she had cried a good deal, she took some powder, dabbed it on her cheeks, and stood before the window, gazing out at a gray cat walking down the gray fence in the gray backyard. Tomorrow was Christmas, and she had only seventeen cents to buy Jim a present. It had cost her a lot of happy days and a lot of careful saving, and the result was that she had saved up only seventeen cents. A dollar and a quarter a week was not much to live on, and she always spent more than she had. Seventeen cents to buy Jim a present. Her Jim. She had spent a good deal of happy time trying to think of a nice thing to give him, something fine and rare and worthy, something that would do him justice. Between the two windows was a mirror. You have often seen mirrors in rooms that cost eight dollars a week for rent. A very small and clever person can judge her looks by looking at the bars of the mirror. Della was small and very clever. She turned sharply from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were bright with excitement, but in twenty seconds they were dull with disappointment. She dropped her hair. Now she and Jim had between them two things worth having. One was Jim's gold watch, a watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. If Queen Sheba had lived in the next apartment, Della might have dried her hair outside and let it trail down to her feet, so that the Queen might have envied her. If the were filled with money, and Solomon was the doorkeeper, and if Jim had had to pass that way every day, he would have taken out his gold watch and Solomon would have turned green with envy. But now, by some strange magic, Della's beautiful hair had fallen around her, rippling and shining, like a brown waterfall. It reached her knees, and made a sort of a robe for her. Then, as if she could not bear it, she began to pull the hair smooth again. She stood still for a minute, her eyes wet with tears, and the worn red carpet was spattered with two or three drops. She put on her brown old coat and her brown old hat, her eyes still holding the moisture, and went out. She stopped at a sign that read: "Madame Sofronie—Fancy Hair." Della went upstairs, breathless, and asked the woman: "Will you buy my hair?" "I will buy hair," said the woman. "Take off your hat and let me see the sample." The brown waterfall came down. "Twenty dollars," said the woman, handling the hair with skill. "Quick, give me the money," said Della. Two hours passed like winged things. Don't mind the metaphor. She had been searching all over the city for Jim's present. At last she had found it, something made just for Jim, not for any other man in the world. She had looked in every shop, and there was nothing like it anywhere. A simple chain of white gold, with little flowers on it. Like all things of high quality, it was judged by its substance, not by its outward show. It was just the right thing to go with the watch. When she saw it, she knew it was Jim's. It was like Jim himself, quiet and valuable—yes, both were described by the word. She had paid twenty dollars for it and hurried home, leaving seven cents. The watch would look twice as well with the chain, and Jim would not need to be ashamed when he looked at it. The watch was fine and expensive, but he was so poor that he had only taken it out once since he had bought the leather strap instead of the chain. When Della got home, her delight was mixed with a sudden caution. She took her curling iron, lighted the gas, and began to repair the damage done by her love and her generosity. It was always a terrible thing to do. The result was that in forty minutes, Della's hair was in little tight curls all over her head, and she looked like a little boy who had just been caught with his breeches down. She looked at herself in the mirror, and she was severe and critical. "If Jim doesn't kill me for looking like a chorus girl from a slum," she said, "I think he will. But what can I do? Oh, my poor seventeen cents!" At seven o'clock she had made the coffee and put the steak on the stove. Jim always came home at the right time. Della held the chain doubled in her hands, and sat down near the door where he always came in. Then she heard the step of his feet on the downstairs stairs. She turned white with fear for a minute. She had been accustomed to praying for simple things, and now she prayed: "Oh, God, make him think I am still beautiful." The door opened, and Jim came in, closing it behind him. He looked thin and severe. Poor fellow! He was only twenty-two, and he had taken a big job. He needed a new overcoat, and he had no gloves. He stood in the doorway, looking at Della, and the look in his eyes was enough to make her nervous and confused. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor even dislike. It was something she could not understand, something that made her shiver. He looked at her just the same way. Della turned and walked toward him. "Jim, dear," she said, "don't look at me like that. I have cut my hair and sold it, because I couldn't keep Christmas without giving you a present. Hair grows fast—you won't mind, will you? I had to do it. My hair grows so fast. Now, 'Merry Christmas,' Jim. Let's be happy. You won't guess what a lovely, fine thing I have got for you!" "Did you really cut your hair?" Jim asked, as if he had not understood the plainest thing in the world. "I cut it and sold it," said Della. "Well, I like you just the same, don't I? Without your hair you are still the same, aren't you?" Jim looked around the room, as if he were surprised. "Did you really say your hair was gone?" he asked, in a kind of stupid way. "Don't look for it, Della," she said. "I told you I sold it. I don't have a hair left. It is Christmas Eve, dear. Be good to me, and remember what I have done for you. I can count my hair," she added suddenly, in a very tender voice, "but I can't count the love I have for you. Did you make the steak, Jim?" Jim seemed to wake up from a dream. He held Della in his arms. Now, just for a minute, let us think of something that doesn't matter very much. What would be the difference if the rent were eight dollars a week or a million? Mathematicians and geniuses might give you a wrong answer. The Magi brought valuable gifts, but they left something out. You will understand what I mean by and by. I have been trying to tell you a simple story about two foolish children who live in a flat. They have sacrificed their treasures for each other. But what I wanted to say was that there are two fools in this world who are wiser than anyone else. There are two fools in this world who are wiser than all the rest. There are two fools in this world who are the wisest. They are the Magi.