The Gift of the Magi, Part 1: One Dollar and Eighty-Seven Cents

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies, the smallest coins. Della had saved them one and two at a time, by arguing with the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until her cheeks burned. Three times Della counted the money. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was nothing to do but fall down on the shabby little couch and cry. So Della did it. Life, the writer tells us, is made of sobs, sniffles and smiles, with more sniffles than anything else.

While Della is crying, let us take a look at her home. It was a small furnished flat, and it cost eight dollars a week. Downstairs there was a letter box that no letter could fit into, a bell that did not ring, and a card with the name of Mr. James Dillingham Young. He had put up that long name when he earned thirty dollars a week. Now he earned only twenty, and the name looked too grand. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home, his wife called him “Jim” and gave him a big hug. His wife was Della. And that was all very good.

Della finished her cry and put powder on her cheeks. She stood by the window and looked out sadly at a grey cat walking along a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only one dollar and eighty-seven cents to buy Jim a present. Twenty dollars a week does not go far. Everything had cost more than she expected. It always does. She had spent many happy hours planning something nice for Jim. Something fine and rare, something almost good enough to belong to Jim.

Between the windows there was a narrow mirror. Della was slim, and she had learned how to see herself in it.

Suddenly she turned from the window and stood in front of the mirror. Her eyes were shining, but her face had lost its colour. Quickly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, Jim and Della owned two things that they were both very proud of. One was Jim’s gold watch. It had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. If the Queen of Sheba had lived in the flat across the way, Della would have hung her hair out of the window to dry, just to make the queen’s jewels look poor. If King Solomon had been the building’s janitor, with all his treasures in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see the king pull at his beard with envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell around her, shining like a brown waterfall. It reached below her knees and covered her almost like a dress. Then, nervously and quickly, she put it up again. For a moment she stood still, and a tear or two fell on the old red carpet.

She put on her old brown jacket and her old brown hat. With her eyes still shining, she hurried out of the door, down the stairs and into the street.