 A Story of the Sea by William Calper Brann Read for Love Stories Volume 1 by Michelle Fry, Veteran Ridge, Louisiana. There have been mortals, favorites of the gods, to whom it was given to understand the language of the lower animals, and such I have ever envied, for beast and bird have seen and heard, that which man knoweth not. Ever could I get beyond an imperfect knowledge of their alphabet, enabling me to spell out here and there a word of little meaning? But the great ocean's never-ceasing speech was ever plain to me, and many a midnight hour I have pasted the cool sands that girt my island home, and listened with reverential awe to the secrets it whispered to the sensuous southern breeze that kissed its bosom. Strange stories of wreck and wraith, wild wars and desperate deeds, mingled with those of love and honor, shame and sacrifice, crowding upon each other like specters in a dream. One night when the new moon hung like a silver crescent pendent from Venus's flaming orb, in the summer sky thick inlaid with patines of pure gold, I heard the lazy waves breaking like slumber's thunder upon the long, low beach, and said, The sea is calling me, and I went. Far out upon the long pier where the waves could dash their spray, like a shower of cool pearls in my face. I lingered long and listened to a story, sad and strange, as a sweet-voiced woman telling in a foreign tongue, and punctuating with tears and sighs a tale of true love turned awry. Upon the beach they walked, in days that seemed to man long, long ago. How brief and strange the little lives of men, and so beset with customs framed, to cramp the heart and curse the soul before its time. To me, here since time began to build that bridge of sighs and tears that linked the two eternities, it seems but yesterday night, that hand in hand they wandered here, so wrapped in happiness, born of equal love, that they heeded not my glories spread forth to tempt their praise. I curled my snowy spray about their feet, flashed back the silver beams of harvest moon in one long shimmering sheet of mellow light, rolled waves of brilliant phosphorescence that seemed like silver billows, diamonds studded, breaking on a beach of gold, and sang the sweetest odes of the poets of ten thousand years. But they heard nor saw ought but the beating of their hearts in holy rhythm, and the love-light flaming like fire's celestial in each other's eyes. Anon, bare-armed, bare-limbed, shamed yet happy they sought the wave, and I cradled them on my bosom, and heard them whisper of laws defied, and cruel customs set at naught, and the higher law of love. But fearful she spoke inside, yet clung the closer to him, as though the earth and sea contained but one perfect model of a man, and that were he. Hour by hour they hovered near me, and a thousand times she swore to him that their lives were so entwined, that separation were death to her, and kissed his lips, his eyes, his hands, and wished she were his wife, that they might blaze into the great round world the love they feigned would hide from heaven. One little year went by, and they came again, not walking hand in hand. He spoke to her, and she answered with bitter scorn. He touched with trembling lips upon the old days, when love was lord of their two lives, but she mocked at love and him, and bade him leave her. Then he that was want to rule first learned to sue, and vainly for her heart was cold as the ashes of long-forgotten kings, cruel as wintery winds blown across icy northern seas. It is a guilty love, she said, and he looked at her, as if doubting that he heard, then turned and went like one that dreamed, for thought of wrong to her had dwelt not with him. He had but worshipped her as devout Sabine might the sun and host of heaven. Again he came, but he was all alone. Long and lonely he paced the dreary beach beneath the wintry sky, until the cold mists seemed to change to mellow light, the stormy sky to one of summer, gemmed by myriad stars and queened by harvest moon, the cool wind sweeping o'er the barren waste to music and the merry laughter of men and maids, and she was by his side her love-lit eyes making the blood dance through every vein. He put forth his hand to her, but the sky changed, from gold to lead. The drift weed blew about his feet. The cold mist settled down upon him and crept with icy fingers into his heart. And he cursed the lying vision, the shrieking wind, the cold mist in the leadened sky. Cursed the day that he first saw her and said to waves that tumbled at his feet, I must be mad, the curse of my race hath fallen upon me. Else why do I see that which is not, hear of voices that are far away? Why do I cherish the image of a fickle woman who swept along by a gust of passion or sickly sentiment, thought for a day she loved me, but did not, nor ever loved art in life but her own selfish self? And he called her name to the wind and waves, but coupled with it a curse, deep and bitter, as those that burst in sulfur breath from the parched lips of the damned, and a voice came back from out the gloom that seemed to mock him. Furious as a demon disturbed at some hellish right, he turned and shrieked to the mocking voice and bated come to him that he might wreak upon its owner such vengeance as would appall the world, the far lights shone like pale ghosts of lights through the driving mist, and in them loomed two weird forms that seemed an hundred cubits high. Furious he rushed upon and smote them down upon the wet sand and trampled them and strove with feet and hands to kill, but they cried out for mercy on their lives that they were honest fishermen who, hearing a cry but faintly above the roaring waves, had answered it, thinking some boatmen might have met mishap and called for aid. The flood of anger spent in blows he helped them up, wiped the blood and sand from their bronzed faces, gave them his scant purse, and bidding them drink a bumper the hellfiends might drag him from the world before the mourn sent them on their way. The gray dawn found him sleeping with his face upon the wet sand, once trodden by the feet that now trampled on his heart. Then I sent waves cool and sweet to kiss his cheek, and he awoke and waking said, Kisses for me, they are cold great mother ocean, but not so cold as love burned out, leaving but the bitter ashes of contentious pity. I dreamed that I was afloat upon thy bosom with her I did so dearly love, and thou wast bearing us beneath a sunset sky to a fair island, fringed with palms and musical with songs of birds and rippling springs, where we too should live forever, that as we floated thus, love's goddess descended from a golden cloud and opening the white bosom of my bride, yet not my bride, took thence her heart and pressed from it a black drop that fell upon the molten sea, and taking form became a hideous monster that cried, my name is selfishness and vanished in the wave. Then breathing upon the cold heart ethereal flame that made it throb like a hero's pulse when trumpets are blown for war, she replaced it, healed the snowy globe with a touch and smiling upon me was caught into the golden cloud that seemed framed of music and the perfume of a thousand flowers. A round arm stole about my neck and we floated heart to heart on to the haven that was to be our heaven. A curse upon your briny waters that seem a world of bitter tears rank with dead men's bones in the rotting hulls of ships. They have called me back to thy dreary, evermoaning verge to mock myself for loving one who scorns, for wasting my hot heart on a block of frozen stone, hoping by foolish prayers and unmanly tears to move the gods to breathe into it the breath of human life, to prevail even as did that old Greek who became enamored of a statue, less divinely formed but with the self same heart. His madness leads me to this folly, the old, old curse that hath hung about our house like a baleful shadow, for thrice a hundred years, bursting at times into bloody feuds without apparent cause and dreadful mutinies against the laws of man and will of God. Tis vain to further fight with fate, tool-drag me down even as it did my great grand sire who climbed fames, dizzy heights, and stood, poised in mid-heaven, the mastermind of Britain's mighty world. Then, like a tall mountain, pine blasted at the top by the rhythm bolts of God, plunged a falling star to the depths of everlasting darkness and died a decade before his death. Nor iron will descended through my sire from a score of barbarous kings, nor mother's prayerful amulets woven like golden threads through every low sweet lullaby that soothed my infancy can avail me art. I can but fight and fall. She might have helped me beat back the shadows, but would not. And as well. Then, taking from a case the withered rose, he kissed it, cast it far out upon the wave, watched it dance there, and said with a bitter smile, the last link that binds me to other days, and it is broken. The wage of sin is death, and I am dead these long months past, and fathoms deep in hell yet walk the earth, because nor land nor sea will yield a resting place among its honored dead to one so ignobley slain. End of A Story of the Sea by William Calper Brand. There were very nice pies, crayfish and mutton cutlets, and while we were eating, Nicanor the cook came up to ask what the visitors were like for dinner. He was a man of medium height, with a puffy face and little eyes. He was close-shaven, and it looked as though his mustaches had not been shaved but had been pulled out by the roots. Allian told us that the beautiful Pelagia was in love with this cook. As he drank and was of a violent character, she did not want to marry him, but was willing to live with him without. He was very devout, and his religious convictions would not allow him to live in sin. He insisted on her marrying him, and would consent to nothing else, and when he was drunk he used to abuse her, and even beat her. Whenever he got drunk she used to hide upstairs and sob, and on such occasions Allian and the servant stayed in the house to be ready to defend her in case of necessity. We began talking about love. How love is born, said Allian, why Pelagia does not love somebody more like herself in her spiritual and external qualities, and why she fell in love with Nicanor, that ugly snout we all call him the snout. How far questions of personal happiness are of consequence of love? All that is unknown. One can take what view one likes of it. So far only one incontestable truth has been uttered about love. This is a great mystery. Everything else that has been written or said about love is not a conclusion, but only a statement of questions which have remained unanswered. The explanation which would seem to fit one case does not apply in a dozen others, and the very best thing to my mind would be to explain every case individually without attempting to generalize. We ought, as the doctors say, to individualize each case. Perfectly true, Burke and Ascented. We Russians of the educated class have a partiality for these questions that remain unanswered. Love is usually poeticized, decorated with roses, nightingales. We Russians decorate our loves with these momentous questions and select the most uninteresting of them, too. In Moscow, when I was a student, I had a friend who shared my life, a charming lady, and every time I took her in my arms she was thinking what I would allow her a month for housekeeping and what was the price of beef a pound. In the same way, when we are in love, we are never tired of asking ourselves questions, whether it is honorable or dishonorable, sensible or stupid, what this love is leading up to, and so on. Whether it is a good thing or not, I don't know, but that it is in the way unsatisfactory and irritating, I do know. It looked as though we wanted to tell some story. People who lead a solitary existence always have something in their hearts which they are eager to talk about. In town, Bachelors visit the baths and the restaurants on purpose to talk, and sometimes tell the most interesting things to bath attendants and waiters. In the country as a rule, they unbuzz them themselves to their guests. Now, from the window we could see a grey sky, trees drenched in the rain, in such weather we could go nowhere, and there was nothing for us to do but to tell stories and to listen. I lived at Sofino and had been farming for a long time. Alhen began, ever since I left the university. I am an idle gentleman by education, a studious person by disposition, but there was a big debt owing on the estate when I came here, and as my father was in debt, partly because he had spent so much on my education, I resolved not to go away, but to work till I had paid off the debt. I made up my mind to do this and set to work. Not, I must confess, without some repugnance. The land here does not yield much, and if one is not to farm at a loss one must employ surf labor or hired laborers, which is almost the same thing, or put it on a peasant footing, that is, work the fields oneself and with one's family. There is no middle path. But in those days I did not go into such subtleties. I did not leave a clot of earth unturned. I gathered together all the peasants, men and women, from the neighboring villages. The work went on at a tremendous pace. I myself ploughed and sewed and reaped and was bored doing it, and frowned with disgust, like a village cat driven by hunger to eat cucumbers in the kitchen garden. My body ached, and I slept as I walked. At first it seemed to me that I could easily reconcile this life at toil with my cultured habits. To do so I thought all that is necessary is to maintain a certain external order in life. I established myself upstairs here in the best rooms and ordered them to bring me their coffee and liqueur after lunch and dinner, and when I went to bed I read every night the Yesnik Europa. But one day our priest, Father Ivan, came and drank up all my liquor at one sitting, and the Yesnik Europa went to the priest's daughters. As in the summer, especially at the haymaking, I did not secede in getting to my bed at all, and swept in the sledge in the barn, or somewhere in the forester's lodge. What chance was there of reading? Little by little I moved downstairs, began dining in the servant's kitchen, and of my former luxury nothing is left but the servants who were in my father's service, and whom it would be painful to turn away. In the first years I was elected here in Honorary Justice of the Peace. I used to have to go to the town and take part in the sessions of the Congress and of the Circuit Court, and this was a pleasant change for me. When you live here for two or three months without a break, especially in the winter, you begin at last to pine for a black coat, and in the Circuit Court there were frock coats, and uniforms, and dress coats too, all lawyers, men who have received a general education. I had someone to talk to. After sleeping in the sledge and dining in the kitchen to sit in an armchair and clean linen in thin boots with a chain on one's waistcoat is such a luxury. I received a warm welcome in the town. I made friends eagerly, and of all my acquaintanceships the most intimate, and to tell the truth the most agreeable to me was my acquaintance with Luganovic, the vice president of the Circuit Courts. You both know him, a most charming personality. It all happened just after a celebrated case of incendiarism. The preliminary investigation lasted two days. We were exhausted. Luganovic looked at me and said, Look here, come round to dinner with me. This was unexpected as I knew Luganovic very little, only officially, and I had never been to his house. I only just went to my hotel room to change and went off to dinner. And here it was my lot to meet Anna Alexeyevna, Luganovic's wife. At that time she was still very young, not more than twenty-two, and her first baby had been born just six months before. It is all a thing of the past, and now I should find it difficult to define what there was so exceptional in her, what it was in her attracted me so much. At the time, at dinner, it was all perfectly clear to me. I saw a lovely young, good, intelligent, fascinating woman, such as I had never met before, and I felt her at once someone close and already familiar. As though that face, those cordial intelligent eyes, I had seen somewhere in my childhood, in the album which lay on my mother's chest of drawers. Four Jews were charged with being incendiaries, who were regarded as a gang of robbers and, to my mind, quite groundlessly. At dinner I was very much excited, I was uncomfortable, and I don't know what I said, but Anna Alexeyevna kept shaking her head and saying to her husband, Dmitry, how is this? Luganovic is a good-natured man, one of the simple-hearted people who firmly maintain the opinion that once a man is charged before a court he is guilty, and to express doubt of the correctness of a sentence cannot be done, except in legal form on paper, and not at dinner and in private conversation. You and I did not set fire to the place, he said softly, and you see we are not condemned and not put in prison. And both husband and wife tried to make me eat and drink as much as possible, from some trifling details, from the way they made the coffee together, for instance, and from the way they understood each other at half a word. I could gather that they lived in harmony and comfort, and that they were glad of a visitor. After dinner they played a duet on the piano, then it got dark and I went home. That was at the beginning of spring. After that I spent the whole summer at Sofina without a break, and I had no time to think of the town either, but the memory of the graceful, fair-haired woman remained in my mind all those days. I did not think of her, but it was as though her light shadow were lying on my heart. In the late autumn there was a theatrical performance for some charitable object in the town. I went into the governor's box. I was invited to go there in the interval. I looked and there was Anna Alexeyevna sitting beside the governor's wife, and again the same irresistible, thrilling impression of beauty and sweet, caressing eyes and again the same feeling of nearness. We sat side by side, then went to the foyer. You've grown thinner, she said. Have you been ill? Yes, I've had rheumatism in my shoulder and in rainy weather I can't sleep. You looked dispirited, and in the spring when you came to dinner you were younger, more confident. You were full of eagerness and talked a great deal then. You were very interesting, and I really must confess I was a little carried away by you. For some reason you often came back to my memory during the summer, and when I was getting ready for the theater today I thought I should see you. And she laughed. But you looked dispirited today, she repeated. It makes you seem older. The next day I lunched at the Luganovitch's after lunch they drove out to their Samovila in order to make arrangements there for the winter and I went with them. I returned with them to the town and at midnight drank tea with them and quiet domestic surroundings, while the fire glowed and the young mother kept going to see if her baby girl was asleep. And after that every time I went to town I never failed to visit the Luganovitch's. They grew used to me and I grew used to them. As a rule I went in unannounced as though I were one of the family. Who is there I would hear from a four-way room in the in the drawing voice that seemed to me so lovely. It is Pavel Konstantinovich answered the maid or the nurse. Anna Alexeyevna would come out to me with an anxious face and would ask every time, why is it so long since you have been? Has anything happened? Her eyes, the elegant refined hand she gave me, her indoor dress, the way she did her hair, her voice, her step, always produced the same impression on me of something new and extraordinary in my life and very important. We talked together for hours, were silent, thinking each our own thoughts or she played for hours to me on the piano. If there were no one at home I stayed and waited, talked to the nurse, played with the child or lay on the sofa in the study and read and when Anna Alexeyevna came back I met her in the hall, took all her parcels from her and for some reason I carried those parcels every time with as much love with as much solemnity as a boy. There is a proverb that if a peasant woman has no trouble she will buy a pig. The Luganovitches had no trouble so they made friends with me. If I did not come to the town I must be ill or something must have happened to me and both of them were extremely anxious. They were worried that I, an educated man with the knowledge of languages, should instead of devoting myself to science or literary work, live in the country, rush round like a squirrel in a cage, work hard with never a penny to show for it. They fancied that I was unhappy and that I only talked, laughed and ate to conceal my sufferings and even at cheerful moments when I felt happy I was aware of their searching eyes fixed upon me. They were particularly touching when I really was depressed, when I was being worried by some creditor or had not money enough to pay interest on the proper day. The two of them, husband and wife would whisper something at the window, then he would come to me and say with a gray face, if you really are in need of money at the moment, Pavel Konstantinovich, my wife and I beg you not to hesitate to borrow from us. And he would blush to his ears with emotion and it would happen that after whispering in the same way at the window he would come up to me with red ears and say my wife and I earnestly beg you to accept this present. And he would give me studs, a cigar case or a lamp and I would send them game, butter and flowers from the country. They both by the way had considerable means of their own. In early days I often borrowed money and was not very particular about it, borrowed wherever I could but nothing in the world would have induced me to borrow from the Luganoviches. But why talk of it? I was unhappy at home in the fields in the barn I thought of her. I tried to understand the mystery of a beautiful, intelligent, young woman's marrying someone so uninteresting, almost an old man. Her husband was over forty and having children by him. To understand the mystery of this uninteresting, good, simple-hearted man who argued with such worrisome good sense that balls and evening parties kept near the more solid people, looking glistless and superfluous with a submissive, uninterested expression as though he had been brought there for sale, yet who believed in his right to be happy, to have children by her. And I kept trying to understand why she had met him first and not me and why such a terrible mistake in our lives need have happened. And when I went to the town I saw every time from her eyes that she was expecting me and she would confess to me herself that she had a peculiar feeling all that day and had guessed that I should come. We talked a long time and were silent, yet we did not confess our love to each other. But timidly and jealously concealed it. We were afraid of everything that might reveal our secret to ourselves. I loved her tenderly, deeply, but I reflected and kept asking myself what our love could lead to if we had not the strength to fight against it. It seemed to be incredible that my gentle sad love could all at once coarsely break up the even tenor of a life of her husband, her children and all the household in which I was so loved and trusted. Would it be honorable? She would go away with me, but where, where could I take her? Would have been a different matter if I had had a beautiful, interesting life, if for instance I had been struggling for the emancipation of my country or had been a celebrated man of science, an artist or a painter. But as it was it would mean taking her from one everyday humdrum life to another as humdrum or perhaps more so. And how long would our happiness last? What would happen to her in case I was ill, in case I died or if we simply grew cold to one another? And she apparently reasoned in the same way. She thought of her husband, her children, and of her mother, who loved the husband like a son. If she abandoned herself to her feelings she would have to lie or else to tell the truth and in her position either would have been equally terrible and inconvenient. And she was tormented by the question whether her love would bring me happiness. Would she not complicate my life, which as it was was hard enough and full of all sorts of trouble. She fancied she was not young enough for me, that she was not industrious nor energetic enough to begin a new life. And she often talked to her husband of the importance of my marrying a girl of intelligence and merit, who would be a capable housewife and a help to me. And she would immediately add that it would be difficult to find such a girl in the whole town. Meanwhile the years were passing. Anna Alexievna already had two children. When I arrived at the Luganovich's, the servants smiled cordially. The children shouted that Uncle Pavel Konstantinovich had come and hung on my neck. Everyone was overjoyed. They did not understand what was passing in my soul and thought that I too was happy. Everyone looked on me as a noble being and grown-ups and children alike felt that the noble being was walking about the rooms and that gave a peculiar charm to their manner towards me. As though in my presence their life too was pure and more beautiful. Anna Alexievna and I used to go to the theater together, always walking there. We used to sit side by side in the stalls, our shoulders touching. I would take the opera glass from her hands without a word and feel at that minute that she was near me, that she was mine, that we could not live without each other. But by some strange misunderstanding when we came out of the theater we always said goodbye and parted as though we were strangers. Goodness knows what people were saying about us in the town already, but there was not a word of truth in it at all. In the latter years Anna Alexievna took to going away for frequent visits to her mother or to her sister. She began to suffer from low spirits. She began to recognize that her life was spoiled and unsatisfied and at times she did not care to see her husband nor her children. She was already being treated for her norasthenia. We were silent and still silent and in the presence of outsiders she displayed a strange irritation in regard to me. Whatever I talked about she disagreed with me and if I had an argument she sighed it with my opponent. If I dropped anything she would say coldly I congratulate you. If I forgot to take the opera glass when we're going to the theater she would say afterwards I knew you would forget it. Luckily or unluckily there is nothing in our lives that does not end sooner or later. The time of parting came as Luganovic was appointed president in one of the western provinces. They had to sell their furniture, their horses, their summer villa. When they drove out of the villa and afterwards looked back as they were going away to look the last time at the garden, at the green roof. Everyone was sad and I realized that I had to say goodbye not only to the villa. It was arranged that at the end of August we should see Anna Alexeyevna off to the Crimea where the doctors were sending her and that a little later Luganovic and the children would set off for the western province. We were a great crowd to see Anna Alexeyevna off when she had said goodbye to her husband and her children and there was only a minute left before the third bell. I ran into her compartment to put a basket which she had almost forgotten on the rack and had to say goodbye. When our eyes met in the compartment our spiritual fortitude deserted us both. I took her into my arms. She pressed her face to my breast and tears flowed from her eyes. Kissing her face, her shoulders, her hands wet with tears. Oh how unhappy we were. I confessed my love for her and with a burning pain in my heart I realized how unnecessary, how petty and how deceptive all that had hindered us from loving was. I understood that when you love you must either in your reasonings about that love start from what is highest, from what is more important than happiness or unhappiness, sin or virtue and their accepted meaning or you must not reason at all. I kissed her for the last time, pressed her hand and parted forever. The train had already started. I went into the next compartment. It was empty and till I reached the next station I sat there crying. Then I walked home to Sofino. While Alehin was telling his story the rain left off and the sun came out. Birkin and Ivan Ivanovich went out on the balcony from which there was a beautiful view over the garden and the mill pond which was shining now in the sunshine like a mirror. They admired it and at the same time they were sorry that this man with a kind clever eyes who had told them this story was such genuine feeling should be rushing round and round this you would just state like a squirrel on a wheel instead of devoting himself to science or something else which would have made his life more pleasant. And they thought what a sorrowful face Anna Alexievna must have had when he said goodbye to her in the railway carriage and kissed her face in shoulders. Both of them had met her in the town and Birkin knew her and thought her beautiful. And of About Love by Anton Chekhov. An Angel in Disguise by T. S. Arthur. Recorded for Love Stories Volume 1 by William Jones Benita Springs, Florida. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. An Angel in Disguise. Idleness, vise, and intemperance had done their miserable work and the dead mother lay cold and still amid her wretched children. She had fallen upon the threshold of her own door in a drunken fit and died in the presence of her frightened little ones. Death touches the spring of our common humanity. This woman had been despised, scoffed at, and angrily denounced by nearly every man, woman, and child in the village. But now, as the fact of her death was passed from lip to lip in subdued tones, pity took the place of anger and sorrow of denunciation. Neighbors went hastily to the old tumble-down hut in which she had secured little more than a place of shelter from summer heats and winter cold. Some with grave clothes for a decent interment of the body, and some with food for the half-starving children. Three in number. Of these, John, the eldest of boy of twelve, was a stout lad able to earn his living with any farmer. Kate, between ten and eleven, was bright, active girl, out of whom something clever might be made, if in good hands. But poor little Maggie, the youngest, was hopelessly diseased. Two years before, a fall from a window had injured her spine, and she had not been able to leave her bed since, except when lifted in the arms of her mother. What is to be done with the children, was the chief question now. The dead mother would go underground and be forever beyond all care or concern of the villagers, but the children must not be left to starve. After considering the matter and talking it over with his wife, Farmer Jones said that he would take John and do well by him, now that his mother was out of the way. And Mrs. Ellis, who had been looking out for a bound girl, concluded that it would be charitable in her to make choice of Katie, even though she was too young, to be of much use for several years. I could do much better, I know, said Mrs. Ellis, but no one seems inclined to take her. I must act from a sense of duty, expect to have trouble with the child, for she's an undisciplined thing, used to having her own way. But no one said, I'll take Maggie. Pitying, glances were cast on her wand and wasted form, and thoughts were troubled on her account. Mothers brought cast-off garments, and removing her soiled and ragged clothes, dressed her in clean attire. The sad eyes and patient face of the little one touched many hearts, and even knocked at them for entrance. But no one opened to take her in. Who wanted a bed-ridden child? Take her to the poor house, said a rough man, of whom the question what's to be done with Maggie was asked. Nobody's going to be bothered with her. The poor house is a sad place, or a sick and helpless child, answered one. For your child or mine, said the other, lightly speaking. But for this brat it will prove a blessed change. She will be kept clean, have healthy food, and be doctored, which is more than can be said of her past condition. There was reason in that, but still it didn't satisfy. The day following the day of death was made the day of burial. A few neighbors were at the miserable hovel, but none followed the dead cart as it bore the unhonored remains to its pauper grave. Former Jones, after that coffin was taken out, placed John in his wagon and drove away, satisfied that he had done his part. Mrs. Ellis spoke to Kate with a hurried air, bid your sister good-bye, and drew the tearful children apart, their scarcely their lips had touched, and a sobbing farewell. Hastily others went out, some glancing at Maggie, some resolutely refraining from a look until all had gone. She was alone. Just beyond the threshold, Joe Thompson, the wheel-right, paused, and said to the blacksmith's wife, who was hastening off with the rest, It's a cruel thing to leave her so. Then take her to the boar-house, she'll have to go there. Answered the blacksmith's wife, springing away and leaving Joe behind. For a little while the man stood with the puzzled air. Then he turned back and went into the hovel again. Maggie, with painful effort, had raised herself to an upright position, and was sitting on the bed, straining her eyes upon the door, out of which all had just departed. A vague terror had come into her thin, white face. Oh, Mr. Thompson! she cried out, catching her suspended breath. Don't leave me here all alone! Though rough in exterior, Joe Thompson, the wheel-right, had a heart, and it was very tender in some places. He liked children, and was pleased to have them come to his shop, where sleds and wagons were made or mended for the village sleds, without a draft on their hoarded sixpences. No, dear, he answered in a kind voice, going to the bed and stooping down over the child. You shan't be left here alone. Then he wrapped her with the gentleness almost of a woman in the clean bed-clothes that some neighbor had brought, and, lifting her and his strong arms, bore her out into the air and across the field that lay between the hovel and his home. Now, Joe Thompson's wife, who happened to be childless, was not a woman of saintly temper, nor much given to self-denial for others good, and Joe had well-grounded doubts touching the manner of greeting he should receive on his arrival. Mrs. Thompson saw him approaching from the window, and with ruffling feathers met him a few paces from the door as he opened the garden gate and came in. He bore a precious burden, and he felt it to be so, as his arms held the sick child to his breast, a sphere of tenderness went out from her and penetrated his feelings. A bond had already corded itself around them both, and love was springing to life. What have you there? sharply questioned Mrs. Thompson. Joe felt the child start and shrink against him. He did not reply except by a look that was pleading and cautionary that said, wait a moment for explanations and be gentle. And passing in carried Maggie to the small chamber on the first floor and later on a bed. Then, stepping back, he shut the door and stood face to face with his vinegar-tempered wife in the passageway outside. You haven't brought home that sick brat! Anger and astonishment were in the tones of Mrs. Joe Thompson, her face was in a flame. I think women's hearts are sometimes very hard, said Joe. Usually Joe Thompson got out of his wife's way, or kept rigidly silent and noncombative when she fired up on any subject. He was with some surprise, therefore, that she now encountered a firmly set countenance and a resolute pair of eyes. Women's hearts are not half so hard as men's. Joe saw by a quick intuition that his resolute bearing had impressed his wife, and he answered quickly and with real indignation, be that as it may, every woman at the funeral turned her eyes steadily from the sick child's face and when the cart went off with her dead mother, hurried away and left her alone in that old hut with the sun not an hour in the sky. Where were John and Kate? asked Mrs. Thompson. Farmer Jones tossed John into his wagon and drove off. Katie went home with Mrs. Ellis. But nobody wanted the poor sick one. Send her to the poor house, was the cry. Oh, why didn't you let her go then? What did you bring her here for? Oh, she can't walk to the poor house, said Joe. Somebody's arms must carry her, and mine are strong enough for that task. Then why didn't you keep on? Why did you stop here? demanded the wife. Because I'm not apt to go on fools, errands. The guardians must first be seen and a permit obtained. There was no gain saying this. When will you see the guardians? was asked with irrepressible impatience. Tomorrow. Why put it off till tomorrow? Go at once for the permit and get the whole thing off of your hands tonight. Jane said the will write with an impressiveness of tone that greatly subdued his wife. I read in the Bible sometimes and find much sad about little children. How the Savior rebuked the disciples who would not receive them. How he took them up in his arms and blessed them. And how he said that whosoever gave them even a cup of cold water should not go and reward it. Now it is a small thing for us to keep this poor motherless little one for a single night. To be kind to her for a single night. To make her life comfortable for a single night. The voice of the strong rough man shook and he turned his head away so that the moisture in his eyes might not be seen. Mrs. Thompson did not answer. But a soft feeling crept into her heart. Look at her kindly Jane. Speak to her kindly. Said Joe. Think of her dead mother and the loneliness, the pain, the sorrow that must be on all her coming life. The softness of his heart gave unwanted eloquence to his lips. Mrs. Thompson did not reply. But presently turned toward the little chamber where her husband had deposited Maggie and pushing open the door went quietly in. Joe did not follow. He saw that her state had changed and felt that it would be best to leave her alone with the child. So he went to his shop which stood near the house and worked until dusky evening released him from labor. A light shining through the little chamber windows was the first object that attracted Joe's attention on turning towards his house. It was a good omen. The path laid him by this window and when opposite he could not help pausing to look in. It was now dark enough outside to screen him from observation. Maggie lay a little raised on the pillow with the lamp shining full on her face. Mrs. Thompson was sitting by the bed talking to the child. But her back was toward the window so that her countenance was not seen. From Maggie's face, therefore, Joe must read the character of their intercourse. He saw that her eyes were intently fixed upon his wife, that now and then a few words came as if in answers from her lips, that her expression was sad and tender. But he saw nothing of bitterness or pain. A deep drawn breath was followed by one of relief as if a weight lifted itself from his heart. On entering, Joe did not go immediately to the little chamber. His heavy tread about the kitchen brought his wife somewhat horribly from the room where she had been with Maggie. Joe thought at best not to refer to the child nor to manifest any concern in regard to her. How soon will supper be ready? he asked. Right soon, answered Mrs. Thompson, beginning to bustle about, there was no asperity in her voice. After washing from his hands and face the dust and soil of work, Joe left the kitchen and went to the little bedroom. A pair of large bright eyes looked up at him from the snowy bed, looked at him tenderly, gratefully, pleadingly. How his heart swelled in his bosom, with what a quicker motion came the heartbeats. Joe sat down and now for the first time, examining the thin frame carefully under the lamp light, saw that it was an attractive face and full of childish sweetness, which suffering had not been able to obliterate. Your name is Maggie, he said as he sat down and took her soft little hand in his. He hissed, her voice struck a chord that quivered in a low strain of music. Have you been sick long? Yes, sir. What a sweet patience was in her tone. Has the doctor been to see you? He used to come. But not lately? No, sir. Have you any pain? Sometimes, but not now. When had you pained? Well, this morning my side ached and my back hurt when you carried me. It hurt you to be lifted or moved about? Yes, sir. Your side doesn't ache now? No, sir. Does it ache a great deal? Yes, sir, but it hasn't ached any since I've been on this soft bed. Ah, the soft bed feels good. Oh, yes, sir, so good. What a satisfaction, mingled with gratitude, was in her voice. Supper is ready, said Mrs. Thompson, looking into the room a little while afterward. Joe glanced from his wife's face to that of Maggie. She understood him and answered, She can wait until we are done, then I will bring her something to eat. There was an effort at indifference on the part of Mrs. Thompson, but her husband had seen her through the window and understood that the coldness was assumed. Joe waited after sitting down to the table for his wife to introduce the subject uppermost in both of their thoughts. But she kept silent on that theme for many minutes, and he maintained a like reserve. But at last she said abruptly, What are you going to do with that child? I thought you understood me, that she was to go to the poor house. Replied Joe as a surprise at her question. Mrs. Thompson looked rather strangely at her husband for some moments and then dropped her eyes. The subject was not again referred to during the meal. At its close, Mrs. Thompson toasted a slice of bread and softened it with milk and butter. Adding to this a cup of tea she took them into Maggie and held the small waiter on which she had placed them while the hungry child ate with every sign of pleasure. Is that good? asked Mrs. Thompson, seen with what a keen relish the food was taken. The child paused with a cup in her hand and answered with a look of gratitude that awoke to new life, old human feelings, which had been slumbering in her heart for half a score of years. We'll keep her a day or two longer. She is so weak and helpless, said Mrs. Joe Thompson, in answer to her husband's remark at breakfast time on the next morning, but he must step down and see the guardians of the poor about Maggie. Oh, she'll be so much in your way, said Joe. I shan't mind that for a day or two. Poor thing. Joe did not see the guardians of the poor on that day, on the next or on the day following. In fact, he never saw them at all on Maggie's account. For in less than a week Mrs. Joe Thompson would have soon leave thought of taking up her own abode in the almshouse as sending Maggie there. What light and blessing did that sick and helpless child bring to the home of Joe Thompson, the poor wheelwright. It had been dark and cold and miserable there for a long time, just because his wife had nothing to love and care for out of herself. And so became sore, irritable, ill-tempered, and self-afflicting in the desolation of her woman's nature. Now the sweetness of that sick child looking ever to her in love, patience, and gratitude was as honey to her soul. And she carried her in her heart, as well as in her arms, a precious burden. As for Joe Thompson, there is not a man in all the neighborhood who drank daily of a more precious wine of life than he. An angel had come into his house, disguised as a sick, helpless, and miserable child, and filled all its dreary chambers with a sunshine of love. End of An Angel in Disguise by T. S. Arthur Her Lover An acquaintance of mine once told me the following story. When I was a student at Moscow, I happened to live alongside one of those ladies who repute is questionable. She was a pole, and they called her Teresa. She was a tallish, powerfully built brunette with black bushy eyebrows and a large coarse face, as if carved out by a hatchet. The best Joe Gleam of her dark eyes, her thick bass voice, her cab-man-like gait, and her immense muscular vigor, worthy of a fish-wife, inspired me with horror. I lived on the top flight, and her garret was opposite to mine. I never left my door open when I knew her to be at home. But this, after all, was a very rare occurrence. Sometimes I chanced to meet her on the staircase or in the yard, and she would smile upon me with a smile which seemed to me to be sly and cynical. Occasionally I saw her drunk, with bleary eyes, puzzled hair, and a particularly hideous grin. On such occasions she would speak to me. How do you do, Mr. Student? And her stupid laugh would still further intensify my loathing of her. I should have liked to have changed my quarters in order to have avoided such encounters and greetings. But my little chamber was a nice one, and there was such a wide view from the window, and it was always so quiet in the street below. So I endured. And one morning I was sprawling on my couch, trying to find some sort of excuse for not attending my class when the door opened, and the bass voice of Teresa, the loathsome, resounded from my threshold. Good health to you, Mr. Student. What do you want, I said. I saw that her face was confused and supplicatory. It was a very unusual sort of face for her. Sir, I want to beg a favor of you. Will you grant it me? I lay there silent, and thought to myself, gracious, courage, my boy. I want to send a letter home. That's what it is, she said. Her voice was beseeching, soft, timid. Doos take you, I thought. But up I jumped, sat down at my table, took a sheet of paper, and said, Come here, sit down and dictate. She came, sat down very gingerly on a chair, and looked at me with a guilty look. Well, to whom do you want to write? To Boleslaw Kashput at the town of Spitzpiziana on the Warsaw word. Well, fire away. My dear Boles, my darling, my faithful lover, may the mother of God protect thee. Thou heart of gold, why hast thou not written for such a long time to thy sorrowing little dove, Teresa? I very narrowly burst out laughing. A sorrowing little dove, more than five feet high, with fist, a stone, and more in weight, and as black a face as if the little dove had lived all its life in a chimney, that had never once washed itself. Restraining myself somehow, I asked. Who is this Boles? Boles, Mr. Student, she said, as if offended with me for blundering over the name. He is Boles, my young man. Young man! Why are you so surprised, sir? Cannot I a girl have a young man? She a girl? Well, why not, I said, all things are possible, and has he been your young man long? Six years? Oh, I thought. Well, let us write your letter. And I tell you plainly that I would willingly have changed places with this Boles, if his fair correspondent had been not Teresa, but something less than she. I thank you most heartily, sir, for your kind services, said Teresa to me, with a curtsy. Perhaps I can show you some service, huh? No, I most humbly thank you all the same. Perhaps, sir, your shirts or your trousers may want a little mending. I felt that this mastodon in petticoats had made me grow quite red with shame, and I told her pretty sharply that I had no need, whatever, of her services. She departed. A week or two passed away. It was evening. I was sitting at my window whistling and thinking of some expedient for enabling me to get away from myself. I was bored. The weather was dirty. I didn't want to go out, and out of sheer ennui, I began a course of self-analysis and reflection. This also was dull enough work, but I didn't care about doing anything else. Then the door opened. Heaven be praised! Someone came in. Oh, Mr. Student, you have no pressing business, I hope. It was Teresa. No, what is it? I was going to ask you, sir, to write me another letter. Very well. To Boles, eh? No. This time it is from him. What? Stupid that I am. It is not for me, Mr. Student. I beg your pardon. It is for a friend of mine. That is to say, not a friend, but an acquaintance. A man-acquaintance. He has a sweetheart just like me here, Teresa. That's how it is. Will you, sir, write a letter to this Teresa? I looked at her. Her face was troubled. Her fingers were trembling. I was a bit fogged at first. And then I guessed how it was. Look here, my lady, I said. There are no bullesses or Teresa's at all, and you've been telling me a pack of lies. Don't you come sneaking about me any longer. I have no wish whatever to cultivate your acquaintance. Do you understand? And suddenly she grew strangely terrified and distraught. She began to shift from foot to foot without moving from the place, and spluttered comically, as if she wanted to say something and couldn't. I waited to see what would come of all this, and I saw and felt that, apparently, I had made a great mistake in suspecting her of wishing to draw me from the path of righteousness. It was evidently something very different. Mr. Student! she began. And suddenly, waving her hand, she turned abruptly towards the door and went out. I remained with a very unpleasant feeling in my mind. I listened. Her door was flung violently, too. Plainly the poor wench was very angry. I thought it over, and resolved to go to her, and, inviting her to come in here, write everything she wanted. I entered her apartment. I looked round. She was sitting at the table, leaning on her elbows with her head in her hands. Listen to me, I said. Now, whenever I come to this point in my story, I always feel horribly awkward and idiotic. Well, well. Listen to me, I said. She leaped from her seat, came towards me with flashing eyes, and laying her hands on my shoulders began to whisper, or rather to hum in her peculiar bass voice. Look you now, it's like this. There's no bowls at all, and there's no Teresa either. But what's that to you? Is it a hard thing for you to draw your pen over paper? Ah, ah, and you, too. You're still such a little fair-haired boy. There's nobody at all. Neither bowls nor Teresa, only me. There you have it, and much good may it do you. Pardon me, said I, although flabbergasted by such a reception. What is it all about? There's no bowls, you say. No, so it is. I know Teresa either, and know Teresa. I'm Teresa. I didn't understand it at all. I fixed my eyes upon her, and tried to make out which of us was taking leave of his or her senses. But she went again to the table, searched about for something, came back to me, and said, in an offended tone, If it was so hard for you to write to bowls, look, there's your letter, take it. Others will write for me. I looked, and her hand was my letter to bowls. Phew! Listen, Teresa, what is the meaning of all this? Why must you get others to write for you when I have already written it, and you haven't sent it? Sent it where? Why, to this bowls. There's no such person. I absolutely did not understand it. There was nothing for me but to spit and go. Then she explained. What is it? she said, still offended. There's no such person, I tell you. And she extended her arms, as if she herself did not understand why there should be no such person. But I wanted him to be. Am I then not a human creature like the rest of them? Yes, yes, I know, I know, of course. Yet no harm was done to anyone by my writing to him that I can see. Pardon me, to whom? To bowls, of course. But he doesn't exist. Alas, alas! But what if he doesn't? He doesn't exist. But he might. I write to him, and it looks as if he did exist. And Teresa, that's me, and he replies to me, and then I write to him again. I understood at last. And I felt so sick, so miserable, so ashamed somehow. Alongside of me, not three yards away, lived a human creature who had nobody in the world to treat her kindly, affectionately, and this human being had invented a friend for herself. Look now, you wrote me a letter to bowls, and I gave it to someone else to read it to me. And when they read it to me, I listened and fancied that bowls was there, and I asked you to write me a letter from bowls to Teresa, that is to me. When they write such a letter for me and read it to me, I feel quite sure that bowls is there, and life goes easier for me in consequence. Do's take you for a blockhead, said I to myself when I heard this. And from thence forth, regularly, twice a week, I wrote a letter to bowls, and an answer from bowls to Teresa. I wrote those answers well. She, of course, listened to them, and wept like anything, roared, I should say, with her base voice. And in return for my thus moving her to tears by real letters from the imaginary bowls, she began to mend the holes I had in my socks, shirts, and other articles of clothing. Subsequently, about three months after this history began, they put her in prison for something or other. No doubt by this time she is dead. My acquaintance shook the ash from his cigarette, looked pensively up at the sky, and thus concluded, Well, well, the more a human creature has tasted a bitter things, the more it hungers after the sweet things of life. And we, wrapped round in the rags of our virtues, and regarding others through the mist of our self-sufficiency, and persuaded of our universal impeccability, do not understand this. And the whole thing turns out pretty stupidly, and very cruelly, the fallen classes, we say. And who are the fallen classes I should like to know? They are, first of all, people with the same bones, flesh, and blood, and nerves as ourselves. We have been told this day after day for ages, and we actually listen, and the devil only knows how hideous the whole thing is. Or are we completely depraved by the loud sermonizing of humanism? In reality, we also are fallen folks, and, so far as I can see, very deeply fallen into the abyss of self-sufficiency, and the conviction of our own superiority. But enough of this, it is all as old as the hills. So old that it is a shame to speak of it. Very old indeed, yes, that's what it is. End of Her Lover by Maxim Gorky 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 house is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home, a furnished flat at eight dollars per week. It did not exactly beg her 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 therein too 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 his possessor was being paid thirty dollars a week. Now, when the income was shrunk to twenty, 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 a powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dolly at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas day, and she had only a dollar and eighty-seven cents 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, or they always are, only a dollar eighty-seven 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 peer glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen peer glass in an eight dollar 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 air shaft, Della would have let her hair hang down 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 knees 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 winter old brown jacket, on winter old brown hat, with a swirl 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, Madam Sofroni, hair goods of all kinds. One flight up Della ran and collected herself panting. Madam, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the Sofroni. Will you buy my hair, asked Della? I buy hair, said Madam. Take your head off and let's have a side of the looks of it. Down rippled the brown cascade. Twenty dollars, said Madam, lifting the mask with a practiced hand. Give it to me quick, said Della. Oh, and the next two hours tripped by unbrowsy wings. Forget the haste 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 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 meritorious 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 eighty seven 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 line curls that made her look wonderfully like a true at school boy. 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 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 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 burned with a family, he needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves. Jim stopped inside the door as immovable as a setter on 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. He 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 the boy easily as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest middle 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 off my head were numbered, she went on with a sudden serious weakness, 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 unfolded 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 witt could 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 on the table. Don't make any mistake, Della, he said, about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or 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 in paper, and then an ecstatic stream 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, a set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshiped longingly broadway window, beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell with jeweled 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 smile and say, my hair grows so fast, Jim. And then Della leaped up like a little singed canting-cright, 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 dandy, Jim? I hunt it all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me a 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 them 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 those chops on. The Magi, as you know, were wise men, wonderfully wise men. We 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. End of The Gift of the Magi by O'Henry