 The baptism of the Lord from the Douayhem version of the Bible, Matthew chapter 3, verses 1-17, for LibriVox.org narrated by Sean McKinley. And in those days cometh John the Baptist preaching in the desert of Judea and saying, New pinnets, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. For this is he that was spoken of by Isaiah the prophet, saying, A voice of one crying in the desert, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight his paths. And the same John had his garment of camel's hair, and a leathern girdle about his loins. And his meat was locusts and wild honey. Then went out to him Jerusalem and all Judea, and all the country about Jordan, and were baptized by him in the Jordan, confessing their sins. And seeing many of the Pharisees and Sadducees coming to his baptism, he said to them, Ye brood of vipers, Who hath showed you to flee from the wrath to come? Bring forth therefore fruit worthy of pinnets, and think not to say within yourselves, We have Abraham for our Father, for I tell you that God is able of these stones to raise up children to Abraham. For now the axe is laid to the root of the trees. Every tree therefore that doth not yield good fruit shall be cut down and cast into the fire. I indeed baptize you in water unto pinnets. But he that shall come after me is my tear than I, whose shoes I am not worthy to bear. He shall baptize you in the holy ghost and fire, whose fan is in his hand, and he will thoroughly cleanse his floor and gather his wheat into the barn. But the shaft he will burn with an unquenchable fire. Then comeeth Jesus from Galilee to the Jordan unto John, to be baptized by him. But John stayed him, saying, I ought to be baptized by thee, and comeest thou to me? And Jesus answering said to him, Suffer it to be so now, for so it be comeeth us to fulfill all justice, then he suffered him. And Jesus, being baptized forthwith, came out of the water, and lo, the heavens were opened to him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending as a dove, and coming upon him. And behold, a voice from heaven saying, This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. End of the Baptism of the Lord. This recording is in the public domain. What if the wind is tan, whistling? Look at that fire, how it's spittin' and bristling, heatin' the ashes and heatin' the cinders. Oh, Mr. Frost can just look through these windows. Heat up the toddy and pass the warm glasses, don't stop the shiver at blones and glasses. Keep on the kettle, and keep it a-hummin'. Eat all, and drink all, there's lots a-comin'. Look here, Maria, don't open that oven. You want all these people a-pushin' and shovin'. Rest from the dance? Yes, you done caught that odor. Mammy done caught it, and Lord had nigh'd floater. Possum is monstrous for makin' folks find it. Come drop your cheers, I sure I do mine it. Eat up them critters, you men-folks and women's. Poms ain't scarce when there's lots of p-p-p-simmons. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Christmas Every Day by William Dean Howells. Read for LibriVox by Susan Denney. Denton, TX 2006. The little girl came into her papa's study as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning for he was very busy, but she would not let him. So he began. Well, once there was a little pig. She stopped him at the word. She said she had heard little pig stories till she was perfectly sick of them. Well, what kind of stories shall I tell, then? About Christmas it's getting to be the season. Well, her papa roused himself. Then I'll tell you about the little girl that wanted it Christmas every day in the year. How would you like that? First rate said the little girl, and she nestled into comfortable shape in his lap ready for listening. Very well, then, this little pig. Oh, what are you pounding me for? Because you said little pig instead of little girl. I should like to know what's the difference between a little pig and a little girl that wanted it Christmas every day. Papa, said the little girl warningly, at this her papa began to tell the story. Once there was a little girl who liked Christmas so much that she wanted it to be Christmas every day in the year, and as soon as Thanksgiving was over she began to send postcards to the old Christmas fairy to ask if she might not have it. But the old fairy never answered, and after a while the little girl found out that the fairy wouldn't notice anything but real letters sealed outside with the monogram, or your initial anyway. So then she began to send letters, and just the day before Christmas, she got a letter from the fairy, saying she might have it Christmas every day for a year, and then they would see about having it longer. The little girl was excited already, preparing for the old fashion once a year Christmas that was coming the next day, so she resolved to keep the fairy's promise to herself and surprise everybody with it as it kept coming true, but then it slipped out of her mind altogether. She had a splendid Christmas. She went to bed early, so as to let Santa Claus fill the stockings, and in the morning she was up the first of anybody and found hers all lumpy with packages of candy and oranges and grapes and rubber balls and all kinds of small presents. Then she waited until the rest of the family was up, and she burst into the library to look at the large presents laid out on the library table, books and boxes of stationary and dolls and little stoves and dozens of handkerchiefs and ink stands and skates and photograph frames and boxes of watercolour and dolls' houses and the big Christmas tree lighted and standing in the middle. She had a splendid Christmas all day. She ate so much candy that she did not want any breakfast, and the whole forenoon the presents kept pouring in that had not been delivered the night before, and she went round giving the presents she had got for other people and came home and ate turkey and cranberry for dinner and plum pudding and nuts and raisins and oranges, and then went out and coasted and came in with a stomachache crying and her papa said he would see if his house was turned into that sort of fool's paradise another year and they had a light supper and pretty early everybody went to bed cross. The little girl slept very heavily and very late, but she was wakened at last by the other children dancing around her bed with their stockings full of presents in their hands. Christmas! Christmas! Christmas! they all shouted. Nonsense! It was Christmas yesterday, said the little girl, rubbing her eyes sleepily. Her brother and sisters just laughed. We don't know about that. It's Christmas today, anyway. You come into the library and see. Then all at once it flashed on the little girl that the fairy was keeping her promise and her year of Christmases was beginning. She was dreadfully sleepy, but she sprang up and darted into the library. There it was again, books and boxes of stationery and dolls and so on. There was the Christmas tree blazing away and the family picking out their presents and her father looking perfectly puzzled and her mother ready to cry. I'm sure I don't see how I'm to dispose of all these things, said her mother, and her father said it seemed to him that they had had something like it the day before, but he supposed he must have dreamed it. This struck the little girl as the best kind of a joke and so she ate so much candy she didn't want any breakfast and went around carrying presents and had turkey and cranberry for dinner and then went out and coasted and came in with a stomach ache crying. Now the next day it was the same thing over again, but everybody getting crosser. And at the end of a week's time so many people had lost their tempers that you could pick up lost tempers anywhere. They perfectly strewed the ground. Even when people tried to recover their tempers they usually got somebody else's and it made the most dreadful mix. The little girl began to get frightened keeping the secret all to herself. She wanted to tell her mother but she didn't dare to and she was ashamed to ask the fairy to take back her gift. It seemed ungrateful and ill-bred. So it went on and on and it was Christmas on St. Valentine's Day and Washington's birthday just the same as any day and it didn't skip even the first of April though everything was counterfeit that day and that was some little relief. After a while turkeys got to be awfully scarce selling for about a thousand dollars apiece they got to passing off almost anything for turkeys even half grown hummingbirds and cranberries well they asked a diamond apiece for cranberries all the woods and orchards were cut down for Christmas trees. After a while they had to make Christmas trees out of rags but there were plenty of rags because people got so poor buying presents for one another that they couldn't get any new clothes and they just wore their old ones to tatters. They got so poor that everybody had to go to the poor house except the confectioners and the storekeepers and the booksellers and they all got so rich and proud that they would hardly wait upon a person when he came to buy. It was perfectly shameful. After it had gone on about three or four months the little girl whenever she came into the room in the morning and saw those great ugly lumpy stockings dangling at the fireplace and the disgusting presents around everywhere used to sit down and burst out crying. In six months she was perfectly exhausted so she couldn't even cry anymore. And how it was on the Fourth of July. On the Fourth of July the first boy in the United States woke up and found out that his firecrackers and toy pistol and two dollar collection of fireworks were nothing but sugar and candy painted up to look like fireworks. Before ten o'clock every boy in the United States discovered that his July 4th things had turned into Christmas things and was so mad. The Fourth of July orations all turned into Christmas carols and when anybody tried to read the Declaration of Independence instead of saying when in the course of human events it becomes necessary he was sure to sing God rest ye merry gentlemen. It was perfectly awful. About the beginning of October the little girl took to sitting down on dolls wherever she found them. She hated the sight of them so and by Thanksgiving she just slammed her presents across the room. By that time people didn't carry presents around nicely anymore. They flung them over the fence or through the window and instead of taking great pains to write for dear papa or mama or brother or sister they used to write take it you horrid old thing and then go bang it against the front door. Everybody had built barns to hold their presents but pretty soon the barns overflowed and then they used to let them lie out in the rain or anywhere. Sometimes the police used to come and tell them to shovel their presents off the sidewalk or they would arrest them. Before Thanksgiving came it had leaked out who had caused all these Christmases. The little girl had suffered so much that she had talked about it in her sleep and after that hardly anybody would play with her because if it had not been for her greediness it wouldn't have happened. And now when it came Thanksgiving and she wanted them to go to church and have turkey and show their gratitude they said that all the turkeys had been eaten for her old Christmas dinners and if she would stop the Christmases they would see about the gratitude. And the very next day the little girl began sending letters to the Christmas fairy and telegrams to stop it but it didn't do any good and then she got to calling at the fairy's house but the girl that came to the door always said not at home or engaged or something like that and so it went on till it came to the old once a year Christmas Eve. The little girl fell asleep and when she woke up in the morning she found out it was all nothing but a dream suggested the little girl. No indeed said her papa it was all every bit true. What did she find out then? Why that it wasn't Christmas at last and wasn't ever going to be anymore. Now it's time for breakfast. The little girl held her papa fast around the neck. You shan't go if you're going to leave it so. How do you want it left? Christmas once a year. All right said her papa and he went on again. Well with no Christmas ever again there was the greatest rejoicing all over the country. People met everywhere and kissed and cried for joy. Carts went around and gathered up all the candy and raisins and nuts and dumped them into the river and it made the fish perfectly sick. And the whole United States as far out as Alaska was one blaze of bonfires where the children were burning up their presence of all kinds. They had the greatest time. The little girl went to thank the old fairy because she had stopped its being Christmas and she said she hoped the fairy would keep her promise and see that Christmas never never came again. Then the fairy frowned and said that now the little girl was behaving just as greedily as ever and she'd better look out. This made the little girl think it all over carefully again and she said she would be willing to have it Christmas about once in a thousand years. And then she said a hundred and then she said ten and at last she got down to one. Then the fairy said that that was the good old way that had pleased people ever since Christmas began and she was agreed. Then the little girl said what are your shoes made of? The fairy said leather and the little girl said bargain's done for ever and skipped off and hippity hop the whole way home she was so glad. How will that do? Asked the papa. First wreat said the little girl but she hated to have the story stop and so was rather sober. However, her mama put her head in at the door and asked her papa. Are you never coming to breakfast? What have you been telling that child? Oh, just a tale with a moral. The little girl caught him around the neck again. We know. Don't you tell what papa? Don't you tell what? End of Christmas Every Day by William Dean Howells. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Christmas gift that came to Rupert, a story for small soldiers, from Mrs. Skagg's Husbands and Other Stories by Brett Hart. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Drake in October of 2006 in Long Branch, New Jersey, at drakesdor.org. It was the Christmas season in California, a season of falling rain and springing grasses. There were intervals when, through driving clouds and flying scud, the sun visited the haggard hills with a miracle, and death and resurrection were as one. And out of the very throes of decay, a joyous life struggled outward and upward. Even the storms that swept down the dead leaves nurtured the tender buds that took their places. There were no episodes of snowy silence. Over the quickening fields the farmer's plowshare hard followed the furrows left by the latest rains. Perhaps it was for this reason that the Christmas evergreens, which decorated the drawing room, took upon themselves a foreign aspect, and offered a weird contrast to the roses, seen dimly through the windows, as the southwest wind beat their soft faces against the panes. Now, said the doctor, drawing his chair closer to the fire, and looking mildly but firmly at the semicircle of flaxen heads around him, I wanted to stinkly understood before I begin my story that I am not to be interrupted by any ridiculous questions. At the first one I shall stop. At the second I shall feel at my duty to administer a dose of castor oil all around. The boy that moves his legs or arms will be understood to invite amputation. I have brought my instruments with me, and never allow pleasure to interfere with my business. Do you promise? Yes, sir," said six small voices simultaneously. The volley was, however, followed by a half-dozen dropping questions. Bob, put your feet down and stop rattling that sword. Flora shall sit by my side like a little lady, and be an example to the rest. Feng Tang shall stay, too, if he likes. Now, turn down the gas a little. There, that will do. Just enough to make the fire look brighter, and to show off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody. The boy who cracks an almond, or breathes too loud over his raisins, will be put out of the room. There was a profound silence. Bob laid his sword tenderly aside, and nursed his leg thoughtfully. Flora, after coquettishly adjusting the pocket of her little apron, put her arm upon the doctor's shoulder, and permitted herself to be drawn beside him. Feng Tang, the little heathen page who was permitted on this rare occasion to share the Christian revels in the drawing-room, surveyed the group with a smile that was at once sweet and philosophical. The light-ticking of a French clock on the mantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze complexion and great symmetry of limb, was the only sound that disturbed the Christmas-like piece of the apartment. A piece which held the odours of evergreens, new toys, cedar boxes, glue, and varnish in a harmonious combination that passed all understanding. About four years ago this time, began the doctor, I attended a course of lectures in a certain city. One of the professors, who was a sociable, kindly man, though somewhat practical and hard-headed, invited me to his house on Christmas night. I was very glad to go, as I was anxious to see one of his sons, who though only twelve years old, was said to be very clever. I dare not tell you how many Latin verses this little fellow could recite, or how many English ones he had composed. In the first place you'd want me to repeat them. Secondly, I'm not a judge of poetry, Latin or English. But there were judges who said they were wonderful for a boy. And everybody predicted a splendor future for him. Everybody but his father. He shook his head doubtingly, whenever it was mentioned, for as I have told you, he was a practical matter-of-fact man. There was a pleasant party at the professors that night. All the children of the neighborhood were there. And among them the professor's clever son, Rupert, as they called him, a thin little chap, about as tall as Bobby there. And his fair and delicate as flora by my side. His health was feeble, his father said. He seldom ran about and played with other boys. Preferred to stay at home and brood over his books, and compose what he called his verses. Well, we had a Christmas tree just like this, and we had been laughing and talking, calling off the names of the children who had presents on the tree. And everybody was very happy and joyous, when one of the children suddenly uttered a cry of mingled surprise and hilarity, and said, here's something for Rupert, and what do you think it is? We all guessed. A desk, a copy of Milton, a gold pen, a rhyming dictionary. No? What then? A drum. A what? Asked everybody. A drum with Rupert's name on it. Sure enough, there it was. A good-sized, bright, new, brass-bound drum with a slip of paper on it, with the inscription, four Rupert. Of course, we all laughed and thought it a good joke. You see, you're to make noise in the world, Rupert, said one. Here's parchment for the poet, said another. Rupert's last work in sheepskin covers, said a third. Give us a classic tune, Rupert, said a fourth, and so on. But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak. He changed color, bit his lips, and finally burst into a passionate fit of crying, and left the room. Then those who had joked him felt ashamed, and everybody began to ask who had put the drum there. But no one knew, or if they did, the unexpected sympathy awakened for the sensitive boy kept them silent. Even the servants were called up in question, but no one could give any idea where it came from. And what was still more singular, everybody declared that up to the moment it was produced, no one had seen it hanging on the tree. What do I think? Well, I have my own opinion, but no questions. Enough for you to know that Rupert did not come downstairs again that night, and the party soon after broke up. I had almost forgotten those things. For the war of the rebellion broke out the next spring, and I was appointed surgeon in one of the new regiments, and was on my way to the seat of war. But I had to pass through the city where the professor lived, and there I met him. My first question was about Rupert. The professor shook his head sadly. He's not so well, he said. He has been declining since last Christmas when you saw him. A very strange case, he added, giving it a long Latin name, a very singular case. But go and see him yourself, he urged. It may distract his mind, and do him good. I went accordingly to the professor's house, and found Rupert lying on a sofa, propped up with pillows. Around him were scattered his books, and what seemed in singular contrast, that drum I told you about was hanging on a nail just above his head. His face was thin and wasted. There was a red spot on either cheek, and his eyes were very bright and widely opened. He was glad to see me, and when I told him where I was going, he asked a thousand questions about the war. I thought I had thoroughly diverted his mind from its sick and languid fancies, when he suddenly grasped my hand and drew me towards him. Doctor, he said in a low whisper, you won't laugh at me if I tell you something? No, certainly not, I said. You remember that drum? he said, pointing to the glittering toy that hung around the wall. You know, too, how it came to me. A few weeks after Christmas, I was lying half asleep here, and the drum was hanging on the wall, when suddenly I heard it beaten, at first low and slowly, then faster and louder until its rolling fill the house. In the middle of the night I heard it again. I did not dare to tell anybody about it, but I have heard it every night ever since. He paused and looked anxiously in my face. Sometimes, he continued, it is played softly, sometimes loudly, but always quickening to a drumroll, so loud and alarming that I have looked to see people coming into my room to ask what was the matter. But I think, doctor, I think, he repeated slowly, looking up with a painful interest into my face, that no one hears it but myself. I thought so too, but I asked him if he had heard it at any other time. Once or twice in the daytime, he replied, when I had been reading or writing, and then very loudly, as though it were angry, and tried in that way to attract my attention away from my books. I looked into his face and placed my hand upon his pulse. His eyes were very bright, and his pulse a little flurried and quick. I then tried to explain to him that he was very weak, and that his senses were very acute, as most weak peoples are, and how that when we breathed or grew interested and excited, or when he was tired at night, the throbbing of a big artery made the beating sound he heard. He listened to me with a sad smile and unbelief, but thanked me, and in a little while I went away. As I was going downstairs I met the professor. I gave him my opinion of the case, well, no matter what it was. He wants some fresh air and exercise, said the professor, and some practical experience of life, sir. The professor was not a bad man, but he was a little worried and impatient, and thought, as clever people are apt to think, that things which he didn't understand were either silly or improper. I left the city that very day, and in the excitement of battlefields and hospitals I forgot all about little Rupert, nor did I hear of him again, until one day meeting an old classmate in the army who had known the professor. He told me that Rupert had become quite insane, and that in one of his peroxisms he had escaped from the house, and as he had never been found, it was feared that he had fallen in the river and was drowned. I was terribly shocked for the moment, as you may imagine, but dear me, I was living just then among scenes as terrible and shocking, and I had little time to spare to mourn over for Rupert. It was not long after receiving this intelligence that we had a terrible battle, in which a portion of our army was surprised and driven back with great slaughter. I was detached from my brigade to ride over to the battlefield and assist the surgeons of the beaten division, who had more on their hands than they could attend to, when I reached the barn that served for a temporary hospital. I went at once to work. Ah, Bob, said the doctor, thoughtfully taking the bright sword from the hands of the half-frightened Bob and holding it gravely before him. These pretty playthings are symbols of cruel, ugly realities. I turned to a tall, stout vermonter. He continued very slowly, tracing a pattern on the rug with a point of the scabbard, who was badly wounded in both thighs, but he held up his hands and begged me to help others first, who needed it more than he. I did not at first heed his request, for this kind of unselfishness was very common in the army, but he went on. For God's sake, doctor, leave me here. There is a drummer-boy of our regiment, a mere child, dying. If he isn't dead now, go and save him first. He lies over there. He saved more than one life. He was at his post in the panic this morning, and saved the honor of the regiment. I was so much more impressed by the man's manner than by the substance of his speech, which was, however, corroborated by the other poor fellows stretched around me, that I passed over to where the drummer lay, with his drum beside him. I gave one glance at his face, and yes, Bob, yes, children. It was Rupert. Well, well, it needed not the chalked cross which my brother surgeons had left upon the rough board whenever he lay to show how urgent was the relief he sought. It needed not the prophetic words of the vermonter, nor the damp that mingled with the brown curls that clung to his pale forehead, to show how hopeless it was now. I called him by name. He opened his eyes larger. I thought in the new vision that was beginning to dawn upon him, and recognized me. He whispered, I'm glad you have come, but I don't think you can do me any good. I could not tell him a lie. I could not say anything. I only pressed his hand in mine as he went on. But you will see father, and ask him to forgive me. Nobody is to blame but myself. It was a long time before I understood why the drum came to me that Christmas night, and why it kept calling to me every night, and what it said. I know it now. The work is done, and I am content. Tell father it is better as it is. I should have lived only to worry and perplex him. And something in me tells me this is right. He lay still for a moment, and then, grasping my hand, said, Hark! I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed moans of the wounded men around me. The drum, he said faintly. Don't you hear it? The drum is calling me. He reached out his arm to where it lay, as though he would embrace it. Listen! He went on. It's the Reveley. There are the ranks drawn up in the review. Don't you see the sunlight flash down the long line of bayonets? Their faces are shining. They present arms. They come to the general, but his face I cannot look at. For the glory round his head. He sees me. He smiles. It is. And with the name upon his lips that he had learned long ago, he stretched himself virally upon the planks, and lay quite still. That's all. No question now. Never mind what became of the drum. Who's that sniveling? Bless my soul, where's my pillbox? End of the story, The Christmas Gift That Came to Rupert by Brett Hart. Christmas in the Heart by Paul Lauren Stunbar Read for leverbox.org by Douglas Nathaniel Williams The snow lies deep upon the ground, and winter's brightness all around Decks bravely out the forest seer, with jewels of the brave old year. The coasting crowd upon the hillbust some new spirit seems to thrill, And all the temple bells a chime bring out the glee of Christmastime. In happy homes the brown oak bow vies with the red gemmed holly now. In here and there like pearls there show the berries of the mistletoe. A sprig upon the chandelier says to the maidens, come not here. Even the pauper of the earth, some kindly gift, has cheered to mirth. Within his chamber, dim and cold, there sits a grasping miser old. He has no thought, save one of gain, to grind and gather and grasp and drain. The peal of bells a merry shout assails his ear. He gazes out, upon a whirl to him all gray and snarls. Why, this is Christmas Day. No man of ice, for shame, for shame, for Christmas Day is no mere name. No, not for you this ringing cheer, this festal season of the year, And not for you the chime of bells from holy temple rolls and swells. Today, indeed, he has no part, who holds not Christmas in his heart. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Christmas Stocking by L. Frank Baum An ancient Italian legend tells how good St. Nicholas of Padua first gave presents on Christmas Eve by throwing purses in at the open windows of needy people. Purses in those days were knitted of yarn and tied with strings at the open ends. They were not unlike stockings, except that they had no feet. People began to hang these long, empty purses of yarn on their windowsills on Christmas Eve so that St. Nicholas, as he passed by, could put money into them. When money became scarce the long purses were filled with presents instead, useful things for the big people and books and toys for the children. In cold countries where windows could not be left open, folks hung their purses near the fireplace, believing that St. Nicholas would come down the chimney and leave his presents for them. And after the knitted purses went out of fashion, they hung up their stockings which closely resembled the old-time purses, so that there would be plenty of room for the Christmas presents and old St. Nicholas, or Santa Claus, who lived on through the ages, would know that he had been expected. That is how the Christmas Stocking came to be used, and why it will be used for many generations to come in thousands of homes on each succeeding Christmas Eve. It is a pretty custom, expressing the confidence and trust we feel in that sweet charity which bestows loving remembrances upon the rich and poor, the mighty and the lowly, on each succeeding birthday of our Lord Jesus Christ, for it is most fitting that he, who taught the word charity, should be honoured upon his birth-night by a humble imitation of the kindly and generous creed he gave us, peace on earth, goodwill to all, leads us to recognise the truth of the noble text it is better to give than to receive. And so, as it teaches us kindliness, goodwill, and charity, may the Christmas Stocking endure forever. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This is the true story of Christmas. Taken from the World English Bible, and read by Aclivity for LibriVox.org, on December the 6th, 2006, in Sussex, England. Now in the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man whose name was Joseph of the House of David. The virgin's name was Mary. Having come in, the angel said to her, Rejoice, highly favoured one! The Lord is with you! Blessed are you among women! But when she saw him, she was greatly troubled at the saying and considered what kind of salutation this might be. The angel said to her, Don't be afraid, Mary, for you have found favour with God. Behold, you will conceive in your womb and bring forth a son and will call his name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the House of Jacob forever. There will be no end to his kingdom. Mary said to the angel, How can this be, seeing I am a virgin? The angel answered her, The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. Therefore, also the Holy One who is born from you will be called the Son of God. Behold, Elizabeth, your relative, also has conceived a son in her old age, and this is the sixth month with her who was called Barron. For everything spoken by God is possible, Mary said. Behold, the hand made of the Lord. Be it to me according to your word. Now the birth of Jesus Christ was like this. For after his mother Mary was engaged to Joseph before they came together, she was found pregnant by the Holy Spirit. Joseph, her husband, being a righteous man and not willing to make her a public example, intended to put her away secretly. But when he thought about these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream saying, Joseph, Son of David, don't be afraid to take to yourself Mary, your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit. She shall bring forth a son. You shall call his name Jesus, for it is he who shall save his people from their sins. Now all this happened that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the Lord through the prophet saying, Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son. They shall call his name Emmanuel, which is being interpreted, God with us. Joseph arose from his sleep and did as the angel of the Lord commanded him, and took his wife to himself, and didn't know her sexually until she had brought forth her firstborn son. He named him Jesus. Now it happened in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled. This was the first enrolment made when Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to enrol themselves, everyone to his own city. Joseph also went up from Galilee out of the city of Nazareth into Judea to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family of David, to enrol himself with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him as wife, being pregnant. It happened while they were there that the day had come when she should give birth. She brought forth her firstborn son, and she wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a feeding trough, because there was no room for them in the inn. There were shepherds in the same country, staying in the field, and keeping watch by night over their flock. Behold, an angel of the Lord stood by them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. The angel said to them, Don't be afraid, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy, which will be to all the people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David, a Saviour who is Christ the Lord. This is the sign to you. You will find a baby wrapped in strips of cloth lying in a feeding trough. Suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of heavenly army praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good will toward men. It happened when the angels went away from them into the sky, that the shepherd said to one another, Let's go to Bethlehem now and see this thing that has happened which the Lord has made known to us. They came with haste and found both Mary and Joseph and the baby who was lying in the feeding trough. When they saw it they publicised widely the saying which was spoken to them about this child. All who heard it wondered at the things which were spoken to them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these sayings pondering them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, just as it was told them. In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him. Without him was not anything made that has been made. In him was life and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness hasn't overcome it. There came a man sent from God whose name was John. The same came as a witness that he might testify about the light, that all might believe through him. He was not the light but was sent that he might testify about the light. The true light that enlightens everyone was coming into the world. He was in the world and the world was made through him and the world didn't recognise him. He came to his own and those who were his own didn't receive him. But as many as received him to them he gave the right to become God's children, to those who believe in his name, who were born not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man but of God. The word became flesh and lived among us. We saw his glory, such glory as of the one and only Son of the Father, full of grace and truth. John testified about him. He cried out saying, This was he of whom I said, He who comes after me has surpassed me for he was before me. From his fullness we all received grace upon grace. For the law was given through Moses. Grace and truth were realised through Jesus Christ. No one has seen God at any time. The one and only Son who is in the bosom of the Father, he has declared him. This is the end of the true story of Christmas taken from the world English Bible. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you. If you'd like to take your seats and settle down. Before we start, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, yes, thank you, thank you. Please visit LibriVox.org. Now the LibriVox players tonight will be performing for you a Cornish Christmas play from W. Sandys, 1833. So there you go, all. Welcome on stage and have a good evening everybody. Thank you. Cornish Christmas play by William Sandys. Enter the Turkish night. Open your doors and let me in. I hope your favours I shall win. Whether I rise or whether I fall, I'll do my best to please you all. St. George is here and swears he will come in. And if he does, I know he'll pierce my skin. If you will not believe what I do say, let Father Christmas come in. Clear the way. Retires. Enter Father Christmas. Here come I, old Father Christmas. Welcome or welcome not. I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot. I am not come here to laugh or to jeer, but for a pocketful of money and a skinful of beer. If you will not believe what I do say, come in the King of Egypt. Clear the way. Enter the King of Egypt. Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly to appear. St. George, St. George, walk in my only son and heir. Walk in my son, St. George, and boldly act thy part that all the people here may see thy wondrous art. Enter St. George. Here come I, St. George, from Britain did I spring. I'll fight the dragon bold, my wonders to begin. I'll clip his wings, he shall not fly. I'll cut him down or else I die. Enter the dragon. Who's he that seeks the dragon's blood and calls so angry and so loud? That English dog, will he before me stand? I'll cut him down with my courageous hand, with my long teeth and scurvy jaw. Of such I'd break up half a score, and stay my stomach till I'd more. Come on, then, you big beast. St. George and the dragon fight. Good Lord, your breath stinks. My moustache, my eyebrows. Actually, that looks rather fetching. Right. The latter is killed. Is there a doctor to be found already near at hand, to cure a deep and deadly wound to make the champion stand? Enter Doctor. Oh yes, there is a doctor to be found, already near at hand, to cure a deep and deadly wound and make the champion stand. What can you cure? All sorts of diseases. Whatever you places, the physique, the policy, and the gout, if the devil's in, I'll blow him out. What is your fee? Fifteen pounds, it is my fee, the money to lay down. But, as to such a rogue as thee, I cure for ten pounds. I carry a little bottle of Ali campaign. Here, Jack, take a little of my flip-flop, pour it down thy tip-top, rise up, and fight again. The doctor performs his cure, the fight is renewed, and the dragon again is killed. Here am I, Saint George, that worthy champion bold, and with my sword and spear I won three crowns of gold. I fought the fiery dragon, and brought him to the slaughter. By that I won fair Sabra, the king of Egypt's daughter. Where is the man that now will me defy? I'll cut his giblet full of holes and make his buttons fly. The Turkish Knight advances. Here, come I, the Turkish Knight, come from the Turkish land to fight. I'll fight Saint George, who is my foe. I'll make him yield before I go. He brags to such a high degree. He think there's none can do the like of he. There is the Turk that will before me stand. I'll cut him down with my courageous hand. The fight, the night, is overcome, and falls on one knee. O pardon me, Saint George, pardon of the eye-crave. O pardon me this night, and I will be thy slave. No pardon shall thou have, while I have foot to stand. So rise thee up again, and fight out sword in hand. They fight again, and the night is killed. Father Christmas calls for the doctor, with whom the same dialogue occurs as before, and the cure is performed. Enter the giant turpin. Here, come I, the giant, bold turpin, is my name, and all the nations round do tremble at my fame. Wherever I go, they tremble at my sight. No lord or champion long with me would fight. Here's one that dares to look thee in the face, and soon will send thee to another place. Take that. Ha ha ha ha. Have at you, sir. Take that. You'll have to be quicker than that, sir. Ha ha. Not the face, not the face. Oh no. Ha ha. Ouch. Ah. Yeah. Mmm. Ha ha. Ha ha. A hit, a palpable hit. Mmm. Oof. Oh. Gotcha. Oof. Wah. Oof. Ha ha. And the giant is killed, medical aid is called in as before, and the cure performed by the doctor, who then, according to the stage direction, is given a basin of dirty grout, and a kick and driven out. Now, ladies and gentlemen, your sport is most ended, so prepare for the hat, which is highly commended. The hat it would speak if it had but a tongue. Come throw in your money, and think it's no wrong. Narration, read by Esther. The Dragon, read by Kara Schallenberg. St. George, by Simon Taylor. Doctor, read by Iswa. The King of Egypt, read by Matthew Walton. Turkish Night, read by Kristen Hughes. Giant Turpin, read by Betsy Bush. Father Christmas, read by Henry Freigun. This giant is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read and recorded by William Kuhn, September 2006. The Errors of Santa Claus, by Stephen Leacock. It was Christmas Eve. The Browns, who lived in the adjoining house, had been dining with the Joneses. Brown and Jones were sitting over wine and walnuts at the table. The others had gone upstairs. What are you giving to your boy for Christmas? asked Brown. A train, said Jones. New kind of thing, automatic. Let's have a look at it, said Brown. Jones fetched a parcel from the sideboard and began unwrapping it. In genius thing, isn't it? he said. Goes on its own rails, queer how kids love to play with trains, isn't it? Yes, assented Brown. How are the rails fixed? Wait, I'll show you, said Jones. Just help me to shove these dinner things aside and roll back the cloth. There, see? You lay the rails like that and fasten them at the ends, so. Oh yes, I catch on, makes a grade, doesn't it? Just the thing to amuse a child, isn't it? I got Willie a toy airplane. I know they're great. I got Edwin one on his birthday. But I thought I'd get him a train this time. I told him Santa Claus was going to bring him something altogether new this time. Edwin, of course, believes in Santa Claus absolutely. Say, look at this locomotive, would you? It has a spring coiled up inside the firebox. Wind her up, said Brown, with great interest. Let's see her go. All right, said Jones. Just pile up two or three plates or something to lean the end of the rails on. There, notice the way it buzzes before it starts. Isn't that a great thing for a kid, eh? Yes, said Brown. And say, see this little string to pull the whistle. Buy, get it, toots, eh? Just like real. Now then, Brown, Jones went on. You hitch on those cars and I'll start her. I'll be engineer, eh? Half an hour later Brown and Jones were still playing trains on the dining-room table. But their wives upstairs in the drawing-room hardly noticed their absence. They were too much interested. Oh, I think it's perfectly sweet, said Mrs. Brown. Just the loveliest doll I've seen in years. I must get one like it for Olvina. Won't Clarice be perfectly enchanted? Yes, answered Mrs. Jones, and then she'll have all the fun of arranging the dresses. Children love that so much. Look, there are three little dresses with the doll. Aren't they cute? All cut out and ready to stitch together. Oh, how perfectly lovely! exclaimed Mrs. Brown. I think the mauve one would suit the doll best, don't you, with such golden hair. Only don't you think it would make it much nicer to turn back the collar, so, and to put a little band, so? What a good idea, said Mrs. Jones. Do let's try it. Just wait. I'll get a needle in a minute. I'll tell Clarice that Santa Claus sewed it himself. The child believes in Santa Claus absolutely. And half an hour later Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Brown were so busy stitching doll's clothes that they could not hear the roaring of the little train up and down the dining table and had no idea what the four children were doing. Nor did the children miss their mothers. Dandy, aren't they? Edwin Jones was saying to little Willie Brown as they sat in Edwin's bedroom. A hundred in a box with cork tips and C, an amber mouthpiece that fits into a little case at the side. Good present for dad, eh? Fine, said Willie appreciatively. I'm giving father cigars. I know, I thought of cigars, too. Men always like cigars and cigarettes. You can't go wrong on them. Say, would you like to try one or two of these cigarettes? We can take them from the bottom. You'll like them. They're Russian, a way ahead of Egyptian. Thanks, answered Willie. I'd like one immensely. I only started smoking last spring on my twelfth birthday. I think a fella's a fool to begin smoking cigarettes too soon, don't you? It stunts him. I waited till I was twelve. Me, too, said Edwin as they lighted their cigarettes. In fact, I wouldn't buy them now if it weren't for dad. I simply had to give him something from Santa Claus. He believes in Santa Claus absolutely, you know. And while this was going on, Clarice was showing little Olvina the absolutely lovely little bridge set that she had got for her mother. Aren't these markers perfectly charming? said Olvina. And don't you love this little Dutch design? Or is it Flemish, darling? Dutch, said Clarice. Isn't it quaint? And aren't these the dearest little things for putting the money in when you play? I needn't have got them with it. They'd have sold the rest separately. But I think it's too utterly slow playing without money, don't you? Oh, abominably! Shut it, Olvina. But your mama never plays for money, does she? Mama? Oh, gracious no! Mama's far too slow for that. But I shall tell her that Santa Claus insisted on putting in the little money boxes. I suppose she believes in Santa Claus just as my mama does. Oh, absolutely! said Clarice, and Eddid. What if we play a little game? With a double dummy, the French way, or Norwegian scat, if you like. Only needs two. All right, agreed Olvina. And in a few minutes they were deep in a game of cards with a little pile of pocket money beside them. About half an hour later all the members of the two families were again in the drawing room. But, of course, nobody said anything about the presents. In any case, they were all too busy looking at the beautiful big Bible with maps in it that the Joneses had brought to give to grandfather. They all agreed that, with the help of it, grandfather could hunt up any place in Palestine in a moment, day or night. But upstairs, away upstairs in a sitting room of his own, grandfather Jones was looking with an affectionate eye at the presents that stood beside him. There was a beautiful whiskey decanter with silver filigree outside and whiskey inside for Jones and for the little boy a big nickel-plated Jews harp. Later on, far in the night, the person, or the influence, or whatever it is called Santa Claus, took all the presents and placed them in the people's stockings. And, being blind as he always has been, he gave the wrong things to the wrong people. In fact, he gave them just as indicated above. But the next day, in the course of Christmas morning, the situation straightened itself out just as it always does. Indeed, by ten o'clock Brown and Jones were playing with the train and Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones were making dolls' clothes and the boys were smoking cigarettes and Clarice and Olvina were playing cards for their pocket money. And upstairs, away up, grandfather was drinking whiskey and playing the Jews harp. And so Christmas, just as it always does, turned out all right after all. End of The Errors of Santa Claus by Stephen Leacock. Our Lord Jesus Christ, according to St. Luke, chapter 2, verses 1 to 20. And it happened in those days that the edict of part of Augusto César came out that the whole land was impenetrable. This first impenetrable was done as the siren governor of Syria. And they all went to be impenetrable each one to their city. And he went up to José de Galilea from the city of Nazaret to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Belén, as far as it was from David's house and family, to be impenetrable with Maria, his wife, married to him, who was pregnant. And it happened that, being there, they fulfilled the days in which she had to leave. And she left to her son, Primojenito, and he went back to Pagnales, and he went to a peasant, because there was no place for them in the mason. And there were shepherds in the same land and they kept the shepherds of the night over their cattle. And here, the angel of the Lord came over them, and the clarity of God approached them with splendor and had great fear. But the angel said to them, don't go away, because here I give you new things of great joy that will be for the whole town, that you have been today in the city of David, a savior who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you. You will find the child in Pagnales, and suddenly it was with the angel a multitude of the celestial armies that praised God and said, glory in the heights of God and in the land of peace, good will for men. And it happened that, as the angels went from them to heaven, the shepherds said to each other, let's go to Belén and let's see what has happened and that the Lord has manifested to us. And they came to Piesa, and they went to Maria and José and the child was lying in the pesebre. And seeing them, they made notice what had been said to them from the child. And all those who heard were surprised by what the shepherds said to them. But Maria kept all these things conferring them in her heart. And the shepherds came back glorifying and praising God of all the things they had heard and seen as they had been said. End of recording. Lucas chapter 2 verses 1 to 20. First, from the Douaychem version of the Bible Matthew chapter 2 verses 13 through 23 for LibriVox.org narrated by Sean McKinley. And after they were departed, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared in sleep to Joseph saying, Arise and take the child and his mother and fly into Egypt and be there until I shall tell thee, for it will come to pass that Herod will seek the child to destroy him, who arose and took the child and his mother by night, and retired into Egypt, and he was there until the death of Herod, that it might be fulfilled which the Lord spoke by the prophet, saying, Out of Egypt have I called my son. In Herod, perceiving that he was deluded by the wise men, was exceeding angry, and ascending killed all the men-children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the borders thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently inquired of the wise men. Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremiah the prophet, saying, A voice in Rama was heard, lamentation and great mourning, Rachel bewailing her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not. But when Herod was dead, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared in sleep to Joseph in Egypt, saying, Arise, and take the child and his mother, and go into the land of Israel, for they are dead that sought the life of the child. Who arose and took the child and his mother, and came into the land of Israel. But hearing that Archcloss reigned in Judea in the room of Herod his father, he was afraid to go thither, and being warned in sleep retired into the quarters of Galilee, and coming he dwelt in a city called Nazareth, that it might be fulfilled which was said by the prophets that he shall be called a Nazarene. This recording is in the public domain. This is LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The gift of Magi by Owen Redford LibriVox.org by Gemma Bluff. 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 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 she could 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 home 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 form of period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid thirty dollars per week. Now when the income was shrunk to twenty dollars, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming deed. 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 gray cat, walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only a dollar eighty-seven with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for a month with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Experiences had been greater than she had calculated. They owe us all, only a dollar eighty-seven to buy a present for Jim, her Jim. Only a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him, something fun and rare and sterling, something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim. There was a pure glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pure 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, obtained a fairly accurate conception of his look. 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. Rabbitly 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 out the window some day to try 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 of the watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from Anvid. Now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining 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, when she faltered for a minute, and stood still while her tears flashed on the worn red carpet, on when her old brown jacket, on when her old brown hat, with a whirl of skirts and with a brilliant sparkle still in her eyes. She fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street, where she stopped the sign red. Madam Zofrany, hair-goods of all kinds, one flight up Della ran, and collected herself panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the Zofrany. Will you buy my hair, Ask Della? I buy hair, said Madame, take your hat off, and let's have a sight at the looks of it. Down dribbled the brown cascade. Twenty dollars, said Madame, lifting the mask, with a practice to hand. 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 locket in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum-fabre chain, simple and chased in design, probably proclaiming its value by substance alone, and not by merititious 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, closed-line curls that made her look wonderfully like a truan schoolboy. 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 conial and 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 jobs. Jim was never late. Della doubled the bob-train 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, a way 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 burdened with a family? He needed a new overcoat, and he was without love. Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the Santa Quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor sparse, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. Jim 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 off the 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, as Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that pat, in fact, yet even after the hardest mental 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 I went for you. Maybe the hairs on my head were numbered. She went on with 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 unfolded his Della. For ten seconds, let us regard with discreet scrutiny, some in-gone sequential object in the other direction, eight dollars a week or a million a year. What is the difference? A mathematician or a whip would give you the wrong answer. The magic I brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This darker session will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table. Don't make any mistake, Della said, about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that can make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package, you may see why you had me go in a while at first. Wad fingers and nimble door at the string and paper, and then an ecstatic scream of jaw, and then, alas, a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the accompanying powers of the Lord of the Flat for their lay, the combs. The set of combs sighed, and by it Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window, beautiful combs, pure daughter's shell, with jeweled rims, just the shade to wear and 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 there was, but the dresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone, but she hugged them to a bosom, and at length she was able to look up, deem eyes, and a smile, and say, My hair grows so fast, Jim, and then Della leaped up like a little cinch cat and cried, Uh oh, Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metals seemed to flash, with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. Is it a 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 your watch. I want to see how it looks on it. Instead of a bang, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head, and smiled. Dale 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 the jobs on. The magi, as you know, were wise men, wonderfully wise men, who brought gifts to the babe and 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 the last words of 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 story. This recording is in the public domain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Narrated by Sean McKinley. The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all, and sixty cents of it was in pennies. They saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher, until one's cheeks burned with a silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times, Dulla 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 Dulla 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 eight dollars per week. It did not exactly beggar 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 thereon 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 its possessor was being paid thirty dollars per week. Now when the income was shrunk to twenty dollars, 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. Carol would be Christmas Day, and she had only one 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 very far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always were. Only one dollar and eighty-seven cents 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 pure glass between the window of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pure 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 rolled 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 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 out the window someday, 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 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 a brilliant sparkle still in her eye, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped, the sign read, Madame Sofranie, hair goods of all kinds, one flight up Della ran and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the Sofranie. Will you buy my hair, As Della? I buy hair, said Madame. Take your hat off and let's have a look at this looks of it." Down rippled the brown-caste's skade. Twenty dollars, said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand. 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 chased 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 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-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 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 burdened with a family. He needed a new overcoat, and he was without gloves. Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of a quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It 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, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet, even after the hardest mental 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 need it, 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 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 a while at first. Great 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 that flat. For there lay the combs, the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshiped long in a broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims, just the shade to wear and 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 middle seemed to flash with the reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. �Isn�t it the 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� he said. �Let�s put our Christmas presents away and keep them 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 a 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. Christmas by Stephen Leacock. This Santa Claus business is played out. It's a sneaking underhand method, and the sooner it's exposed, the better. For a parent to get up under cover of the darkness of night and palm off a ten-cent necktie on a boy who had been expecting a ten-dollar watch, and then say that an angel sent it to him is low, undeniably low. I had a good opportunity of observing how the thing worked this Christmas, in the case of young Hoodoo McFigan, the son and heir of the McFiggins, at whose house I board. Hoodoo McFigan is a good boy, a religious boy. He had been given to understand that Santa Claus would bring nothing to his father and mother because grown-up people don't get presents from the angels. So he saved up all his pocket money and bought a box of cigars for his father and a seventy-five-cent diamond brooch for his mother. His own fortunes he left in the hands of the angels. But he prayed. He prayed every night for weeks that Santa Claus would bring him a pair of skates and a puppy-dog and an air-gun and a bicycle and a Noah's Ark and a sleigh and a drum. All together about a hundred and fifty dollars' worth of stuff. I went into Hoodoo's room quite early Christmas morning. I had an idea that the scene would be interesting. I woke him up and he sat up in bed, his eyes glistening with radiant expectation, and began hauling things out of his stocking. The first parcel was bulky. It was done up quite loosely and had an odd look generally. Ha-ha! Hoodoo cried gleefully as he began undoing it. I'll bet it's the puppy-dog all wrapped up in paper. And was it the puppy-dog? No, by no means. It was a pair of nice, strong number-four boots, laces and all, labeled Hoodoo from Santa Claus, and underneath Santa Claus had written ninety-five net. The boy's jaw fell with delight. It's boots, he said, and plunged in his hand again. He began hauling away at another parcel with renewed hope on his face. This time the thing seemed like a little round box. Hoodoo tore the paper off it with a feverish hand. He shook it, something rattled inside. It's a watch and chain! It's a watch and chain! he shouted. Then he pulled the lid off. And was it a watch and chain? No. It was a box of nice, brand-new celluloid collars, a dozen of them, all alike, and all his own size. The boy was so pleased that you could see his face crack up with pleasure. He waited a few minutes until his intense joy subsided. Then he tried again. This time the packet was long and hard. It resisted the touch and had a sort of funnel shape. It's a toy pistol, said the boy, trembling with excitement. Gee! I hope there are lots of caps with it! I'll fire some off now and wake up Father! No, my poor child, you will not wake your Father with that. It is a useful thing, but it needs not caps, and it fires no bullets, and you cannot wake a sleeping man with a toothbrush. Yes, it was a toothbrush. A regular beauty, pure bone, all through and ticketed with a little paper, Houdou, from Santa Claus. Again the expression of intense joy passed over the boy's face and the tears of gratitude started from his eyes. He wiped them away with his toothbrush and passed on. The next packet was much larger and evidently contained something soft and bulky. It had been too long to go into the stocking and was tied outside. I wonder what this is, Houdou mused, half afraid to open it. Dennis Hart gave a great leap and he forgot all his other presence in the anticipation of this one. It's the drum, he gasped. It's the drum, all wrapped up! Drum nothing. It was pants. A pair of the nicest little short pants. Yellowish-brown short pants. With dear little stripes of color running across both ways, and here again Santa Claus had written, Houdou, from Santa Claus, One Fort Net. But there was something wrapped up in it. Oh yes, there was a pair of braces wrapped up in it, braces with a little steel sliding thing so that you could slide your pants up to your neck if you wanted to. The boy gave a dry sob of satisfaction. Then he took out his last present. It's a book, he said, as he unwrapped it. I wonder if it is fairy stories or adventures. Oh, I hope it's adventures. I'll read it all morning. No, Houdou, it was not precisely adventures. It was a small family Bible. Houdou had now seen all his presents and he arose and dressed. But he still had the fun of playing with his toys. That is always the chief delight of Christmas morning. First he played with his toothbrush. He got a whole lot of water and brushed all his teeth with it. This was huge. Then he played with his collars. He had no end of fun with them, taking them all out one by one and swearing at them, and then putting them back and swearing at the whole lot together. The next toy was his pants. He had immense fun there, putting them on and taking them off again, and then trying to guess which side was which by merely looking at them. After that he took his book and read some adventures called Genesis till breakfast time. Then he went downstairs and kissed his father and mother. His father was smoking a cigar, and his mother had her new brooch on. Houdou's face was thoughtful and a light seemed to have broken in upon his mind. Indeed, I think it altogether likely that next Christmas he will hang on to his own money and take chances on what the angels bring. End of Houdou McFigan's Christmas.