White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy；and then， alas！ A quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails， necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs—the set of combs， side and back， that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs， pure tortoise shell， with jewelled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs， she knew， and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now， they were hers， but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom， and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say： “My hair grows so fast， Jim！”
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried， “Oh， oh！”
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
“Isn’t it a dandy， Jim？ I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”
Instead of obeying， Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
“Della，” said he， “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep’em 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 chops on.”
The Magi， as you know， were wise men—wonderfully wise men— who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise， their gifts were no doubt wise ones， possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the 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 giue and receive gifts， such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the Magi.
43
The Cop And The Anthem
警察和赞美诗
On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights， and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands， and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park， you may know that winter is near at hand.
A dead leaf fell in Soapy’s lap. That was Jack Frost’s card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square， and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind， footman of the mansion of All Outdoors， so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.
Soapy’s mind became cognizant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigor. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.
The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises， of soporific Southern skies or drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company， safe from Boreas and bluecoats， seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
For years the hospitable Blackwell’s had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter， so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the timewas come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers， distributed beneath his coat， about his ankles and over his lap， had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy’s mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city’s dependents. In Soapy’s opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions， municipal and eleemosynary， on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy’s proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus， every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath， every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law， which though conducted by rules， does not meddle unduly with a gentleman’s private affairs.
Soapy， having decided to go to the Island， at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant； and then， after declaring insolvency， be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt， where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned， and halted at a glittering cafe， where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape， the silkworm and the protoplasm.