By O. Henry
ONE dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixtycents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at atime by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and thebutcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation ofparsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Dellacounted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the nextday would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabbylittle couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates themoral reflection that life is made up of sobs， sniffles， andsmiles， with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsidingfrom the first stage to the second， take a look at the home.
A furnished flat at 8 per week. It did not exactly beggardeion， but it certainly had that word on the lookout forthe mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letterwould go， and an electric button from which no mortal fingercould coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a cardbearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”
The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during aformer period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid30 per week. Now， when the income was shrunk to 20，though， they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modestand unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James DillinghamYoung 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 thepowder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully ata gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrowwould be Christmas Day， and she had only 1.87 with which tobuy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she couldfor months， with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t gofar. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. Theyalways are. Only 1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim.
Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nicefor him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something justa little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned byJim.
There was a pier glass between the windows of the room.
Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an 8 flat. A very thinand very agile person may， by observing his reflection in arapid sequence of longitudinal strips， obtain a fairly accurateconception of his looks. Della， being slender， had mastered theart.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before theglass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly， but her face had lostits color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down herhair and let it fall to its full length.
Now， there were two possessions of the James DillinghamYoungs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’sgold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s.
The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in theflat across the airshaft， Della would have let her hair hang outthe window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’sjewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor， with allhis treasures piled up in the basement， Jim would have pulledout his watch every time he passed， just to see him pluck at hisbeard from envy.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling andshining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below herknee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then shedid it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for aminute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the wornred carpet.
On went her old brown jacket； on went her old brown hat.
With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still inher eyes， she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to thestreet.
Where she stopped the sign read： “Mme. Sofronie. HairGoods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran， and collectedherself， panting. Madame， large， too white， chilly， hardlylooked the “Sofronie.”
“Will you buy my hair？” asked Della.
“I buy hair，” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have asight at the looks of it.”
Down rippled the brown cascade.
“Twenty dollars，” said Madame， lifting the mass with apractised hand.
“Give it to me quick，” said Della.
Oh， and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forgetthe hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’spresent.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and noone else. There was no other like it in any of the stores， and shehad turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chainsimple and chaste in design， properly proclaiming its value bysubstance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—asall 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 waslike him. Quietness and value—the deion applied toboth. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it， and shehurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watchJim might be properly anxious about the time in any company.
Grand as the watch was， he sometimes looked at it on the slyon account of the old leather strap that he used in place of achain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a littleto prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons andlighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages madeby generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendoustask， dear friends—a mammoth task.