Yama and Niyama are the basic rules of conduct [social and personal] for enlightened living. They are the first two limbs of the Ashtanga [eight-limbed] Yoga according to Patanjali's Yoga Sutras [2.30 and 2.32]*.
Yama [abstinences or external discipline] includenon-violence, truthfulness, non-stealing, non-excess and non-covetousness.
Niyama[observances or internal discipline] include purity, contentment, self-discipline, self-study, and surrender to indwelling omnipresence.
Yoga is rooted in the notion of developing a positive personality. Therefore ethical discipline or the practice of correct conduct is necessary for success in yoga. This is the basis of yama and niyama, the two moral backbones of yoga. They define the attributes to be practised in everyday life by a spiritual aspirant.
To dwell continually in good
thoughts, is to throw around oneself a psychic atmosphere of sweetness and
power which leaves its impress upon all who come in contact with it.
Where there is sterling faith and
uncompromising purity there is health, there is success, there is power. In
such a one, disease, failure, and disaster can find no lodgment, for there is
nothing on which they can feed.Even physical conditions are largely determined
by mental states, and to this truth the scientific world is rapidly being
drawn.
Disease comes to those who
attract it, to those whose minds and bodies are receptive to it, and flees from
those whose strong, pure, and positive thought-sphere generates healing and
life-giving currents.
If you are given to anger, worry, jealousy, greed, or any
other inharmonious state of mind, and expect perfect physical health, you are
expecting the impossible, for you are continually sowing the seeds of disease
in your mind. Such conditions of mind are carefully shunned by the wise man,
for he knows them to be far more dangerous than a bad drain or an infected house.
If you would be free from all physical aches and pains, and would enjoy perfect
physical harmony, then put your mind in order, and harmonize your thoughts.
Think joyful thoughts; think loving thoughts; let the elixir of goodwill course
through your veins, and you will need no other medicine. Put away your
jealousies, your suspicions, your worries, your hatreds, your selfish
indulgences, and you will put away your dyspepsia, your biliousness, your
nervousness and aching joints. If you will persist in clinging to these
debilitating and demoralizing habits of mind, then do not complain when your
body is laid low with sickness.
To follow, under all circumstances,
the highest promptings within you; to be always true to the divine self; to
rely upon the inward Light, the inward Voice, and to pursue your purpose with a
fearless and restful heart, believing that the future will yield unto you the
meed of every thought and effort; knowing that the laws of the universe can
never fail, and that your own will come back to you with mathematical
exactitude, this is faith and the living of faith.
He who puts his hand in the
fire must suffer the burning until such time as it has worked itself out. Neither curses nor prayers can avail to alter it. Hatred,
anger, jealousy, envy, lust, covetousness, all these are fires which bum. And
whoever even so much as touches them must suffer the torments of burning.
Love,
gentleness, good-will, purity, are cooling airs which breathe peace upon the
soul that woos them. Being in harmony with the Eternal Law, they become
actualized in the form of health, peaceful surroundings, and undeviating
success and good fortune.
A thorough understanding of
this Great Law which permeates the universe leads to the acquirement of that
state of mind known as obedience. To know that justice, harmony, and love are
supreme in the universe is likewise to know that all adverse and painful
conditions are the result of our own disobedience to that Law.
Such knowledge leads to
strength and power, and it is upon such knowledge alone that a true life and an
enduring success and happiness can be built. To be patient
under all circumstances, and to accept all conditions as necessary factors in
your training, is to rise superior to all painful conditions.
The cause of all power, as
of all weakness, is within; the secret of all happiness as of all misery is
likewise within. There is no progress apart from
unfoldment within, and no sure foothold of prosperity or peace except by
orderly advancement in knowledge.
You say you are chained by
circumstances; you cry out for better opportunities, for a wider scope, for
improved physical conditions, and perhaps you inwardly curse the fate that
binds you hand and foot. It is for you that I write; it is to you that I speak.
Listen, and
let my words burn themselves into your heart, for that which I say to you is
truth: You may bring about that improved condition in your outward life which
you desire, if you will unswervingly resolve to improve your inner life.
I know this pathway looks
barren at its commencement, but if you undertake to walk it;if you perseveringly discipline your mind, eradicating your weaknesses, and
allowing your soul-forces and spiritual powers to unfold themselves, you will
be astonished at the magical changes which will be brought about in your outward
life.
As you
proceed, golden opportunities will be strewn across your path, and the power
and judgment to properly utilize them will spring up within you. Genial friends
will come unbidden to you; sympathetic souls will be drawn to you as the needle
is to the magnet; and books and all outward aids that you require will come to
you unsought.
Perhaps the chains of
poverty hang heavily upon you, and you are friendless and alone, and you long
with an intense longing that your load may be lightened; but the load
continues, and you seem to be enveloped in an ever-increasing darkness.
Perhaps you complain, you
bewail your lot; you blame your birth, your parents, your employer, or the
unjust Powers who have bestowed upon you so undeservedly poverty and hardship,
and upon another affluence and ease.
Cease your
complaining and fretting; none of these things which you blame are the cause of
your poverty; the cause is within yourself, and where the cause is, there is
the remedy.
The very fact that you are a
complainer, shows that you deserve your lot; shows that you lack that faith
which is the ground of all effort and progress.
There is no
room for a complainer in a universe of law, and worry is soul-suicide. By your
very attitude of mind you are strengthening the chains which bind you, and are
drawing about you the darkness by which you are enveloped.
Alter your
outlook upon life, and your outward life will alter. Build yourself up in the
faith and knowledge, and make yourself worthy of better surroundings and wider
opportunities.
Be sure, first of all, that
you are making the best of what you have. Do not delude yourself into supposing
that you can step into greater advantages whilst overlooking smaller ones, for
if you could, the advantage would be impermanent and you would quickly fall
back again in order to learn the lesson which you had neglected.
Perhaps you
are living in a small cottage, and are surrounded by unhealthy and vicious
influences. You desire a larger and more sanitary residence. Then you must fit
yourself for such a residence by first of all making your cottage as far as
possible a little paradise. Keep it spotlessly clean. Make it look as pretty
and sweet as your limited means will allow. Cook your plain food with all care,
and arrange your humble table as tastefully as you possibly can.
If you cannot
afford a carpet, let your rooms be carpeted with smiles and welcomes, fastened
down with the nails of kind words driven in with the hammer of patience. Such a
carpet will not fade in the sun, and constant use will never wear it away.
By so
ennobling your present surroundings you will rise above them, and above the
need of them, and at the right time you will pass on into the better house and
surroundings which have all along been waiting for you, and which you have
fitted yourself to occupy.
Perhaps you desire more time
for thought and effort, and feel that your hours of labor are too hard and
long. Then see to it that you are utilizing to the fullest possible extent what
little spare time you have.
It is useless
to desire more time, if you are already wasting what little you have; for you
would only grow more indolent and indifferent. Even poverty and lack of time
and leisure are not the evils that you imagine they are, and if they hinder you
in your progress, it is because you have clothed them in your own weaknesses,
and the evil that you see in them is really in yourself.
Endeavor to
fully and completely realize that in so far as you shape and mould your mind,
you are the maker of your destiny, and as, by the transmuting power of
self-discipline you realize this more and more, you will come to see that these
so-called evils may be converted into blessings.
You will then
utilize your poverty for the cultivation of patience, hope and courage; and
your lack of time in the gaining of promptness of action and decision of mind,
by seizing the precious moments as they present themselves for your acceptance.
As in the
rankest soil the most beautiful flowers are grown, so in the dark soil of
poverty the choicest flowers of humanity have developed and bloomed. Where
there are difficulties to cope with, and unsatisfactory conditions to overcome,
there virtue most flourishes and manifests its glory.
Michelangelo [1475–1564], was anItaliansculptor, painter, architect, poet,
and engineer of theHigh Renaissancewho exerted an unparalleled influence
on the development ofWestern art.
Considered as the
greatest living artist in his lifetime, he has since been held as one ofthe greatest artists of all time. His versatility in the disciplines he
took up was of such a high order that he is often considered a contender for
the title of the archetypalRenaissance man,
along with his fellow ItalianLeonardo da
Vinci.
A number of his works in
painting, sculpture, and architecture rank among the most famous in existence.His output in every field during his
long life was prodigious; when the sheer volume of correspondence, sketches,
and reminiscences that survive is also taken into account, he is the
best-documented artist of the 16th century.
Two of his best-known
works, thePietàandDavid, were sculpted before he turned
thirty. Michelangelo also created two of the most influential works infrescoin the history of Western art: the
scenes from Genesis on theceilingandThe Last Judgmenton the altar wall of theSistine Chapelin Rome.
Leonardo da Vinci, [1452–1519] was anItalianpolymath.
He was a painter, sculptor, architect, scientist, musician, mathematician,
engineer, inventor, anatomist, geologist, astronomer, cartographer, botanist,
historian and writer.
He is widely considered to be one of the greatest painters of all time
and perhaps the most diversely talented person ever to have lived in the
Western world.He is
referred to as the Father of paleontology alongsideGeorges Cuvier.
His genius, perhaps more than that of any other figure, epitomized the
Renaissance humanist ideal. Leonardo has often been described as the archetype of theRenaissance Man, a
man of "unquenchable curiosity" and "feverishly inventive
imagination".
Sue and Johnsy lived at the
top of a building with three floors. One of these young women came from Maine,
the other from California. They had met at a restaurant on Eighth Street. There
they discovered that they liked the same kind of art, the same kind of food,
and the same kind of clothes. So they decided to live and work together. That
was in the spring.
Toward winter a cold stranger entered Greenwich Village. No
one could see him. He walked around touching one person here and another there
with his icy fingers. He was a bad sickness. Doctors called him Pneumonia. On
the east side of the city he hurried, touching many people; but in the narrow
streets of Greenwich Village he did not move so quickly.
Mr. Pneumonia was not
a nice old gentleman. A nice old gentleman would not hurt a weak little woman
from California. But Mr. Pneumonia touched Johnsy with his cold fingers. She
lay on her bed almost without moving, and she looked through the window at the
wall of the house next to hers.
One morning the busy doctor spoke to Sue alone
in the hall, where Johnsy could not hear. “She has a very small chance,” he
said. “She has a chance, if she wants to live. If people don’t want to live, I
can’t do much for them. Your little lady has decided that she is not going to
get well. Is there something that is troubling her?” “She always wanted to go
to Italy and paint a picture of the Bay of Naples,” said Sue. “Paint! Not
paint. Is there anything worth being troubled about? A man?” “A man?” said Sue.
“Is a man worth—No, doctor. There is not a man.”
“It is weakness,” said the
doctor. “I will do all I know how to do. But when a sick person begins to feel that
he’s going to die, half my work is useless. Talk to her about new winter
clothes. If she were interested in the future, her chances would be better.”
After the doctor had gone, Sue went into the workroom to cry. Then she walked into Johnsy’s room. She carried some of her painting materials,
and she was singing. Johnsy lay there, very thin and very quiet. Her face was
turned toward the window. Sue stopped singing, thinking that Johnsy was asleep.
Sue began to work. As she worked she heard a low sound, again and again. She
went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy’s eyes were open wide. She was looking out
the window and counting—counting back. “Twelve,” she said; and a little later,
“Eleven”; and then, “Ten,” and, “Nine”; and then, “Eight,” and, “Seven,” almost
together. Sue looked out the window. What was there to count? There was only
the side wall of the next house, a short distance away. The wall had no window.
An old, old tree grew against the wall. The cold breath of winter had already
touched it. Almost all its leaves had fallen from its dark branches. “What is
it, dear?” asked Sue. “Six,” said Johnsy, in a voice still lower. “They’re
falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It hurt my head
to count them. But now it’s easy. There goes another one. There are only five
now.” “Five what, dear? Tell your Sue.” “Leaves. On the tree. When the last one
falls, I must go, too. I’ve known that for three days. Didn’t the doctor tell
you?”
“Oh, I never heard of such a thing,” said Sue. “It doesn’t have any sense
in it. What does an old tree have to do with you? Or with your getting well?
And you used to love that tree so much. Don’t be a little fool. The doctor told
me your chances for getting well. He told me this morning. He said you had very
good chances! Try to eat a little now. And then I’ll go back to work. And then
I can sell my picture, and then I can buy something more for you to eat to make
you strong.” “You don’t have to buy anything for me,” said Johnsy.
She still
looked out the window. “There goes another. No, I don’t want anything to eat.
Now there are four. I want to see the last one fall before night. Then I’ll go, too.” “Johnsy, dear,” said Sue, “will you promise me
to close your eyes and keep them closed? Will you promise not to look out the
window until I finish working? I must have this picture ready tomorrow. I need
the light; I can’t cover the window.” “Couldn’t you work in the other room?”
asked Johnsy coldly.
“I’d rather be here by you,” said Sue. “And I don’t want
you to look at those leaves.” “Tell me as soon as you have finished,” said
Johnsy. She closed her eyes and lay white and still. “Because I want to see the
last leaf fall. I have done enough waiting. I have done enough thinking. I want
to go sailing down, down, like one of those leaves.”
“Try to sleep,” said Sue.
“I must call Behrman to come up here. I want to paint a man in this picture,
and I’ll make him look like Behrman. I won’t be gone a minute. Don’t try to
move till I come back.”
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the first floor
of their house. He was past sixty. He had had no success as a painter. For
forty years he had painted, without ever painting a good picture. He had always
talked of painting a great picture, a masterpiece, but he had never yet started
it. He got a little money by letting others paint pictures of him. He drank too
much. He still talked of his great masterpiece. And he believed that it was his
special duty to do everything possible to help Sue and Johnsy.
Sue found him in
his dark room, and she knew that he had been drinking. She could smell it. She
told him about Johnsy and the leaves on the vine. She said that she was afraid
that Johnsy would indeed sail down, down like the leaf. Her hold on the world
was growing weaker. Old Behrman shouted his anger over such an idea. “What!” he
cried. “Are there such fools? Do people die because leaves drop off a tree? I
have not heard of such a thing. No, I will not come up and sit while you make a
picture of me. Why do you allow her to think such a thing? That poor little
Johnsy!”
“She is very sick and weak,” said Sue. “The sickness has put these strange ideas into her mind. Mr. Behrman, if you won’t come, you
won’t. But I don’t think you’re very nice.” “This is like a woman!” shouted
Behrman. “Who said I will not come? Go. I come with you. For half an hour I
have been trying to say that I will come. God! This is not any place for
someone so good as Johnsy to lie sick. Some day I shall paint my masterpiece,
and we shall all go away from here. God! Yes.”
Johnsy was sleeping when they
went up. Sue covered the window, and took Behrman into the other room. There
they looked out the window fearfully at the tree. Then they looked at each
other for a moment without speaking. A cold rain was falling, with a little
snow in it too.
Behrman sat down, and Sue began to paint. She worked through
most of the night. In the morning, after an hour’s sleep, she went to Johnsy’s
bedside. Johnsy with wide-open eyes was looking toward the window. “I want to
see,” she told Sue. Sue took the cover from the window.
But after the beating
rain and the wild wind that had not stopped through the whole night, there
still was one leaf to be seen against the wall. It was the last on the tree. It
was still dark green near the branch. But at the edges it was turning yellow
with age. There it was hanging from a branch nearly twenty feet above the
ground. “It is the last one,” said Johnsy. “I thought it would surely fall
during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall today, and I shall die at the
same time.”
“Dear, dear Johnsy!” said Sue. “Think of me, if you won’t think of
yourself. What would I do?” But Johnsy did not answer. The most lonely thing in
the world is a soul when it is preparing to go on its far journey. The ties
that held her to friendship and to earth were breaking, one by one. The day
slowly passed. As it grew dark, they could still see the leaf hanging from its
branch against the wall. And then, as the night came, the north wind began
again to blow. The rain still beat against the windows.
When it was light enough the next morning, Johnsy again commanded that she be
allowed to see. The leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at
it. And then she called to Sue, who was cooking something for her to eat. “I’ve
been a bad girl, Sue,” said Johnsy. “Something has made that last leaf stay
there to show me how bad I was. It is wrong to want to die. I’ll try to eat
now. But first bring me a looking-glass, so that I can see myself. And then
I’ll sit up and watch you cook.”
An hour later she said, “Sue, some day I hope
to paint the Bay of Naples.” The doctor came in the afternoon. Sue followed him
into the hall outside Johnsy’s room to talk to him. “The chances are good,”
said the doctor. He took Sue’s thin, shaking hand in his. “Give her good care,
and she’ll get well.
And now I must see another sick person in this house. His
name is Behrman. A painter, I believe. Pneumonia, too. Mike is an old, weak
man, and he is very ill. There is no hope for him. But we take him to the
hospital today. We’ll make it as easy for him as we can.” The next day the
doctor said to Sue: “She’s safe. You have done it. Food and care now—that’s
all.”
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay. She put one arm
around her. “I have something to tell you,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of
pneumonia today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. Someone found him on
the morning of the first day, in his room. He was helpless with pain.” “His
shoes and his clothes were wet and as cold as ice.
Everyone wondered where he
had been. The night had been so cold and wild. “And then they found some
things. There was a light that he had taken outside. And there were his
materials for painting. There was paint, green paint and yellow paint. And—
“Look out the window, dear, at the last leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why
it never moved when the wind was blowing? Oh, my dear, it is
Behrman’s great masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf
fell.”
William Sydney Porter, known by his pen name O. Henry, was an
American writer. O. Henry's short stories are known for their wit, wordplay,
warm characterization, and surprise endings.
The Gift
of the Magi is a short story, about a young married couple and how they deal
with the challenge of buying secret Christmas gifts for each other with very
little money.
As a sentimental story with a moral lesson about gift-giving,
it has been a popular one for adaptation, especially for presentation during
the Christmas season.
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 to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did
it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs,
sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of
the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look
at the home. A furnished flat at $8 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 thereunto 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 $30 per week. Now, when the income
was shrunk to $20, 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 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 $1.87 with which to buy Jim a
present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this
result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than
she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 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 pier-glass
between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8
flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a
rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of
his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled
from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly,
but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down
her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two
possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty
pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his
grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the
flat across the air shaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window
some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King
Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim
would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at
his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful
hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It
reached below her 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 the
brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the
stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the
sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up
Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly,
hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my
hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair,"
said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of
it."
Down rippled the brown
cascade.
"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 chaste 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 87
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 7 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
for saying 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 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 needn't look
for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It's
Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs 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."
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 long in a
Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims—just
the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs,
she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the
least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should
have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to
her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and 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.
"Dell," 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
give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest.
They are the magi.
