THE GIFT OF MAGI (extract)

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.

He 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. ……

麦琪的礼物（节选）

七点钟，咖啡已经煮好，煎锅也放在火炉后面热着，随时都可以煎肉排。

吉姆一贯是准时回家的。德拉将表链对折，紧紧地攥在手心，她就坐在桌角上——这是离门最近的地方。接着，楼下响起了他的脚步声，德拉一下子紧张得脸色白了一会儿。她有一个习惯，为日常的小事而默默祈祷，此刻，她默念道：“上帝保佑，让他觉得我还是漂亮的吧。”

门开了，吉姆走了进来，随手关上了门。他看上去消瘦而又非常严肃。可怜的人儿，他才二十二岁，就挑起了整个家庭的重担！他需要买件新大衣，他连一副手套都没有。

吉姆站在门边，纹丝不动，就好像猎犬闻到了鹌鹑的气味。他的两眼固定在德拉身上，那种神情使她无法理解，令她毛骨悚然。既不是愤怒，也不是惊讶，又不是不满，更不是厌恶，根本不是她所预料的任何一种神情。他仅仅是面带这种神情死死地盯着德拉。

德拉一扭腰，从桌上跳了下来，向他走去。

“吉姆，亲爱的，”她喊到，“别那样盯着我。我把头发剪掉卖了，因为不送你一件礼物，我过不了圣诞节。头发会再长出来的——你不会介意，是吗？我非这么做不可。我的头发长得快极了。说‘圣诞快乐’吧！吉姆，让我们快快乐乐的。你肯定猜不着我给你买了一件多么好的礼物——多么美丽、多么精致的礼物啊！”

“你已经把头发剪掉了？”吉姆费力地问道，似乎他绞尽脑汁也没弄明白这明摆着的事实。

“非但剪了，而且卖了，”德拉说。“不管怎样，你还是同样喜欢我的，不是吗？头发没了，我还是我，对吗？”

吉姆好奇地向房里四下张望。

“你说——你的头发——没有了吗？”他差不多是白痴似地问道。

“别找拉，”德拉说。“告诉你，我已经卖了——卖掉了，没有啦。这是圣诞前夜，亲爱的。好好对待我吧，我剪掉头发是为了你呀。我的头发也许数得清，”突然她特别温柔地接下去，“可谁也数不清我对你的爱呀。我可以煎肉排了吗，吉姆？”

吉姆好像从恍惚中突然醒来，他把德拉紧紧地搂在怀里。

他从大衣口袋里掏出一个小包，扔在桌上。

“别对我产生误会，德尔，”他说道，“无论剪发、修脸，还是洗头，我知道世上没有任何一样东西能减低一点点对我妻子的爱。不过，只要你打开那包东西，你就会明白，你刚才为什么使我愣头愣脑了。”

白皙的手指灵巧地解开绳子，打开纸包袋。接着是一阵欣喜若狂的尖叫，紧接着，哎呀！突然又转变成了女性神经质的泪水和哭泣，急需男主人千方百计的慰籍。

这是因为摆在桌上的是插在头发上的梳子——全套梳子，包括两鬓用的，后面用的，应有尽有。那原是在百老汇路上的一个橱窗里德拉渴望已久的东西……