The Gift of the Magi and Other Short Stories
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O. Henry, the pen name of William Sydney Porter, is one of the most famous short story writers of all times whose stories are known for their wit, wordplay, warm characterization and clever twist endings. O. Henry is so acknowledged as a great short story writer that his pen name is associated with a prestigious American award given to short stories of exceptional merit. Included in this collection of "The Gift of the Magi and Other Short Stories" is the title story which describes the struggles of a poor young married couple as they strive to secretly buy each other Christmas gifts. Also included in this collection are the following stories: "The Cop and the Anthem", "Springtime À La Carte", "The Green Door", "After Twenty Years", "The Furnished Room", "The Pimienta Pancakes", "The Last Leaf", "The Voice of The City", "While The Auto Waits", "A Retrieved Reformation", "A Municipal Report", "A Newspaper Story", "The Ransom of Red Chief", "A Ghost of a Chance", and "Makes the Whole World Kin".
renting rooms we kape alive. Ye have the rale sense for business, ma’am. There be many people will rayjict the rentin’ of a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin’ in the bed of it.” “As you say, we has our living to be making,” remarked Mrs. Purdy. “Yis, ma‘am; ’tis true. ’Tis just one wake ago this day I helped ye lay out the third-floor-back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to be killin’ herself wid the gas—a swate little face she had, Mrs. Purdy, ma‘am.” “She’d a-been
falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it’s easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now.” “Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie.” “Leaves. On the ivy vine. 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 nonsense,” complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. “What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that
the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. “I have something to tell you, white mouse,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night.
even when the home is a park bench. But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy’s ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence. The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles
Love Test,” by Miss Libbey, had been the book that had most influenced his life. During his walk a violent chattering of teeth in a glass case on the sidewalk seemed at first to draw his attention (with a qualm) to a restaurant before which it was set; but a second glance revealed the electric letters of a dentist’s sign high above the next door. A giant negro, fantastically dressed in a red embroidered coat, yellow trousers and a military cap, discreetly distributed cards to those of the