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At Christmas time, my brothers and I looked forward to snuggling on the couch with our Mom to listen to poems and stories; the same beloved ones, year after year. There is so much wonderful yuletide literature to choose from, but every family will have their own favorites. Why not read these fine examples aloud with your family this year? Start a tradition to revisit for years to come. You'll also find a list of publications I recommend for Christmas inspiration and enjoyment.
The Gift of the Magi
a short story by O. Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. She had put it aside, one cent and then another and then another, in her careful buying of meat and other food. Della counted it three times. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was nothing to do but fall on the bed and cry. So Della did it.
While the lady of the home is slowly growing quieter, we can look at the home. Furnished rooms at a cost of $8 a week. There is little more to say about it. In the hall below was a letter-box too small to hold a letter. There was an electric bell, but it could not make a sound. Also there was a name beside the door: “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”
When the name was placed there, Mr. James Dillingham Young was being paid $30 a week. Now, when he was being paid only $20 a week, the name seemed too long and important. It should perhaps have been “Mr. James D. Young.” But when Mr. James Dillingham Young entered the furnished rooms, his name became very short indeed. Mrs. James Dillingham Young put her arms warmly about him and called him “Jim.” You have already met her. She is Della.
Della finished her crying and cleaned the marks of it from her face. She stood by the window and looked out with no interest. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a gift. She had put aside as much as she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week is not much. Everything had cost more than she had expected. It always happened like that. Only $ 1.87 to buy a gift for Jim. Her Jim. She had had many happy hours planning something nice for him. Something nearly good enough. Something almost worth the honor of belonging to Jim.
There was a looking-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen the kind of looking-glass that is placed in $8 furnished rooms. It was very narrow. A person could see only a little of himself at a time. However, if he was very thin and moved very quickly, he might be able to get a good view of himself. Della, being quite thin, had mastered this art. Suddenly she turned from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brightly, but her face had lost its color. Quickly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its complete length.
The James Dillingham Youngs were very proud of two things which they owned. One thing was Jim’s gold watch. It had once belonged to his father. And, long ago, it had belonged to his father’s father. The other thing was Della’s hair. If a queen had lived in the rooms near theirs, Della would have washed and dried her hair where the queen could see it. Della knew her hair was more beautiful than any queen’s jewels and gifts. If a king had lived in the same house, with all his riches, Jim would have looked at his watch every time they met. Jim knew that no king had anything so valuable.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her, shining like a falling stream of brown water. It reached below her knee. It almost made itself into a dress for her. And then she put it up on her head again, nervously and quickly. Once she stopped for a moment and stood still while a tear or two ran down her face. She put on her old brown coat. She put on her old brown hat. With the bright light still in her eyes, she moved quickly out the door and down to the street.
Where she stopped, the sign said: “Mrs. Sofronie. Hair Articles of all Kinds.” Up to the second floor Della ran, and stopped to get her breath. Mrs. Sofronie, large, too white, cold-eyed, looked at her. “Will you buy my hair?” asked Della. “I buy hair,” said Mrs. Sofronie. “Take your hat off and let me look at it.” Down fell the brown waterfall. “Twenty dollars,” said Mrs. Sofronie, lifting the hair to feel its weight. “Give it to me quick,” said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours seemed to fly. She was going from one shop to another, to find a gift for Jim. 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 shops, and she had looked in every shop in the city. It was a gold watch chain, very simply made. Its value was in its rich and pure material. Because it was so plain and simple, you knew that it was very valuable. All good things are like this. It was good enough for The Watch. As soon as she saw it, she knew that Jim must have it. It was like him. Quietness and value—Jim and the chain both had quietness and value.
She paid twenty-one dollars for it. And she hurried home with the chain and eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch, Jim could look at his watch and learn the time anywhere he might be. Though the watch was so fine, it had never had a fine chain. He sometimes took it out and looked at it only when no one could see him do it.
When Della arrived home, her mind quieted a little. She began to think more reasonably. She started to try to cover the sad marks of what she had done. Love and large-hearted giving, when added together, can leave deep marks. It is never easy to cover these marks, dear friends— never easy. Within forty minutes her head looked a little better. With her short hair, she looked wonderfully like a schoolboy. She stood at the looking-glass for a long time. “If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he looks at me a second time, he’ll say I look like a girl who sings and dances for money. But what could I do—oh! What could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”
At seven, Jim’s dinner was ready for him. Jim was never late. Della held the watch chain in her hand and sat near the door where he always entered. Then she heard his step in the hall and her face lost color for a moment. She often said little prayers quietly, about simple everyday things. And now she said: “Please God, make him think I’m still pretty.”
The door opened and Jim stepped in. He looked very thin and he was not smiling. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and with a family to take care of! He needed a new coat and he had nothing to cover his cold hands. Jim stopped inside the door. He was as quiet as a hunting dog when it is near a bird. His eyes looked strangely at Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not understand. It filled her with fear. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor anything she had been ready for. He simply looked at her with that strange expression on his face.
Della went to him. “Jim, dear,” she cried, “don’t look at me like that. I had my hair cut off and sold it. I couldn’t live through Christmas without giving you a gift. My hair will grow again. You won’t care, will you? My hair grows very fast. It’s Christmas, Jim. Let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful nice gift I got for you.”
“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim slowly. He seemed to labor to understand what had happened. He seemed not to feel sure he knew.
“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me now? I’m me, Jim. I’m the same without my hair.”
Jim looked around the room. “You say your hair is gone?” he said.
“You don’t have to look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you— sold and gone, too. It’s the night before Christmas, boy. Be good to me, because I sold it for you. Maybe the hairs of my head could be counted,” she said, “but no one could ever count my love for you. Shall we eat dinner, Jim?”
Jim put his arms around his Della. For ten seconds let us look in another direction. Eight dollars a week or a million dollars a year— how different are they? Someone may give you an answer, but it will be wrong. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. My meaning will be explained soon.
From inside the coat, Jim took something tied in paper. He threw it upon the table. “I want you to understand me, Dell,” he said. “Nothing like a haircut could make me love you any less. But if you’ll open that, you may know what I felt when I came in.”
White fingers pulled off the paper. And then a cry of joy; and then a change to tears. For there lay The Combs—the combs that Della had seen in a shop window and loved for a long time. Beautiful combs, with jewels, perfect for her beautiful hair. She had known they cost too much for her to buy them. She had looked at them without the least hope of owning them. And now they were hers, but her hair was gone. But she held them to her heart, and at last was able to look up and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”
And then she jumped up and cried, “Oh, oh!” Jim had not yet seen his beautiful gift. She held it out to him in her open hand. The gold seemed to shine softly as if with her own warm and loving spirit. “Isn’t it perfect, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at your watch a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how they look together.”
Jim sat down and smiled. “Della,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas gifts away and keep them a while. They’re too nice to use now. I sold the watch to get the money to buy the combs. And now I think we should have our dinner.”
The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men— who brought gifts to the newborn Christ-child. They were the first to give Christmas gifts. Being wise, their gifts were doubtless wise ones. And here I have told you the story of two children who were not wise. Each sold the most valuable thing he owned in order to buy a gift for the other. But let me speak a last word to the wise of these days: Of all who give gifts, these two were the most wise. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the most wise. Everywhere they are the wise ones. They are the magi.
A Visit from St. Nicholas
by Clement Clarke Moore
Mistletoe
by Walter de la Mare
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all
through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by
name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.
Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen—and kissed me there.
Christmas Gifts
by Katharine L. Sparrow
Where are the scissors?
Find me the tape!
This stupid package
is such a weird shape!
I need some ribbon!
Make me a bow!
How I will do this,
I simply don't know.
I'm tangled in tissue,
I'm all out of tags-
resorting to newspaper,
brown paper bags!
I'm not a good wrapper,
I'll have to admit-
so here in frustration,
as always, I sit.
Why must it be pretty
with bows tied on tight?
If I have to do this,
I'll be up all night!
So please take this present,
I'm sorry it's lame...
I promise it's given
with love, just the same.
This story was one my mother read to us before bedtime on Christmas Eve, year after year. When this story was done, we read "A Visit from St. Nicholas", then off to bed to TRY and sleep!
The Story of the First Christmas Tree
by Rose Fyleman
This story of the First Christmas Tree was told to me by the Fairy Queen herself, so you can be quite sure it is a true one. Here it is.
Once upon a time there lived in the middle of a forest a poor woodcutter. He had one little daughter called Annis, whom he loved dearly.
Annis was a dear little girl, kind and gentle. She was very fond of all the woodland creatures, and they in turn knew and loved her well. The fairies loved her also. They used to dance on the top of the low stone wall that went round the little garden in front of the cottage.
"Annis! Annis!" they would call to her while she was busy helping her mother in the kitchen. But she would shake her head. "I can't come. I'm busy," she would answer.
But at night-time, when she was fast asleep under her red quilt, they would come tapping at the little window.
"Annis! Annis"
Then she would slip out of bed and run quickly downstairs with her bare feet, and off with the fairies into the moon-shining woods. But the next day she was never sure whether it had been a dream or reality.
That was in the summer. It was winter now, and very cold. The sky was dark and heavy with coming snow.
Every evening, all through the winter, Annis would hang a little lantern with a candle in it on the small fir tree that grew just inside the garden gate. Her father could see it as he came home through the trees. It was a little bright welcome for him even before he reached home.
On Christmas Eve, he went to work as usual. He came home for his dinner at midday and started back early. He was at work quite a long way off.
"I shall finish there today," he said to his wife as he left the house. "Then I shall come nearer home. If the snow comes, it will be difficult to find the way in the dark evenings."
And that very day the snow began. All the afternoon it fell in great, soft flakes. Down, down, down....It seemed as if the whole sky were falling in little bits.
The woodcutter worked hard in the fading light. It was quite dark by the time he had finished, and he had to keep shaking the snow from his shoulders and from his old hat. The wood was all neatly stacked in the little shed which had been built up there to house it.
He started off home with a sigh of relief, smiling to himself as he thought of his warm hearth and the bowl of hot porridge waiting for him on the hob, and of little Annis knitting in the chimney-corner.
But presently— how it happened I know not, for he knew the forest well, and the snow had almost stopped falling, and the moon was shining— he found that he had lost his way.
He was quite cheerful at first. "In a minute I shall find the path again," he said. But minutes passed and he did not find it. A cloud came over the moon; the snow began to fall again more thickly. It was like a moving, whirling mist where the trees stood less close together.
The woodcutter began to lose heart. Then, suddenly, he saw a light ahead of him on one of the fir trees.
"Can I be so near home?" he said, half-bewildered.
But when he came near he found that is was not a fir tree in his own garden that was lit up, but an ordinary forest tree. Little lights twinkled and glittered on its branches, burning brightly and steadily in spite of the falling snow. The woodcutter rubbed his eyes. Then he crossed himself. "If this be wicked magic," he thought, "it will now disappear." But the lights burned more brightly than ever, and as he looked about him he saw in the distance another tree lit up in the same way. Then he understood.
"It is the good fairies helping me," he said, and trudged off cheerily in the direction of the second tree. And when he looked back, the first one had already grown dark again. But when he reached the second tree, another was shining ahead to show him the way. And so he went on from tree to tree until at last he was guided safely home to Annis' little lantern in his own garden.
And always after that he used to put lights on a little fir tree on Christmas Eve in memory of the time when the fairies saved him from being lost in the forest. And so the custom began, and because it was such a pretty one, and because the fairies so willed it, it spread, and today the fairy Christmas Tree is to be found all over the world in houses where there are children and where fairies come.....
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