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 78 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. But what could I do--oh! 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 of saying little silent prayers 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 with out gloves. Jim stepped 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. I had my hair cut off and sold it 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! You don't know what a nice-what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you. I'm me without my hair, ain't I? 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 a 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. The hair had been ruined by her love and her desire to give a special gift. Repairing the damage was a very big job.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny round curls of hair that made her look wonderfully like a schoolboy. She looked at herself in the glass mirror long and carefully. But what could I do--oh! At seven o'clock that night the coffee was made and the pan on the back of the stove was hot and ready to cook the meat. Jim was never late coming home from work. Della held the silver chain in her hand and sat near the door. Then she heard his step and she turned white for just a minute.
She had a way of saying a 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. He looked thin and very serious. Poor man, he was only twenty-two and he had to care for a wife. He needed a new coat and gloves to keep his hands warm. Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a dog smelling a bird. His eyes were fixed upon Della.
There was an expression in them that she could not read, and it frightened her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor fear, nor any of the feelings that she had been prepared for. He simply looked at her with a strange expression on his face. Della went to him. I had my hair cut and sold because I could not have lived through Christmas without giving you a gift. My hair will grow out again.
I just had to do it. My hair grows very fast. Say 'Merry Christmas! You do not know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I have for you. I am the same person without my hair, right? It is Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it was cut 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 meat on, Jim? Jim seemed to awaken quickly and put his arms around Della. Then he took a package from his coat and threw it on the table. But if you will open that package you may see why you had me frightened at first.
White fingers quickly tore at the string and paper. There was a scream of joy; and then, alas! For there were the combs -- the special set of objects to hold her hair that Della had wanted ever since she saw them in a shop window.
Beautiful combs, made of shells, with jewels at the edge --just the color to wear in the beautiful hair that was no longer hers. They cost a lot of money, she knew, and her heart had wanted them without ever hoping to have them. And now, the beautiful combs were hers, but the hair that should have touched them was gone.
But she held the combs to herself, and soon she was able to look up with a smile and say, "My hair grows so fast, Jim! Jim had not yet seen his beautiful gift.
First published by the New York World in , and then to a wider audience in the collection Four Million named for the NYC population, it was the number of stories O. His father was a prominent doctor and inventor whose life unraveled after his wife died of tuberculosis when William was only 3. His father retreated into a private world of tinkering with machinery— a perpetual-motion machine, a steam-driven horseless carriage, a device for picking cotton —and drinking away his troubles.
The diseases of alcoholism and tuberculosis would haunt Porter throughout his life. William worked the ranch on the Nueces River near San Antonio for two years, apparently becoming a proficient broncobuster while also learning Spanish and memorizing the dictionary.
He also played the guitar and sang baritone for the Hill City Quartette and met and fell in love with year-old Athol Estes, who he wooed by helping with her homework. They eloped and were married two years later on July 5, Athol gave birth to a son in , who died hours after birth; the following year, the couple had a daughter, Margaret.
The Rolling Stone. Featuring stories, cartoons, and humor pieces, it found a local audience with print runs of more than 1, For a hot second, times were good. Henry Prize stories from Instead of facing the charges, Porter fled the country, eventually landing in Honduras, which had no extradition treaty with the United States.
It was a short stay. After seven months, Porter returned to Texas to care for Athol who was suffering from tuberculosis.
She died in July In , C. Alphonso Smith, a childhood friend of O. This time, he stayed in the Lone Star state and faced the music. Various biographers , including Smith , have long held the evidence of serious criminal intent was flimsy and that while Porter kept haphazard records, bank mismanagement was more to blame, and he was actually punished for going on the lam. Porter who was never good with money and routinely walked the line of being dead broke, always maintained his innocence.
From the North Carolina History Project :.
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