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Clorinda’s Gifts
by [?]

“It is a dreadful thing to be poor a fortnight before Christmas,” said Clorinda, with the mournful sigh of seventeen years.

Aunt Emmy smiled. Aunt Emmy was sixty, and spent the hours she didn’t spend in a bed, on a sofa or in a wheel chair; but Aunt Emmy was never heard to sigh.

“I suppose it is worse then than at any other time,” she admitted.

That was one of the nice things about Aunt Emmy. She always sympathized and understood.

“I’m worse than poor this Christmas … I’m stony broke,” said Clorinda dolefully. “My spell of fever in the summer and the consequent doctor’s bills have cleaned out my coffers completely. Not a single Christmas present can I give. And I did so want to give some little thing to each of my dearest people. But I simply can’t afford it … that’s the hateful, ugly truth.”

Clorinda sighed again.

“The gifts which money can purchase are not the only ones we can give,” said Aunt Emmy gently, “nor the best, either.”

“Oh, I know it’s nicer to give something of your own work,” agreed Clorinda, “but materials for fancy work cost too. That kind of gift is just as much out of the question for me as any other.”

“That was not what I meant,” said Aunt Emmy.

“What did you mean, then?” asked Clorinda, looking puzzled.

Aunt Emmy smiled.

“Suppose you think out my meaning for yourself,” she said. “That would be better than if I explained it. Besides, I don’t think I could explain it. Take the beautiful line of a beautiful poem to help you in your thinking out: ‘The gift without the giver is bare.'”

“I’d put it the other way and say, ‘The giver without the gift is bare,'” said Clorinda, with a grimace. “That is my predicament exactly. Well, I hope by next Christmas I’ll not be quite bankrupt. I’m going into Mr. Callender’s store down at Murraybridge in February. He has offered me the place, you know.”

“Won’t your aunt miss you terribly?” said Aunt Emmy gravely.

Clorinda flushed. There was a note in Aunt Emmy’s voice that disturbed her.

“Oh, yes, I suppose she will,” she answered hurriedly. “But she’ll get used to it very soon. And I will be home every Saturday night, you know. I’m dreadfully tired of being poor, Aunt Emmy, and now that I have a chance to earn something for myself I mean to take it. I can help Aunt Mary, too. I’m to get four dollars a week.”

“I think she would rather have your companionship than a part of your salary, Clorinda,” said Aunt Emmy. “But of course you must decide for yourself, dear. It is hard to be poor. I know it. I am poor.”

“You poor!” said Clorinda, kissing her. “Why, you are the richest woman I know, Aunt Emmy–rich in love and goodness and contentment.”

“And so are you, dearie … rich in youth and health and happiness and ambition. Aren’t they all worth while?”

“Of course they are,” laughed Clorinda. “Only, unfortunately, Christmas gifts can’t be coined out of them.”

“Did you ever try?” asked Aunt Emmy. “Think out that question, too, in your thinking out, Clorinda.”

“Well, I must say bye-bye and run home. I feel cheered up–you always cheer people up, Aunt Emmy. How grey it is outdoors. I do hope we’ll have snow soon. Wouldn’t it be jolly to have a white Christmas? We always have such faded brown Decembers.”

Clorinda lived just across the road from Aunt Emmy in a tiny white house behind some huge willows. But Aunt Mary lived there too–the only relative Clorinda had, for Aunt Emmy wasn’t really her aunt at all. Clorinda had always lived with Aunt Mary ever since she could remember.

Clorinda went home and upstairs to her little room under the eaves, where the great bare willow boughs were branching athwart her windows. She was thinking over what Aunt Emmy had said about Christmas gifts and giving.