The Gift Of The Poni

In honor of the classic O. Henry story,

One bit and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable stallion and the pantry chef until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Ditzy counted it. One bit and eight-seven cents. And the next day would be Hearths Warming Eve.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and neigh. So Ditzy did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mare of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at 8bits per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. Doctor Whooves"

The "Whooves" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid 30bits per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to 20bits, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming W. But whenever Mr. Whooves came home and reached his flat above he was called "Doc" and greatly hugged by Mrs. Derpy Whooves, already introduced to you as Ditzy. Which is all very good.

Ditzy finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Hearths Warming Eve, and she had only 1.87bits with which to buy Doc a present. She had been saving every penny she could for moons, with this result. Twenty bits a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only 1.87bits to buy a present for Doc. Her Doc. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Doc.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an 8bits flat. A very thin and very agile pony may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Ditzy, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within ten seconds flat. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the Doctor Whooves' in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Doc's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Ditzy's hair. Had the princess of Friendship lived in the flat across the airshaft, Ditzy would have let her hair hang out the window someday to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had Princess Celestia been the janitor, with all her treasures piled up in the basement, Doc would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Ditzy's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of marigold waters. It reached below her knees and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.