LBC White Swan – Change of Date – FEBRUARY

Hi All,

 

Due to popular demand, we are changing the date of our February meet up. We are no longer getting together on Valentines Day – instead, the details are as follows!

 

LBC White Swan

Date:  Sunday 21st of February 2016
Time:  6:00pm
Address: Swan Street, Leeds

Discussing:

HOMER’S ODYSSEY

SIMON ARMITAGE

Originally commissioned for BBC Radio, Simon Armitage recasts Homer’s epic as a series of dramatic dialogues. His version bristles with the economy, wit and guile that we have come to expect from one of the most individual voices of his generation.

simon armitage

PODCAST – Modern Mrs Darcy 2016 Reading Challenge

modern mrs darcy reading challenge

This year, @BookElfLeeds and I decided to reignite our reading groove thaing by completing a reading challenge. We found this awesome list by Modern Mrs Darcy – and already we’re inspired!

Click below to hear us discuss the challenge and why we’re participating; our book choices; our continuing and lasting love of libraries; random thoughts on such vital issues as stickers on books and lots of other literary-related chatter!

Mobile Link

 

Modern Mrs Darcy 2016 Reading Challenge

  1. a book published this year
  2. a book you can finish in a day
  3. a book you’ve been meaning to read
  4. a book recommended by a local librarian or bookseller
  5. a book you should have read in school
  6. a book chosen by your spouse/partner/sibling/child or BFF
  7. a book published before you were born
  8. a book that was banned at some point
  9. a book that was previously abandoned
  10. a book you own but have never read
  11. a book that intimidates you
  12. a book you’ve already read at least once

I’ll be creating a little challenge page for us to update as the year progresses!

If you’d like to join us with this – or any other reading challenges, please drop me an email, leave a comment or tweet one of us!

PODCASTS

 

Alan Rickman reciting Sonnet 130 

One of my favourite poems, read by an incredibly talented actor, who passed away this week at 69 years. 

RIP Alan Rickman 

  

LBC White Swan – January ‘Un-Choices’

Book fallAs always we have a list left over, so if you’re looking for some suggestions, have a look here!

THE CITY AND THE PILLAR – Gore Vidal

THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE KELLY GANG – Peter Carey

HALF A KING – Joe Abercrombie

ANCILLIARY JUSTICE – Ann Leckie

THE CITY AND THE CITY – China Mieville

THE BEES – Laline Paull

OSAMA – Lavie Tidnor

GO SET A WATCHMAN – Harper Lee

TITUS GROAN – Meryn Peake

FROG MUSIC – Emma Donoghue

THE LADY IN THE VAN – Alan Bennett

Man Booker Challenge 2015: The Year of the Runaways

Well we’re almost at the end of the year, and I’ve finally managed to finish off this year’s Man Booker Challenge! It’s not that I’ve been putting this one off, it’s just there was an inexplicably long waiting list for it at the library so I’ve only just got hold of it in order to read it…

The Year of the Runaways book coverThe Year of the Runaways, Sunjeev Sahota

Thirteen young men live in a house in Sheffield, each in flight from India and in desperate search of a new life. Tarlochan, a former rickshaw driver, will say nothing about his past in Bihar; and Avtar has a secret that binds him to protect the choatic Randeep. Randeep, in turn, has a visa-wife in a flat on the other side of town: a clever, devout woman whose cupboards are full of her husband’s clothes, in case the immigration men surprise her with a call.

Sweeping between India and England, and between childhood and the present day The Year of the Runaways is a story of an unlikely family thrown together by circumstance.

I wouldn’t quite say I’d saved the best until last, because I still think A Brief History of Seven Killings is a magnificent book and thoroughly deserved to win. However, The Year of the Runaways is certainly a close second, and would have been a strong winner itself.

This is a deeply political book. Sahota takes the tabloid fodder of illegal migrant workers and fraudulent marriage/student visas and turns them into a personal tale that is honest and unflinching without ever feeling exploitative. The characters are believable, sympathetic and well-written.

The book alternates between sections outlining the characters’ current lives trying to find work in Sheffield, and sections giving their backgrounds and their various reasons for leaving India. I found all four characters compelling, but especially Tarlochan (Tochi), a “chamar” or member of the “untouchable” caste who has fled appalling violence and poverty. The horrors in his past are outlined in enough detail so you understand his motivation, but are not lingered over. Of the three men, he is the most ruthless in his attempts to succeed in building a new life – but then, he has the most reason to.

I struggled to warm to Narinder, Randeep’s British-Indian “visa wife” at first – she initially seemed a bit of a stereotype of the downtrodden Indian woman. However towards the second half of the book we learn a lot more about her background, her motivation for helping Randeep, and her current life – and she becomes a lot more interesting. I thought early on that Sahota was falling into the too-common trap of having lots of well-drawn male characters but only one poor excuse for a female character, but I’m happy to have been proved wrong on that front.

I’m hugely impressed by The Year of the Runaways, and am almost pleased it’s taken me so long to get to it, as it’s been a great book to finish the year on!

Chris Nickson Exclusive Short Story – Jingling James 1887

Many of our regular readers know that LBC has a pet author –  Chris Nickson – who is a wonderful friend, conversationalist and story teller. For the last few years, he has kindly provided us with a special Christmas treat – a short story.

This years offering features Annabelle Atkinson – instantly recognisable to fans of his Inspector Tom Harper series!

As always, HUGE hugs and thanks to Chris – you’re the best pal!! Can’t to wait to see what 2016 brings!

merry christmas lbc

And to all of our readers – thank you and we hope that you enjoy!

Jingling James

An Annabelle Atkinson Christmas Story

 

Leeds, December 1887

Annabelle Atkinson didn’t want Christmas to arrive this year. She didn’t feel any of the joy or the goodwill this December. It was barely three months since her husband Harry had died; the earth had barely settled on his grave.

They’d had a few good years before the heart attack took him. Now she had to look after the Victoria public house as well as the two bakeries she’d opened. On her own, sometimes she felt like she was drowning.

On Christmas Eve, once the last customer had gone, she’d bolt the door, close the curtains, and keep the world away until Boxing Day. She’d never been one to wallow in sadness; if you had a problem you took care of it and carried on. But the last few weeks…she’d been slowly sinking and she knew it. She felt like one of the jugglers in the halls, trying to keep all the plates spinning in the air. Too many of them.

‘Come on,’ she said to Willie Hailsham, taking the empty pint pot from his hand. ‘You’ve had enough. Get yourself off home so your wife can remember what you look like.’

The same with Harelip Harmon, Donald the Steel Man, and Jingling James, always moving the coins around in his pocket. They’d stay drinking all night if anyone would keep serving them.

‘Don’t you have homes to go to?’

It was the nightly routine, almost a comedy act after so long. They drained their glasses, said their goodnights and then the bar was empty. She locked the door, drew down the bolts and let out a long sigh. Glasses to wash, woodwork and brass to polish.

Better get started, she thought. The work’s not going to do itself.

 

Up a little after three to supervise the baking in the kitchen at the other end of the garden. The last day before Christmas, orders to fill, plenty of demand; the shops would be little goldmines today. And the Victoria would be full from the time the factories closed.

Gossiping with the girls as they all worked together, mixing, kneading, baking, the smell of fresh loaves filling the air and making her hungry. Back in the rooms over the pub she made breakfast.

This was what hurt most: the silence. There used to be so much laughter here when Harry was alive. It seemed like there was always something to set them off. Now just being here was oppressive, all the weight of ghosts around her.

 

Dan the barman and Ellen the servant were already working hard with polish when she went downstairs. Sleeves rolled up and plenty of elbow grease, they’d be done soon enough. Nothing for her to do here. The day from the brewery was due at ten, but Dan could take care of that.

Annabelle put on her cape and picked up her purse. Go into town and have a poke around the shops. Happen an hour or two away would perk her up. But there was no magic in December this year. The pavements were full of people jostling around, weighed down by packages and bags. She felt removed from it all. The displays in the windows of the Grand Pygmalion didn’t make her want to part with her money. She was low, she knew it; a lovely gown or a good hat could usually tempt her. Today, though, there was nothing. No cheer.

Even a stop at the cocoa house for something warm to drink and a slice of cake didn’t help her mood. She trailed back out along North Street, through the Leylands and past Jews’ Park, back along to Sheepscar.

Soon enough the Victoria was busy, and it would stay that way until she kicked them all out. She took her place behind the bar, smiling, flirting the way she always had, and for a few minutes at least she could forget why she hurt inside.

‘Give over,’ she told one man who insisted he’d be a good husband. ‘I’d wear you out in one night, then I’d have to send you home to your missus.’ It brought laughter. As she walked around, collecting glasses, she brushed hands away, giving the culprits a look. It was all part of running a pub. A game; if you played it well, you were successful.  And she had the knack.

Annabelle promised old Jonas free beer for the evening if he played the piano in the corner, and soon half the customers were singing along the favourites from the music hall. It gave her a chance to breathe and Dan could look at the barrels.

By eleven she’d had enough. The pub was still busy, the till was overflowing. But all the noise made her head ache. She wanted peace and quiet for a while. She wanted the place empty.

‘Come on.’ She rang the old school bell she kept under the bar, next to the cudgel for sorting out the unruly. ‘Time for you lot to see your families. They probably don’t believe you exist.’

Slowly, the crowd thinned. Another five minutes and it was down to the usual four still standing and supping. Donald the Steel Man, Willie Hailsham, Jingling James, and Harelip Harmon.

‘That’s enough,’ she told them. Her voice sounded weary. She knew it and she didn’t care. They were regulars, they’d probably been coming in here since they were old enough to peer over the bar. ‘Let’s call it a night, gentlemen, please.’

James slipped off to the privy while she was ushering the others out, wishing them merry Christmas and accepting beery kisses and hugs until they’d gone and she turned the key in the lock.

Then James was there, looking bashfully down at his boots. He was a gentle soul, a widower with grown children. Fifty, perhaps, his hair full white, jammed under his cap.

‘Are you seeing your family tomorrow?’ she asked.

‘Not this year.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘They all have their plans. It’s different now, everyone’s so busy. Are you going to your sister’s?’

‘A quiet day.’ Sometime before the new year she’d slip over to see her sister and the wastrel husband she had. Take some presents for their children. But she wouldn’t pop over to Hunslet and see her brother. He could take a running jump; she’d told him that a few years before. ‘Maybe it’s better that way.’

‘When my Alice died I carried on, same as I always had. The bairns were grown and gone but I still had to work and put a roof over my head.’

‘I know,’ she agreed. The everyday tasks that carried on like a machine. Without thinking, he jingled the coins in his pocket.

‘Then her birthday came around. We never made a fuss when she was alive, well, who could afford to? First we had the little ‘uns, then it didn’t seem to matter so much.’

‘We were the same,’ Annabelle said. ‘Harry’s birthday or mine, there was still the pub to run.’

‘Any road, the year she died, on her birthday it suddenly hit me how alone I was. Not just then, but for the rest of my days. Because no one could replace Alice. I had all them years in front of me.’

‘What did you do?’ she asked.

‘I sat there at the table and made myself remember all the good things. How she looked when she smiled, how she sounded when she laughed. The way she were pretty as a picture when we got wed. I said it all like she were sitting there and I was talking to her.’

‘Did it help?’

‘It did. But I can tell you’re feeling that way. I can see it in your eyes. I just thought it might help.’ He gave her a smile and bussed her cheek.

‘You said you’re not going anywhere tomorrow?’ Annabelle said.

‘That’s right.’

‘Come round for your tea. It won’t be anything special, mind.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll probably sick of my own company by then anyway.’

She locked the door behind him, hearing the jingling of his coins as he walked down the street.

 

* * * * *

Christmas Read-a-Long – Greenshaw’s Folly

THE ADVENTURES OF THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING

AGATHA CHRISTIE

christmas read a long

There are six short stories featuring two of Agatha Christie’s most beloved detectives – Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. The plan is that we shall read one a week in the build up to Christmas

BLURB

Raymond West’s niece is invited by an elderly recluse to help compile her late grandfather’s diaries for publication. After only two days at their sprawling home of Greenshaw’s Folly, she witnesses a murder, which only Miss Marple can solve…

  1. The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding – 15th November
  2. The Mystery of the Spanish Chest – 22nd November
  3. The Under Dog – 29th November
  4. Four and Twenty Blackbirds – 6th December
  5. The Dream – wc 13th December
  6. Greenshaw’s Folly – wc 20th December

If you decide to join us, please tweet your thoughts via #LBCReadalong

INTERVIEW with Minicine

Recently I headed down to the beautiful Armley Mills Industrial Museum to have a  natter with the fabulously funny Minicine team – Woody and Abi.

As regular readers will know, I’m a long time supporter of Minicine, but only recently attended one of their screenings (check out my review for Westwood HERE and Wayne’s World HERE), who are based out of The Palace Picturehouse – one of the world’s smallest fully functional replica’s 1920’s cinemas.

IMG_0073

We all of us (well two of us anyway) talk a mile a minute so we manage to cover A LOT of territory. Naturally, we discussed the origins of Minicine and the ethos that drives it, as well as the challenges of trying to come up with a program of events… let alone the associated audio and video playlists, reviews and pictures that are the playground of the truly obsessed!

(#GroupHug)

(#GroupHug)

Social cinema – as run by Minicine – is all encompassing, featuring cults, classics, foreign films as well as short films and anything else that Abi and Woody can sneak in, which leads to a particularly diverse and inclusive community atmosphere events. SPOILER – we pretty much decide it’s based on the cake amazing films that the team have brought together season by season in the last few years.

Which naturally leads us onto their award winning years – as they are the recent recipients of the Film Society Of the Year Award for 2015!

We also took a sneak peek at its exciting plans for 2016 – including the upcoming Human Nature season.

IMG_0071

Click below to hear an in-depth chat about all things film, short film, social cinema and CAKE!

Probably the most enthusiastic podcast you’ll hear this year!

MINICINE - taking films seriously since 2010!

MINICINE – taking films seriously since 2010!

Want to learn more about Minicine? Check out the website HERE!

And you can also find them on Instagram!

Human Nature Season

Her (2013)

Never Let Me Go (2010)

Under the Skin (2014)

PODCASTS

CROSS POST ON DRNEEVIL’S NOTES

Christmas Read-a-Long – The Dream

THE ADVENTURES OF THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING

AGATHA CHRISTIE

christmas read a long

There are six short stories featuring two of Agatha Christie’s most beloved detectives – Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. The plan is that we shall read one a week in the build up to Christmas

BLURB

Hercule Poirot is slightly reluctant to answer a letter demanding his services by the reclusive and eccentric millionaire Benedict Farley. Entering the strange world that Mr. Farley inhabits and accounting for each stagy nuanced oddity

Poirot is a little at a loss at his ability to help. Poirot is apparently meant to consult on Mr. Farley’s reoccurring dream, of death, something not usually within his remit. The dream haunts Mr. Farley and only one week after dismissing the bemused Poirot the dream becomes real.

What ensues is a perplexing short story in which each member of the Farley household that Poirot questions seems more puzzled than the one before.

  1. The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding – 15th November
  2. The Mystery of the Spanish Chest – 22nd November
  3. The Under Dog – 29th November
  4. Four and Twenty Blackbirds – 6th December
  5. The Dream – wc 13th December
  6. Greenshaw’s Folly – wc 20th December

If you decide to join us, please tweet your thoughts via #LBCReadalong

The Gift of the Magi – O. Henry

The Gift of the Magi
O Henry
 
One dollar 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 man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 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. James Dillingham Young.”
The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della 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 Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. 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 Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, 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 twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee 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.
Where she stopped the sign read: “Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”
“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.
“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”
Down rippled the brown cascade.
“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
“Give it to me quick,” said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. 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 87 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.
“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty seven cents?”
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 for saying 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 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 without gloves.
Jim stopped 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.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold 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!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”
“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”
Jim looked about the room curiously.
“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. 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 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. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”
The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
 
Free e-versions
iTunes            – The Gift of the Magi
Kindle            – The Gift of the Magi
Project Gutenberg – The Gift of the Magi

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 4,370 other followers

%d bloggers like this: