The Gift of the Magi has always been my favorite Christmas story, and it ages well with time. I used to like it because of the plot twist and the fact that William Sydney Porter (aka the Diabolical O. Henry) was from my hometown.

Never really understood it until I married April and we went through some lean times and had a couple of Magi-esque incidents. It's the shortest, simplest of love stories -- yet just lowminded and materialistic enough for we mere mortals to appreciate.

Today, my old hometown newspaper decided to run it on their front page. The Scroogey media snob in me would call that a waste of undifferentiated ink, but my heart says that my pal John Robinson made the right call.

For: "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."