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Speaker 1: His Christmas gift by Jacob A. Reese. The prisoner will stand,

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droned out the clerk in the Court of General Sessions.

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Filippo Portoghese, you are convicted of assault with intent to kill.

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Have you anything to say why sentence should not be

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passed upon you? A sallow man with a hopeless look

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in his heavy eyes, rose slowly in his seat and

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stood facing the judge. There was a pause in the

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hum and bustle of the court as men turned to

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watch the prisoner. He did not look like a man

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who would take a neighbor's life, and yet so nearly

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had he done so of set purpose. It had been

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abundantly proved that his victim would carry the disfiguring scar

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of the bullet to the end of his life, and

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only by what seemed an almost miraculous chance, had escaped death.

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The story, as told by witnesses and substantially uncontry addicted

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was this Portoghese and Vito Amella, whom he shot, were

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neighbors under the same roof. Amela kept the grocery on

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the ground floor. Portoghese lived upstairs in the tenement. He

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was a prosperous peaceful man with a family of bright children,

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with whom he romped and played happily. When home from

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his barber shop, The black hand fixed its evil eye

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upon the family group and saw its chance. One day

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a letter came demanding a thousand dollars. Portoghese put it

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aside with the comment that this was New York, not Italy.

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Other letters followed, threatening harm to his children. Portoghese paid

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no attention, but his wife worried. One day, the baby,

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little Vito, was missing, and in hysterics, she ran to

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her husband's shop, crying that the black Hand had stolen

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the child. The barber hurried home and sought high and low.

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At last he came upon the child sitting on Amela's doorstep.

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He had wandered away and brought up at the grocery.

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Asked where he had been, The child pointed to the store.

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Portoghese flew in and demanded to know what Amela was

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doing with his boy. The grocer was in a bad

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humor and swore at him. There was an altercation, and

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Ammela attacked the barber with a broom, beating him and

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driving him away from his door. Black with anger, portoghese

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ran to his room and returned with a revolver. In

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the fight that followed, he shot Amela through the head.

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He was arrested and thrown into jail. In the hospital,

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the grocer hovered between life and death for many weeks.

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Portogheseli in the tombs, awaiting trial for more than a year,

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believing still that he was the victim of a black

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hand conspiracy. When at last the trial came up, his

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savings were all gone, and of the once prosperous and

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happy man only a shadow was left. He sat in

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the court room and listened in moody silence to the

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witnesses who told how he had unjustly suspected and nearly

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murdered his friend. He was speedily convicted, and the day

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of his sentence was fixed for Christmas Eve. It was

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certain that it would go hard with him. The Italians

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were too prone to shoot in stabs of the newspapers,

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and the judges were showing no mercy. The witnesses had

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told the truth, but there were some things they did

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not know, and they did not get into the evidence.

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The prisoner's wife was ill from grief and want their

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savings of years gone to lawyer's fees. They were on

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the verge of starvation. The children were hungry with the

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bells ringing in the glad holiday, they were facing bitter

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homelessness in the winter streets, for the rent was in arrears,

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and the landlord would not wait, and Papa away now

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for the second Christmas, and maybe for many yet to come.

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Ten the lawyer and jury had said this was New York,

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not Italy. In the tombs, the prisoners set it over

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to himself bitterly. He had thought only of defending his own.

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So now he stood, looking the judge and the jury

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in the face, yet hardly seeing them. He saw only

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the prison gates opening for him, and the gray walls

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shutting him out from his wife and little ones. For

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how many Christmases was it? One? Two, three? He fell

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to counting them over mentally, and did not hear when

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his lawyer whispered and nudged him with his elbow. The

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clerk repeated his question, but he merely shook his head.

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What should he have to say had he not said

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it to these men? And they did not believe him?

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About little Vito, who was long, and his wife, who

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cried her eyes out because of the black hand letters.

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He There was a step behind him, and a voice

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he knew spoke. It was the voice of Ammela, his neighbor,

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with whom he had used to be friends before before

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that day. Please, your honor, let this man go. It

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is Christmas and we should have no unkind thoughts. I

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have none against Filippo here, and I ask you to

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let him go. It grew very still in the courtroom

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as he spoke and paused for an answer. Lawyers looked

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up from their briefs in astonishment. The juryman in the

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box leaned forward and regarded the convicted man and his

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victim with rapt attention. Such a plea had not been

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heard in that place before portoghese stood mute. The voice

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sounded strange and far away to him. He felt a

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hand upon his shoulder that was the hand of a friend,

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and shifted his feet uncertainly, but made no response. The

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gray haired judge regarded the two gravely, but kindly. Your

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wish comes from a kind heart, he said. But this

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man has been convicted. The law must be obeyed. There

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is nothing in it that allows us to let a

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guilty man go free. The jurymen whispered together, and one

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of them arose your honor. He said, a higher law

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than any made by man came into the world at Christmas.

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That we love one another. These men would obey it.

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Will you not let them? The jury pray is one man,

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that you let mercy go before justice on this holy eve.

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A smile lit up Judge O'Sullivan's face. Filippa Portoghese, he said,

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you are a very fortunate man. The law bids me

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send you to prison for ten years, and but for

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miraculous chance, would have condemned you to death. But the

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man you aimed for life pleads for you, and the

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jury that convicted you begs that you go free. The

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court remembers that you have suffered, and it knows the

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plight of your family, upon whom the heaviest burden of

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your punishment would fall. Go then to your home, and

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to you, gentlemen, a happy holiday such as you have

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given him and his This court stands adjourned. The voice

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of the crier was lost in a storm of applause.

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The jury rose to their feet and cheered Judge complainant

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and defendant Portoghese, who had stood as one dazed, raised

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eyes that brimmed with tears, to the bench and to

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his old neighbor. He understood. At last, Amela threw his

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arm around him and kissed him on both cheeks, his

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disfigured face beaming with joy. One of the jurymen, a jew,

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put his hand impulsively in his pocket, emptied it into

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his hat, and passed the hat to his neighbor. All

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the others followed his example. The court officer dropped in

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half a dollar as he stuffed its contents into the

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happy Italian's pocket. For little Vito, he said, and shook

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his hand. Ah, said the foreman of the jury, looking

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after the reunited friends, leaving the court roof arm in arm.

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It is good to live in New York. A Merry

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Christmas to you, judge, and of his Christmas Gift by

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Jacob A. Reese