The Burglar's Christmas

By Willa Cather

A beautiful Christmas story of love, forgiveness and uneasy life. Set in Chicago on a bitterly cold Christmas night, William, considers stealing both to satisfy his hunger and to find excitement in his dull life, but when a woman drops a parcel he gives it to her instead of running off with it. He feels as if he is a failed thief, in the same manner as he has failed at everything - college, journalism, real estate, performing. He then walks into a house in an attempt to steal the jewellery, and his own mother finds him there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Interactive Media
• Release date: Dec 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781911144571

Willa Cather

Willa Cather (1873-1947) was born in Virginia and raised on the Nebraska prairie. She worked as a newspaper writer, teacher, and managing editor of McClure's magazine. In addition to My Ántonia, her books include O Pioneers! (1913) and The Professor's House. She was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1923 for One of Ours.

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Willa Cather

Willa Cather

The Burglar’s Christmas

LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW

PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA

TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING

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Contents

THE BURGLAR’S CHRISTMAS

THE BURGLAR’S CHRISTMAS

Two very shabby looking young men stood at the corner of Prairie Avenue and Eightieth Street, looking despondently at the carriages that whirled by. It was Christmas Eve, and the streets were full of vehicles; florists’ wagons, grocers’ carts and carriages. The streets were in that half-liquid, half-congealed condition peculiar to the streets of Chicago at that season of the year. The swift wheels that spun by sometimes threw the slush of mud and snow over the two young men who were talking on the corner.

Well, remarked the elder of the two, I guess we are at our rope’s end, sure enough. How do you feel?

Pretty shaky. The wind’s sharp tonight. If I had had anything to eat I mightn’t mind it so much. There is simply no show. I’m sick of the whole business. Looks like there’s nothing for it but the lake.

O, nonsense, I thought you had more grit. Got anything left you can hock?

Nothing but my beard, and I am afraid they wouldn’t find it worth a pawn ticket," said the younger man ruefully, rubbing the week’s growth of stubble on his