***  "The Skylight Room" by O. Henry is a poignant short story that delves into the life of Miss Leeson, a young typist trying to make ends meet in New York City. Through his signature blend of wit and irony, O. Henry paints a vivid picture of the struggles and small joys experienced by the working class. The narrative explores themes of hope, desperation, and the human desire for connection and meaning, set against the backdrop of a bustling metropolis. As Miss Leeson rents the smallest and cheapest room in Mrs. Parker's boarding house, aptly named the "Skylight Room," her story unfolds, revealing the tender and often heartbreaking reality of her existence.

                                    The Skylight Room

First, Mrs. Parker would show you the double parlors. You would not dare interrupt her description of their advantages or of the merits of the gentleman who had occupied them for eight years. Then you would manage to stammer forth the confession that you were neither a doctor nor a dentist. Mrs. Parker's manner of receiving this admission was such that you could never afterward entertain the same feeling toward your parents, who had neglected to train you up in one of the professions that fitted Mrs. Parker's parlors.

Next, you ascended one flight of stairs and looked at the second floor for $8. Convinced by her description that it was worth the $12 that Mr. Toosenberry always paid for it until he left to take charge of his brother's orange plantation in Florida near Palm Beach, where Mrs. McIntyre always spent the winters in a double-front room with a private bath, you managed to babble that you wanted something still cheaper.

If you survived Mrs. Parker's scorn, you were taken to look at Mr. Skidder's large hall on the third floor. Mr. Skidder's room was not vacant. He wrote plays and smoked cigarettes in them all day long. But every room-hunter was made to visit his room to admire the lambrequins. After each visit, Mr. Skidder, out of fright caused by possible eviction, would pay something on his rent.

Then, oh then, if you still stood on one foot with your hot hand clutching the three moist dollars in your pocket and hoarsely proclaimed your hideous and culpable poverty, nevermore would Mrs. Parker be a cicerone of yours. She would honk loudly the word 'Clara,' show you her back, and march downstairs. Then Clara, the colored maid, would escort you up the carpeted ladder that served for the fourth flight and show you the Skylight Room. It occupied 7 by 8 feet of floorspace in the middle of the hall. On each side of it was a dark lumber closet or storeroom.

In it were an iron cot, a washstand, and a chair. A shelf served as the dresser. Its four bare walls seemed to close in on you like the sides of a coin. Your hand crept to your throat, you gasped, you looked up as if from a well, and you breathed once more. Through the glass of the little skylight, you saw a square of blue infinity.

"Two dollars, sir," Clara would say in her half-contemptuous, half-Tuskegee-toned voice.

One day, Miss Leeson came hunting for a room. She carried a typewriter made to be lugged around by a much larger lady. She was a very little girl, with eyes and hair that kept on growing after she had stopped and that always looked as if they were saying, "Goodness me. Why didn't you keep up with us?"

Mrs. Parker showed her the double parlors. "In this closet," she said, "one could keep a skeleton, anesthetic, or coal."

"But I am neither a doctor nor a dentist," said Miss Leeson with a shiver.

Mrs. Parker gave her the incredulous, pitying, sneering, icy stare that she kept for those who failed to qualify as doctors or dentists and led the way to the second-floor back.

"Eight dollars?" said Miss Leeson. "Dear me! I'm not Hetty if I am."

"Look green, do I? I'm just a poor little working girl. Show me something higher and lower." Mr. Skidder jumped and strewed the floor with cigarette stubs at the rap on his door.

"Excuse me, Mr. Skidder," said Mrs. Parker, with her demon's smile at his pale looks. "I didn't know you were in. I asked the lady to have a look at your lambrequins."

"They're too lovely for anything," said Miss Leeson, smiling exactly the way the angels do.

After they had gone, Mr. Skidder got very busy erasing the tall, black-haired heroine from his latest (unproduced) play and inserting a small, roguish one with heavy, bright hair and vivacious features.

"Anna Held'll jump at it," said Mr. Skidder to himself, putting his feet up against the lambrequins and disappearing in a cloud of smoke like an aerial cuttlefish.

Presently, the tocsin call of 'Clara!' sounded to the world the state of Miss Leeson's purse. A dark goblin seized her, mounted a Stygian stairway, thrust her into a vault with a glimmer of light in its top, and muttered the menacing and cabalistic words, 'Two dollars!'

"I'll take it!" sighed Miss Leeson, sinking down upon the squeaky iron bed.

Every day, Miss Leeson went out to work. At night, she brought home papers with handwriting on them and made copies with her typewriter. Sometimes she had no work at night, and then she would sit on the steps of the high stoop with the other roomers.

Miss Leeson was not intended for a skylight room when the plans were drawn for her creation. She was gay-hearted and full of tender, whimsical fancies. Once she let Mr. Skidder read to her three acts of his great (unpublished) comedy, 'It's No Kid, or The Heir of the Subway,

There was rejoicing among the gentlemen roomers whenever Miss Leeson had time to sit on the steps for an hour or two. But Miss Longnecker, the tall blonde who taught in a public school and said 'Well, really!' to everything you said, sat on the top step and sniffed. And Miss Dorn, who shot at the moving ducks at Coney every Sunday and worked in a department store, sat on the bottom step and sniffed. Miss Leeson sat on the middle step, and the men would quickly group around her.

Especially Mr. Skidder, who had cast her in his mind for the star part in a private, romantic (unspoken) drama in real life. And especially Mr. Hoover, who was forty-five, fat, flushed, and foolish. And especially the very young Mr. Evans, who set up a hollow cough to induce her to ask him to leave off cigarettes. The men voted her 'the funniest and jolliest ever,' but the sniffs on the top step and the lower step were implacable.

I pray you let the drama halt while Chorus stalks to the footlights and drops an epicedian tear upon the fatness of Mr. Hoover. Tune the pipes to the tragedy of tallow, the bane of bulk, and the calamity of corpulence. Tried out, Falstaff might have rendered more romance to the ton than would have Romeo's rickety ribs to the ounce. A lover may sigh, but he must not puff. To the train of Momus are the fat men remanded. In vain beats the faith fullest heart above a 52-inch belt. Avaunt, Hoover! Hoover, forty-five, flush, and foolish, might carry off Helen herself; Hoover, forty-five, flush, foolish, and fat, is meat for perdition. There was never a chance for you, Hoover.

As Mrs. Parker's roomers sat thus one summer's evening, Miss Leeson looked up into the firmament and cried with her little gay laugh:

"Why, there's Billy Jackson! I can see him from down here, too." All looked up—some at the windows of skyscrapers, some casting about for an airship, Jackson-guided.

"It's that star," explained Miss Leeson, pointing with a tiny finger. "Not the big one that twinkles—the steady blue one near it. I can see it every night through my skylight. I named it Billy Jackson."

"Well, really!" said Miss Longnecker. "I didn't know you were an astronomer, Miss Leeson."

"Oh, yes," said the small stargazer, "I know as much as any of them about the style of sleeves they're going to wear next fall on Mars."

"Well, really!" said Miss Longnecker. "The star you refer to is Gamma, of the constellation Cassiopeia. It is nearly of the second magnitude, and its meridian passage is "

"Oh," said the very young Mr. Evans, "I think Billy Jackson is a much better name for it."

"Same here," said Mr. Hoover, loudly breathing defiance at Miss Longnecker. "I think Miss Leeson has just as much right to name stars as any of those old astrologers had."

"Well, really!" said Miss Longnecker.

"I wonder whether it's a shooting star," remarked Miss Dorn. "I hit nine ducks and a rabbit out of ten in the gallery at Coney Island."

"He doesn't show up very well from down here," said Miss Leeson. "You ought to see him from my room. You know you can see stars even in the daytime from the bottom of a well. At night, my room is like the shaft of a coal mine, and it makes Billy Jackson look like the big diamond pin that Night fastens her kimono with."

There came a time after that when Miss Leeson brought no formidable papers home to copy. When she went to work in the morning, instead of working, she went from office to office and let her heart melt away in the drip of cold refusals transmitted through insolent office boys. This went on.

There came an evening when she wearily climbed Mrs. Parker's stoop at the hour when she always returned from her dinner at the restaurant. But she had had no dinner.

As she stepped into the hall, Mr. Hoover met her and seized his chance. He asked her to marry him, and his fatness hovered above her like an avalanche. She dodged and caught the balustrade. He tried for her hand, and she raised it and smote him weakly in the face. Step by step, she went up, dragging herself by the railing. She passed Mr. Skidder's door as he was red-inking a stage direction for Myrtle Delorme (Miss Leeson) in his (unaccepted) comedy to 'pirouette across stage from L to the side of the count.' Up the carpeted ladder, she crawled at last and opened the door of the skylight room.

She was too weak to light the lamp or to undress. She fell upon the iron cot, her fragile body scarcely hollowing out the worn springs. And in that Erebus of a room, she slowly raised her heavy eyelids and smiled.

Billy Jackson was shining down on her, calm, bright, and constant through the skylight. There was nothing about her. She was sunk in a pit of blackness, with but that small square of pallid light framing the star that she had so whimsically and, oh, so ineffectually named. Miss Longnecker must be right; it was Gamma, of the constellation Cassiopeia, and not Billy Jackson. And yet, she could not let it be Gamma.

As she lay on her back, she tried twice to raise her arm. The third time, she got two thin fingers to her lips and blew a kiss out of the black pit to Billy Jackson. Her arm fell back limply.

"Goodbye, Billy," she murmured faintly. "You're millions of miles away, and you won't even twinkle once. But you kept where I could see you most of the time up there when there wasn't anything else but darkness to look at, didn't you? Millions of miles. Goodbye, Billy Jackson."

Clara, the colored maid, found the door locked at ten the next day, and they forced it open. Vinegar, the slapping of wrists, and even burnt feathers, proving of no avail, someone ran to 'phone for an ambulance.

In due time, it backed up to the door with much gong-clanging, and the capable young medico, in his white linen coat, ready, active, and confident, with his smooth face half debonair, half grim, danced up the steps.

"Ambulance call to 49," he said briefly. "What's the trouble?"

"Oh yes, doctor," sniffed Mrs. Parker, as though her trouble was greater than the fact that there should be trouble in the house. "I can't think of what the matter is with her. Nothing we could do would bring her to. It's a young woman, a Miss Elsie—yes, a Miss Elsie Leeson. Never before in my house."

"What room?" cried the doctor in a terrible voice, to which Mrs. Parker was a stranger.

"The skylight room. "

Evidently, the ambulance doctor was familiar with the location of skylight rooms. He was going up the stairs, four at a time. Mrs. Parker followed slowly, as her dignity demanded.

On the first landing, she met him coming back, bearing the astronomer in his arms. He stopped and let loose the practiced scalpel of his tongue, not loudly. Gradually, Mrs. Parker crumpled like a stiff garment that slips down from a nail. Ever afterward, there remained crumples in her mind and body. Sometimes her curious roommates would ask her what the doctor said to her.

"Let that be," she would answer. "If I can get forgiveness for having heard it, I will be satisfied."

The ambulance physician strode with his burden through the pack of hounds that followed the curiosity chase, and even they fell back along the sidewalk abashed, for his face was that of one who bears his own dead.

They noticed that he did not lay down upon the bed prepared for it in the ambulance in the form that he carried, and all that he said was, "Drive like hell, Wilson," to the driver.

That is all. Is it a story? In the next morning's paper, I saw a little news item, and the last sentence of it may help you (as it helped me) to weld the incidents together.

It recounted the reception into Bellevue Hospital of a young woman who had been removed from No. 49 East Street, suffering from debility induced by starvation. It concluded with these words:

"Dr. William Jackson, the ambulance physician who attended the case, says the patient will recover."

***In "The Skylight Room," O. Henry masterfully encapsulates the fragility of hope and the resilience of the human spirit. Miss Leeson's journey, marked by her dream of reaching the stars both literally and metaphorically, serves as a touching reminder of the universal yearning for a better life and the simple pleasures that sustain us. The story's bittersweet ending, infused with O. Henry's characteristic irony, leaves readers reflecting on the precarious balance between dreams and reality, and the enduring strength found in even the most modest aspirations. Ultimately, "The Skylight Room" is a testament to the enduring power of hope, even in the face of life's most challenging circumstances.