❶ 2015年度優秀小說獲得特等獎的是短篇小說《夜色》，全文如下：[酷] 《夜色》 夜黑風高，荒郊野嶺
2015年度抄優秀小說獲得特等獎的是短篇小襲說《來》，全文如下：
《來》
夜黑風高，荒郊野嶺，小木屋裡。
男：「來了？」
女：「來了。」
男：「來？」
女：「來！」
男：「來了么？」
女：「還沒來！」
男：「還沒來？」
女：「來了！」
女：「還來不？」
男：「不來了，來不了了。」
首先，這不是什麼最佳小說只是一個段子，如果不懂什麼是段子自行網路。
關於這篇東西，感覺是個男人都能懂。女人需要腐一點才能懂。
先打招呼，你來了，恩來了
我們來嗎？(開始做嗎)
來，(開始)
你來了嗎？(高潮了沒)
沒來，
來了！
還來嗎？(你還能再來嗎？)
不來了，來不了了。(不行了，做不了了。)
❷ 入選中小學語文教材最有影響力的外國短篇小說
莫泊桑：福樓拜家的星期天
我的叔叔於勒
珠寶
❸ 世界著名短篇小說有哪些
(1)莫泊桑
十九世紀法國著名的批判現實主義小說家.1880年發表第一個短篇小說《羊脂球》,此後陸續寫了一大批思想性和藝術性完美結合的短篇小說,博得世界短篇小說巨匠的贊譽.他的創作廣泛而深刻地反映了十九世紀後半期的法國社會現實,無情地揭露了資產階級道德風尚的丑惡,對下層社會的"小人物"寄予同情.小說構思新穎,描寫生動,人物語言個性化,布局謀篇別具匠心.代表作有短篇小說《羊脂球》,《項鏈》等,長篇小說《一生》,《俊友》(又譯做《漂亮的朋友》等.
(2)契可夫
十世世紀俄國批判現實主義作家,戲劇家和短篇小說藝術大師.他的早期合作諷刺和揭露了俄國社會官場人物媚上欺下的丑惡面目,寫得諧趣橫生,發人深思.八十年代中期,他創作了既幽默又富於悲劇的短篇小說,反映了社會底層人民的被侮辱被損害的不幸生活,具有深刻的思想意義.代表作有短篇小說《變色龍》,《苦惱》,《萬卡》,《第六病室》,《套中人》等.
(3)歐.亨利
十九世紀末二十世紀初美國現實主義著名作家.曾被誣告罪入獄三年.後遷居紐約,專事寫作,他幾乎每周寫一篇短篇小說,供報刊發表.他一生創作了近三百篇短篇小說和一部長篇小說,對腐朽的資本主義制度,反人道的法律,虛偽的道德給予揭露和諷刺.代表作有長篇小說《白菜與皇帝》,短篇小說《麥琪的禮物》,《警察與贊美詩》等.
❹ 經典外國文學短篇小說
《供應傢具的房間》
下西區那個全是紅磚建築物的地區，有一大批人像時間那樣動盪不安，難以捉摸。說他們無家可歸吧，他們又有幾十、幾百個家。他們從一個供應傢具的房間搬到另一個供應傢具的房間，永遠是短暫的過客——在住家方面如此，在思想意識方面也是如此。他們用快拍子唱著《甜蜜的家庭》；他們把門神裝在帽盒裡隨身攜帶；他們的葡萄藤是攀繞在闊邊帽上的裝飾；他們的無花果樹只是一株橡皮盆景。
[葡萄藤和無花果是安定的家庭生活的象徵，典出《舊約·列王紀上》四章廿五節：「所羅門在世的日子，從但到別是巴的猶太人和以色列人，都在自己的葡萄樹下，和無花果樹下，安然居住。」]
這個地區的房屋既然有成千的住客，當然應該有成千的故事傳奇。毫無疑問，這些故事大多是乏味的，不過在這許多飄零人的身後，如果找不出一兩個幽靈來，那才叫怪呢。
某天晚上斷黑的時候，有一個年輕人在這些搖搖欲墜的紅磚房屋中間徘徊著，挨家挨戶地拉門鈴。到了第十二家的門口，他把他那寒酸的手提包放在台階上，脫下帽子，擦擦帽圈和額頭上的灰塵。鈴聲在冷靜空洞的深處響了起來，顯得微弱遙遠。
他在第十二家的門口拉了鈴，來了一個女房東，她的模樣使他聯想到一條不健康的，吃得太飽的蠕蟲；蠕蟲吃空了果仁，只留下一層空殼，現在想找一些可以充飢的房客來填滿這個空間。
他打聽有沒有房間出租。
「進來。」女房東說。她的聲音來自喉頭，而喉頭也彷彿長遍了舌苔。「我有一間三樓後房，剛空了一個星期。你想看看嗎？」
年輕人跟她上樓。不知從哪兒來的一道微弱的光線沖淡了過道里的陰影。他們悄沒聲兒地踩在樓梯的氈毯上。那條氈毯已經完全走了樣，就連原先製造它的織機也認不出它了。它彷彿變成了植物，在那腐臭陰暗的空氣里化為一塊塊膩滑的地衣或是蔓延的苔蘚，附著在樓梯上，踩在腳下活像是粘糊糊的有機體。樓梯拐角的牆上都有空著的壁龕。以前，這裡面也許擱過花草。果真這樣的話，那些花草準是在污濁腐臭的空氣中枯萎死去了。這裡面也許擱過聖徒的塑像，但是不難想像，妖魔鬼怪早就在黑暗中把它們拉下來，拖到底下某個供應傢具的地窖里，讓它們待在邪惡的深淵里了。
「就是這間。」女房東的長滿舌苔的喉嚨里發出聲音說。「很好的房間。難得空出來的。夏天，這里住過幾個非常上等的客人——從來沒有麻煩，總是先付後住，從不拖欠房租。過道盡頭就有自來水龍頭。斯普羅爾斯和穆尼租了三個月。她們是演歌舞雜耍的。布雷塔·斯普羅爾斯小姐——你也許聽人家說起過她——哦，那不過是藝名罷了——她的結婚證就是配好鏡框掛在那兒的梳妝台上的。煤氣燈在這兒，你瞧壁櫃有多大。這個房間人人喜歡。從來沒有空過很久。」
「你這里常有戲劇界的人來租房間嗎？」年輕人問道。
「他們來來往往。我的房客中許多人同劇院有關系。是啊，先生，這里是劇院區。當演員的人不會在一個地方待上很久。有許多就在我這里住過。是啊，他們是來來去去的。」
他租下這個房間，預付了一星期的租金。他說他累了，立刻就住了下來，同時數出了錢。女房東說這個房間的一切早已准備就緒，連毛巾和洗臉水都是現成的。她要出去的時候，年輕人把那個帶在舌尖，問了千百次的話說了出來。
「你可記得，你的房客中間有沒有一個年輕的姑娘——瓦許納小姐——埃洛伊絲·瓦許納小姐？她多半會在劇院里唱歌。一個漂亮姑娘，個子不高不矮，細腰身，金紅色頭發，左眉毛旁邊有顆黑痣。」
「不，我記不得那個姓名。演戲的人常常改名換姓，正像換房間一樣。他們一會兒來一會兒去。不，我想不起那樣一個人了。」
不。問來問去老是「不」。五個月來不斷打聽，結果總是落空。五個月來，白天在劇院經理、代理人、戲劇學校和歌唱團那兒打聽，晚上混在觀眾里，從陣容堅強的劇院看起，直到那些低級得不能再低的，連他自己都害怕在那裡找到心上人的游樂場為止。他對她一往情深，千方百計要找到她。自從她離家出走之後，他知道準是這個濱水的大城市留住她，把她藏在什麼地方；可這個城市像是一片無底的大流沙，不斷地移動著它的沙粒，今天還在上層的沙粒，明天就沉淪到粘土污泥里去了。
這間屋子帶著初次見面的假客氣迎接了剛來到的客人，它那種強顏為歡，虛與很蛇的迎接像是妓女的假笑。破舊的傢具反射出淡淡的光線，給人一種似是而非的慰藉；屋裡有一張破舊的錦緞面睡榻和兩把椅子，兩扇窗戶之間有一面尺把寬的廉價壁鏡，牆上有一兩只描金鏡框，角落裡放著一張銅床。
客人有氣無力地往椅子上一坐。這時，屋子像通天塔里的一個房間似的，訥訥地想把以前各式各樣住戶的情況告訴他。
[通天塔：《舊約·創世紀》十一章：巴比倫人要建造一座城和一座通天高塔，耶和華怒其狂妄，變亂了他們的口音，使他們彼此言語不通，無法取得協調，只得輟工。]
骯臟的地席上有一塊雜色斑駁的毯子，彷彿波濤洶涌的海洋中一個長方形的，鮮花盛開的熱帶島嶼。花花綠綠的牆紙上貼著無家可歸的人從東到西都能看見的畫片：「法國新教徒的情侶」，「第一次口角」，「新婚的早餐」，和「泉邊的普賽克」。歪歪斜斜、不成體統的布簾，像歌劇里亞馬遜婦女的腰帶，遮住了壁爐架那道貌岸然的輪廓。壁爐架上有一些冷冷清清的零碎東西——一兩只不值錢的花瓶，幾張女藝人的相片，一隻葯瓶，幾張不成套的紙牌。房間的住戶有如船隻失事後被困在孤島上的旅客，僥幸遇到別的船而被搭救上來帶往另一個港口，便把這些漂貨給扔下了。
先前的住戶們遺留下來的痕跡漸趨明朗，正如一篇密碼被逐一破譯一樣。梳妝台前地毯上那塊磨禿的地方說明有許多漂亮女人在上面踩過。牆上的小手印表示小囚徒們曾經摸索著尋求陽光與空氣。一塊像開花彈影子似的四散迸射的痕跡，證實有過玻璃杯或瓶子連同它所盛的東西給扔在了牆上。壁鏡上被人用金剛鑽歪歪扭扭地刻出了「瑪麗」這個名字。看情形，這個供應傢具的房間里的住戶們，不論先後，總是怨氣沖天——也許是被它的過分冷漠激惹得忍無可忍——便拿它來出氣。傢具給搞得支離破碎，傷痕累累；彈簧已經脫穎而出的睡榻，活像一隻在極度的痙攣中被殺死的可怕的怪物。大理石的壁爐架，由於某種猛烈得多的騷動，被砍落了一大塊。地板上的每一塊凹痕和每一條裂紋，都是一次特殊的痛苦的後果。強加於這間屋子的一切怨恨和傷害，都是那些在某一時期稱它為「家」的人所乾的，這種情況說來幾乎難以使人相信；但是燃起他們的怒火的也許正是那種始終存在不自覺的，無法滿足的戀家的本能，是那種對於冒牌的家庭守護神的憤恨。如果是我們自己的家，即使換了一間茅舍，我們也會加以打掃、裝飾和愛護的。
坐在椅子上的年輕住客讓這些念頭恍恍惚惚地掠過心頭。這時，別的房間里飄來了各種聲音和氣息。他聽到一間屋子裡傳來淫盪無力的吃吃笑聲；另外的屋子裡傳來獨自的咒罵，擲骰子聲，催眠曲和啜泣抽噎；樓上卻有起勁的五弦琴聲。不知哪裡在乒乒嘭嘭地關門；架空電車間歇地隆隆駛過；後院的籬笆上有一隻貓在哀叫。他呼吸著屋子裡的氣息——與其說是氣息，不如說是一股潮味兒——彷彿地窖里的油布和腐爛木頭蒸發出來的那種冷冰冰的，發霉的氣味。
他正歇著的時候，屋裡突然有了一陣濃烈、甜蜜的木犀草香味。它像是隨著一股輕風飄來的，是那樣確切、濃郁和強烈，以至像是一個有血有肉的來客。年輕人似乎聽到有人在招呼他，便脫口嚷道：「什麼事，親愛的？」並且跳了起來，四下張望著。那陣濃郁的香味依附在他身上，把他團團包圍起來。他伸手去摸索，因為這時他所有的感覺都混雜紊亂了。氣味怎麼能斷然招呼一個人呢？一定是聲音。不過，剛才觸摸他的，撫摩他的竟會是聲音嗎？
「她在這間屋子裡待過。」他嚷道，立刻想在屋裡找出一個證據。因為他知道，凡是屬於她的或者經她觸摸過的東西，無論怎樣細小，他一看就認識。這股繚繞不散的木犀草香味，她所偏愛並已成為她個人特徵的香味，究竟是從哪兒來的呢？
這間屋子收拾得很馬虎。梳妝台那薄薄的檯布上零亂地放著五六隻發夾——一般女人的無聲無息，無從區別的朋友，拿語法術語來說，就是陰性，不定式，不說明時間。他們從這些發夾上是找不到線索的，便不加理會。搜尋梳妝台的抽屜時，他發現一方被拋棄的，破爛的小手帕。他拿起手帕，往臉上一按。一股金盞草的香氣直刺鼻子；他使勁把手帕摔在地上。在另一個抽屜里，他發現幾枚零星的鈕扣，一份劇院節目單，一張當鋪的卡片，兩顆遺漏的棉花糖和一本詳夢的書。在最後一個抽屜里，有一個婦女用的黑緞子發結，使他一陣冷一陣熱的躊躇了好一會兒。但是黑緞子發結只是婦女的一本正經，沒有個性的普普通通的裝飾品，並不說明問題。
接著，他像獵狗追蹤嗅跡似地在屋子裡巡逡徘徊，掃視著牆壁，趴在地上察看角落裡地席拱起的地方，搜索著壁爐架，桌子，窗簾，帷幔和屋角那隻東倒西歪的櫃子。他想找一個明顯的跡象，卻不理解她就在他身邊，在他周圍，在他心頭，在他上空，偎依著他，追求著他，並且通過微妙的感覺在辛酸地呼喚他，以至他那遲鈍的感覺也覺察到了這種呼喚。他又一次高聲回答：「哎，親愛的！」同時回過頭來，干瞪著眼，凝視著空間。因為到目前為止，他還不能從木犀草香味中辨明形象、色彩、愛情和伸出來迎接他的胳臂。啊，老天哪！那股香味是從哪裡來的呢？從什麼時候開始，氣味竟能發出聲音呼喚呢？因此，他繼續摸索著。
他在裂罅和角落裡探查，找到了瓶塞和煙蒂。這些東西他都鄙夷而默不作聲地放過了。可是當在地席的皺褶里找到半支抽過的雪茄時，他狠狠地咒罵了一句，把它踩得粉碎。他把這間屋子從頭到尾細細搜查了一遍。他發現了許多飄零的住戶那凄涼的微細痕跡；可是關於他所尋找的，可能在這兒住過的，靈魂彷彿在這兒徘徊不散的她，卻毫無端倪。
這時，他才想起了房東。
他從這間陰森森的屋子跑下樓，來到一扇微露燈光的門口。女房東聽到敲門聲，便出來了。他盡可能控制自己的激動。
「請問你，太太，」他懇求地說，「在我沒來之前，誰住過這間屋子？」
「哎，先生。我可以再告訴你一遍。我早就說過，先前住在這兒的是斯普羅爾斯和穆尼。布雷塔·斯普羅爾斯小姐是劇院里的姓名，穆尼太太是真名。我的房子的正派是有名的。配了鏡框的結婚證就掛在——」
「斯普羅爾斯小姐是什麼樣的——我是說長相怎麼樣？」
「唔，先生，黑頭發，矮胖身段，一臉滑稽相。她們上星期二走的，已經一個星期了。」
「她們之前的房客是誰呢？」
「唔，一個做運貨車生意的單身男人。他欠了我一星期的房租就走了。他之前是克勞德太太和她的兩個孩子，他們住了四個月。再之前是多伊爾老先生，他的房錢是由他幾個兒子付的。他住了六個月。這樣已經推算到一年前了，再前面的我可記不清啦。」
他向她道了謝，垂頭喪氣地回到自己的屋子裡。屋子裡死氣沉沉的。賦於它生命的要素已經消失了。木犀草的香味已經沒有了。代替它的是發霉傢具的腐臭的味道，是停滯的氣氛。
希望的幻滅耗盡了他的信心。他坐在那兒，呆看著噝噝發響的煤氣燈的黃光。過了片刻，他走到床邊，把床單撕成一長條一長條的。他用小刀把這些布條結結實實地堵塞進窗框和門框的罅隙。安排停當後，他關掉煤氣燈，再把它開足，卻不去點火，然後死心塌地往床上一躺。
* * *
這晚輪到麥庫爾太太去打啤酒。她去打了酒來，同珀迪太太一起坐在地下室里。那種地下室是房東太太們聚集的地方，也是蠕蟲不會死的地方。
[「蠕蟲不會死的地方」：參見《新約·馬可福音》九章四十八節：「在那裡（地獄）蟲是不死的，火是不滅的。」]
「今晚我把三樓後房租出去了，」珀迪太太對著一圈薄薄的泡沫說，「房客是個年輕人。他上床已經兩個鍾頭了。」
「真的嗎，珀迪太太？」麥庫爾太太極其羨慕地說，「你能把那種房間租出去世，真不簡單。那你有沒有告訴他呢？」她非常神秘地啞著嗓子低聲說了一些話。
「房間嗎，」珀迪太太用舌苔非常膩厚的音調說，「本來是備好傢具出租的。我沒有告訴他，麥庫爾太太。」
「你做得對，太太；我們是靠房租過活的。你真有生意頭腦，太太 。人們如果知道床上有人自殺過，多半就不願意租那間屋子。」
「就是嘛，我們要靠房租過活呀。」珀迪太太說。
「是啊，太太，一點不錯。就是上星期的今天，我還幫你收拾三樓後房來著。這么漂亮的一個姑娘，想不到竟用煤氣自殺——她那張小臉真惹人愛，珀迪太太。」
「就是嘛，她稱得上漂亮，」珀迪太太表示同意，可又有點兒吹毛求疵地說，「可惜左眉毛旁邊長了那麼一顆黑痣。你把杯子再滿上吧，麥庫爾太太。」
❺ 世界著名短篇小說
THE GIFT OF THE
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 graally 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 ring 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 introced 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 lly 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 practised 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 jewelled 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 them 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 ll 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 plication. 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.
❻ 推薦一些好的外國作家的短篇小說集
村上的短篇集我認為<象的失蹤>最好~如果是路上翻翻,<象廠喜劇>這種圖比字多的也很輕松有趣
看看賽格林的吧,他的短篇集<九故事>很有意思,你喜歡村上,所以應該也會喜歡它的~
❼ 推薦外國一些著名中短篇小說家及其作品
奠泊桑，法國批判現實主義作家，著有300 篇短篇和長篇小說，代表作有《羊脂球》、《俊友》等，課文收有《項鏈》，《我的叔叔於勒》等。
莎士比亞，英國文藝復興時期偉大的劇作家和詩人。流傳劇本37 部，長詩兩首，十四行詩154 首，代表作品有《羅密歐與朱麗葉》、《哈姆雷特》、《奧賽羅》、《李爾王》等。
契訶夫，19 世紀末期俄國傑出的批判現實主義作家，舉世聞名的短篇小說巨匠和著名的劇作家，代表作有短篇小說《套中人》、《變色龍》、《哀傷》、《苦惱》、《萬卡》等，劇本《萬尼亞舅舅》、《伊凡諾夫》、《海鷗》、《櫻桃園》等。
高爾基，偉大的無產階級作家，前蘇聯社會主義文學奠基人。著有《高爾基全集》69 卷。其中著名的作品有自傳體三部曲《童年》、《在人間》、《我的大學》等，《母親》是他的代表作。
馬克·吐溫，美國傑出的批判現實主義作家，代表作有《鍍金時代》、《湯姆·索亞歷險記》、《哈克貝利·費恩歷險記》，晚年著有《敗壞了赫德萊保的人》。
歐·亨利，美國短篇小說家，著有《麥琪的禮物》、《警察與贊美詩》、《最後的藤葉》等。
伏契克，捷克斯洛伐克民族英雄、新聞記者、作家，著有《親愛的國家裡》、《絞刑架下的報告》。
安徒生，丹麥童話作家。著有《皇帝的新衣》、《夜鶯》、《丑小鴨》、《賣火柴的小女孩》、《影子》、《老房子》、《母親的故事》、《園丁和主人》等。
❽ 求幾本外國短篇小說，要短的！！越短越好
莫泊桑短篇小說集
契訶夫短篇小說集
茨威格短篇小說集
馬克.吐溫短回篇小說集
竊賊(阿·康答帕尼爾)
情書(岩井俊二)
永遠佔有(格雷厄姆·格林)
化石街(島田莊司)
棋逢對手(西瑞爾·哈爾)
首領(卡拉維洛夫)
熱愛生命(傑克·倫敦)
螞蟻 (博里斯·維昂)
蠢豬 (馬萊巴)
品酒 (羅·達爾)
打不碎的雞蛋 (馬萊巴)
勞駕，快點！(圖戈依)
品酒 (羅·達爾)
❾ 推薦幾部外國的經典短篇小說
世界三大短篇小說巨匠——歐亨利
莫泊桑
契科夫
❿ 介紹幾本好看的外國短篇小說集
莫泊桑短篇小說集
契訶夫短篇小說集
茨威格短篇小說集
馬克.吐溫短篇小說集
竊賊回(阿·康帕尼爾答)
情書(岩井俊二)
永遠佔有(格雷厄姆·格林)
化石街(島田莊司)
棋逢對手(西瑞爾·哈爾)
首領(卡拉維洛夫)
熱愛生命(傑克·倫敦)
螞蟻 (博里斯·維昂)
蠢豬 (馬萊巴)
品酒 (羅·達爾)
打不碎的雞蛋 (馬萊巴)
勞駕，快點！(圖戈依)
品酒 (羅·達爾)