❶ 2015年度优秀小说获得特等奖的是短篇小说《夜色》，全文如下：[酷] 《夜色》 夜黑风高，荒郊野岭
2015年度抄优秀小说获得特等奖的是短篇小袭说《来》，全文如下：
《来》
夜黑风高，荒郊野岭，小木屋里。
男：“来了？”
女：“来了。”
男：“来？”
女：“来！”
男：“来了么？”
女：“还没来！”
男：“还没来？”
女：“来了！”
女：“还来不？”
男：“不来了，来不了了。”
首先，这不是什么最佳小说只是一个段子，如果不懂什么是段子自行网络。
关于这篇东西，感觉是个男人都能懂。女人需要腐一点才能懂。
先打招呼，你来了，恩来了
我们来吗？(开始做吗)
来，(开始)
你来了吗？(高潮了没)
没来，
来了！
还来吗？(你还能再来吗？)
不来了，来不了了。(不行了，做不了了。)
❷ 入选中小学语文教材最有影响力的外国短篇小说
莫泊桑：福楼拜家的星期天
我的叔叔于勒
珠宝
❸ 世界著名短篇小说有哪些
(1)莫泊桑
十九世纪法国著名的批判现实主义小说家.1880年发表第一个短篇小说《羊脂球》,此后陆续写了一大批思想性和艺术性完美结合的短篇小说,博得世界短篇小说巨匠的赞誉.他的创作广泛而深刻地反映了十九世纪后半期的法国社会现实,无情地揭露了资产阶级道德风尚的丑恶,对下层社会的"小人物"寄予同情.小说构思新颖,描写生动,人物语言个性化,布局谋篇别具匠心.代表作有短篇小说《羊脂球》,《项链》等,长篇小说《一生》,《俊友》(又译做《漂亮的朋友》等.
(2)契可夫
十世世纪俄国批判现实主义作家,戏剧家和短篇小说艺术大师.他的早期合作讽刺和揭露了俄国社会官场人物媚上欺下的丑恶面目,写得谐趣横生,发人深思.八十年代中期,他创作了既幽默又富于悲剧的短篇小说,反映了社会底层人民的被侮辱被损害的不幸生活,具有深刻的思想意义.代表作有短篇小说《变色龙》,《苦恼》,《万卡》,《第六病室》,《套中人》等.
(3)欧.亨利
十九世纪末二十世纪初美国现实主义著名作家.曾被诬告罪入狱三年.后迁居纽约,专事写作,他几乎每周写一篇短篇小说,供报刊发表.他一生创作了近三百篇短篇小说和一部长篇小说,对腐朽的资本主义制度,反人道的法律,虚伪的道德给予揭露和讽刺.代表作有长篇小说《白菜与皇帝》,短篇小说《麦琪的礼物》,《警察与赞美诗》等.
❹ 经典外国文学短篇小说
《供应家具的房间》
下西区那个全是红砖建筑物的地区，有一大批人像时间那样动荡不安，难以捉摸。说他们无家可归吧，他们又有几十、几百个家。他们从一个供应家具的房间搬到另一个供应家具的房间，永远是短暂的过客——在住家方面如此，在思想意识方面也是如此。他们用快拍子唱着《甜蜜的家庭》；他们把门神装在帽盒里随身携带；他们的葡萄藤是攀绕在阔边帽上的装饰；他们的无花果树只是一株橡皮盆景。
[葡萄藤和无花果是安定的家庭生活的象征，典出《旧约·列王纪上》四章廿五节：“所罗门在世的日子，从但到别是巴的犹太人和以色列人，都在自己的葡萄树下，和无花果树下，安然居住。”]
这个地区的房屋既然有成千的住客，当然应该有成千的故事传奇。毫无疑问，这些故事大多是乏味的，不过在这许多飘零人的身后，如果找不出一两个幽灵来，那才叫怪呢。
某天晚上断黑的时候，有一个年轻人在这些摇摇欲坠的红砖房屋中间徘徊着，挨家挨户地拉门铃。到了第十二家的门口，他把他那寒酸的手提包放在台阶上，脱下帽子，擦擦帽圈和额头上的灰尘。铃声在冷静空洞的深处响了起来，显得微弱遥远。
他在第十二家的门口拉了铃，来了一个女房东，她的模样使他联想到一条不健康的，吃得太饱的蠕虫；蠕虫吃空了果仁，只留下一层空壳，现在想找一些可以充饥的房客来填满这个空间。
他打听有没有房间出租。
“进来。”女房东说。她的声音来自喉头，而喉头也仿佛长遍了舌苔。“我有一间三楼后房，刚空了一个星期。你想看看吗？”
年轻人跟她上楼。不知从哪儿来的一道微弱的光线冲淡了过道里的阴影。他们悄没声儿地踩在楼梯的毡毯上。那条毡毯已经完全走了样，就连原先制造它的织机也认不出它了。它仿佛变成了植物，在那腐臭阴暗的空气里化为一块块腻滑的地衣或是蔓延的苔藓，附着在楼梯上，踩在脚下活像是粘糊糊的有机体。楼梯拐角的墙上都有空着的壁龛。以前，这里面也许搁过花草。果真这样的话，那些花草准是在污浊腐臭的空气中枯萎死去了。这里面也许搁过圣徒的塑像，但是不难想象，妖魔鬼怪早就在黑暗中把它们拉下来，拖到底下某个供应家具的地窖里，让它们待在邪恶的深渊里了。
“就是这间。”女房东的长满舌苔的喉咙里发出声音说。“很好的房间。难得空出来的。夏天，这里住过几个非常上等的客人——从来没有麻烦，总是先付后住，从不拖欠房租。过道尽头就有自来水龙头。斯普罗尔斯和穆尼租了三个月。她们是演歌舞杂耍的。布雷塔·斯普罗尔斯小姐——你也许听人家说起过她——哦，那不过是艺名罢了——她的结婚证就是配好镜框挂在那儿的梳妆台上的。煤气灯在这儿，你瞧壁柜有多大。这个房间人人喜欢。从来没有空过很久。”
“你这里常有戏剧界的人来租房间吗？”年轻人问道。
“他们来来往往。我的房客中许多人同剧院有关系。是啊，先生，这里是剧院区。当演员的人不会在一个地方待上很久。有许多就在我这里住过。是啊，他们是来来去去的。”
他租下这个房间，预付了一星期的租金。他说他累了，立刻就住了下来，同时数出了钱。女房东说这个房间的一切早已准备就绪，连毛巾和洗脸水都是现成的。她要出去的时候，年轻人把那个带在舌尖，问了千百次的话说了出来。
“你可记得，你的房客中间有没有一个年轻的姑娘——瓦许纳小姐——埃洛伊丝·瓦许纳小姐？她多半会在剧院里唱歌。一个漂亮姑娘，个子不高不矮，细腰身，金红色头发，左眉毛旁边有颗黑痣。”
“不，我记不得那个姓名。演戏的人常常改名换姓，正像换房间一样。他们一会儿来一会儿去。不，我想不起那样一个人了。”
不。问来问去老是“不”。五个月来不断打听，结果总是落空。五个月来，白天在剧院经理、代理人、戏剧学校和歌唱团那儿打听，晚上混在观众里，从阵容坚强的剧院看起，直到那些低级得不能再低的，连他自己都害怕在那里找到心上人的游乐场为止。他对她一往情深，千方百计要找到她。自从她离家出走之后，他知道准是这个滨水的大城市留住她，把她藏在什么地方；可这个城市像是一片无底的大流沙，不断地移动着它的沙粒，今天还在上层的沙粒，明天就沉沦到粘土污泥里去了。
这间屋子带着初次见面的假客气迎接了刚来到的客人，它那种强颜为欢，虚与很蛇的迎接像是妓女的假笑。破旧的家具反射出淡淡的光线，给人一种似是而非的慰藉；屋里有一张破旧的锦缎面睡榻和两把椅子，两扇窗户之间有一面尺把宽的廉价壁镜，墙上有一两只描金镜框，角落里放着一张铜床。
客人有气无力地往椅子上一坐。这时，屋子像通天塔里的一个房间似的，讷讷地想把以前各式各样住户的情况告诉他。
[通天塔：《旧约·创世纪》十一章：巴比伦人要建造一座城和一座通天高塔，耶和华怒其狂妄，变乱了他们的口音，使他们彼此言语不通，无法取得协调，只得辍工。]
肮脏的地席上有一块杂色斑驳的毯子，仿佛波涛汹涌的海洋中一个长方形的，鲜花盛开的热带岛屿。花花绿绿的墙纸上贴着无家可归的人从东到西都能看见的画片：“法国新教徒的情侣”，“第一次口角”，“新婚的早餐”，和“泉边的普赛克”。歪歪斜斜、不成体统的布帘，像歌剧里亚马逊妇女的腰带，遮住了壁炉架那道貌岸然的轮廓。壁炉架上有一些冷冷清清的零碎东西——一两只不值钱的花瓶，几张女艺人的相片，一只药瓶，几张不成套的纸牌。房间的住户有如船只失事后被困在孤岛上的旅客，侥幸遇到别的船而被搭救上来带往另一个港口，便把这些漂货给扔下了。
先前的住户们遗留下来的痕迹渐趋明朗，正如一篇密码被逐一破译一样。梳妆台前地毯上那块磨秃的地方说明有许多漂亮女人在上面踩过。墙上的小手印表示小囚徒们曾经摸索着寻求阳光与空气。一块像开花弹影子似的四散迸射的痕迹，证实有过玻璃杯或瓶子连同它所盛的东西给扔在了墙上。壁镜上被人用金刚钻歪歪扭扭地刻出了“玛丽”这个名字。看情形，这个供应家具的房间里的住户们，不论先后，总是怨气冲天——也许是被它的过分冷漠激惹得忍无可忍——便拿它来出气。家具给搞得支离破碎，伤痕累累；弹簧已经脱颖而出的睡榻，活像一只在极度的痉挛中被杀死的可怕的怪物。大理石的壁炉架，由于某种猛烈得多的骚动，被砍落了一大块。地板上的每一块凹痕和每一条裂纹，都是一次特殊的痛苦的后果。强加于这间屋子的一切怨恨和伤害，都是那些在某一时期称它为“家”的人所干的，这种情况说来几乎难以使人相信；但是燃起他们的怒火的也许正是那种始终存在不自觉的，无法满足的恋家的本能，是那种对于冒牌的家庭守护神的愤恨。如果是我们自己的家，即使换了一间茅舍，我们也会加以打扫、装饰和爱护的。
坐在椅子上的年轻住客让这些念头恍恍惚惚地掠过心头。这时，别的房间里飘来了各种声音和气息。他听到一间屋子里传来淫荡无力的吃吃笑声；另外的屋子里传来独自的咒骂，掷骰子声，催眠曲和啜泣抽噎；楼上却有起劲的五弦琴声。不知哪里在乒乒嘭嘭地关门；架空电车间歇地隆隆驶过；后院的篱笆上有一只猫在哀叫。他呼吸着屋子里的气息——与其说是气息，不如说是一股潮味儿——仿佛地窖里的油布和腐烂木头蒸发出来的那种冷冰冰的，发霉的气味。
他正歇着的时候，屋里突然有了一阵浓烈、甜蜜的木犀草香味。它像是随着一股轻风飘来的，是那样确切、浓郁和强烈，以至像是一个有血有肉的来客。年轻人似乎听到有人在招呼他，便脱口嚷道：“什么事，亲爱的？”并且跳了起来，四下张望着。那阵浓郁的香味依附在他身上，把他团团包围起来。他伸手去摸索，因为这时他所有的感觉都混杂紊乱了。气味怎么能断然招呼一个人呢？一定是声音。不过，刚才触摸他的，抚摩他的竟会是声音吗？
“她在这间屋子里待过。”他嚷道，立刻想在屋里找出一个证据。因为他知道，凡是属于她的或者经她触摸过的东西，无论怎样细小，他一看就认识。这股缭绕不散的木犀草香味，她所偏爱并已成为她个人特征的香味，究竟是从哪儿来的呢？
这间屋子收拾得很马虎。梳妆台那薄薄的台布上零乱地放着五六只发夹——一般女人的无声无息，无从区别的朋友，拿语法术语来说，就是阴性，不定式，不说明时间。他们从这些发夹上是找不到线索的，便不加理会。搜寻梳妆台的抽屉时，他发现一方被抛弃的，破烂的小手帕。他拿起手帕，往脸上一按。一股金盏草的香气直刺鼻子；他使劲把手帕摔在地上。在另一个抽屉里，他发现几枚零星的钮扣，一份剧院节目单，一张当铺的卡片，两颗遗漏的棉花糖和一本详梦的书。在最后一个抽屉里，有一个妇女用的黑缎子发结，使他一阵冷一阵热的踌躇了好一会儿。但是黑缎子发结只是妇女的一本正经，没有个性的普普通通的装饰品，并不说明问题。
接着，他像猎狗追踪嗅迹似地在屋子里巡逡徘徊，扫视着墙壁，趴在地上察看角落里地席拱起的地方，搜索着壁炉架，桌子，窗帘，帷幔和屋角那只东倒西歪的柜子。他想找一个明显的迹象，却不理解她就在他身边，在他周围，在他心头，在他上空，偎依着他，追求着他，并且通过微妙的感觉在辛酸地呼唤他，以至他那迟钝的感觉也觉察到了这种呼唤。他又一次高声回答：“哎，亲爱的！”同时回过头来，干瞪着眼，凝视着空间。因为到目前为止，他还不能从木犀草香味中辨明形象、色彩、爱情和伸出来迎接他的胳臂。啊，老天哪！那股香味是从哪里来的呢？从什么时候开始，气味竟能发出声音呼唤呢？因此，他继续摸索着。
他在裂罅和角落里探查，找到了瓶塞和烟蒂。这些东西他都鄙夷而默不作声地放过了。可是当在地席的皱褶里找到半支抽过的雪茄时，他狠狠地咒骂了一句，把它踩得粉碎。他把这间屋子从头到尾细细搜查了一遍。他发现了许多飘零的住户那凄凉的微细痕迹；可是关于他所寻找的，可能在这儿住过的，灵魂仿佛在这儿徘徊不散的她，却毫无端倪。
这时，他才想起了房东。
他从这间阴森森的屋子跑下楼，来到一扇微露灯光的门口。女房东听到敲门声，便出来了。他尽可能控制自己的激动。
“请问你，太太，”他恳求地说，“在我没来之前，谁住过这间屋子？”
“哎，先生。我可以再告诉你一遍。我早就说过，先前住在这儿的是斯普罗尔斯和穆尼。布雷塔·斯普罗尔斯小姐是剧院里的姓名，穆尼太太是真名。我的房子的正派是有名的。配了镜框的结婚证就挂在——”
“斯普罗尔斯小姐是什么样的——我是说长相怎么样？”
“唔，先生，黑头发，矮胖身段，一脸滑稽相。她们上星期二走的，已经一个星期了。”
“她们之前的房客是谁呢？”
“唔，一个做运货车生意的单身男人。他欠了我一星期的房租就走了。他之前是克劳德太太和她的两个孩子，他们住了四个月。再之前是多伊尔老先生，他的房钱是由他几个儿子付的。他住了六个月。这样已经推算到一年前了，再前面的我可记不清啦。”
他向她道了谢，垂头丧气地回到自己的屋子里。屋子里死气沉沉的。赋于它生命的要素已经消失了。木犀草的香味已经没有了。代替它的是发霉家具的腐臭的味道，是停滞的气氛。
希望的幻灭耗尽了他的信心。他坐在那儿，呆看着咝咝发响的煤气灯的黄光。过了片刻，他走到床边，把床单撕成一长条一长条的。他用小刀把这些布条结结实实地堵塞进窗框和门框的罅隙。安排停当后，他关掉煤气灯，再把它开足，却不去点火，然后死心塌地往床上一躺。
* * *
这晚轮到麦库尔太太去打啤酒。她去打了酒来，同珀迪太太一起坐在地下室里。那种地下室是房东太太们聚集的地方，也是蠕虫不会死的地方。
[“蠕虫不会死的地方”：参见《新约·马可福音》九章四十八节：“在那里（地狱）虫是不死的，火是不灭的。”]
“今晚我把三楼后房租出去了，”珀迪太太对着一圈薄薄的泡沫说，“房客是个年轻人。他上床已经两个钟头了。”
“真的吗，珀迪太太？”麦库尔太太极其羡慕地说，“你能把那种房间租出去世，真不简单。那你有没有告诉他呢？”她非常神秘地哑着嗓子低声说了一些话。
“房间吗，”珀迪太太用舌苔非常腻厚的音调说，“本来是备好家具出租的。我没有告诉他，麦库尔太太。”
“你做得对，太太；我们是靠房租过活的。你真有生意头脑，太太 。人们如果知道床上有人自杀过，多半就不愿意租那间屋子。”
“就是嘛，我们要靠房租过活呀。”珀迪太太说。
“是啊，太太，一点不错。就是上星期的今天，我还帮你收拾三楼后房来着。这么漂亮的一个姑娘，想不到竟用煤气自杀——她那张小脸真惹人爱，珀迪太太。”
“就是嘛，她称得上漂亮，”珀迪太太表示同意，可又有点儿吹毛求疵地说，“可惜左眉毛旁边长了那么一颗黑痣。你把杯子再满上吧，麦库尔太太。”
❺ 世界著名短篇小说
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 推荐一些好的外国作家的短篇小说集
村上的短篇集我认为<象的失踪>最好~如果是路上翻翻,<象厂喜剧>这种图比字多的也很轻松有趣
看看赛格林的吧,他的短篇集<九故事>很有意思,你喜欢村上,所以应该也会喜欢它的~
❼ 推荐外国一些著名中短篇小说家及其作品
奠泊桑，法国批判现实主义作家，著有300 篇短篇和长篇小说，代表作有《羊脂球》、《俊友》等，课文收有《项链》，《我的叔叔于勒》等。
莎士比亚，英国文艺复兴时期伟大的剧作家和诗人。流传剧本37 部，长诗两首，十四行诗154 首，代表作品有《罗密欧与朱丽叶》、《哈姆雷特》、《奥赛罗》、《李尔王》等。
契诃夫，19 世纪末期俄国杰出的批判现实主义作家，举世闻名的短篇小说巨匠和著名的剧作家，代表作有短篇小说《套中人》、《变色龙》、《哀伤》、《苦恼》、《万卡》等，剧本《万尼亚舅舅》、《伊凡诺夫》、《海鸥》、《樱桃园》等。
高尔基，伟大的无产阶级作家，前苏联社会主义文学奠基人。著有《高尔基全集》69 卷。其中著名的作品有自传体三部曲《童年》、《在人间》、《我的大学》等，《母亲》是他的代表作。
马克·吐温，美国杰出的批判现实主义作家，代表作有《镀金时代》、《汤姆·索亚历险记》、《哈克贝利·费恩历险记》，晚年著有《败坏了赫德莱保的人》。
欧·亨利，美国短篇小说家，著有《麦琪的礼物》、《警察与赞美诗》、《最后的藤叶》等。
伏契克，捷克斯洛伐克民族英雄、新闻记者、作家，著有《亲爱的国家里》、《绞刑架下的报告》。
安徒生，丹麦童话作家。著有《皇帝的新衣》、《夜莺》、《丑小鸭》、《卖火柴的小女孩》、《影子》、《老房子》、《母亲的故事》、《园丁和主人》等。
❽ 求几本外国短篇小说，要短的！！越短越好
莫泊桑短篇小说集
契诃夫短篇小说集
茨威格短篇小说集
马克.吐温短回篇小说集
窃贼(阿·康答帕尼尔)
情书(岩井俊二)
永远占有(格雷厄姆·格林)
化石街(岛田庄司)
棋逢对手(西瑞尔·哈尔)
首领(卡拉维洛夫)
热爱生命(杰克·伦敦)
蚂蚁 (博里斯·维昂)
蠢猪 (马莱巴)
品酒 (罗·达尔)
打不碎的鸡蛋 (马莱巴)
劳驾，快点！(图戈依)
品酒 (罗·达尔)
❾ 推荐几部外国的经典短篇小说
世界三大短篇小说巨匠——欧亨利
莫泊桑
契科夫
❿ 介绍几本好看的外国短篇小说集
莫泊桑短篇小说集
契诃夫短篇小说集
茨威格短篇小说集
马克.吐温短篇小说集
窃贼回(阿·康帕尼尔答)
情书(岩井俊二)
永远占有(格雷厄姆·格林)
化石街(岛田庄司)
棋逢对手(西瑞尔·哈尔)
首领(卡拉维洛夫)
热爱生命(杰克·伦敦)
蚂蚁 (博里斯·维昂)
蠢猪 (马莱巴)
品酒 (罗·达尔)
打不碎的鸡蛋 (马莱巴)
劳驾，快点！(图戈依)
品酒 (罗·达尔)