经典英文短篇小说 (132)

The Romance of a Busy Brokerby O. HenryPitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs."Well--what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently."Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile."Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?""He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.""I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet singsof the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation.On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her."Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape."What position?" he asked, with a frown."Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.""You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine--strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready andprompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities--here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour--a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room--twenty steps away."By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear."Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you he my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific.""Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed."Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck."I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner."。

A Christmas Dream, and How It Came to Be Trueby Louisa May Alcott"I'm so tired of Christmas I wish there never would be another one!" exclaimed a discontented-looking little girl, as she sat idly watching her mother arrange a pile of gifts two days before they were to be given."Why, Effie, what a dreadful thing to say! You are as bad as old Scrooge; and I'm afraid something will happen to you, as it did to him, if you don't care for dear Christmas," answered mamma, almost dropping the silver horn she was filling with delicious candies."Who was Scrooge? What happened to him?" asked Effie, with a glimmer of interest in her listless face, as she picked out the sourest lemon-drop she could find; for nothing sweet suited her just then."He was one of Dickens's best people, and you can read the charming story some day. He hated Christmas until a strange dream showed him how dear and beautiful it was, and made a better man of him.""I shall read it; for I like dreams, and have a great many curious ones myself. But they don't keep me from being tired of Christmas," said Effie, poking discontentedly among the sweeties for something worth eating."Why are you tired of what should be the happiest time of all the year?" asked mamma, anxiously."Perhaps I shouldn't be if I had something new. But it is always the same, and there isn't any more surprise about it. I always find heaps of goodies in my stocking. Don't like some of them, and soon get tired of those I do like. We always have a great dinner, and I eat too much, and feel ill next day. Then there is a Christmas tree somewhere, with a doll on top, or a stupid old Santa Claus, and children dancing and screaming over bonbons and toys that break, and shiny things that are of no use. Really, mamma, I've had so many Christmases all alike that I don't think I can bear another one." And Effie laid herself flat on the sofa, as if the mere idea was too much for her.Her mother laughed at her despair, but was sorry to see her little girl so discontented, when she had everything to make her happy, and had known but ten Christmas days."Suppose we don't give you any presents at all,--how would that suit you?" asked mamma, anxious to please her spoiled child."I should like one large and splendid one, and one dear little one, to remember some very nice person by," said Effie, who was a fanciful little body, full of odd whims and notions, which her friends loved to gratify, regardless of time, trouble, or money; for she was the last of three little girls, and very dear to all the family."Well, my darling, I will see what I can do to please you, and not say a word until all is ready. If I could only get a new idea to start with!" And mamma went on tying up her pretty bundles with a thoughtful face, while Effie strolled to the window to watch the rain that kept her in-doors and made her dismal."Seems to me poor children have better times than rich ones. I can't go out, and there is a girl about my age splashing along, without any maid to fuss about rubbers and cloaks and umbrellas and colds. I wish I was a beggar-girl.""Would you like to be hungry, cold, and ragged, to beg all day, and sleep on an ash-heap at night?" asked mamma, wondering what would come next."Cinderella did, and had a nice time in the end. This girl out here has a basket of scraps on her arm, and a big old shawl all round her, and doesn't seem to care a bit, though the water runs out of the toes of her boots. She goes paddling along, laughing at the rain, and eating a cold potato as if it tasted nicer than the chicken and ice-cream I had for dinner. Yes, I do think poor children are happier than rich ones.""So do I, sometimes. At the Orphan Asylum today I saw two dozen merry little souls who have no parents, no home, and no hope of Christmas beyond a stick of candy or a cake. I wish you had been there to see how happy they were, playing with the old toys some richer children had sent them.""You may give them all mine; I'm so tired of them I never want to see them again," said Effie, turning from the window to the pretty baby-house full of everything a child's heart could desire."I will, and let you begin again with something you will not tire of, if I can only find it." And mamma knit her brows trying to discover some grand surprise for this child who didn't care for Christmas.Nothing more was said then; and wandering off to the library, Effie found "A Christmas Carol," and curling herself up in the sofa corner, read it all before tea. Some of it she did not understand; but she laughed and cried over many parts of the charming story, and felt better without knowing why.All the evening she thought of poor Tiny Tim, Mrs. Cratchit with the pudding, and the stout old gentleman who danced so gayly that "his legs twinkled in the air." Presently bedtime arrived."Come, now, and toast your feet," said Effie's nurse, "while I do your pretty hair and tell stories." "I'll have a fairy tale to-night, a very interesting one," commanded Effie, as she put on her blue silk wrapper and little fur-lined slippers to sit before the fire and have her long curls brushed.So Nursey told her best tales; and when at last the child lay down under her lace curtains, her head was full of a curious jumble of Christmas elves, poor children, snow-storms, sugarplums, and surprises. So it is no wonder that shedreamed all night; and this was the dream, which she never quite forgot.She found herself sitting on a stone, in the middle of a great field, all alone. The snow was falling fast, a bitter wind whistled by, and night was coming on. She felt hungry, cold, and tired, and did not know where to go nor what to do."I wanted to be a beggar-girl, and now I am one; but I don't like it, and wish somebody would come and take care of me. I don't know who I am, and I think I must be lost," thought Effie, with the curious interest one takes in one's self in dreams. But the more she thought about it, the more bewildered she felt. Faster fell the snow, colder blew the wind, darker grew the night; and poor Effie made up her mind that she was quite forgotten and left to freeze alone. The tears were chilled on her cheeks, her feet felt like icicles, and her heart died within her, so hungry, frightened, and forlorn was she. Laying her head on her knees, she gave herself up for lost, and sat there with the great flakes fast turning her to a little white mound, when suddenly the sound of music reached her, and starting up, she looked and listened with all her eyes and ears.Far away a dim light shone, and a voice was heard singing. She tried to run toward the welcome glimmer, but could not stir, and stood like a small statue of expectation while the light drew nearer, and the sweet words of the song grew clearer.From our happy homeThrough the world we roamOne week in all the year,Making winter springWith the joy we bring,For Christmas-tide is here.Now the eastern starShines from afarTo light the poorest home;Hearts warmer grow,Gifts freely flow,For Christmas-tide has come.Now gay trees riseBefore young eyes,Abloom with tempting cheer;Blithe voices sing,And blithe bells ring,For Christmas-tide is here.Oh, happy chime,Oh, blessed time,That draws us all so near!"Welcome, dear day,"All creatures say,For Christmas-tide is here.A child's voice sang, a child's hand carried the little candle; and in the circle of soft light it shed, Effie saw a pretty child coming to her through the night and snow.A rosy, smiling creature, wrapped in white fur, with a wreath of green and scarlet holly on its shining hair, the magic candle in one hand, and the other outstretched as if to shower gifts and warmly press all other hands.Effie forgot to speak as this bright vision came nearer, leaving no trace of footsteps in the snow, only lighting the way with its little candle, and filling the air with the music of its song."Dear child, you are lost, and I have come to find you," said the stranger, taking Effie's cold hands in his, with a smile like sunshine, while every holly berry glowed like a little fire."Do you know me?" asked Effie, feeling no fear, but a great gladness, at his coming."I know all children, and go to find them; for this is my holiday, and I gather them from all parts of the world to be merry with me once a year.""Are you an angel?" asked Effie, looking for the wings."No; I am a Christmas spirit, and live with my mates in a pleasant place, getting ready for our holiday, when we are let out to roam about the world, helping make this a happy time for all who will let us in. Will you come and see how we work?" "I will go anywhere with you. Don't leave me again," cried Effie, gladly."First I will make you comfortable. That is what we love to do. You are cold, and you shall be warm, hungry, and I will feed you; sorrowful, and I will make you gay."With a wave of his candle all three miracles were wrought,--for the snow- flakes turned to a white fur cloak and hood on Effie's head and shoulders, a bowl of hot soup came sailing to her lips, and vanished when she had eagerly drunk the last drop; and suddenly the dismal field changed to a new world so full of wonders that all her troubles were forgotten in a minute. Bells were ringing so merrily that it was hard to keep from dancing. Green garlands hung on the walls, and every tree was a Christmas tree full of toys, and blazing with candles that never went out.In one place many little spirits sewed like mad on warm clothes, turning off work faster than any sewing-machine ever invented, and great piles were made ready to be sent to poor people. Other busy creatures packed money into purses, and wrote checks which they sent flying away on the wind,--a lovely kind of snow-storm to fall into a world below full of poverty. Older and graver spirits werelooking over piles of little books, in which the records of the past year were kept, telling how different people had spent it, and what sort of gifts they deserved. Some got peace, some disappointment, some remorse and sorrow, some great joy and hope. The rich had generous thoughts sent them; the poor, gratitude and contentment. Children had more love and duty to parents; and parents renewed patience, wisdom, and satisfaction for and in their children. No one was forgotten."Please tell me what splendid place this is?" asked Effie, as soon as she could collect her wits after the first look at all these astonishing things."This is the Christmas world; and here we work all the year round, never tired of getting ready for the happy day. See, these are the saints just setting off; for some have far to go, and the children must not be disappointed."As he spoke the spirit pointed to four gates, out of which four great sleighs were just driving, laden with toys, while a jolly old Santa Claus sat in the middle of each, drawing on his mittens and tucking up his wraps for a long cold drive. "Why, I thought there was only one Santa Claus, and even he was a humbug," cried Effie, astonished at the sight. "Never give up your faith in the sweet old stones, even after you come to see that they are only the pleasant shadow of a lovely truth."Just then the sleighs went off with a great jingling of bells and pattering of reindeer hoofs, while all the spirits gave a cheer that was heard in the lower world, where people said, "Hear the stars sing.""I never will say there isn't any Santa Claus again. Now, show me more.""You will like to see this place, I think, and may learn something here perhaps."The spirit smiled as he led the way to a little door, through which Effie peeped into a world of dolls. Baby-houses were in full blast, with dolls of all sorts going on like live people. Waxen ladies sat in their parlors elegantly dressed; black dolls cooked in the kitchens; nurses walked out with the bits of dollies; and the streets were full of tin soldiers marching, wooden horses prancing, express wagons rumbling, and little men hurrying to and fro. Shops were there, and tiny people buying legs of mutton, pounds of tea, mites of clothes, and everything dolls use or wear or want.But presently she saw that in some ways the dolls improved upon the manners and customs of human beings, and she watched eagerly to learn why they did these things. A fine Paris doll driving in her carriage took up a black worsted Dinah who was hobbling along with a basket of clean clothes, and carried her to her journey's end, as if it were the proper thing to do. Another interesting china lady took off her comfortable red cloak and put it round a poor wooden creature done up in a paper shift, and so badly painted that its face would have sent some babies into fits."Seems to me I once knew a rich girl who didn't give her things to poor girls. Iwish I could remember who she was, and tell her to be as kind as that china doll," said Effie, much touched at the sweet way the pretty creature wrapped up the poor fright, and then ran off in her little gray gown to buy a shiny fowl stuck on a wooden platter for her invalid mother's dinner."We recall these things to people's minds by dreams. I think the girl you speak of won't forget this one." And the spirit smiled, as if he enjoyed some joke which she did not see.A little bell rang as she looked, and away scampered the children into the red-and-green school-house with the roof that lifted up, so one could see how nicely they sat at their desks with mites of books, or drew on the inch-square blackboards with crumbs of chalk."They know their lessons very well, and are as still as mice. We make a great racket at our school, and get bad marks every day. I shall tell the girls they had better mind what they do, or their dolls will be better scholars than they are," said Effie, much impressed, as she peeped in and saw no rod in the hand of the little mistress, who looked up and shook her head at the intruder, as if begging her to go away before the order of the school was disturbed.Effie retired at once, but could not resist one look in at the window of a fine mansion, where the family were at dinner, the children behaved so well at table, and never grumbled a bit when their mamma said they could not have any more fruit. "Now, show me something else," she said, as they came again to the low door that led out of Doll-land. "You have seen how we prepare for Christmas; let me show you where we love best to send our good and happy gifts," answered the spirit, giving her his hand again."I know. I've seen ever so many," began Effie, thinking of her own Christmases."No, you have never seen what I will show you. Come away, and remember what you see to-night."Like a flash that bright world vanished, and Effie found herself in a part of the city she had never seen before. It was far away from the gayer places, where every store was brilliant with lights and full of pretty things, and every house wore a festival air, while people hurried to and fro with merry greetings. It was down among the dingy streets where the poor lived, and where there was no making ready for Christmas.Hungry women looked in at the shabby shops, longing to buy meat and bread, but empty pockets forbade. Tipsy men drank up their wages in the bar- rooms; and in many cold dark chambers little children huddled under the thin blankets, trying to forget their misery in sleep.No nice dinners filled the air with savory smells, no gay trees dropped toys andbonbons into eager hands, no little stockings hung in rows beside the chimney-piece ready to be filled, no happy sounds of music, gay voices, and dancing feet were heard; and there were no signs of Christmas anywhere."Don't they have any in this place?" asked Effie, shivering, as she held fast the spirit's hand, following where he led her. "We come to bring it. Let me show you our best workers." And the spirit pointed to some sweet-faced men and women who came stealing into the poor houses, working such beautiful miracles that Effie could only stand and watch.Some slipped money into the empty pockets, and sent the happy mothers to buy all the comforts they needed; others led the drunken men out of temptation, and took them home to find safer pleasures there. Fires were kindled on cold hearths, tables spread as if by magic, and warm clothes wrapped round shivering limbs. Flowers suddenly bloomed in the chambers of the sick; old people found themselves remembered; sad hearts were consoled by a tender word, and wicked ones softened by the story of Him who forgave all sin.But the sweetest work was for the children; and Effie held her breath to watch these human fairies hang up and fill the little stockings without which a child's Christmas is not perfect, putting in things that once she would have thought very humble presents, but which now seemed beautiful and precious because these poor babies had nothing."That is so beautiful! I wish I could make merry Christmases as these good people do, and be loved and thanked as they are," said Effie, softly, as she watched the busy men and women do their work and steal away without thinking of any reward but their own satisfaction."You can if you will. I have shown you the way. Try it, and see how happy your own holiday will be hereafter."As he spoke, the spirit seemed to put his arms about her, and vanished with a kiss."Oh, stay and show me more!" cried Effie, trying to hold him fast."Darling, wake up, and tell me why you are smiling in your sleep," said a voice in her ear; and opening her eyes, there was mamma bending over her, and morning sunshine streaming into the room."Are they all gone? Did you hear the bells? Wasn't it splendid?" she asked, rubbing her eyes, and looking about her for the pretty child who was so real and sweet."You have been dreaming at a great rate,--talking in your sleep, laughing, and clapping your hands as if you were cheering some one. Tell me what was so splendid," said mamma, smoothing the tumbled hair and lifting up the sleepy head. Then, while she was being dressed, Effie told her dream, and Nursey thought itvery wonderful; but mamma smiled to see how curiously things the child had thought, read, heard, and seen through the day were mixed up in her sleep."The spirit said I could work lovely miracles if I tried; but I don't know how to begin, for I have no magic candle to make feasts appear, and light up groves of Christmas trees, as he did," said Effie, sorrowfully."Yes, you have. We will do it! we will do it!" And clapping her hands, mamma suddenly began to dance all over the room as if she had lost her wits."How? how? You must tell me, mamma," cried Effie, dancing after her, and ready to believe anything possible when she remembered the adventures of the past night."I've got it! I've got it!--the new idea. A splendid one, if I can only carry it out!" And mamma waltzed the little girl round till her curls flew wildly in the air, while Nursey laughed as if she would die."Tell me! tell me!" shrieked Effie. "No, no; it is a surprise,--a grand surprise for Christmas day!" sung mamma, evidently charmed with her happy thought. "Now, come to breakfast; for we must work like bees if we want to play spirits tomorrow. You and Nursey will go out shopping, and get heaps of things, while I arrange matters behind the scenes."They were running downstairs as mamma spoke, and Effie called out breathlessly,--"It won't be a surprise; for I know you are going to ask some poor children here, and have a tree or something. It won't be like my dream; for they had ever so many trees, and more children than we can find anywhere.""There will be no tree, no party, no dinner, in this house at all, and no presents for you. Won't that be a surprise?" And mamma laughed at Effie's bewildered face."Do it. I shall like it, I think; and I won't ask any questions, so it will all burst upon me when the time comes," she said; and she ate her breakfast thoughtfully, for this really would be a new sort of Christmas.All that morning Effie trotted after Nursey in and out of shops, buying dozens of barking dogs, woolly lambs, and squeaking birds; tiny tea-sets, gay picture-books, mittens and hoods, dolls and candy. Parcel after parcel was sent home; but when Effie returned she saw no trace of them, though she peeped everywhere. Nursey chuckled, but wouldn't give a hint, and went out again in the afternoon with a long list of more things to buy; while Effie wandered forlornly about the house, missing the usual merry stir that went before the Christmas dinner and the evening fun.As for mamma, she was quite invisible all day, and came in at night so tired that she could only lie on the sofa to rest, smiling as if some very pleasant thought made her happy in spite of weariness."Is the surprise going on all right?" asked Effie, anxiously; for it seemed an immense time to wait till another evening came."Beautifully! better than I expected; for several of my good friends are helping, or I couldn't have done it as I wish. I know you will like it, dear, and long remember this new way of making Christmas merry."Mamma gave her a very tender kiss, and Effie went to bed.The next day was a very strange one; for when she woke there was no stocking to examine, no pile of gifts under her napkin, no one said "Merry Christmas!" to her, and the dinner was just as usual to her. Mamma vanished again, and Nursey kept wiping her eyes and saying: "The dear things! It's the prettiest idea I ever heard of. No one but your blessed ma could have done it." "Do stop, Nursey, or I shall go crazy because I don't know the secret!" cried Effie, more than once; and she kept her eye on the clock, for at seven in the evening the surprise was to come off.The longed-for hour arrived at last, and the child was too excited to ask questions when Nurse put on her cloak and hood, led her to the carriage, and they drove away, leaving their house the one dark and silent one in the row. "I feel like the girls in the fairy tales who are led off to strange places and see fine things," said Effie, in a whisper, as they jingled through the gay streets."Ah, my deary, it is like a fairy tale, I do assure you, and you will see finer things than most children will tonight. Steady, now, and do just as I tell you, and don't say one word whatever you see," answered Nursey, quite quivering with excitement as she patted a large box in her lap, and nodded and laughed with twinkling eyes.They drove into a dark yard, and Effie was led through a back door to a little room, where Nurse coolly proceeded to take off not only her cloak and hood, but her dress and shoes also. Effie stared and bit her lips, but kept still until out of the box came a little white fur coat and boots, a wreath of holly leaves and berries, and a candle with a frill of gold paper round it. A long "Oh!" escaped her then; and when she was dressed and saw herself in the glass, she started back, exclaiming, "Why, Nursey, I look like the spirit in my dream!""So you do; and that's the part you are to play, my pretty! Now whist, while I blind your eyes and put you in your place.""Shall I be afraid?" whispered Effie, full of wonder; for as they went out she heard the sound of many voices, the tramp of many feet, and, in spite of the bandage, was sure a great light shone upon her when she stopped."You needn't be; I shall stand close by, and your ma will be there."After the handkerchief was tied about her eyes, Nurse led Effie up some steps, and placed her on a high platform, where something like leaves touched her head,and the soft snap of lamps seemed to fill the air. Music began as soon as Nurse clapped her hands, the voices outside sounded nearer, and the tramp was evidently coming up the stairs."Now, my precious, look and see how you and your dear ma have made a merry Christmas for them that needed it!"Off went the bandage; and for a minute Effie really did think she was asleep again, for she actually stood in "a grove of Christmas trees," all gay and shining as in her vision. Twelve on a side, in two rows down the room, stood the little pines, each on its low table; and behind Effie a taller one rose to the roof, hung with wreaths of popcorn, apples, oranges, horns of candy, and cakes of all sorts, from sugary hearts to gingerbread Jumbos. On the smaller trees she saw many of her own discarded toys and those Nursey bought, as well as heaps that seemed to have rained down straight from that delightful Christmas country where she felt as if she was again."How splendid! Who is it for? What is that noise? Where is mamma?" cried Effie, pale with pleasure and surprise, as she stood looking down the brilliant little street from her high place.Before Nurse could answer, the doors at the lower end flew open, and in marched twenty-four little blue-gowned orphan girls, singing sweetly, until amazement changed the song to cries of joy and wonder as the shining spectacle appeared. While they stood staring with round eyes at the wilderness of pretty things about them, mamma stepped up beside Effie, and holding her hand fast to give her courage, told the story of the dream in a few simple words, ending in this way:--"So my little girl wanted to be a Christmas spirit too, and make this a happy day for those who had not as many pleasures and comforts as she has. She likes surprises, and we planned this for you all. She shall play the good fairy, and give each of you something from this tree, after which every one will find her own name on a small tree, and can go to enjoy it in her own way. March by, my dears, and let us fill your hands."Nobody told them to do it, but all the hands were clapped heartily before a single child stirred; then one by one they came to look up wonderingly at the pretty giver of the feast as she leaned down to offer them great yellow oranges, red apples, bunches of grapes, bonbons, and cakes, till all were gone, and a double row of smiling faces turned toward her as the children filed back to their places in the orderly way they had been taught.Then each was led to her own tree by the good ladies who had helped mamma with all their hearts; and the happy hubbub that arose would have satisfied even Santa Claus himself,--shrieks of joy, dances of delight, laughter and tears (for sometender little things could not bear so much pleasure at once, and sobbed with mouths full of candy and hands full of toys). How they ran to show one another the new treasures! how they peeped and tasted, pulled and pinched, until the air was full of queer noises, the floor covered with papers, and the little trees left bare of all but candles!"I don't think heaven can be any gooder than this," sighed one small girl, as she looked about her in a blissful maze, holding her full apron with one hand, while she luxuriously carried sugar-plums to her mouth with the other."Is that a truly angel up there?" asked another, fascinated by the little white figure with the wreath on its shining hair, who in some mysterious way had been the cause of all this merry-making."I wish I dared to go and kiss her for this splendid party," said a lame child, leaning on her crutch, as she stood near the steps, wondering how it seemed to sit in a mother's lap, as Effie was doing, while she watched the happy scene before her. Effie heard her, and remembering Tiny Tim, ran down and put her arms about the pale child, kissing the wistful face, as she said sweetly, "You may; but mamma deserves the thanks. She did it all; I only dreamed about it."Lame Katy felt as if "a truly angel" was embracing her, and could only stammer out her thanks, while the other children ran to see the pretty spirit, and touch her soft dress, until she stood in a crowd of blue gowns laughing as they held up their gifts for her to see and admire.Mamma leaned down and whispered one word to the older girls; and suddenly they all took hands to dance round Effie, singing as they skipped.It was a pretty sight, and the ladies found it hard to break up the happy revel; but it was late for small people, and too much fun is a mistake. So the girls fell into line, and marched before Effie and mamma again, to say goodnight with such grateful little faces that the eyes of those who looked grew dim with tears. Mamma kissed every one; and many a hungry childish heart felt as if the touch of those tender lips was their best gift. Effie shook so many small hands that her own tingled; and when Katy came she pressed a small doll into Effie's hand, whispering, "You didn't have a single present, and we had lots. Do keep that; it's the prettiest thing I got.""I will," answered Effie, and held it fast until the last smiling face was gone, the surprise all over, and she safe in her own bed, too tired and happy for anything but sleep."Mamma, it was a beautiful surprise, and I thank you so much! I don't see how you did it; but I like it best of all the Christmases I ever had, and mean to make one every year. I had my splendid big present, and here is the dear little one to keep for love of poor Katy; so even that part of my wish came true."。

经典英文短篇小说（108）The Romance of a Busy Brokerby O. HenryPitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy "Good-morning, Pitcher," Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs."Well--what is it? Anything?" asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently."Nothing," answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile."Mr. Pitcher," she said to the confidential clerk, did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?""He did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one.I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.""I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady, "until some one comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet singsof the "crowded hour of glorious life." The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into somethingresembling animation.On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her."Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position," said Pitcher.Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape."What position?" he asked, with a frown."Position of stenographer," said Pitcher. "You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.""You are losing your mind, Pitcher," said Maxwell. "Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of 'em in here."The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantlydeparted. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the "old man" seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine--strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready andprompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities--here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.And through the window came a wandering--perhaps a lost--odour--a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room--twenty steps away."By George, I'll do it now," said Maxwell, half aloud. "I'll askher now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago."He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear."Miss Leslie," he began hurriedly, "I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you he my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please--those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific.""Oh, what are you talking about?" exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed."Don't you understand?" said Maxwell, restively. "I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?"The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck."I know now," she said, softly. "It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8 o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner."。

十本必读的短篇英文名著看完了小编介绍的英文名著，有些小伙伴说太长了，看的有点累，那今天就为大家介绍一些短篇的英文名著，快看看有没有你喜欢的。

1.傻瓜威尔逊(The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson)作者马克·吐温 (Mark Twain)内容梗概有黑人血统的女奴罗克珊为了让儿子逃脱奴隶命运，把主人的儿子和自己的儿子在摇篮里掉包。

她真正的儿子汤姆在优越环境中长大，而主人的小孩尚布则沦落为奴隶。

推荐理由本篇用了侦探小说手法，一波三折，具有极强可读性。

马克·吐温招牌式幽默和讽刺能让你会心一笑。

2.案中案(A Double Barrelled Detective Story)作者马克·吐温 (Mark Twain)内容梗概富家女和穷小子结婚后受尽折磨，父亲还被气死，最后被丈夫抛弃。

在她发现五岁儿子嗅觉超群之后，一个复仇计划在她心中渐渐成形。

推荐理由不按套路出牌的复仇故事，看似荒唐，却又让人难以放手，一气读完。

3.幽灵之屋(A Haunted House)作者弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙(Virginia Woolf)内容梗概一对幽灵夫妻在房子里飘荡，回忆他们生前的美好时光，并确认了对方对自己的爱。

推荐理由虽然是鬼故事，但却十分澄澈美好。

优美的语言具有抚慰人心的力量。

4.一间自己的屋子(A Room of One's Own)作者弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙(Virginia Woolf)内容梗概这本书的内容是伍尔夫在女子学院的两篇讲稿，以“妇女和小说”为主题，通过对女性创作的历史及现状的分析，指出女人应该有勇气有理智地去争取独立的经济力量和社会地位。

推荐理由“当我在我的脑子里搜索的时候，我发现我对于做别人的伴侣，做与别人相等的人，以及去影响这世界为了去达到更高的目的都没有什么高尚的感觉。

我只很简单很平凡地说，成为自己比什么都要紧。

”5.三个陌生人(The Three Strangers)作者托马斯·哈代(Thomas Hardy)内容梗概一个牧羊少年惊恐地睁大了双眼，从他的小棚屋中往外窥视一个女人和情人的幽会。

中学必读经典英文短篇小说《ABUSHDANCE》A BUSH DANCEBy Henry Lawson “tap, tap, tap，”The little schoolhouse and residence in the scrub was lighted brightly in the mids t of the“close”,solid blackness of that moonless December night, when the sky a nd stars were smothered and suffocated by drought haze.It was the evening of the school children’s “Feast”. That is to say that the childre n had been sent, and“let go”，and the younger ones“fetched”through the blazin g heat to the school, one day early in the holidays, and raced—sometimes in co uples tied together by the legs—and caked, and bunned, and fnally improved u pon by the local Chadband, and got rid of.The schoolroom had been cleared fo r dancing, the maps rolled and tied, the desks and blackboards stacked against t he wall outside.T ea was over, and the trestles and boards, whereon had been spr ead better things than had been provided for the unfortunate youngsterhad bee n taken outside to keep the desks and blackboards company.On stools running end to end along one side of the room sat about twenty mor e or less blooming country girls of from ffteen to twenty odd.On the rest of the stools, running end to end along the other wall, sat about twe nty more or less blooming chaps.It was evident that something was seriously wrong. None of the girls spoke abov e a hushed whisper.None of the men spoke above a hushed oath.Now and again two or three sidled out, and if you had followed them you would have found t hat they went outside to listen hard into thedarkness and to swear.“tap, tap, tap.”The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls turned pale faces nervously tow ards the side-door, in the direction of the sound.“tap—tap.”The tapping came from the kitchen at the rear of the teacher’s residence, and w as uncomfortably suggestive of a coffin being made：it was also accompanied b y a sickly, indescribable odour—more like that of warm cheap glue than anythin g else.In the schoolroom was a painful scene of strained listening. Whenever one of th e men returned from outside, or put his head in at the door, all eyes were fasten ed on him in the fash of a single eye, and then withdrawn hopelessly.At the soun d of a horse’s step all eyes and ears were on th e door, till some one muttered，‘It’s only the horses in the paddock.’Some of the girls’eyes began to glisten suspiciously, and at last the belle of th e party—a great, dark-haired, pink-and-white Blue Mountain girl, who had bee n sitting for a full minute staring before her, with blue eyes unnaturally bright, su ddenly covered her face with her hands, rose, and started blindly from the roo m, from which she was steered in a hurry by two sympathetic and rather‘upset’gi rl friends, and as she passed out she was heard sobbing hysterically—“Oh, I can’t help it！I did want to dance！It’s a sh-shame！I can’t help it！I—I want to dance！I rode twenty miles to dance—and—and I want to dance！”A tall, strapping young Bushman rose, without disguise, andfollowed the girl ou t. The rest began to talk loudly of stock, dogs, and horses, and other Bush thing s；but above their voices rang out that of the girl from the outside—being ma n comforted—“I can’t help it, Jack！I did want to dance！I—I had such—such—a job—to get mother—and—and father to let me come—and—and now！”The two girl friends came back. “He sez to leave her to him，”they whispered, i n reply to an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress.“It’s—it’s no use, Jack！”came the voice of grief.“You don’t know w hat—what fat her and mother—is. I—I won’t—be able—to ge-get away—again—for—for—n ot till I’m married, perhaps.”The schoolmistress glanced uneasily along the row of girls.“I’ll take her into my room and make her lie down，”shewhispered to h er sister, who w as staying with her.“she’ll start some of the other girls presently —it’s just the weather for it，”and she passed out quietly. That schoolmistress w as a woman of penetration.A final “tap-tap”from the kitchen；then a sound like the squawk of a hurt or fri ghtened child, and the faces in the room turned quickly in that direction and bri ghtened. But there came a bang and a sound like“damn！”and hopelessness set tled down.A shout from the outer darkness, and most of the men and some of the girls ros e and hurried out. Fragments of conversation heard in the darkness—“It’s two horses, I tell you！”“It’s three, you—！”“Lay you—！”“Put the stuff up！”A clack of gate thrown open. “Who is it, Tom?”Voices from gatewards, yelling，“Johnny Mears！They’ve got Johnny Mears！”Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands.Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from the far side of the table, whe re he had thrown it, a burst and battered concertina, which he had been for the l ast hour vainly trying to patch and make air-tight；and, holding it out towards t he back-door, between his palms, as a football is held, he let it drop, and fetche d it neatly on the toe of his riding-boot. It was a beautiful kick, the concertina sh ot out into the blackness, from which was projected, in return, frst a short, sudde n howl, then a face with one eye glaring and the other covered by an enormou s brick-coloured hand, and a voice that wanted to know who shot‘that lurid loa f of bread?’But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice of Joe Matthews, M. C.，“take yer partners！Hurry up！Take yer partners！They’ve got Johnn y Mears with his fddle！”。

适合摘抄的英文短篇当谈及适合摘抄的英文短篇作品时，有许多经典的短篇小说和故事适合提取摘抄。

以下是一些经典英文短篇作品及摘抄：1. 《The Lottery》by Shirley Jackson："Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones."2. 《The Gift of the Magi》by O. Henry:"The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger."3. 《Hills Like White Elephants》by Ernest Hemingway:"The hills across the valley of the Ebro' were long and white."4. 《The Tell-Tale Heart》by Edgar Allan Poe:"It's the beating of his hideous heart!"5. 《To Build a Fire》by Jack London:"The old-timer had been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after fifty below."6. 《The Necklace》by Guy de Maupassant:"She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate hadblundered over her, into a family of artisans."这些短篇作品有着丰富的情节、生动的描述和深刻的寓意，适合用来进行摘抄和创作。

世界上最著名的10部英文短篇小说“”1. “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” Flannery O’ConnorFew short stories have stuck with us as much as this one, which is probably O'Connor's most famous work —and with good reason. The Misfit is one of the most alarming serial killers we've ever met, all the more so for his politeness, and the story’s moral is so striking and terrifying that — whether you subscribe to the religious undertones or not — a reader is likely to finish and begin to reexamine their entire existence. Or at least we did,the first time we read it.《好人难寻》这篇小说是奥康纳最为著名的作品，很少有其他短篇小说能像这篇一样给我们带来震撼。

无论你是否能明了宗教般的潜在含义，看完这篇小说读者都会开始或是结束对存在的检视。

2. “The School,” Donald BarthelmeThis story is very short, but pretty much perfect in every way. Though Barthelme is known for his playful, post modern style, we admire him for his ability to shape a world so clearly from so few words, chosen expertly. Barthelme never over explains, never uses one syllable too many, but effortlessly leads the reader right where he wants her to be. It's funny, it's absurdist, it's sad, it's enormous even in its smallness. It may be this writer’s favorite story of all time. You should read it.这篇小说很短，但是堪称完美。

优秀英语短篇小说集 10 篇，不看后悔哦~以下是一份包含10篇优秀英语短篇小说的精选集。

每个故事都引人入胜，希望你会喜欢！1. "The Secret Room"故事简介：一个年轻的探险家发现了一间隐藏的密室，里面隐藏着惊人的秘密。

2. "The Unexpected Journey"故事简介：一位幸运的旅行者在一次意外中发现了一条通往神秘世界的道路。

3. "Lost in the Woods"故事简介：一群朋友在森林迷路了，他们必须齐心合力才能找到回家的路。

4. "The Haunted House"故事简介：一对夫妇决定住进一座传说中闹鬼的房子，他们面临着各种令人毛骨悚然的事件。

5. "The Magical Necklace"故事简介：一个普通女孩意外发现了一条神奇的项链，她从此踏上了一段令人难以置信的冒险之旅。

6. "The Mysterious Stranger"故事简介：一个神秘的陌生人来到小镇，他的出现改变了所有人的生活。

7. "The Forgotten Diary"故事简介：一个年轻女孩在祖母的旧日记中发现了一个关于家族秘密的惊人发现。

8. "The Lost Treasure"故事简介：一群年轻人决定寻找传说中失落的宝藏，他们将面对许多挑战与危险。

9. "The Enchanted Garden"故事简介：一位女孩探索了她祖母的神奇花园，她发现了一个隐藏的世界。

10. "The Mirror of Truth"故事简介：一面魔镜能够揭示出真相，一位英勇的年轻人利用它来拯救他的国家。

以上是《优秀英语短篇小说集》中的10篇故事简介。

希望你会对这些故事充满兴趣，尽情享受阅读的乐趣！。

The SwingBy Mary GavellAs she grew old, she began to dream again. She had not dreamed much in her middle years; or, if she had , the busyness of her days, converging on her the moment she awoke, had pushed her dreams right out of her head, and any fragments that remained were as busy and prosaic as the day itself. She had only the one son, James, but she had also mothered her younger sister after their parents died, and she had done all of the office work during the years when her husband’s small engineering firm was getting on its feet. And Julius’s health had not been too good, even then; it was she who had mowed the lawn and had helped Jamie to learn to ride his bicycle and pitched balls to him in the backyard until he learned to hit them.But she was dreaming again now, as she had when she was a child. Oh, not the lovely foolish dreams of finding oneself alone in a candy store, or the horrible dreams of being pursued through endless corridors without doors by nameless terrors. But as her days grew in quietness and solitude – for James was grown and gone, and Julius was drawing in upon himself, becoming every day more small and chill and dim –color and life and drama were returning to her dreams.But on that first night when she heard the creak of the swing, she did not think that she was dreaming at all. She had been lying in bed quite awake, she thought, in the little room that used to be Jamie’s –for nowadays her reading in bed, and afterward her tossing and turning, disturbed Julius. The swing was not an ordinary one. Julius had put it up, in one of the few flashes of poetry in all his worrisome, hardworking life, when Jamie was only a baby and nowhere near old enough to swing in it. The ladder Julius had was not tall enough, and he had to buy a new one, for the tree was tremendous and the branch on which he proposed to hang the swing arched a full forty feet from the ground, and much thought and consideration and care were given to the chain, and the hooks, and the seat. The swing was suspended from so high, and its arc was so wide, that riding in it was like sailing through the air with the leisurely swoop of a wheeling bird. One seemed to travel from one horizon to the other. And how proud Julius had been of it when Jamie was old enough to swing in it, and the neighborhood children had stood around to admire and be given a turn, for there was no other swing like it.The swing was hardly ever used now; it was only a treat, once in a while, for a visiting child, and occasionally when she was outside working in her flower border she would sit and rest in it for a moment or two, idling, pushing herself a little with a toe. But the rhythmic creak of the chains was so familiar that she could not mistake it, she thought. Could the wind be strong enough to move it, if it came from the right angle? She finally gave up thinking about it and went to sleep.Nor did she think of it the next day, for they were due for Sunday dinner at James’s house. He lived in a suburb on the opposite side of the city – just the right distance away, she often thought, far enough so that aging parents could not meddleand embarrass and interfere, but near enough so that she could see him fairly often. She loved him with all her heart, her dear, her only son. She was enormously proud of him, too; he was a highly paid mathematician in a research foundation, and expert in a field so esoteric that she had given up trying to grasp its point. But secretly she took some credit, for it was she – who had kept the engineering firm’s books balanced and done the income tax – who had played little mathematical games with him before he had ever gone to school and had sat cross-legged with him on the floor tossing coins to test the law of probability. Oh, they had had fun together in all sorts of ways; they had done crossword puzzles together, and studied the stars together, and read books together that were over his head and sometimes over hers too. And he had turned out well; he was a scholar, and a success, and a worthy citizen, and he had a pretty wife, a charming home, and two handsome children. She could not have asked for more. He was the light and the warmth of her life, and her heart beat fast on the way to his house.She drove. She had always enjoyed driving, and nowadays Julius, who used to insist on doing it himself, let her do it without a word. They drove in silence mostly, but her heart was as light as the wind that blew on her face, and she hummed under her breath, for she was on her way to see James. Julius said querulously, “I could have told you you’d get into a lot of traffic this way and you’d do better to go by the river road, but I knew you wouldn’t listen,”but she was so happy that she forbore to mention that whenever she took the river road he remarked how much longer it was, and only answered, “I expect you’re quite right, Julius. We’ll come back that way.”They did go home by the river road, and it seemed very long; she was a little depressed, as she often was when she returned from James’s house. “I love him with all my heart”– the words walked unbidden into her mind –“but I wish that when I ask him how he is he wouldn’t tell me that there is every likelihood that the Basic Research Division will be merged with the Statistics Division.” He had kissed her on the cheek, and Anne, his wife, had kissed her on the cheek, and the two children had kissed her on the cheek, and he had slipped a footstool under her feet and had seated his father away from drafts, and they had had a fire in the magnificent stone fireplace the architect had dreamed up and the builder added to the cost, and Anne had served them an excellent dinner, and the children had, on request, told her of suitable A’s in English and Boy Scout merit badges. They had asked her how she had been, and she told them, in a burst of confidence, that she had had the ancient piano tuned and had been practicing an hour a day. They looked puzzled. “What are you planning to do with it, Mother?” Anne asked. “Oh, well nothing, really,” she said, embarrassed. She said later on that she had been reading books on China for she was so terribly ignorant about it, and they asked politely how her eyes were holding up, and when she said that she was sick of phlox and was going to dig it all up and try iris, James said mildly, “You really shouldn’t do all that heavy gardening anymore, Mother.”They were loving, they were devoted, and it was the most pleasant of ordinary family Sunday afternoons. James told her that he had another salary increase, and that the paper he had delivered before the Mathematical Research Institute had been, he felt he could say without exaggeration, most well received, and that they were getting a new stationwagon. But what, she wondered, did he feel, what did he love and hate, and what upset him or made him happy, and what did he look forward to? Nonsense, she thought, I can’t expect him to tell me his secret thoughts. People can’t, once they’re grown, to their parents. But the terrible fear rose in her that these were his secret thoughts, and that was all there was.That night she heard the swing again, the gentle, regular creak of the chains. What can be making that noise, she wondered, for it was a still night, with surely not enough wind to stir the swing. She asked Julius the next day if he ever heard a creaking sound at night, a sound like the swing used to make. Julius peered out from his afghan and said deafly, “Hah?” and she answered irritably, “Oh, never mind.” The afghan maddened her. He was always chilly nowadays, and she had knitted the afghan for him for Christmas, working on it in snatches when he was out from under foot for a bit, with a vision of its warming his knees as they sat together in the evenings, companionably watching television, or reading, or chatting. But he sat less and less with her in the evenings; he went to bed very early nowadays, and he had taken to wearing the afghan daytimes around his shoulders like a shawl. She was sorry immediately for her irritation, and she tried to be very thoughtful of him the rest of the day. But he didn’t seem to notice; he noticed so little now.Other things maddened her too. She decided that she should get out more and, heartlessly abandoning Julius, she made a luncheon date with Jessie Carling, who had once been a girl as gay and scatterbrained as a kitten. Jessie spent the entire lunch discussing her digestion and the problem of making the plaids match across the front in a housecoat she was making for herself. A couple of days later, she paid a call on Joyce Simmons, who had trouble with her back and didn’t get out much, and Joyce told her in minute detail about her son, dwelling, in full circumstantial detail, on the virtues of him, his wife, and his children. She held her tongue, though it was hard. My trouble, she thought wryly, is that I think my son is so really superior that a kind of noblesse oblige forces me not to mention it.The next time she heard it was several nights later. She sat up in bed and, half aloud, said, “I’m not dreaming, and it certainly is the swing!” She threw on her robe and her slippers and went downstairs, feeling her way in the dark carefully, for though sounds seemed not to reach Julius, lights did wake him. Softly she unlocked the back door and, stepping out into the moonlight, picked her way through the wet grass and in sight of the big oak, she saw it swooping powerfully through the air in its wide arc, and the shock it gave her told her that she had not really believed it. There was a child in the swing, and she paused with a terrible fear clutching at her. Could it be a sleepwalking child from somewhere in the neighborhood? And would it be dangerous to call out to the child, or would it be better to go up and put out a hand to catch the swing gently and stop it? She walked nearer softly, afraid to startle the child, her heart beating with panicky speed. It seemed to be a little boy and, she noticed, he was dressed in ordinary clothes, not pajamas, as a sleepwalker might be. Nearer she came, still undecided what she should do, shaking with fear and strangeness.She saw then that it was James. “Jamie?’she cried out questioningly, and immediately shrank back, feeling that she must be making some kind of terriblemistake. But he looked and saw her, and, bright in the moonlight, his face lit up, as it had used to do when he saw her, and he answered gaily, “Mommy!”She ran to him and stopped the swing – he had slowed down when he saw her –and knelt on the mossy ground and put her arms around him and he put his arms around her and squeezed tight. “I’m so glad to see you!” she cried. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you!”“I’m glad to see you too,” he cried, grinning, and kissed her teasingly behind the ear, for he knew it gave her goose bumps. “You know,” he said, “I like this airplane, and sometimes I go r-r-r-r- and that’s the engine.”“Well,” she said, “it is sort of like flying. Like an airplane, or maybe like a bird. Do you remember, Jamie, when you use to want to be a bird and would wave your arms and try to fly?”“That was when I was a real little kid,” he said scornfully.She suddenly realized that she didn’t know how old he was. One tooth was out in front; could that have been when he was six? Or seven? Surely not five? One forgot so much. She couldn’t very well ask him; he would think that very odd, for a mother, of all people, should know. She noticed, then, his red checked jacket hanging on the nail on the tree; Julius had given him that jacket for his sixth birthday, she remembered now; he had loved it and had insisted on carrying it with him all the time, even when it was too warm to wear it, and Julius had driven a little nail in the oak tree for him to hang it on while he swung; the nail was till there, old and rusty.“Mommy, how high does an airplane fly?” he asked.“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, “two thousand feet, maybe.”“How much is a foot?”“Oh, about as long as Daddy’s foot – I guess that’s why they call it that.”“Have people always been the same size?”“Well, not exactly. They say people are getting a little bigger, and that most people are a little bigger than their great-granddaddies were.”“Well [she saw the trap too late], then if feet used not to be as big, why did they call it a foot?”“I don’t know. Maybe that isn’t why they call it a foot. We should look it up in the dictionary.”“Does dictionary tell you everything?”“Not everything. Just about words and what they mean and how they started to mean that.”“But if there’s a word for everything, and if a dictionary tells you about every word, then how can it help but tell you about everything?”“Well,” she said, “you’ve got a good point there. I’ll have to think that one over.”Another time he would ask, “Why is it, if the world is turning round all the time, we don’t fall off?”“Gravity. You know what a magnet is. The earth is just like a big magnet.”“But where is the gravity? If you pick up a handful of dirt, it doesn’t have any gravity.”“Well, I don’t know. The center of the earth, I guess. Well, I don’t really know,”she said.She felt as if the wheels of her mind, rusty from disuse, were beginning to turn again, as if she had not engaged in a real conversation, or thought about anything real, in so long that she was like a swimmer out of practice.They talked for an hour, and then he said he had to go, with the conscientious keeping track of time he had used to show when it was time to go to school.“See you later, alligator,” he said, and the answer sprang easily to her lips: “After a while, crocodile.”He came every night or two after that, and she lay in bed in happy anticipation, listening for the creak of the swing. She did not go out in her robe again; she hastily dressed herself properly, and put on her shoes, for she had always felt that a mother should look tidy and proper. There by the swing they sat, and they talked about the stars and where the Big Dipper was, and about what you do about a boy who is sort of mean to you at school all the time, not just now and then, the way most children are to each other, only they don’t especially mean it, and about what you should say in Sunday school when they say the world was made in six days but your mother has explained it differently, and about why the days get shorter in winter and longer in summer.She bloomed; she sang around the house until even Julius noticed it, and said, disapprovingly, “You seem to be awfully frisky lately.”And when Anne phoned apologetically to say that they would have to call off Sunday dinner because James had to attend a committee meeting, she was not only perfectly understanding – as she always tried to be in such instances – but she put down the phone with an utterly light heart, and took up her song where she had left it off.Then one night, after they had talked for an hour, Jamie said, “I have to go now, and I don’t think I can come again, Mommy.”“Okay,”she said, and whatever reserve had supplied the cheerful matter-of-factness with which she had once taken him to the hospital to have his appendix out, when he was four, came to her aid and saw to it that there was not a tremor in her voice or a tear in her eye. She kissed him, and then she sat and watched as he walked down the little back lane that had taken him to school, and off to college, and off to a job, and finally off to be married – and he turned, at the bend in the road, and waved to her, as he always used to do.When he was out of sight, she sat on the soft mossy ground and rested her arms in the swing and buried her face in them and wept. How long she had sat there, she did not know, when a sound made her look up. It was Julius, standing there, frail and stooped, in the moonlight, in his nightshirt with the everlasting afghan hung around his thin old shoulders. She hastily tried to rearrange her attitude, to somehow make it look as if she was doing something quite reasonable, sitting there on the ground with her head pillowed on the swing in the middle of the night. Julius had always felt she was a little foolish and needed a good deal of admonishing, and now he would think she was quite out of her mind and talk very sharply to her.But his cracked old voice spoke mildly. “He went off and left his jacket,” he said.She looked, and there was the little red jacket hanging on the nail.。

Ｔｏｐ１００英文经典小说（节选）作者：朱志斌来源：《新东方英语·中学版》2006年第02期美国Time(《时代》)周刊近日评选出自1923年以来的“100部经典英文小说”，这里面不乏大家所熟悉的《麦田守望者》、《了不起的盖茨比》等作品。

大家可在《时代》网站(/time/2005/100books/the_complete_list.html)找到关于这100部小说的精彩介绍。

本刊特选出比较适合中学生阅读的十部刊登在此。

由于此内容直接来自Time（略有删改），其语言优雅，句式复杂，是一道营养丰富的大餐。

让我们在咀嚼原汁原味英文的同时，一起来领略文学大师们的风采吧！The Great Gatsby (1925)Author: F. Scott FitzgeraldNo one gives better parties than Jazz Age zillionaire Jay Gatsby. No one has a bigger house or a bigger pool, or drives a longer, more opulent1 automobile. His silk shirts alone—“shirts with stripes2 and scrolls3 and plaids4 in coral and apple green and lavender5 and faint orange with letters of Indian blue” — can and do reduce women to tears. But who is he? Where does he come from, where did he make his money, and why —his calm, straight-arrow6 neighbor (and narrator) Nick wonders—does he stand on his dock at night and stretch out his arms to a green light shining across the bay from his magnificent mansion7? The Great Gatsby lays bare the empty, tragic heart of the self-made man. It’s not only a page-turner and a heartbreaker, it’s one of the most typ ically American novels ever written.Gone With the Wind (1936)Author: Margaret MitchellIt’s one of the best-selling books ever bound between covers, but that’s not what makes Margaret Mitchell’s magnificent novel great. T he ultimate, original historical romance, it follows high-spirited Scarlett O’Hara, roguish8 Rhett Butler and romantic, infinitely good-looking Ashley Wilkes as the world that nurtured them is swept away in the cataclysm9 of the Civil War. As typically American as Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is English, Gone with the Wind is a colossally10 readable romance novel—love stories do not come more triangular —but it’s also the definitive telling of one of the basic American mythologies: the passing away, in blood and ashes, of the grand old South.Author: Elizabeth BowenPortia Quayne is that most dangerous commodity, an innocent child. At 16, after years of wandering around European hotels with h er parents, she’s been orphaned11. She finds herself now in the care of her prosperous older half brother and his reluctant wife. What they and their thoughtless friends will show to Portia is the disenchanted12kingdom of adulthood. But Bowen’s real geniu s was in recognizing what Portia will show to them. In the mirror of her innocent eyes, experience will catch a glimpse of its own reflection. It’s not a pretty picture.The Grapes of Wrath (1939)Author: John SteinbeckThe storms of the Great Dust Bowl13 had barely settled when Steinbeck published The Grapes of Wrath, which follows a family of poor “Okies14,”the Joads15, as they chase the mirage of a good life westward from their destroyed midwestern farm to California. The Joads find only bitterness,squalor16and oppression as migrant agricultural workers living in“Hoovervilles,”but their unconquerable strength in the face of a huge disaster makes Steinbeck’s epic17 far more than a history of unfortunate events: It’s both a record of its time and a permanent monument to human perseverance. The Lion, The Witchand the Wardrobe (1950)Author: C.S. LewisFour English children playing hide-and-seek accidentally wander through an enchanted18 wardrobe and into Narnia, a land locked in a deep magical winter by the spells of an evil witch-queen. Only the fierce, benevolent19 lion Aslan (with a little help from the children) can defeat the tyrant20 and bring summer back to Narnia and the talking animals who live there. Lewis was a Christian philosopher, and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (and the six more Narnia novels that followed) can be read as Christian morality tales, but they’re not just kids?stuff: Lewis had a surprisingl y sharp eye for the dark shades of the human soul, sin and anger and temptation, and readers of any faith, or none at all, will feel the enormous power of Lewis’s irresistible, transporting sense of wonder.Author: J.D. SalingerNo matter how many high school English teachers try to bring The Catcher in the Rye to the level of ordinary people in class, it will never lose its satirical edge. When Holden Caulfield learns he’s going to be kicked out of yet another private school, he leaves school in the middle of the night and heads to New York City to wander around for a few days—hitting on girls, thinking about his dead brother, worrying about where the ducks go in the wintertime — before he deals with his parents. The time passes in an agony22of the absence of pleasure: It’s a permanent reminder of the sweetness of childhood, the falseness of the adult world, and the strange no-man’s-land that lies in between.Invisible Man (1952)Author: Ralph EllisonA nameless young black man wends a winding path from a southern town—where a local white men’s club mockingly awards him a scholarship to a black college—to the streets of New York City, where everybody, black and white, left and right, man and woman, seems to have their own ideas about who he is and what purpose he can serve. Fairly exposing the hypocrisies and stereotypes of all comers, Invisible Man is far more than a race novel. It’s the quintessential Americ an picaresque of the 20th century.The Lord of the Rings (1954)Author: J.R.R. TolkienWhen a tweedy, Catholic, pipe-smoking Oxford professor named John Ronald Reuel Tolkien sat down to write a novel, who could have anticipated that his volcanic imagination would give rise to an entire continent, populated by elves23, dwarves, orcs24, wizards and ambulatory25 trees? Tolkien drew on his deep knowledge of ancient languages and mythology, and his painful memories of the Somme, to create a 20th-century fable of magic and heroism, misty mountains and mystical forests, goodness and temptation, wherein Frodo, goes to destroy the One Ring, an evil artifact26 that could be the downfall of all of Middle Earth. The founding text of modern fantasy literature, The Lord of the Rings also carries with it a profound, bittersweet longing for the innocent pre-industrial England that was lost forever in the muddy trenches27 of World War I.Catch-22 (1961)Author: Joseph HellerCaptain John Yossarian is a bomber pilot who’s just trying to make it through WWII alive. But the only excuse the Army will accept for refusing to fly a mission is insanity28, and if Yossarian refuses to fly he is, by definition, sane. This is the self-devouring logical worm that lies at the heart of Catch-22, the story of Yossarian, his colleagues—who respond to the horrors of war with a range of both serious and comic neuroses and psychoses—and his superiors, who respond to the horrors of war by sending Yossarian on ever more pointless and dangerous missions for the purpose of enhancing their own reputations. Catch-22 is a bitter, distressed29 joke of a novel that embraces the existential absurdity of war without ever quite giving in to it.Watchmen (1986)Author: Alan Moore & Dave GibbonsWatchmen is a graphic novel—a book-length comic book with ambitions above its station —starring a ragbag of bizarre, damaged, retired superheroes: the paunchy30 Nite Owl; the raving doomsayer Rorschach; the blue, glowing, near-all-powerful, no-longer-human Doctor Manhattan. Though their heyday is past, these former crime-fighters are drawn back into action by the murder of a former teammate, The Comedian, which turns out to be the leading edge of a much wider, more disturbing conspiracy.《了不起的盖茨比》（1925）作者：弗·斯考特·菲茨杰拉德没有人举办的晚会可以比爵士乐时代的亿万富翁杰伊·盖茨比的更奢华，也没有人拥有比他更大气的庄园，更宽大的游泳池，或一辆更长、更豪华的轿车。