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淘豆网网友近日为您收集整理了关于【精品资料】欧亨利短篇小说集_英文原版_的文档，希望对您的工作和学习有所帮助。以下是文档介绍：【精品资料】欧亨利短篇小说集_英文原版_ A Bird Of Bagdad(OHenry)___________________________________________Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al Rashiddescended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue - that street that the city seems to otten in its growth. Fourth Avenue - born and bred in the Bowery - staggersnorthward full of good resolutions.Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly in theglare of t(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html])he museums and cheap theatres. It may yet e a fit mate for itshigh-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring, polyglot, broad-waistedcousin to the east. It passes Union S and here the hoofs of the drayhorses seem to thunder in unison, recalling the tread of marching hosts -Hooray! But e the silent and terrible mountains - buildings square asforts, high as the clouds, shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bendover desks all da(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html])y. On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundriesand book shops, where you see copies of &Littell's Living Age& and G. W. M.Reynold's novels in the windows. And next - poor Fourth Avenue! - the streetglides into a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted to&Antiques.&Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and menace thehurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Haub(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html])erks and helms,blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks, creeses, and theswords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully in theghostly light. Here and there from a corner saloon (lit with Jack-o'-lanterns orphosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound citizens, nerved by thetankards within to their fearsome journey adown that eldrich avenue lined withthe bloodstained weapons of the fighting dead. What street c(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html])ould live inclosedby these mortuary relics, and trod by these spectral citizens in whose sunkenhearts scarce one good whoop or tra-la-la remained?Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the Little Rialto- not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There need be no tears, 'tis but the suicide of a street. With a shriek and a crashFourth Avenue dives headlong into the tunnel at Thirty-fourth an(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html])d is neverseen again.Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the modestrestaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its crumblingred-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges, tomatoes, layer cakes,pies, canned asparagus - its papier-mache lobster and two Maltese kittensasleep on a bunch of lettuce - if you care to sit at one of the little tables uponwhose cloth has been traced in the yellowest of coffee(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html]) stains the trail of theJapanese advance - to sit there with one eye on your umbrella and the otherupon the bogus bottle from which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted uponus by the cursed charlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the&Nobleman in India.&Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a Margravineof Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of the dilution of hisheredity he fo(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html])und that he could neither e a reigning potentate nor get ajob in the City Hall. So he opened a restaurant. He was a man full of thoughtand reading. The business gave him a living, though he gave it little attention.One side of his house bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure.The other have him the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By dayhe was Quigg, the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave - the Caliph -the Prince of Bo(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html])hemia - going about the city in search of the odd, themysterious, the inexplicable, the recondite.One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth upon hisquest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and the artistic in hisappearance as he buttoned his coat high up under his short-trimmed brownand gray beard and turned westward toward the more central life conduits ofthe city. In his pocket he had stored an assortment(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html]) of cards, written upon,without which he never stirred out of doors. Each of those cards was good athis own restaurant for its face value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup ors others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or mo a few were for
a very few were, ineffect, meal tickets good for a week.Of riches and power Margrave Q but he had a Caliph's heart - itma(来源：淘豆网[/p-3169657.html])y be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of Harun Al Rashid's.Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put less warmth and hope plainants among the bazaars than had Quigg's beef stew among thefishermen and one-eyed calenders of Manhattan.Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of distress thathe might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering crowd that whoopedand fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and the crosstown street thathe was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he beheld a young man of anexceedingly melancholy and upied demeanor engaged in the pastimeof casting silver money from his pockets in the middle of the street. With eachmotion of the generous one's hand the crowd huddled upon the fallinglargesse with yells of joy. Traffic was suspended. A policman in the centre ofthe mob stooped often to the ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger afterknowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made hisway swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm. &Come with me at once,&he said, in the low manding voice that his waiters had learned to fear.&Pinched,& remarked the young man, looking up at him with expressionlesseyes. &Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me away, flatty, and give me gas.Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a hen?&Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed Quigg tolead him away and down the street to a little park.There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph's mantlehas descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to know what e upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving him to suchill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and stores.&I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn't I?&asked the young man.&You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to scrambleafter,& said the Margrave.&That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw chicken feedto - Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers, roosters, eggs, andeverything connected with it!&&Young sir,& said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, &though I do not askyour confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know humanity. Man is mystudy, though I do not eye him as the scientist eyes a beetle or as thephilanthropist gazes at the objects of his bounty - through a veil of theory andignorance. It is my pleasure and distraction to interest myself in the plicated misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men.You may be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler, theCaliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among hispeople in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so much oftheir distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I seek for romance andadventure in city streets - not in ruined castles or in crumbling palaces. To methe greatest marvels of magic are those that take place in men's hearts whenacted upon by the furious and diverse forces of a crowded population. In yourstrange behavior this evening I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act somethingdeeper than the wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in yourcountenance the certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat - I inviteyour confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise. Will younot trust me?&&Gee, how you talk!& exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admirationsupplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. &You've got the AstorLibrary skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that old Turk youspeak of. I read 'The Arabian Nights' when I was a kid. He was a kind of BillDevery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say, you might waveenchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon giants all nightwithout ever touching me. My case won't yield to that kind of treatment.&&If I could hear your story,& said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious smile.&I'll spiel it in about nine words,& said the young man, with a deep sigh, &but Idon't think you can help me any. Unless you're a peach at guessing it's back tothe Bosphorous for you on your magic linoleum.& THE STORY OF THEYOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER'S RIDDLE&I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street. I'veworked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's enough to marry on, ain't it?Well, I'm not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one of these funnyDutchmen - you know the kind - always getting off bum jokes. He's got about amillion riddles and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers'great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill have to stand forthem chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it? Well, jobs ain't to be picked offevery Anheuser bush - And then there's Laura.&What? The old man's daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About een,and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of the Rhine andcharms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of straw matting, and eyesas black and shiny as the best harness blacking - think of that!&Me? well, it's either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill is all tothe ps and me? - well, you saw me plating the roadbed ofthe Great Maroon Way with silver tonight. That was on account of Laura. I wasspiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of what I wouldst.&How? Why, old Hildebrandt say to me and Bill this afternoon: 'Boys, one riddlehave I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles antworten, he isnot so good by business for ein family to provide - is not that - hein?' And hehands us a riddle - a conundrum, some calls it - and he chuckles interiorly andgives both of us till to-morrow morning to work out the answer to it. And hesays whichever of us guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o'Wednesday night to his daughter's birthday party. And it means Laura forwhichever of us goes, for she's naturally aching for a husband, and it's eitherme or Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marrysomebody that'll carry on the business after he's stitched his last pair of traces.&The riddle? Why, it was this: 'What kind of a hen lays the longest? Think ofthat! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain't it like a Dutchman to risk aman's happiness on a fool proposition like that? Now, what's the use? What Idon't know about hens would fill several incubators. You say you're givingimitations of the old Arab guy that gave away - libraries in Bagdad. Well, now,can you whistle up a fairy that'll solve this hen query, or not?&When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by thepark bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave andimpressive tones:&I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in search ofadventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered a moreinteresting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have overlooked hens in myresearches and observations. As to their habits, their times and manner oflaying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their -&&Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!& interrupted the young man, flippantly.&Riddles - especially old Hildebrant's riddles - don't have to be worked outseriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Pecklike to handle. But, somehow, I can't strike just the answer. Bill Watson may,and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well, Your Majesty, I'm glad anyhow thatyou butted in and whiled the time away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself wouldhave bounced back if one of his constituents had conducted him up againstthis riddle. I'll say good night. Peace fo' yours, and what-you-may-call-its ofAllah.&The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.&I cannot exppress my regret,& he said, sadly. &Never before have I foundmyself unable to assist in some way. 'What kind of a hen lays the longest? It isa baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that -&&Cut it out,& said the young man. &The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. Idon't suppose you'd even see anything funny in a preacher's defense of JohnD. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.&From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a cardand handed it to the young man.&Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,& he said. &The time e when itmight be of use to you.&&Thanks!& said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. &My name is Simmons.&***Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall altogether pursuethe Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray if myhand fail in keeping the way where my peruser's heart would follow. Then letus, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker.Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silverbuckling a raw leathermartingale.Bill Watson came in first.&Vell,& said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the joke-maker,&haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?'&&Er - why, I think so,& said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. &I think so, Mr. Hildebrant- the one that lives the longest - Is that right?&&Nein!& said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. &You haf not guessed deranswer.&Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco - pale, melancholy,hopeless.&Vell,& said Hildebrant, &haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays derlongest?'&Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse thismountain of pernicious humor - curse him and die? Why should - But therewas Laura.Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood. Hishand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's card. He drew it out andlooked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There waswritten on it in Quigg's bold, round hand: &Good for one roast chicken tobearer.&Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.&A dead one!& said he.&Goot!& roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. &Dot is right! Yougome at mine house at 8 o'clock to der party.&A Blackjack Bargainer(OHenry)___________________________________________The most disreputable thing in Yancey Goree's law office was Goree himself,sprawled in his creakv old arm- chair. The rickety little office, built of red brick,was set flush with the street -- the main street of the town of Bethel.Bethel rested upon the foot-hills of the Blue Ridge. Above it the mountainswere piled to the sky. Far below it the turbid Catawba gleamed yellow along itsdisconsolate valley.The June day was at its sultriest hour. Bethel dozed in the tepid shade. Tradewas not. It was so still that Goree, reclining in his chair, distinctly heard theclicking of the chips in the grand-jury room, where the &court- house gang& wasplaying poker. From the open back door of the office a well-worn pathmeandered across the grassy lot to the court-house. The treading out of thatpath had cost Goree all he ever had -- first inheritance of a few thousanddollars, next the old family home, and, latterly the last shreds of hisself-respect and manhood. The &gang& had cleaned him out. The brokengambler had turned d he had lived to see this ewhen the men who had stripped him denied him a seat at the game. His wordwas no longer to be taken. The daily bouts at cards had arranged ordingly, and to him was assigned the ignoble part of the onlooker. Thesheriff, the county clerk, a sportive deputy, a gay attorney, and a chalk-facedman hailing &from the valley,& sat at table, and the sheared one was thus tacitlyadvised to go and grow more wool.Soon wearying of his ostracism, Goree had departed for his office, muttering tohimself as he unsteadily tra- versed the unlucky pathway. After a drink of cornwhiskey from a demijohn under the table, he had flung himself into the chair,staring, in a sort of maudlin apathy, out at the mountains immersed in thesummer haze. The little white patch he saw away up on the side of Blackjackwas Laurel, the village near which he had been born and bred. There, also,was the birthplace of the feud between the Gorees and the Coltranes. Now nodirect heir of the Gorees survived except this plucked and singed bird ofmisfortune. To the Coltranes, also, but one male supporter was left -- ColonelAbner Col- trane, a man of substance and standing, a member of the StateLegislature, and a contemporary with Goree's father. The feud had been atypic it had left a red record of hate, wrong and slaughter.But Yancey Goree was not thinking of feuds. His befuddled brain washopelessly attacking the problem of the future maintenance of himself and hisfavourite follies. Of late, old friends of the family had seen to it that he hadwhereof to eat and a place to sleep -- but whiskey they would not buy for him,and he must have whiskey. His law
no case had beenintrusted to him in two years. He had been a borrower and a sponge, and itseemed that if he fell no lower it would be from lack of opportunity. One morechance -- he was saying to himself -- if he had one more stake at the game, he but he had nothing left to sell, and his credit was morethan exhausted.He could not help smiling, even in his misery, as he thought of the man towhom, six months before, he had sold the old Goree homestead. There e from &back yan'& in the mountains two of the strangest creatures, a mannamed Pike Garvey and his wife. &Back yan',& with a wave of the hand towardthe hills, was understood among the mountaineers to designate the remotestfastnesses, the unplumbed gorges, the haunts of lawbreakers, the wolf's den,and the boudoir of the bear. In the cabin far up on Blackjack's shoulder, in thewildest part of these retreats, this odd couple had lived for twenty years. Theyhad neither dog nor children to mitigate the heavy silence of the hills. PikeGarvey was little known in the settlements, but all who had dealt with himpronounced him &crazy as a loon.& He acknowledged no occupation save thatof a squirrel hunter, but he &moonshined& occasionally by way of diversion.Once the &revenues& had dragged him from his lair, fighting silently anddesperately like a terrier, and he had been sent to state's prison for two years.Released, he popped back into his hole like an angry weasel.Fortune, passing over many anxious wooers, made a freakish flight intoBlackjack's bosky pockets to smile upon Pike and his faithful partner.One day a party of spectacled, knickerbockered, and altogether absurdprospectors invaded the vicinity of the Garvey's cabin. Pike lifted his squirrelrifle off the hooks and took a shot at them at long range on the chance of theirbeing revenues. Happily he missed, and the unconscious agents of good luckdrew nearer, disclosing their innocence of anything resembling law or justice.Later on, they offered the Garveys an enormous quantity of ready, green, crispmoney for their thirty-acre patch of cleared land, mentioning, as an excuse forsuch a mad action, some irrelevant and inadequate nonsense about a bed ofmica underlying the said property.When the Garveys became possessed of so many dol- lars that they puting them, the deficiencies of life on Blackjack began to growprominent. Pike began to talk of new shoes, a hogshead of o to set inthe corner, a n and, leading Martella to a certain spot on themountain-side, he pointed out to her how a small cannon -- doubtless a thingnot beyond the scope of their fortune in price -- might be planted so as mand and defend the sole accessible trail to the cabin, to the confusion ofrevenues and meddling strangers forever.But Adam reckoned without his Eve. These things represented to him theapplied power of wealth, but there slumbered in his dingy cabin an ambitionthat soared far above his primitive wants. Somewhere in Mrs. Garvey's bosomstill survived a spot of femininity unstarved by twenty years of Blackjack. Forso long a time the sounds in her ears had been the scaly-barks dropping in thewoods at noon, and the wolves singing among the rocks at night, and it wasenough to have purged her of vanities. She had grown fat and sad and yellowand dull. But when the means came, she felt a rekindled desire to assume theperquisites of her sex --
to whitewashthe hideous veracity of life with a little form and ceremony. So she coldlyvetoed Pike's proposed system of fortifica- tions, and announced that thevwould descend upon the world, and gyrate socially.And thus, at length, it was decided, and the thing done. The village of Laurelwas promise between Mrs. Garvey's preference for one of the largevalley towns and Pike's hankering for primeval solitudes. Laurel yielded ahalting round of feeble social distractions omportable with Martella's ambitions,and was not entirely without mendation to Pike, its contiguity to themountains presenting advantages for sudden retreat in case fashionablesociety should make it advisable.Their descent upon Laurel had been coincident with Yancey Goree's feverishdesire to convert property into cash, and they bought the old Goree homestead,paying four thousand dollars ready money into the spendthrift's shaking hands.Thus it happened that while the disreputable last of the Gorees sprawled in hisdisreputable office, at the end of his row, spurned by the cronies whom he ed, strangers dwelt in the halls of his fathers.A cloud of dust was rolling, slowly up the parched street, with somethingtravelling in the midst of it. A little breeze wafted the cloud to one side, and anew, brightly painted carryall, drawn by a slothful gray horse, became visible.The vehicle deflected from the middle of the street as it neared Goree's office,and stopped in the gutter directly in front of his door.On the front seat sat a gaunt, tall man, dressed in black broadcloth, his rigidhands incarcerated in yellow kid gloves. On the back seat was a lady whotriumphed over the June heat. Her stout form was armoured in a skintight silkdress of the description known as &change- able,& being a bination of shifting hues. She sat erect, waving a much-omamented fan,with her eyes fixed stonily far down the street. However Martella Garvey'sheart might be rejoicing at the pleasures of her new life, Blackjack had donehis work with her exterior. He had carved her countenance to the image ofe had imbued her with the stolidity of his crags, and thereserve of his hushed interiors. She always seemed to hear, whatever hersurroundings were, the scaly-barks falling and pattering down the mountain-side. She could always hear the awful silence of Black- jack sounding throughthe stillest of nights.Goree watched this solemn equipage, as it drove to his door, wit but when the lank driver wrapped the reins about his whip, awkwardlydescended, and stepped into the office, he rose unsteadily to receive him,recognizing Pike Garvey, the new, the transformed, the recently civilized.The mountaineer took the chair Goree offered him. They who cast doubtsupon Garvey's soundness of mind had a strong witness in the man'scountenance. His face was too long, a dull saffron in hue, and immobile as astatue's. Pale-blue, unwinking round eyes without lashes added to thesingularity of his gruesome visage. Goree was at a loss to account for the visit.&Everything all right at Laurel, Mr. Garvey?& he inquired.&Everything all right, sir, and mighty pleased is Missis Garvey and me with theproperty. Missis Garvey likes yo' old place, and she likes the neighbourhood.Society is what she 'lows she wants, and she is gettin' of it. The Rogerses, theHapgoods, the Pratts and the Troys hev been to see Missis Garvey, and shehev et meals to most of thar houses. The best folks hev axed her to differ'ntkinds of doin's. I cyan't say, Mr. Goree, that sech things suits me -- fur me, give播放器加载中，请稍候...
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【精品资料】欧亨利短篇小说集_英文原版_ A Bird Of Bagdad(OHenry)___________________________________________Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al Rashiddescended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue - that street tha...
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