1 卡拉维拉斯县驰名的跳蛙 马克?吐温
11 难言之隐 保罗?德?科克
23 信箱里的小鸟 勒内?巴赞
33 穿越红海 亨利?米尔热
45 怪诞天使 埃德加?爱伦?坡
59 苹果园里的哲学家 安东尼?霍普
73 小个子法国人和他的水下地皮 乔治?波普?莫里斯
83 一场安达卢西亚人的决斗 塞拉芬?埃斯特瓦内斯?卡尔德龙
91 哈格雷夫斯的两面性 欧?亨利
111 沃特金森家的晚宴 伊丽莎?莱斯利
135 为原告辩护的斯塔伯特上校 布雷特?哈特
177 The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County Mark Twain
189 The Guilty Secret Paul de Kock
203 The Birds in the Letter-Box René Bazin
215 The Passage of the Red Sea Henry Murger
227 The Angel of the Odd Edgar Allan Poe
245 The Philosopher in the Apple Orchard Anthony Hope
261 The Little Frenchman and His Water Lots George Pope Morris
273 An Andalusian Duel Serafín Estébanez Calderón
283 The Duplicity of Hargraves O. Henry
305 The Watkinson Evening Eliza Leslie
335 Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff Bret Harte
內容試閱：
《卡拉维拉斯县驰名的跳蛙》
马克吐温
有朋友从东部来信，托我拜访西蒙·威勒，并向其打听我这位朋友的朋友列昂尼达斯·W. 斯迈雷的下落。这个老威勒，脾气倒是挺好的，就是嘴巴特别碎。他都跟我絮叨了些啥呢，我这就给大家说说。我心里隐隐觉着，这位列昂尼达斯·W. 斯迈雷肯定是瞎编的； 我朋友兴许根本就不认识这号人；他准是算准了，只要我向老威勒一提起此人，他肯定就会联想到那位名声不好的吉姆·斯迈雷，并由此拉扯开来，将那些又长又臭、与我八竿子打不着的陈年烂谷子的事情数落给我，把我烦死。如果这都是我朋友事先设好的局，那他还真是没白费心思。
我找到西蒙·威勒时，他正在一家酒馆里，靠着吧台边的火炉子舒舒服服地打盹儿。这家馆子破破烂烂的，坐落在废弃的安吉儿矿场。我注意到他，胖胖的，顶着个秃头，面容安详，显得和气、朴实。见我过来，便起身，向我打了个招呼。我告诉他，有朋友托我来打听他儿时的一位死党，名叫列昂尼达斯·W. 斯迈雷——也就是列昂尼达斯·W. 斯迈雷神父，听人说这位年轻的福音传教士曾在这儿呆过。我随后又补充说，要是威勒先生能跟我聊聊这位列昂尼达斯·W. 斯迈雷神父，不管聊什么，我都会感激不尽的。西蒙·威勒让我退到墙角，然后拿椅子将我堵在那儿，以防我听不下去中途开溜。坐好后，便开始絮絮叨叨地说起我在下面段落里提到的那些枯燥乏味的事情来。他一直绷着脸，连眉头都不皱一下。说起话来慢慢悠悠，打从开口以来，就一直这个调，热情似乎从来与他毫不相干。你说也是的，他就这么唠叨个没完没了，还一直都能保持那么真挚、那么诚恳，真是令人佩服。看得出，他从来都没想过他讲的那些事有什么滑稽可笑的，他可是把它们当作老大的正经事来说的，而且他对其中的两位人物推崇备至，认为他俩谋略过人。我由着他这么一路讲下去，一次都没去打断他。列昂尼达斯神父，嗯，这位神父叫列什么来着——反正，这里从前还真有过一个叫吉姆·斯迈雷的家伙。那是四九年的冬天——要不就是五〇年的春天——我记不大清楚了，总归不是这个就是那个，因为他刚来矿场的时候，那大渡槽还没造好呢；可是，不管怎么说，他都算得上是最稀奇古怪的家伙了。他总是见着什么就赌什么，而且总跟别人对着干。你要赌大，他就赌小；你要赌小，他就赌大。反正，别人觉着怎么赌好，他都没问题——怎么说呢，只要有得赌，他就开心。你别说，他还真有运气，而且运气还不一般，十有八九都是他赢。他总是随时准备着，一有机会就赌；这世上，还没有哪样东西，是你提出来而他又不能赌的。而且，两边任你挑，这我刚才都跟你说啦。若是赛马，那到收场的时候，你就会看到，他不是赢得盆满钵满，就是输得一文不名；若是斗狗，他要赌；若是斗猫，他也要赌；若是斗鸡，他更要赌；唉，即便是有两只鸟落在篱笆上，他也要跟你赌哪一只先飞走；若是有野营布道会，他也会按时到场，到了就拿沃克牧师打赌，赌沃克牧师的布道在这一带是最棒的；那还用说，这是事实，而且他本来就是个好人么。即使在路上看见一只屎壳郎，他也会跟你赌，赌它几天才能到——不论到哪儿都行；若是你接下招来，那就是赶去墨西哥，他也会跟着那只屎壳郎，看看它到底去不去那儿，路上花了多长时间。这儿的很多小孩都见过这个斯迈雷，关于他的事，也都能跟你聊上几句。至于，别人怎么讲，他都无所谓——他反正是见啥赌啥——还真没有谁比这家伙更神的。记得有那么一次，沃克牧师的太太病得厉害，有好些日子都卧床不起，眼看着她就快没救了。有一天早晨，牧师进来了，斯迈雷起身过来问他太太怎么样，他回答，她好多了——感谢主的无限仁慈——照这样下去，有主保佑，她会好起来的；可没等他把话说完，斯迈雷脱口而出：“那好，我押两块半，赌她好不了。”
这个斯迈雷有一匹母马——孩子们都管它叫“十五分钟老马”，这只不过是说着玩的，当真在赛场上跑起来它肯定是不用十五分钟的——斯迈雷还经常靠这匹马赢钱呢。因为它总是那么慢吞吞的，让人觉着它不是得气喘，生瘟热，就是有痨病这一类的病。所以，人家总是让它先跑个两三百码，然后，再在中途超过它。可是，等快到终点，大伙儿筋疲力尽的时候，它就来劲了，它会拼了老命，撒欢尥蹶子；四只蹄子到处乱甩，甩空了的也有，甩偏了踢到篱笆上的也有，弄得尘土飞扬，再加上咳嗽、打喷嚏、擤鼻涕，搞得场上沸沸扬扬——等到裁判席跟前的时候，它总能比别的马快上一个头，这几乎你都可以算得出来。
The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County
Mark Twain
In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; and that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating reminiscence of him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it succeeded.
I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the barroom stove of the dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of Angel’s, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a friend had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley—Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of Angel’s Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him. Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative, there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse. I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.
“Rev. Leonidas W. H’m, Reverend Le—well, there was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of ’49—or may be it was the spring of ’50—I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume warn’t finished when he first came to the camp; but any way, he was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn’t, he’d change sides. Any way that suited the other man would suit him—any way just so’s he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry thing mentioned but that feller’d offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a horse-race, you’d find him f lush or you’d find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg’lar to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and he was, too, and a good man. If he even see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get to—to wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to him—he’d bet on any thing—the dangest feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn’t going to save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley up and asked him how she was, and he said she was considerable better—thank the Lord for his inf’nit’ mercy—and coming on so smart that with the blessing of Prov’dence, she’d get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, ‘Well, I’ll risk twoand-a-half she don’t anyway.’”
Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that—and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag-end of the race, she’d get excited and desperate-like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose—and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.
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