O.Henry. short stories about people. read online. About Henry: short stories, early works About Henry short stories to read

The story of the dirty ten

Money talks. But you might think that in New York the voice of an old ten-dollar bill sounds like a barely audible whisper? Well, great, if you like, ignore the autobiography of a stranger told sotto voce. If your ear loves the roar of John D.'s checkbook coming from a megaphone driving around the streets, it's up to you. Just don’t forget that even a small coin sometimes doesn’t fit into your pocket for a word. The next time you slip an extra silver quarter to the grocery clerk so that he can weigh you out with the owner's goods, first read the words above the lady's head. A caustic remark, isn't it?

I am a 1901 ten dollar bill. You may have seen these in the hands of one of your friends. On the front I have a picture of the American bison, mistakenly called buffalo by fifty or sixty million Americans. On the sides are the heads of Captain Lewis and Captain Clark. From the back side in the center of the stage stands, gracefully perched on a greenhouse plant, either Liberty, or Ceres, or Maxine Elliott.

For information about me, please contact: paragraph 3. 588, amended bylaws. If you decide to change me, Uncle Sam will put ten ringing full-weight coins on your counter - really, I don’t know whether they are silver, gold, lead or iron.

I'm telling the story a little confusingly, will you forgive me - forgive me? I knew it, thank you - after all, even a nameless bill evokes a kind of servile awe, a desire to please, doesn’t it? You see, we, the dirty money, are almost completely deprived of the opportunity to polish our speech. In my life I have never met an educated and well-mannered person whose ten would linger for longer period than it takes to run to the nearest grocery store. For a six-year-old, I have a very sophisticated and animated manner. I repay my debts as regularly as those who see off a dead person in last way. I have served so many masters! But I once had the opportunity to admit my ignorance, and to whom? In front of an old, shabby and unkempt five - a silver certificate. We met her in a thick, foul-smelling butcher's wallet.

Hey, you, daughter of an Indian chief, I say, stop groaning. Don’t you understand that it’s time to withdraw you from circulation and print again? Only released in 1899, but what do you look like?

You apparently think that since you are a buffalo, you are supposed to chatter incessantly,” responded the five. - And you would be worn out if you were kept under a fildepers and a garter all day, when the temperature in the store does not drop a degree below eighty-five.

“I haven’t heard of such wallets,” I said. -Who put you there?

Saleswoman.

What is a saleswoman? - I was forced to ask.

Your sister will know this no earlier than their sister’s golden age begins,” answered the five.

Look, lady! She doesn't like fildepers. But if they stuck you behind a piece of cotton, as they did with me, and pestered you all day with factory dust, so that this lady with a cornucopia painted on me even sneezed, what would you sing then?

This conversation took place the day after I arrived in New York. I was sent to a Brooklyn bank by one of their Pennsylvania branches in a pack of dozens just like me. Since then, I have never had the opportunity to become acquainted with the wallets that my five-dollar and two-dollar interlocutors were in. They hid me only behind silk ones.

I was lucky. I didn't sit still. Sometimes I changed hands twenty times a day. I knew the underside of every deal; Again, I took care of every pleasure of my hosts. On Saturdays I was invariably dumped on the counter. Tens are always thrown around, but bills of a dollar or two are folded into a square and modestly pushed towards the bartender. Gradually, I got a taste for it and strove to either sip the whiskey or lick the martini or Manhattan that had spilled there from the counter. One day, a peddler driving a cart along the street put me in a plump, greasy packet, which he carried in his overalls pocket. I thought I would have to forget about the real appeal, since the future owner of the general store lived on eight cents a day, limiting his menu to dog meat and onions. But then the peddler somehow made a mistake by placing his cart too close to the intersection, and I was saved. I am still grateful to the policeman who helped me out. He exchanged me at a tobacconist's near the Bowery, where a business was going on in the back room. gambling. And the chief of the police station, who himself was lucky that evening, took me out into the world. A day later, he got me drunk at a restaurant on Broadway. I was also sincerely glad to be returning to my native land, like one of the Astors when he sees the lights of Charing Cross.

The Dirty Ten don't have to sit around on Broadway. Once they called me child support, folded me up and put me in a suede wallet full of dimes. They boastfully recalled the stormy summer season in Osining, where the owner's three daughters kept fishing out one of them for ice cream. However, these infantile revelries are simply a storm in a teacup when compared with the hurricanes to which banknotes of our denomination are subjected during the menacing hour of increased demand for lobsters.

The first time I heard about dirty money was when the charming youngster Wang Whoever dumped me and several of my girlfriends in exchange for a handful of chips.

About midnight, a rollicking and burly fellow with the fat face of a monk and the eyes of a janitor who had just received a raise, rolled me and many other banknotes into a tight roll - a “piece”, as the money polluters say.

Write down five hundred for me,” he said to the banker, “and see that everything is as it should be, Charlie.” I want to walk through a wooded valley while the moonlight plays on a rocky cliff. If any of us get into trouble, keep in mind that in the upper left compartment of my safe there are sixty thousand dollars, wrapped in a humorous magazine supplement. Keep your nose to the wind, but don't waste your words. Bye.

I found myself between two twenties - gold certificates. One of them told me:

Hey, you "new" old lady, you're in luck. You'll see something interesting. Today Old Jack is going to turn all the Beefsteak into crumbs.

Amazing

We know a man who is perhaps the most witty of all thinkers ever born in our country. His way of logically solving a problem almost borders on inspiration.

One day last week his wife asked him to do some shopping and, considering that with all the power logical thinking, he is quite forgetful of everyday little things, I tied a knot in his scarf. Around nine o'clock in the evening, rushing home, he accidentally took out a handkerchief, noticed a bundle and stopped dead in his tracks. At least kill him! - I couldn’t remember for what purpose this knot was tied.

We'll see, he said. - The knot was made so that I would not forget. So he is a forget-me-not. Forget-me-not is a flower. Yeah! Eat! I have to buy flowers for the living room.

The powerful intellect did its job.

Summoning a Stranger

He was tall, angular, with sharp gray eyes and a solemnly serious face. The dark coat he was wearing was buttoned up with all the buttons and had something of a priestly cut in its cut. His dirty reddish trousers hung loosely, not even covering the tops of his shoes, but his tall hat was extremely impressive, and in general one would have thought that he was a village preacher on a Sunday walk.

He drove while sitting in a small cart, and when he reached a group of five or six people sitting on the porch of a post office in a small Texas town, he stopped his horse and got out.

“My friends,” he said, “you all look intelligent people, and I consider it my duty to say a few words concerning the terrible and disgraceful state of things which is observed in this part of the country. I refer to the nightmarish barbarity that has recently been displayed in some of the most cultured cities in Texas, when human beings, created in the image and likeness of the Creator, were subjected to brutal torture, and then brutally burned alive in the most crowded streets. Something needs to be done to remove this stain from clean name your state. Don't you agree with me?

Are you from Galveston, stranger? - asked one of the people.

No sir. I am from Massachusetts, the cradle of freedom of the unfortunate Negroes and the nursery of their most ardent defenders. These bonfires of men make us cry tears of blood, and I am here to try to awaken compassion in your hearts for your black brothers.

And you will not repent of calling upon fire to bring about the painful administration of justice?

Not at all.

And you will continue to subject blacks to a terrible death at the stake?

If circumstances force it.

In that case, gentlemen, since your determination is unshakable, I want to offer you several gross matches, cheaper than which you have never seen before. Take a look and see for yourself. Full guarantee. They do not go out in any wind and ignite on anything: wood, brick, glass, cast iron, iron and soles. How many boxes would you like, gentlemen?

The Colonel's Romance

They sat by the fireplace smoking pipes. Their thoughts began to turn to the distant past.

The conversation touched on the places where they spent their youth, and the changes that the passing years brought with them. All of them had lived in Houston for a long time, but only one of them was a native of Texas.

The colonel came from Alabama, the judge was born on the swampy banks of the Mississippi, the grocer saw the light of day for the first time in frozen Maine, and the mayor proudly declared that his homeland was Tennessee.

Have any of you guys gone home on leave since you moved here? - asked the colonel.

It turned out that the judge had been home twice in twenty years, the mayor once, and the grocer never.

It's a funny feeling, said the Colonel, to visit the places where you grew up after an absence of fifteen years. Seeing people you haven't seen for so long is like seeing ghosts. As for me, I visited Crosstree, Alabama, exactly fifteen years after I left there. I will never forget the impression this visit made on me.

There once lived in Crosstree a girl whom I loved more than anyone in the world. One fine day I slipped away from my friends and headed to the grove where I had once often walked with her. I walked along the paths where our feet walked. The oak trees on both sides remained almost unchanged. The little blue flowers could have been the same ones that she wove into her hair when she came out to meet me.

We especially loved walking along a row of thick laurels, behind which a tiny stream gurgled. Everything was exactly the same. No change tormented my heart. The same huge sycamores and poplars towered above me; the same river ran; my feet walked along the same path along which we often walked with her. It seemed that if I waited, she would definitely come, walking lightly in the darkness, with her star eyes and chestnut curls, as loving as ever. It seemed to me then that nothing could separate us - no doubt, no misunderstanding, no lie. But - who can know?

I reached the end of the path. There was a large hollow tree in which we left notes for each other. How many sweet things this tree could tell, if only it could! I thought that after the clicks and blows of life, my heart had hardened - but it turned out that this was not the case.

I looked into the hollow and saw something white in its depths. It was a folded piece of paper, yellow and dusty with age. I unfolded it and had difficulty reading it.

"My beloved Richard! You know that I will marry you if that is what you want. Come early this evening and I will give you an answer better than in the letter. Yours and only yours Nelly."

Gentlemen, I stood there holding that little piece of paper in my hand, as if in a dream. I wrote to her, asking her to become my wife, and offered to put the answer in the hollow of an old tree. She obviously did so, but I did not find him in the dark, and all these years have rushed by since then over this tree and this leaf...

The listeners were silent. The mayor wiped his eyes, and the judge grunted funny. They were old people now, but they also knew love in their youth.

That's when, said the grocer, you went to Texas and never saw her again?

No,” said the colonel, “when I did not come to them that night, she sent my father to me, and two months later we got married.” She and five guys are at my house now. Pass the tobacco, please.
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Copyright: short stories O.HENRY

O.Henry(English O. Henry, real name William Sydney Porter, English William Sydney Porter) is a recognized master of the American short story. His short stories are characterized by subtle humor and unexpected endings.

William Sydney Porter born September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. IN three years of age he lost his mother, who died of tuberculosis. Later he came under the care of his paternal aunt. After school, I studied to become a pharmacist and worked in my uncle’s pharmacy. Three years later he moved to Texas and tried different professions- worked on a ranch, served in the land department. Then he worked as a cashier and bookkeeper at a bank in the Texas city of Austin.

First literary experiments date back to the early 1880s. In 1894, Porter began publishing the humorous weekly Rolling Stone in Austin, filling it almost entirely with his own essays, jokes, poems and drawings. A year later, the magazine closed, and at the same time Porter was fired from the bank and taken to court in connection with the shortfall, although it was reimbursed by his family.

After being accused of embezzlement, he hid from law enforcement officers in Honduras for six months, then in South America. Upon returning to the United States, he was convicted and sent to prison in Columbus, Ohio, where he spent three years (1898-1901).

In prison, Porter worked in the infirmary and wrote stories, looking for a pseudonym. In the end, he chose the version of O. Henry (often incorrectly spelled like the Irish surname O'Henry - O'Henry). Its origin is not entirely clear. The writer himself claimed in an interview that the name Henry was taken from the column secular news in the newspaper, and the initial O. was chosen as the simplest letter. He told one of the newspapers that O. stands for Olivier ( French name Olivier), and indeed, he published several stories there under the name Olivier Henry. According to other sources, this is the name of the famous French pharmacist Etienne Ocean Henry, whose medical reference book was popular at that time. Another hypothesis was put forward by writer and scientist Guy Davenport: “Oh. Henry" is nothing more than an abbreviation of the name of the prison where the author was imprisoned - Ohio Penitentiary. He wrote his first story under this pseudonym, “Dick the Whistler's Christmas Gift,” published in 1899 in McClure's Magazine.

O. Henry's only novel, Cabbages and Kings, was published in 1904. It was followed by collections of stories: The Four Million (1906), The Trimmed Lamp (1907), Heart of the West (1907), The Voice of the City of the City, 1908), The Gentle Grafter (1908), Roads of Destiny (1909), Options (1909), Strictly Business (1910) and "Whirling" (Whirligigs, 1910).

At the end of his life, O. Henry suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and diabetes. The writer died on June 5, 1910 in New York.

The collection “Postscripts”, published after the death of O. Henry, included feuilletons, sketches and humorous notes written by him for the newspaper “Post” (Houston, Texas, 1895-1896). In total, O. Henry wrote 273 stories, full meeting his works comprise 18 volumes.

O. Henry (eng. O. Henry, pseudonym, real name William Sidney Porter- English William Sydney Porter; 1862-1910) - American writer, prose writer, author of popular short stories characterized by subtle humor and unexpected endings.
Biography
William Sidney Porter was born on September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. After school, I studied to become a pharmacist and worked in a pharmacy. Then he worked as a cashier-accountant in a bank in the Texas city of Austin. He was accused of embezzlement and hid from law enforcement for six months in Honduras, then in South America. Returning to the United States, he was convicted and sent to prison in Columbus, Ohio, where he spent three years (1898-1901).
In prison, Porter worked in the infirmary and wrote stories, looking for a pseudonym. In the end, I decided on the version of O. Henry (often incorrectly spelled like the Irish surname O'Henry - O'Henry). Its origin is not entirely clear. The writer himself claimed in an interview that the name Henry was taken from the society news column in the newspaper, and the initial O. was chosen as the simplest letter. He told one of the newspapers that O. stands for Olivier (the French name Olivier), and indeed, he published several stories there under the name Olivier Henry. According to other sources, this is the name of a famous French pharmacist. Another hypothesis was put forward by writer and scientist Guy Davenport: “Oh. Henry" is nothing more than an abbreviation of the name of the prison where the author was imprisoned - Oh io Peniten tiary. He wrote his first story under this pseudonym, “Dick the Whistler's Christmas Gift,” published in 1899 in McClure's Magazine.
O. Henry's first book of stories, Cabbages and Kings, was published in 1904. It was followed by The four million (1906), The trimmed Lamp (1907), The Heart West" (Heart of the West, 1907), "The Voice of the City" (1908), "The Gentle Grafter" (1908), "Roads of Destiny" (1909), " Selections (Options, 1909), Strictly Business (1910) and Whirlliggs (1910).
At the end of his life he suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and diabetes. The writer died on June 5, 1910 in New York.
The collection “Postscripts”, published after the death of O. Henry, included feuilletons, sketches and humorous notes written by him for the newspaper “Post” (Houston, Texas, 1895-1896). In total, O. Henry wrote 273 stories, the complete collection of his works is 18 volumes.
Features of creativity
O. Henry occupies an exceptional place in American literature as a master of the short-story genre. Before his death, O. Henry expressed his intention to move to more complex genre- to the novel (“everything I’ve written so far is just pampering, a test of the pen, compared to what I’ll write in a year”).
In his work, however, these sentiments did not manifest themselves in any way, and O. Henry remained an organic artist of the “small” genre, the story. It is no coincidence, of course, that during this period the writer first began to be interested in social problems and revealed his negative attitude towards bourgeois society (Jennings “Through the Darkness with O. Henry”).
O. Henry's heroes are diverse: millionaires, cowboys, speculators, clerks, laundresses, bandits, financiers, politicians, writers, artists, artists, workers, engineers, firefighters - they replace each other. A skillful plot designer, O. Henry does not show the psychological side of what is happening; the actions of his characters do not receive deep psychological motivation, which further enhances the surprise of the ending.
O. Henry is not the first original master“short story”, he only developed this genre, which in its main features had already taken shape in the work of T. B. Aldrich (Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 1836-1907). O. Henry's originality was manifested in the brilliant use of jargon, sharp words and expressions, and in the general colorfulness of the dialogues.
Already during the writer’s lifetime, the “short story” in his style began to degenerate into a scheme, and by the 1920s it turned into a purely commercial phenomenon: the “method” of its production was taught in colleges and universities, numerous manuals were published, etc.
American writers of the interwar period (S. Anderson, T. Dreiser, B. Hecht) contrasted the vacuity of O. Henry's epigones with rich psychological stories.
O. Henry Award
Eight years after his death, the O. Henry Prize was established in memory of the writer

O. Henry is an outstanding American writer, prose writer, and author of popular short stories characterized by subtle humor and unexpected endings.

William Sidney Porter was born on September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. At the age of three, he lost his mother, who died of tuberculosis. Later he came under the care of his paternal aunt. After school, I studied to become a pharmacist and worked in my uncle’s pharmacy. Three years later he left for Texas, tried different professions - worked on a ranch, served in the land department. Then he worked as a cashier and bookkeeper at a bank in the Texas city of Austin. The first literary experiments date back to the early 1880s. In 1894, Porter began publishing the humorous weekly Rolling Stone in Austin, filling it almost entirely with his own essays, jokes, poems and drawings. A year later, the magazine closed, and at the same time Porter was fired from the bank and taken to court in connection with the shortfall, although it was reimbursed by his family. After being accused of embezzlement, he hid from law enforcement for six months in Honduras, then in South America. Upon returning to the United States, he was convicted and sent to prison in Columbus, Ohio, where he spent three years (1898-1901).

In prison, Porter worked in the infirmary and wrote stories, looking for a pseudonym. In the end, he decided on O. Henry (often incorrectly spelled like the Irish surname O'Henry). Its origin is not entirely clear. The writer himself claimed in an interview that the name Henry was taken from the society news column in the newspaper, and the initial O. was chosen as the simplest letter. He told one of the newspapers that O. stands for Olivier (the French name Olivier), and indeed, he published several stories there under the name Olivier Henry. According to other sources, this is the name of the famous French pharmacist Etienne Henry, whose medical reference book was popular at that time. Another hypothesis was put forward by writer and scientist Guy Davenport: “Oh. Henry" is nothing more than an abbreviation of the name of the prison where the author was imprisoned - Ohio Penitentiary.

He wrote his first story under this pseudonym, “Dick the Whistler’s Christmas Gift,” published in 1899 in Mc Clure’s Magazine, in prison. O. Henry's only novel, “Kings and Cabbage,” was published in 1904. It was followed by collections of stories: “Four Million” (1906), “The Burning Lamp” (1907), “The Heart of the West” (1907), “The Voice of the City” (1908), "The Noble Rogue" (1908), "The Paths of Fate" (1909), "Selected" (1909), "Exact Deeds" (1910) and "Rotating" (1910).

O. Henry occupies an exceptional place in American literature as a master of the “short story” genre. Before his death, O. Henry expressed his intention to move on to a more complex genre - to the novel: Everything that I have written so far is just self-indulgence, a test of the pen, compared to what I will write in a year. In his work, however, these sentiments did not manifest themselves in any way, and O. Henry remained an organic artist of the “small” genre, the story. It is no coincidence, of course, that during this period the writer first began to be interested in social problems and revealed his negative attitude towards bourgeois society. O. Henry's heroes are diverse: millionaires, cowboys, speculators, clerks, laundresses, bandits, financiers, politicians, writers, actors, painters, workers, engineers, firefighters - replace each other. A skillful plot designer, O. Henry does not show the psychological side of what is happening, the actions of his characters do not receive deep psychological motivation, which further enhances the surprise of the ending. O. Henry is not the first original master of the “short story”; he only developed this genre. O. Henry's originality was manifested in the brilliant use of jargon, sharp words and expressions, and in the general colorfulness of the dialogues. Already during the writer’s lifetime, the “short story” in his style began to degenerate into a scheme, and by the 1920s it turned into a purely commercial phenomenon: the “method” of its production was taught in colleges and universities, numerous manuals were published, etc.

O. Henry Award - annual literary prize behind best story(short story). Established in 1918 and named after American writer O.Henry, famous master genre. The prize was first awarded in 1919. It is awarded to stories by American and Canadian authors published in American and Canadian magazines. The stories are published in the collection The O. Henry Prize Stories. Winners in different years became Truman Capote, William Faulkner, Flannery O'Connor and others.

Literary Prize "Gifts of the Magi" - a competition for a short story in Russian, following the plot formula of the famous story of the same name O. Henry “love + voluntary sacrifice + unexpected outcome.” The competition was established in 2010 by the editors of Russian-language publications published in the USA “ New magazine" and "New Russian word", the competition coordinator was prose writer Vadim Yarmolinets. Despite its New York origins, the competition, according to Yarmolynets, was conceived as addressed to Russian writers around the world.