Who can tell me some short stories written by famous people, such as the chameleon written by Leo Tolstoy?

The chameleon was written by Chekhov, a famous Russian short story writer.

chameleon

Police officer Ochumelov, wearing a new military coat and carrying a small bag, crossed the market square. He was followed by a policeman with reddish-brown hair and a thick Rory stuffed with confiscated gooseberries. The air was silent. ..... There is not even a figure in the square. Shops and hotels open their doors and listlessly face the world created by God, like hungry mouths. There is not even a beggar in front of the shop.

"How dare you bite, damn it!" Ochamelov suddenly heard a voice. "Guys, don't let go! Biting people can't be done now Grab it! Oh, ... Oh! "

The dog screamed. Ochumelov looked over there and saw a dog running out of the firewood yard of businessman Petruchin, running on three legs and looking back. Behind it, a man chased out, wearing a starched cotton shirt and an open vest. He chased the dog, leaned forward, threw himself on the ground and grabbed the dog's hind legs. Then came the barking of dogs and the shouts of people: "Don't let it get away!" " Sleepy faces came out of the shop one after another, and soon a group of people gathered at the door of the firewood yard, as if they had come out of the ground.

"It seems that something had happened, Sir! "said the policeman.

Ochamelov turned his body slightly to the left and walked towards the crowd. At the gate of the firewood yard, he saw the man with a vest standing there, raising his right hand and showing a bloody finger to the group. His half-drunk face showed this expression: "I'll skin you, bad guy!" " "The finger itself is like a banner of victory. Ochumelov recognized the man as a jeweler khryukin. The culprit of this mess is a small white retriever with a pointed face and a yellow spot on his back. At this time, he sat on the ground in the middle of the crowd, his front legs split and he was shaking all over. Its tearful eyes reveal distress and fear.

"What happened here?" Ochamelov squeezed into the crowd and asked.

"What are you doing here? Why are you sticking up your fingers? ..... Who is shouting? "

"I was just about to go my own way, Sir. I didn't recruit anyone or provoke anyone ... "Khryukin coughed with his empty fist and started. "I'm talking about firewood with Mitri Mitri. Suddenly, this bad thing bit my finger for no reason. ..... Please forgive me, I am a working person. ..... I am meticulous in my work. I have to pay for this, because I may not be able to move this finger for a week. ..... legally speaking, sir, there is no such thing, saying that people have to endure the harm of animals. ..... If everyone is bitten by a dog, it is better not to live in this world. ……"

"well! ..... Well, ... "Ochamelov said sternly, coughing and moving his eyebrows. "okay. ..... Whose dog is this? I can't let this happen. I will give some color to those who let the dogs out to make trouble! Now it's time to control those lords who don't want to obey the law! When the fine is paid, he will understand what will happen if animals such as dogs are released! I'll teach him a lesson ... Yeldilin, "the officer said to the police. "You go and see whose dog this is and write a report! This dog must be killed. No delay! This is mostly a mad dog. ..... I ask you: Whose dog is this? "

"This dog seems to belong to General Xi Gallov!" A man in the crowd said.

"General Gallov's house? Hmm! ..... You, Yelindi, take off my coat. ..... It's so hot! It may rain. ..... just one thing I don't understand: how did it bite you? " Ochamelov said to khryukin.

"It can reach your fingers? Short, but you, you know, so tall! Most of your fingers were punctured by small nails, and then you whimsically asked others to compensate you. People like you ... everyone knows what it is! I know you demons! "

"He, sir, poked his cigar in its face and made fun of it. He wouldn't be a fool, so he bit him. ..... He is a boring man, sir! "

"You talk nonsense, cyclops! You can't see with your eyes. Why are you talking nonsense? The officer is a wise man. He can see who is talking nonsense and who speaks according to his conscience as before God. ..... If I want to talk nonsense, let the mediation judge (1) try me. His laws are clear. ..... everyone is equal now. ..... To tell you the truth, ... my brother is a gendarme. ……"

"Cut the crap!"

"No, this dog doesn't belong to the general's family ..." The policeman said thoughtfully. "The general home without such a dog. Most of his dogs are big hounds. ……"

"Are you sure?"

"Certainly, Sir. ……"

"I know it myself. The general's dogs are very rare and excellent. What about this dog? God knows what it is! Bad coat color, bad appearance ... totally a bitch. ..... His old man will keep such a dog? ! What about your brain? Do you know what would happen if you met such a dog in Petersburg or Moscow? There don't care what laws are illegal, they died in the blink of an eye! You, khryukin, have suffered a lot, and you can't let it go. ..... We must teach them a lesson! It is time. ……"

"But it may be the general's dog ..." The policeman spoke his mind. "It's not written on his face. ..... I saw such a dog in his yard the other day. "

"Yes, it belongs to the general's family!" Someone in the crowd said.

"well! ..... You, Ye Dilin brothers, put on your coat for me. ..... It seems to be windy. ..... the weather is very cold. ..... You take this dog to the general's house to ask. ..... You can say that I found this dog and gave it to you. ..... you said not to put it on the street in the future. Maybe a valuable dog. If every pig sticks a cigar in his face, it won't take long to humiliate him to death. Dogs are fragile animals. ..... You idiot, put your hand down! There's no need to show your stupid fingers! It's your own fault! ……"

"The general's chef is here. Let's ask him. ... Hey, Prohor! Come here, dear! Look at this dog. ..... is it your home? "

"A shot in the dark! We have never had such a dog there! "

"Then you don't need to ask many questions," Ochumelov said. "This is a wild dog! Needless to say. ..... Since he said it was a wild dog, it was a wild dog. ..... kill it. "

"This dog doesn't belong to our family," Projo continued. "But this is the dog of the general's brother. He came to see us a few days ago. Our general does not like this kind of dog. His elder brother likes it. ……"

"His old man's brother is here? Is Vladimir Ivanic here? " Ochumelov asked, his whole face full of excited smiles. "Too good, Lord! I don't know yet! Is he coming to stay for a while? "

"Stay for a while. ……"

"Too good, Lord! ..... he's thinking about his brother. ..... but I don't know yet! Is this his father's dog? I am very happy. ..... you take it. ..... this puppy is very good. ..... very clever. ..... It bit this guy's finger! Ha ha ha ha! ..... Hey, why are you shaking? Ouch, ... ouch. ..... It's angry, little villain, ... What a puppy ... "

Prohor called the dog and left the forest with it. ..... those people laughed at khryukin.

"I will punish you sooner or later!" Ochumelov threatened him, then wrapped his coat tightly and continued to patrol the market square.

1September 8, 884

American writer O. Henry:

In a community on the west side of Washington Square, the street seems to be crazy and divided into many small alleys called "alleys". These "alleys" form many strange angles and curves. A street itself often crosses once or twice. Once, an artist found this street very valuable. It would be interesting if a businessman went to collect money to buy paints, paper and canvases, and when he was walking around this street, he suddenly met that he had not received a penny and returned empty-handed!

Therefore, artists soon came to this quaint Greenwich village. They wandered around looking for windows facing north,18th century triangular walls, Dutch attic, and low rent. Then, they bought some tin wax cups and one or two baking pans from Liu Ma Road to form an "art district".

Sue and Joan set up their studio on the top floor of a low three-story brick house. Jonson is Jonah's nickname. Two people, one from Maine; Another's hometown is California. They met in a "Delmon Changwei Zhiming Restaurant" on Eighth Avenue. During the conversation, they found that their tastes in art, diet, clothing and other aspects were very similar, and as a result, they rented the studio together.

It was in May. 1 1 month, an uninvited guest, heartless and invisible to the naked eye, who was called "pneumonia" by the doctor, crept in the art area and felt around with cold fingers. On the east side of the square, the bad guy walked around brazenly. Every time he creates a disaster, there are always dozens of victims. However, in this complex, narrow and mossy "alley", his pace slowed down.

"Mr. Pneumonia" is not what you call an old gentleman who helps the weak and the needy. A weak woman, bled by the west wind in California. Of course she can't stand the common sense of the old man with red fist. But he really hit Jonson; She lay motionless on the painted iron bed and looked at the wall of the brick house opposite the Dutch window.

One morning, the busy doctor raised his fluffy gray eyebrows and called Sue to the aisle.

"In my opinion, the probability of her getting sick is only 10%." He said, and threw the mercury into the thermometer. "Ten percent hope lies in whether she wants to live. People don't want to live, but they are willing to take care of the funeral home business. This mental state makes medicine helpless. Your young lady is full of thoughts that she will not get better. Is there anything on her mind? "

"She-she hopes to paint the Bay of Naples one day," said Su Ai.

"Painting? -Don't talk nonsense! Is there anything worth thinking about in her mind-for example, a man? "

"man?" Sue snorted like playing a small harmonica and said, "Don't men deserve it-stop it, no, doctor; There is no such thing at all. "

"Then, it must be a weak relationship." The doctor said, "I will try my best to treat her with all the methods that science can achieve." But every time my patient starts to count how many carriages will take him to the funeral, I have to subtract 50% from the therapeutic power of drugs. If you can interest her in the sleeve style of winter coat, I can guarantee that her chances of recovery will increase from one tenth to one fifth. "

After the doctor left, Sue went to the studio and cried, wiping Japanese paper towels. Then, she picked up the drawing board and swaggered into Jonson's room to play ragtime music.

Johnsy was lying under the quilt, her face facing the window, motionless. Sue thought she was asleep and stopped whistling at once.

She set up a drawing board and began to draw a pen-and-ink illustration of a short story for the magazine. Young painters should pave the way for art with illustrations of magazine novels, which are created by young writers to pave the way for literature.

Sue was drawing a pair of beautiful breeches and glasses for the protagonist in the novel, a shepherd in Idaho, when she heard a weak voice repeated several times. She hurried to the bed.

Jonson's eyes were wide open. She looked out of the window, counting-counting down.

"Twelve," she said, and after a while, she said "eleven"; Followed by "ten" and "nine"; Then there are the "eight" and "seven" that are almost connected.

Sue looked out of the window with concern. What's there to count? All I saw outside was an empty and dark yard and the wall of a brick house twenty feet away. An old ivy, its tangled roots have withered, and its fans are on half the wall. The cold wind in autumn blew off almost all the leaves on the vine, leaving only a few almost bare vine branches attached to the loose and incomplete brick wall.

"What's the matter, dear?" Sue asked.

"Six." Jones said, her voice low as a whisper. "They are falling faster now. There were nearly a hundred tablets three days ago. Counting makes me dizzy. It's easy now. Here, another piece fell. There are only five pieces left. "

"Five dollars what, dear? Tell your Sue. "

"Leaves, leaves on the ivy. When the last piece falls, I have to leave, too. I knew it three days ago. Didn't the doctor tell you? "

"Oh, I've never heard such ridiculous words." Sue pretended to be indifferent and said, "What does the old vine leaf have to do with your illness? You always liked that ivy. Come on, you naughty girl. Don't be silly. I forgot, the doctor told you this morning that your chances of recovery are-let me see, what did he say-he said that your chances of recovery are ten to one! Well, it's similar to taking a tram or walking past the construction site of a new house in new york. Accidents are rare. Now have some soup. Let Su Ai continue painting, so that she can sell the painting to the editor, and she can also exchange money to buy some red wine and some pork chops for her sick child to fill her own greed. "

"You don't have to buy any more wine." Johnsy said, still staring out of the window. "Another piece fell off. No, I don't want soup. There are only four pieces left. I hope to see the last rattan leaf floating down before dark. Then I should go too. "

"Johnsy, honey," Sue bent down and said to her, "can you promise not to open your eyes and look out of the window until I finish painting? I must hand in those photos tomorrow. I need light, or I will pull down the curtains. "

"Can't you draw in the other room?" Johnsy asked coldly.

"I want to stay here and be with you." Sue said, "and I don't like you staring at those inexplicable rattan leaves all the time."

"Tell me as soon as you finish painting." Jonson closed her eyes and said that she was pale and lying quietly, like a fallen statue, "because I want to see the last rattan leaf fall." I am tired of waiting. I'm getting impatient, too. I want to get rid of everything, just like a poor, tired rattan leaf, floating and floating. "

"Try to get some sleep." Sue said, "I'm going to ask Behrman to come up and make me a model of an old miner who lives in seclusion. I can't go for a minute. Don't move until I come back. "

Old Berman is a painter who lives on the first floor downstairs. He is in his sixties, with a beard like a statue of Moses by Michelangelo, hanging down from his head like Satya and along his body like a child. Berman is a loser in the art world. He has been playing with brushes for forty years, but he is still far from the goddess of art. He has never even touched the edge of her robe. He always said that he would paint a masterpiece, but he never started. I haven't painted anything for several years except occasionally smearing some commercial paintings or advertising paintings. He models for young artists who can't afford to hire professional models in the "art district" and earns some money. He always drinks too much Du Songzi wine and talks about his future masterpieces. In addition, he is a grumpy little old man who despises the warmth of others, but thinks he is a watchdog to protect the two young artists upstairs.

Sue found Berman drunk in the dimly lit room downstairs. There is a blank canvas on the easel in the corner, where it has been waiting for 25 years to write this masterpiece. She told him what Jonson thought, and said how worried she was, for fear that Jonson, as weak as a dead leaf, could not grasp his weak connection with the world and would really give up and die.

Old Berman's bloodshot eyes always shed tears in the wind. He dismissed the idiot's idea and growled sarcastically for a while.

"What words!" He cried and said, "Is there such a fool in the world who wants to die because the hateful rattan leaves fall off?" I have never heard such a strange thing in my life. No, I'm not in the mood to be your boring hermit model. How can you let her have such a silly idea in her head? Alas, poor Miss Jonson. "

"She is very ill and weak," said Sue. "The high fever has made her suspicious, and her mind is full of strange ideas. Well, Mr Berman, since you won't be my model, I won't be forced. I know you, a hateful old-old loquacious. "

"You are so feminine!" Behrman cried, "Who says I don't want to? Come on, I'll go with you. I have said for a long time that I am willing to help you. God, a good person like Miss Jonson really shouldn't get sick in a place like this. One day, I will paint a masterpiece, so that we can all get out of here. Oh, my God, yes. "

Johnsy had fallen asleep when they went upstairs. Sue drew the curtain to the windowsill and motioned Behrman to go to the other room. They looked anxiously at the ivy outside the window. Then, they looked at each other silently for a while. The cold rain kept snowing. Behrman, wearing an old blue shirt, sat on a turned and lost stone and pretended to be a reclusive miner.

The next morning, when Sue woke up after an hour's sleep, she saw Jonson staring at the end of the green curtain with his eyes open.

"Close the curtains, I want to have a look." She commanded in a weak voice.

Sue did it in a daze.

But look at 1. After a night of wind and rain, there is still an ivy leaf on the wall. This is the last piece on the vine. The color near the petiole is still dark green, but the serrated edge has been dyed yellow, and it proudly hangs on a vine branch twenty feet from the ground.

"That's the last leaf." Jonson said, "I thought it would definitely fall down last night. I hear the wind blowing. Today it will fall and I will die at the same time. "

"Oh dear, oh dear!" Sue put her sleepy face on the pillow and said, "If you don't think about yourself, you have to think about me. What can I do? "

But Johnsy didn't answer. A mind ready to embark on a mysterious and distant road to death is the loneliest and saddest in the world. When her connection with the world and friendship was separated one by one, that fantasy seemed to hold her more powerfully.

I finally got through that day. At dusk, they saw the lonely vine leaf on the wall still attached to the stem. With the howling of the north wind as night falls, raindrops keep banging on the windows and pouring down from the low Dutch eaves.

At dawn, the cruel Jonson ordered the curtains to be pulled up again.

Ivy leaves are still on the wall.

Johnsy lay and watched for a long time. Then she called Sue, who was stirring chicken soup for Jonson on the coal unloader.

"I'm really a bad girl, Sue," said Johnsy. "Somehow, the last leaf didn't fall, which revealed how evil I used to be. Not wanting to live is a sin. Now, please send some soup, some wine and milk, and then-wait a minute; Give me a small mirror first and pad it with a pillow. I want to sit up and watch you cook. "

An hour later, she said:

"Sue, I hope to sketch in the Bay of Naples one day."

In the afternoon, the doctor came. When he left, Sue made an excuse and ran to the aisle.

"The good hope is 50%." The doctor grabbed Sue's thin and trembling hand and said, "As long as you take good care of it, you will win. Now I have to go downstairs to see another patient. His last name is Berman-as far as I know, he is also an artist. It's also pneumonia. He is old and weak, and he is very ill. He is hopeless, but he still has to go to the hospital today to make him feel better. "

That afternoon, Sue ran to the bed, and Johnsy leaned there, contentedly knitting a useless dark blue towel. Sue even hugged her with a pillow.

"I have something to tell you, little thing." She said, "Berman died in the hospital. He has been suffering from pneumonia for only two days. The morning before, the doorman found him in the room downstairs, convulsing badly. His shoes and clothes are wet and cold. They couldn't figure out where he went on that stormy night. Later, they found a burning lantern, a lantern that had been removed from its original place, several scattered brushes, a palette with green and yellow pigments on it, and finally-look out the window, dear, look at the last leaf on the wall. Don't you wonder why it doesn't float in the wind? Oh, honey, that's Berman's masterpiece-he painted it on the wall when the last leaf fell that night. "