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The Best of O. Henry
O. Henry's understanding of the ironies of life and the dreams and desires that move ordinary people to do extraordinary things is evident in a collection of his short stories
636 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1929
57 people are currently reading
539 people want to read
About the author
O. Henry
2,910 books1,866 followersSuch volumes as
Cabbages and Kings
(1904) and
The Four Million
(1906) collect short stories, noted for their often surprising endings, of American writer William Sydney Porter, who used the pen name O. Henry.
His biography shows where he found inspiration for his characters. His era produced their voices and his language.
Mother of three-year-old Porter died from tuberculosis. He left school at fifteen years of age and worked for five years in drugstore of his uncle and then for two years at a Texas sheep ranch.
In 1884, he went to Austin, where he worked in a real estate office and a church choir and spent four years as a draftsman in the general land office. His wife and firstborn died, but daughter Margaret survived him.
He failed to establish a small humorous weekly and afterward worked in poorly-run bank. When its accounts balanced not, people blamed and fired him.
In Houston, he worked for a few years until, ordered to stand trial for embezzlement, he fled to New Orleans and thence Honduras.
Two years later, he returned on account of illness of his wife. Apprehended, Porter served a few months more than three years in a penitentiary in Columbus, Ohio. During his incarceration, he composed ten short stories, including A Blackjack Bargainer , The Enchanted Kiss , and The Duplicity of Hargraves .
In 1899, McClure's published Whistling Dick's Christmas Story and Georgia's Ruling .
In Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, he sent manuscripts to New York editors. In the spring of 1902, Ainslee's Magazine offered him a regular income if he moved to New York.
In less than eight years, he became a bestselling author of collections of short stories. Cabbages and Kings came first in 1904 The Four Million, and The Trimmed Lamp and Heart of the West followed in 1907, and The Voice of the City in 1908, Roads of Destiny and Options in 1909, Strictly Business and Whirligigs in 1910 followed.
Posthumously published collections include The Gentle Grafter about the swindler, Jeff Peters; Rolling Stones , Waifs and Strays , and in 1936, unsigned stories, followed.
People rewarded other persons financially more. A Retrieved Reformation about the safe-cracker Jimmy Valentine got $250; six years later, $500 for dramatic rights, which gave over $100,000 royalties for playwright Paul Armstrong. Many stories have been made into films.
His biography shows where he found inspiration for his characters. His era produced their voices and his language.
Mother of three-year-old Porter died from tuberculosis. He left school at fifteen years of age and worked for five years in drugstore of his uncle and then for two years at a Texas sheep ranch.
In 1884, he went to Austin, where he worked in a real estate office and a church choir and spent four years as a draftsman in the general land office. His wife and firstborn died, but daughter Margaret survived him.
He failed to establish a small humorous weekly and afterward worked in poorly-run bank. When its accounts balanced not, people blamed and fired him.
In Houston, he worked for a few years until, ordered to stand trial for embezzlement, he fled to New Orleans and thence Honduras.
Two years later, he returned on account of illness of his wife. Apprehended, Porter served a few months more than three years in a penitentiary in Columbus, Ohio. During his incarceration, he composed ten short stories, including A Blackjack Bargainer , The Enchanted Kiss , and The Duplicity of Hargraves .
In 1899, McClure's published Whistling Dick's Christmas Story and Georgia's Ruling .
In Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, he sent manuscripts to New York editors. In the spring of 1902, Ainslee's Magazine offered him a regular income if he moved to New York.
In less than eight years, he became a bestselling author of collections of short stories. Cabbages and Kings came first in 1904 The Four Million, and The Trimmed Lamp and Heart of the West followed in 1907, and The Voice of the City in 1908, Roads of Destiny and Options in 1909, Strictly Business and Whirligigs in 1910 followed.
Posthumously published collections include The Gentle Grafter about the swindler, Jeff Peters; Rolling Stones , Waifs and Strays , and in 1936, unsigned stories, followed.
People rewarded other persons financially more. A Retrieved Reformation about the safe-cracker Jimmy Valentine got $250; six years later, $500 for dramatic rights, which gave over $100,000 royalties for playwright Paul Armstrong. Many stories have been made into films.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 64 reviews
December 3, 2019
The book features 20 short stories written by O. Henry, pen name of William Sydney Porter, a short story writer from America. The stories are a mix of thriller, love, and comedy. Nearly all the stories have unexpected endings, with Roads of Destiny, the longest one in the book, being the most interesting read. It’s a good book if you are imaginative enough to visualize the scenes as you read page after page.
May 21, 2017
What better writer to read for Short Story Month (May, 2017) than William Sydney Porter, better known by his pen name O. Henry. During his short life, he wrote nearly 600 short stories!
Porter was born in Greensboro, NC, on September 11, 1862, died in NYC on June 5, 1910 from cirrhosis of the liver, and was then buried in Riverside Cemetery in Asheville, NC. While visiting Asheville this week, we became aware of how much Asheville reveres its famous state authors, among them O. Henry--they've even named a street after him. (And no, the Oh Henry! candy bar is NOT named for him, in case you were wondering, as I was.)
Porter left his home state for Texas where things quickly went wrong for him and he was sentenced to five years in a federal penitentiary for bank embezzlement. While incarcerated, he began to write and sell short stories as a means of support for his daughter--using a pen name so no one would know he was in jail. He was released for good behavior after three years and moved to NYC, where in 1903, he was hired by New York World to write a short story a week for their Sunday magazine--stories that would reflect life in urban and rural America.
I picked up a copy of this small collection of twenty-six of his best short stories in a used bookstore in the historic Grove Arcade in Asheville. They perfectly illustrate his knack for characterization, irony and wit. Many are still familiar from having read them in school but many more were refreshingly new to me. I thoroughly enjoyed the look at American life in the early 1900s. Some things, like human nature, never change.
Porter was born in Greensboro, NC, on September 11, 1862, died in NYC on June 5, 1910 from cirrhosis of the liver, and was then buried in Riverside Cemetery in Asheville, NC. While visiting Asheville this week, we became aware of how much Asheville reveres its famous state authors, among them O. Henry--they've even named a street after him. (And no, the Oh Henry! candy bar is NOT named for him, in case you were wondering, as I was.)
Porter left his home state for Texas where things quickly went wrong for him and he was sentenced to five years in a federal penitentiary for bank embezzlement. While incarcerated, he began to write and sell short stories as a means of support for his daughter--using a pen name so no one would know he was in jail. He was released for good behavior after three years and moved to NYC, where in 1903, he was hired by New York World to write a short story a week for their Sunday magazine--stories that would reflect life in urban and rural America.
I picked up a copy of this small collection of twenty-six of his best short stories in a used bookstore in the historic Grove Arcade in Asheville. They perfectly illustrate his knack for characterization, irony and wit. Many are still familiar from having read them in school but many more were refreshingly new to me. I thoroughly enjoyed the look at American life in the early 1900s. Some things, like human nature, never change.
January 27, 2018
Since just about every publishing house worth its salt seems to have released a ‘Best of O Henry’ collection, I had better clarify: this is my review of Juggernaut’s The Best of O Henry: Collected Stories, a collection of twelve short stories by O Henry. This set starts off with what are arguably his most popular stories, The Last Leaf and The Gift of the Magi, and go on to some lesser-known ones, such as Witches’ Loaves, The Passing of Black Eagle and On Behalf of the Management.
These are a fairly varied lot of stories, ranging from the pathos of something like The Last Leaf and Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen to the heart-warming A Retrieved Reformation to the sheer hilarity of The Ransom of Red Chief (which, in its way, reminded me a little of PG Wodehouse’s stories of the ‘Little Nugget’). Witches’ Loaves too has some of that laugh-out-loud element, but right at the very end; and it’s there, in a subtler way in The Passing of Black Eagle.
Besides the most famous standout point of O Henry’s stories—their surprise endings—what I also found very interesting about this collection was the very real role played by the city. Barring a couple of stories set elsewhere, all the stories are in New York City. And how well O Henry brings the city to life: its artists, its criminals, its cops, its small businesses. Its tycoons, its upstarts, its managers. The way a complete stranger can bestow a kindness, year after year; and the way friends separated for twenty years can come together in unexpected ways.
I liked most of the stories in this collection; the only ones I found a bit tedious were The Pride of the Cities, Man About Town and On Behalf of the Management. On their own, these aren’t bad. Compared to the shorter, crisper stories in the collection, they begin to appear a bit forced after some reading, since all three of them have some element of repetitiveness and comparatively little ‘action’, so to speak.
A great little collection on the whole though, and excellent for a quick read. (Also, it’s free on the Juggernaut app: bonus!)
These are a fairly varied lot of stories, ranging from the pathos of something like The Last Leaf and Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen to the heart-warming A Retrieved Reformation to the sheer hilarity of The Ransom of Red Chief (which, in its way, reminded me a little of PG Wodehouse’s stories of the ‘Little Nugget’). Witches’ Loaves too has some of that laugh-out-loud element, but right at the very end; and it’s there, in a subtler way in The Passing of Black Eagle.
Besides the most famous standout point of O Henry’s stories—their surprise endings—what I also found very interesting about this collection was the very real role played by the city. Barring a couple of stories set elsewhere, all the stories are in New York City. And how well O Henry brings the city to life: its artists, its criminals, its cops, its small businesses. Its tycoons, its upstarts, its managers. The way a complete stranger can bestow a kindness, year after year; and the way friends separated for twenty years can come together in unexpected ways.
I liked most of the stories in this collection; the only ones I found a bit tedious were The Pride of the Cities, Man About Town and On Behalf of the Management. On their own, these aren’t bad. Compared to the shorter, crisper stories in the collection, they begin to appear a bit forced after some reading, since all three of them have some element of repetitiveness and comparatively little ‘action’, so to speak.
A great little collection on the whole though, and excellent for a quick read. (Also, it’s free on the Juggernaut app: bonus!)
May 24, 2020
My first experience with O.Henry's work. It was truly magical and nothing short of it. Its amazing how he weaves out stories, and that too, quite extraordinary ones, from the simplest and most normal circumstances. All stories have an element of surprise, a twist, and very often, an unexpected climax.
I am definitely going for more of O'Henry
I am definitely going for more of O'Henry
March 26, 2018
I fell in love with O.Henry's short stories after reading The gift of Magi & the last leaf,when I was in class 7. Since then I have enjoyed his work.
The book consists of stories with regular people but with a twist in the end.
The book consists of stories with regular people but with a twist in the end.
October 5, 2023
THE BEST OF O.HENRY
Rating 2/5
A collection of 25 Short stories where the old fashioned classic writing and the stories doesn't hold up to the expectations as i didn't enjoy most of the stories.
Rating 2/5
A collection of 25 Short stories where the old fashioned classic writing and the stories doesn't hold up to the expectations as i didn't enjoy most of the stories.
April 16, 2023
O. Henry's "The Princess and the Puma" is a short romantic story a la O. Henry style. A cattle king's daughter is tough and seems to regret killing a pet puma.
➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
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THERE HAD TO be a king and queen, of course. The king was a terrible old man who wore six-shooters and spurs, and shouted in such a tremendous voice that the rattlers on the prairie would run into their holes under the prickly pear. Before there was a royal family they called the man “Whispering Ben.” When he came to own 50,000 acres of
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land and more cattle than he could count, they called him O’Donnell “the Cattle King.” The queen had been a Mexican girl from Laredo. She made a good, mild, Colorado-claro wife, and even succeeded in teaching Ben to modify his voice sufficiently while in the house to keep the dishes from being broken. When Ben got to be king she would sit on the gallery of Espinosa Ranch and weave rush mats. When wealth became so irresistible and oppressive that upholstered chairs and a centre table
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were brought down from San Antone in the wagons, she bowed her smooth, dark head, and shared the fate of the Danae.
❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌spoiler alert
Ripley Givens wants to marry Josefa, when he sees she might be killed by the puma, he starts to protect her but Jodsefa kills the Puma and a Ripley makes Josef a think she has killed a pet puma. She played along and it seems she likes Ripley when knowing that he was not telling the truth.
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per head. Roughly speaking, the Espinosa Ranch is forty miles long and thirty broad — but mostly leased land. Josefa, on her pony, had prospected over every mile of it. Every cow-puncher on the range knew her by sight and was a loyal vassal. Ripley Givens, foreman of one of the Espinosa outfits, saw her one day, and made up his mind to form a royal matrimonial alliance. Presumptuous? No. In those days in the Nueces country a man was a man. And, after all, the title of cattle king does not presuppose blood royalty. Often
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it only signifies that its owner wears the crown in token of his magnificent qualities in the art of cattle stealing. One day Ripley Givens rode over to the Double Elm Ranch to inquire about a bunch of strayed yearlings. He was late in setting out on his return trip, and it was sundown when he struck the White Horse Crossing of the Nueces. From there to his own camp it was sixteen miles. To the Espinosa ranch it was twelve. Givens was tired. He decided to pass the night at the Crossing.
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There was a fine water hole in the river-bed. The banks were thickly covered with great trees, undergrown with brush. Back from the water hole fifty yards was a stretch of curly mesquite grass — supper for his horse and bed for himself. Givens staked his horse, and spread out his saddle blankets to dry. He sat down with his back against a tree and rolled a cigarette. From somewhere in the dense timber along the river came a sudden, rageful, shivering wail. The pony danced at the end of his rope and blew a whistling snort of comprehending fear. Givens puffed at his cigarette, but he reached leisurely for his pistol-belt, which lay on the grass, and twirled the cylinder of his weapon tentatively. A great gar plunged with a loud splash into the water hole. A little brown rabbit skipped around a bunch of catclaw and sat twitching his whiskers and looking humorously at Givens. The pony went on eating grass. It is well to be reasonably watchful when a Mexican lion sings soprano along the arroyos at sundown.
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The burden of his song may be that young calves and fat lambs are scarce, and that he has a carnivorous desire for your acquaintance. In the grass lay an empty fruit can, cast there by some former sojourner. Givens caught sight of it with a grunt of satisfaction. In his coat pocket tied behind his saddle was a handful or two of ground coffee. Black coffee and cigarettes! What ranchero could desire more? In two minutes he had a little fire going clearly. He started, with his can, for the water hole. When
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within fifteen yards of its edge he saw, between the bushes, a side-saddled pony with down-dropped reins cropping grass a little distance to his left. Just rising from her hands and knees on the brink of the water hole was Josefa O’Donnell. She had been drinking water, and she brushed the sand from the palms of her hands. Ten yards away, to her right, half concealed by a clump of sacuista, Givens saw the crouching form of the Mexican lion. His amber eyeballs glared hungrily; six feet from them was the tip of the tail
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stretched straight, like a pointer’s. His hind-quarters rocked with the motion of the cat tribe preliminary to leaping. Givens did what he could. His six-shooter was thirty-five yards away lying on the grass. He gave a loud yell, and dashed between the lion and the princess. The “rucus,” as Givens called it afterward, was brief and somewhat confused. When he arrived on the line of attack he saw a dim streak in the air, and heard a couple of faint cracks. Then a hundred pounds of
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Mexican lion plumped down upon his head and flattened him, with a heavy jar, to the ground. He remembered calling out: “Let up, now — no fair gouging!” and then he crawled from under the lion like a worm, with his mouth full of grass and dirt, and a big lump on the back of his head where it had struck the root of a water-elm. The lion lay motionless. Givens, feeling aggrieved, and suspicious of fouls, shook his fist at the lion, and shouted: “I’ll rastle you again for
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twenty—” and then he got back to himself. Josefa was standing in her tracks, quietly reloading her silver- mounted .38. It had not been a difficult shot. The lion’s head made an easier mark than a tomato-can swinging at the end of a string. There was a provoking, teasing, maddening smile upon her mouth and in her dark eyes. The would-be-rescuing knight felt the fire of his fiasco burn down to his soul. Here had been his chance, the chance that he had dreamed
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of; and Momus, and not Cupid, had presided over it. The satyrs in the wood were, no doubt, holding their sides in hilarious, silent laughter. There had been something like vaudeville — say Signor Givens and his funny knockabout act with the stuffed lion. “Is that you, Mr. Givens?” said Josefa, in her deliberate, saccharine contralto. “You nearly spoilt my shot when you yelled. Did you hurt your head when you fell?” “Oh, no,” said Givens, quietly; “that didn’t hurt.” He stooped ignominiously and dragged his best Stetson hat from under the beast. It was crushed and wrinkled to a fine comedy effect. Then he knelt down and softly stroked the fierce, open-jawed head of the dead lion. “Poor old Bill!” he exclaimed mournfully. “What’s that?” asked Josefa, sharply. “Of course you didn’t know, Miss Josefa,” said Givens, with an air of one allowing magnanimity to triumph over grief. “Nobody can
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blame you. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t let you know in time.” “Save who?” “Why, Bill. I’ve been looking for him all day. You see, he’s been our camp pet for two years. Poor old fellow, he wouldn’t have hurt a cottontail rabbit. It’ll break the boys all up when they hear about it. But you couldn’t tell, of course, that Bill was just trying to play with you.” Josefa’s black eyes burned steadily upon him. Ripley Givens met the test successfully. He stood rumpling the yellow-brown curls on his head
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pensively. In his eye was regret, not unmingled with a gentle reproach. His smooth features were set to a pattern of indisputable sorrow. Josefa wavered. “What was your pet doing here?” she asked, making a last stand. “There’s no camp near the White Horse Crossing.” “The old rascal ran away from camp yesterday,” answered Givens readily. “It’s a wonder the coyotes didn’t scare him to death. You see, Jim Webster, our horse wrangler, brought a little terrier pup into
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camp last week. The pup made life miserable for Bill — he used to chase him around and chew his hind legs for hours at a time. Every night when bedtime came Bill would sneak under one of the boy’s blankets and sleep to keep the pup from finding him. I reckon he must have been worried pretty desperate or he wouldn’t have run away. He was always afraid to get out of sight of camp.” Josefa looked at the body of the fierce animal. Givens gently patted one of the formidable paws that
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could have killed a yearling calf with one blow. Slowly a red flush widened upon the dark olive face of the girl. Was it the signal of shame of the true sportsman who has brought down ignoble quarry? Her eyes grew softer, and the lowered lids drove away all their bright mockery. “I’m very sorry,” she said humbly; “but he looked so big, and jumped so high that—” “Poor old Bill was hungry,” interrupted Givens, in quick defence of the deceased. “We always made him
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jump for his supper in camp. He would lie down and roll over for a piece of meat. When he saw you he thought he was going to get something to eat from you.” Suddenly Josefa’s eyes opened wide. “I might have shot you!” she exclaimed. “You ran right in between. You risked your life to save your pet! That was fine, Mr. Givens. I like a man who is kind to animals.” Yes; there was even admiration in her gaze now. After all, there was a hero rising out of the ruins of the
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anti-climax. The look on Givens’s face would have secured him a high position in the S.P.C.A. “I always loved ’em,” said he; “horses, dogs, Mexican lions, cows, alligators—” “I hate alligators,” instantly demurred Josefa; “crawly, muddy things!” “Did I say alligators?” said Givens. “I meant antelopes, of course.” Josefa’s conscience drove her to make further amends. She held out her hand penitently. There was a
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bright, unshed drop in each of her eyes. “Please forgive me, Mr. Givens, won’t you? I’m only a girl, you know, and I was frightened at first. I’m very, very sorry I shot Bill. You don’t know how ashamed I feel. I wouldn’t have done it for anything.” Givens took the proffered hand. He held it for a time while he allowed the generosity of his nature to overcome his grief at the loss of Bill. At last it was clear that he had forgiven her.
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“Please don’t speak of it any more, Miss Josefa. ’Twas enough to frighten any young lady the way Bill looked. I’ll explain it all right to the boys.” “Are you really sure you don’t hate me?” Josefa came closer to him impulsively. Her eyes were sweet — oh, sweet and pleading with gracious penitence. “I would hate anyone who would kill my kitten. And how daring and kind of you to risk being shot when you tried to save him! How very few men would have done that!” Victory wrested
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from defeat! Vaudeville turned into drama! Bravo, Ripley Givens! It was now twilight. Of course Miss Josefa could not be allowed to ride on to the ranch-house alone. Givens resaddled his pony in spite of that animal’s reproachful glances, and rode with her. Side by side they galloped across the smooth grass, the princess and the man who was kind to animals. The prairie odours of fruitful earth and delicate bloom were thick and sweet around them. Coyotes yelping over there on the hill! No fear. And yet —
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Josefa rode closer. A little hand seemed to grope. Givens found it with his own. The ponies kept an even gait. The hands lingered together, and the owner of one explained: “I never was frightened before, but just think! How terrible it would be to meet a really wild lion! Poor Bill! I’m so glad you came with me!” O’Donnell was sitting on the ranch gallery. “Hello, Rip!” he shouted— “that you?”
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“He rode in with me,” said Josefa. “I lost my way and was late.” “Much obliged,” called the cattle king. “Stop over, Rip, and ride to camp in the morning.” But Givens would not. He would push on to camp. There was a bunch of steers to start off on the trail at daybreak. He said good-night, and trotted away. An hour later, when the lights were out, Josefa, in her night-robe, came to her door and called to the king in his own room across the brick-paved hallway:
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“Say, pop, you know that old Mexican lion they call the ‘Gotch-eared Devil’ — the one that killed Gonzales, Mr. Martin’s sheep herder, and about fifty calves on the Salado range? Well, I settled his hash this afternoon over at the White Horse Crossing. Put two balls in his head with my .38 while he was on the jump. I knew him by the slice gone from his left ear that old Gonzales cut off with his machete. You couldn’t have made a better shot yourself, daddy.”
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“Bully for you!” thundered Whispering Ben from the darkness of the royal chamber.
➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
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THERE HAD TO be a king and queen, of course. The king was a terrible old man who wore six-shooters and spurs, and shouted in such a tremendous voice that the rattlers on the prairie would run into their holes under the prickly pear. Before there was a royal family they called the man “Whispering Ben.” When he came to own 50,000 acres of
Highlight (Yellow) | Location 11094
land and more cattle than he could count, they called him O’Donnell “the Cattle King.” The queen had been a Mexican girl from Laredo. She made a good, mild, Colorado-claro wife, and even succeeded in teaching Ben to modify his voice sufficiently while in the house to keep the dishes from being broken. When Ben got to be king she would sit on the gallery of Espinosa Ranch and weave rush mats. When wealth became so irresistible and oppressive that upholstered chairs and a centre table
Highlight (Yellow) | Location 11098
were brought down from San Antone in the wagons, she bowed her smooth, dark head, and shared the fate of the Danae.
❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌spoiler alert
Ripley Givens wants to marry Josefa, when he sees she might be killed by the puma, he starts to protect her but Jodsefa kills the Puma and a Ripley makes Josef a think she has killed a pet puma. She played along and it seems she likes Ripley when knowing that he was not telling the truth.
Highlight (Yellow) | Location 11105
per head. Roughly speaking, the Espinosa Ranch is forty miles long and thirty broad — but mostly leased land. Josefa, on her pony, had prospected over every mile of it. Every cow-puncher on the range knew her by sight and was a loyal vassal. Ripley Givens, foreman of one of the Espinosa outfits, saw her one day, and made up his mind to form a royal matrimonial alliance. Presumptuous? No. In those days in the Nueces country a man was a man. And, after all, the title of cattle king does not presuppose blood royalty. Often
Highlight (Yellow) | Location 11108
it only signifies that its owner wears the crown in token of his magnificent qualities in the art of cattle stealing. One day Ripley Givens rode over to the Double Elm Ranch to inquire about a bunch of strayed yearlings. He was late in setting out on his return trip, and it was sundown when he struck the White Horse Crossing of the Nueces. From there to his own camp it was sixteen miles. To the Espinosa ranch it was twelve. Givens was tired. He decided to pass the night at the Crossing.
Highlight (Yellow) | Location 11112
There was a fine water hole in the river-bed. The banks were thickly covered with great trees, undergrown with brush. Back from the water hole fifty yards was a stretch of curly mesquite grass — supper for his horse and bed for himself. Givens staked his horse, and spread out his saddle blankets to dry. He sat down with his back against a tree and rolled a cigarette. From somewhere in the dense timber along the river came a sudden, rageful, shivering wail. The pony danced at the end of his rope and blew a whistling snort of comprehending fear. Givens puffed at his cigarette, but he reached leisurely for his pistol-belt, which lay on the grass, and twirled the cylinder of his weapon tentatively. A great gar plunged with a loud splash into the water hole. A little brown rabbit skipped around a bunch of catclaw and sat twitching his whiskers and looking humorously at Givens. The pony went on eating grass. It is well to be reasonably watchful when a Mexican lion sings soprano along the arroyos at sundown.
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The burden of his song may be that young calves and fat lambs are scarce, and that he has a carnivorous desire for your acquaintance. In the grass lay an empty fruit can, cast there by some former sojourner. Givens caught sight of it with a grunt of satisfaction. In his coat pocket tied behind his saddle was a handful or two of ground coffee. Black coffee and cigarettes! What ranchero could desire more? In two minutes he had a little fire going clearly. He started, with his can, for the water hole. When
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within fifteen yards of its edge he saw, between the bushes, a side-saddled pony with down-dropped reins cropping grass a little distance to his left. Just rising from her hands and knees on the brink of the water hole was Josefa O’Donnell. She had been drinking water, and she brushed the sand from the palms of her hands. Ten yards away, to her right, half concealed by a clump of sacuista, Givens saw the crouching form of the Mexican lion. His amber eyeballs glared hungrily; six feet from them was the tip of the tail
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stretched straight, like a pointer’s. His hind-quarters rocked with the motion of the cat tribe preliminary to leaping. Givens did what he could. His six-shooter was thirty-five yards away lying on the grass. He gave a loud yell, and dashed between the lion and the princess. The “rucus,” as Givens called it afterward, was brief and somewhat confused. When he arrived on the line of attack he saw a dim streak in the air, and heard a couple of faint cracks. Then a hundred pounds of
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Mexican lion plumped down upon his head and flattened him, with a heavy jar, to the ground. He remembered calling out: “Let up, now — no fair gouging!” and then he crawled from under the lion like a worm, with his mouth full of grass and dirt, and a big lump on the back of his head where it had struck the root of a water-elm. The lion lay motionless. Givens, feeling aggrieved, and suspicious of fouls, shook his fist at the lion, and shouted: “I’ll rastle you again for
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twenty—” and then he got back to himself. Josefa was standing in her tracks, quietly reloading her silver- mounted .38. It had not been a difficult shot. The lion’s head made an easier mark than a tomato-can swinging at the end of a string. There was a provoking, teasing, maddening smile upon her mouth and in her dark eyes. The would-be-rescuing knight felt the fire of his fiasco burn down to his soul. Here had been his chance, the chance that he had dreamed
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of; and Momus, and not Cupid, had presided over it. The satyrs in the wood were, no doubt, holding their sides in hilarious, silent laughter. There had been something like vaudeville — say Signor Givens and his funny knockabout act with the stuffed lion. “Is that you, Mr. Givens?” said Josefa, in her deliberate, saccharine contralto. “You nearly spoilt my shot when you yelled. Did you hurt your head when you fell?” “Oh, no,” said Givens, quietly; “that didn’t hurt.” He stooped ignominiously and dragged his best Stetson hat from under the beast. It was crushed and wrinkled to a fine comedy effect. Then he knelt down and softly stroked the fierce, open-jawed head of the dead lion. “Poor old Bill!” he exclaimed mournfully. “What’s that?” asked Josefa, sharply. “Of course you didn’t know, Miss Josefa,” said Givens, with an air of one allowing magnanimity to triumph over grief. “Nobody can
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blame you. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t let you know in time.” “Save who?” “Why, Bill. I’ve been looking for him all day. You see, he’s been our camp pet for two years. Poor old fellow, he wouldn’t have hurt a cottontail rabbit. It’ll break the boys all up when they hear about it. But you couldn’t tell, of course, that Bill was just trying to play with you.” Josefa’s black eyes burned steadily upon him. Ripley Givens met the test successfully. He stood rumpling the yellow-brown curls on his head
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pensively. In his eye was regret, not unmingled with a gentle reproach. His smooth features were set to a pattern of indisputable sorrow. Josefa wavered. “What was your pet doing here?” she asked, making a last stand. “There’s no camp near the White Horse Crossing.” “The old rascal ran away from camp yesterday,” answered Givens readily. “It’s a wonder the coyotes didn’t scare him to death. You see, Jim Webster, our horse wrangler, brought a little terrier pup into
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camp last week. The pup made life miserable for Bill — he used to chase him around and chew his hind legs for hours at a time. Every night when bedtime came Bill would sneak under one of the boy’s blankets and sleep to keep the pup from finding him. I reckon he must have been worried pretty desperate or he wouldn’t have run away. He was always afraid to get out of sight of camp.” Josefa looked at the body of the fierce animal. Givens gently patted one of the formidable paws that
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could have killed a yearling calf with one blow. Slowly a red flush widened upon the dark olive face of the girl. Was it the signal of shame of the true sportsman who has brought down ignoble quarry? Her eyes grew softer, and the lowered lids drove away all their bright mockery. “I’m very sorry,” she said humbly; “but he looked so big, and jumped so high that—” “Poor old Bill was hungry,” interrupted Givens, in quick defence of the deceased. “We always made him
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jump for his supper in camp. He would lie down and roll over for a piece of meat. When he saw you he thought he was going to get something to eat from you.” Suddenly Josefa’s eyes opened wide. “I might have shot you!” she exclaimed. “You ran right in between. You risked your life to save your pet! That was fine, Mr. Givens. I like a man who is kind to animals.” Yes; there was even admiration in her gaze now. After all, there was a hero rising out of the ruins of the
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anti-climax. The look on Givens’s face would have secured him a high position in the S.P.C.A. “I always loved ’em,” said he; “horses, dogs, Mexican lions, cows, alligators—” “I hate alligators,” instantly demurred Josefa; “crawly, muddy things!” “Did I say alligators?” said Givens. “I meant antelopes, of course.” Josefa’s conscience drove her to make further amends. She held out her hand penitently. There was a
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bright, unshed drop in each of her eyes. “Please forgive me, Mr. Givens, won’t you? I’m only a girl, you know, and I was frightened at first. I’m very, very sorry I shot Bill. You don’t know how ashamed I feel. I wouldn’t have done it for anything.” Givens took the proffered hand. He held it for a time while he allowed the generosity of his nature to overcome his grief at the loss of Bill. At last it was clear that he had forgiven her.
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“Please don’t speak of it any more, Miss Josefa. ’Twas enough to frighten any young lady the way Bill looked. I’ll explain it all right to the boys.” “Are you really sure you don’t hate me?” Josefa came closer to him impulsively. Her eyes were sweet — oh, sweet and pleading with gracious penitence. “I would hate anyone who would kill my kitten. And how daring and kind of you to risk being shot when you tried to save him! How very few men would have done that!” Victory wrested
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from defeat! Vaudeville turned into drama! Bravo, Ripley Givens! It was now twilight. Of course Miss Josefa could not be allowed to ride on to the ranch-house alone. Givens resaddled his pony in spite of that animal’s reproachful glances, and rode with her. Side by side they galloped across the smooth grass, the princess and the man who was kind to animals. The prairie odours of fruitful earth and delicate bloom were thick and sweet around them. Coyotes yelping over there on the hill! No fear. And yet —
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Josefa rode closer. A little hand seemed to grope. Givens found it with his own. The ponies kept an even gait. The hands lingered together, and the owner of one explained: “I never was frightened before, but just think! How terrible it would be to meet a really wild lion! Poor Bill! I’m so glad you came with me!” O’Donnell was sitting on the ranch gallery. “Hello, Rip!” he shouted— “that you?”
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“He rode in with me,” said Josefa. “I lost my way and was late.” “Much obliged,” called the cattle king. “Stop over, Rip, and ride to camp in the morning.” But Givens would not. He would push on to camp. There was a bunch of steers to start off on the trail at daybreak. He said good-night, and trotted away. An hour later, when the lights were out, Josefa, in her night-robe, came to her door and called to the king in his own room across the brick-paved hallway:
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“Say, pop, you know that old Mexican lion they call the ‘Gotch-eared Devil’ — the one that killed Gonzales, Mr. Martin’s sheep herder, and about fifty calves on the Salado range? Well, I settled his hash this afternoon over at the White Horse Crossing. Put two balls in his head with my .38 while he was on the jump. I knew him by the slice gone from his left ear that old Gonzales cut off with his machete. You couldn’t have made a better shot yourself, daddy.”
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“Bully for you!” thundered Whispering Ben from the darkness of the royal chamber.
December 25, 2024
I try to read this every Christmas. I love this story so much.
November 2, 2010
Am not really through with this yet, but I really like O'Henry so far. He has a sharp eye for the minute, daily clashes and crashes between individuals of various races, backgrounds, etc, as per the America of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It makes me think that Singapore is in a similar situation - if only we had a writer with a sharp eye and turn of phrase to turn our history into the next generation's literature! His twists are smart but realistic, his writing sympathetic without being soppy. He has a style of introducing social criticism and philosophy into his writing, but obliquely, so you're not sure if he thinks it or stating/drescribing it in order to satirise it. One problem I have though is that after a while the stories read in very similar manner, so you need a bit of distance before coming back to read more.
February 27, 2011
LOVED it. I know alot of people wouldn't sit through a book of short stories, but I've always loved them, and O. Henry has a gift like nobody else. His stories CAN be slightly predictable, but many of them were original, and ingenious, and just thoroughly enjoyable. Loved it!
March 26, 2023
Writing a quality short story, ANY short story, is so much harder than it appears to be. (At least if the author does a good job.)
In my view, O'Henry did a superb job. These stories were gems of clever plotting and ingenious plot twists.
Granted, the elegant stylistic accoutrements of his day... haven't been in fashion for quite a while. Seeming a little silly now, even long before Twitter ;)
WHAT DID I ENJOY MOST ABOUT O. HENRY'S STORIES?
Definitely the emphasis on fate: I loved that.
As a result, for some years at least, my takeaway from those stories was a knowing kind of irony. As if I believed:
Life is harsh, even cruel; but at least we can indulge in a superior sort of sardonic chuckle over what happens to us.
WHAT I BELIEVED AT SIXTEEN ABOUT LIFE... IS TRUE NO LONGER
Goodreaders, personally I've emerged from that fatalistic way of thinking. For decades I've been committed to a very free willish way of understanding my life. (And shaping it.)
No insult intended to you Goodreaders who believe in destiny, either wholly or partially. I'm just disclosing where I come from at this point.
In hindsight, I was never going to adore O. Henry for long. He was more like a Bad Boy crush of my teen years.
In my view, O'Henry did a superb job. These stories were gems of clever plotting and ingenious plot twists.
Granted, the elegant stylistic accoutrements of his day... haven't been in fashion for quite a while. Seeming a little silly now, even long before Twitter ;)
WHAT DID I ENJOY MOST ABOUT O. HENRY'S STORIES?
Definitely the emphasis on fate: I loved that.
As a result, for some years at least, my takeaway from those stories was a knowing kind of irony. As if I believed:
Life is harsh, even cruel; but at least we can indulge in a superior sort of sardonic chuckle over what happens to us.
WHAT I BELIEVED AT SIXTEEN ABOUT LIFE... IS TRUE NO LONGER
Goodreaders, personally I've emerged from that fatalistic way of thinking. For decades I've been committed to a very free willish way of understanding my life. (And shaping it.)
No insult intended to you Goodreaders who believe in destiny, either wholly or partially. I'm just disclosing where I come from at this point.
In hindsight, I was never going to adore O. Henry for long. He was more like a Bad Boy crush of my teen years.
November 12, 2016
Back in 2010 or so, I read one of my daughters' school books, The Best Short Stories of O. Henry. It was a collection of some very entertaining fiction written around the turn of the 20th Century. I was pleased to have a copy on my shelf... until my eldest daughter moved out and took the book with her. So I added the book (along with many others) to my want list. Last fall, I thought I found it. Oh, sure, this one was hardcover and the cover illustration was different, but it had the same great tales--"Gift of the Magi", "The Last Leaf", "The Ransom of Red Chief".
Well, when I actually read through the book, I realized that I had purchased different collection. It had a few tales I hadn't read before and was lacking at least one I had remembered from the other "best". But in the end the book was still a gem. O. Henry deftly plays with words and settings, taking the reader on a brief journey into the lives of his character. The twist endings which he indulges in are occasionally predictable, but usually touching or amusing.
Well, when I actually read through the book, I realized that I had purchased different collection. It had a few tales I hadn't read before and was lacking at least one I had remembered from the other "best". But in the end the book was still a gem. O. Henry deftly plays with words and settings, taking the reader on a brief journey into the lives of his character. The twist endings which he indulges in are occasionally predictable, but usually touching or amusing.
July 7, 2021
This wasn't exactly the book I was reading. I couldn't find it on the Goodreads list. But it's close enough. The "Gift of the Magi" is probably one of the most well-known of his stories. I remember reading it as a freshman in high school. And a few of his other stories. Because they were written in a different time, late 1800s to 1910, the language in them is old fashioned and has largely gone out of style, with many words generally unknown or unused in this era. There is also a great deal of slang from the era that has to be determined from context rather than personal knowledge. Therefore, the stories can be a little difficult to read or take a longer time to read than usual. However, the stories of O. Henry could be set in current times, with current language and the characters would largely have not changed. There are still crooks, scoundrels, the poor, the rich, the pretenders, the sincere, and so forth. The language may have changed but the stories haven't.
July 7, 2019
A smorgasbord of short stories. Many are about small time Americans, their lifestyles and adventures in the late 19th and early 20th century. Grafters, tramps, gangsters, office and shop girls, vaudeville actors and actresses are the heroes and villains of the piece. Several stories have as their theme the differences between the mores of the North as compared with the South. Similarly some are about the "Wild West". Most end with some "twist in the tale", often containing some moral observation.
Whilst there were a lot of stories, the beauty was in their brevity which enabled me to read a story whenever I had a few minutes to spare. My personal favourite was "The Day Resurgent" a tale about filial affection. However there are so many different stories, all of which were entertaining, that others, I am sure, will have alternatives.
Whilst there were a lot of stories, the beauty was in their brevity which enabled me to read a story whenever I had a few minutes to spare. My personal favourite was "The Day Resurgent" a tale about filial affection. However there are so many different stories, all of which were entertaining, that others, I am sure, will have alternatives.
February 4, 2018
I would buy this book if only for Gifts of the Magi and The Ransom of Red Chief. Gifts of the Magi is a Christmas story that does not lose its shimmer out of season. If you want to know what love is, true love, read Gifts of the Magi. And ANY exhausted and dispirited parent of any rambunctious and precocious ten-year-old must read The Ransom of Red Chief, if only to remind yourself, "I am not alone!" Lively story with a funny twist, it will leave you with that, "Yep. That's a boy!"
Of course, this is O. Henry so you can expect finely spun tales, three-dimensional characters, lively dialogue, intrigue, and enough switch backs to keep one alert and guessing. Such a unique style. Such a command of language.
Of course, this is O. Henry so you can expect finely spun tales, three-dimensional characters, lively dialogue, intrigue, and enough switch backs to keep one alert and guessing. Such a unique style. Such a command of language.
January 3, 2022
While most publishers have released their own collection of O. Henry short stories, the one I read was a THE BEST OF O. HENRY collection published a few years ago by Courage Classics.
We are all familiar with THE GIFT OF THE MAGI, but I was pleased to find that most of his short stories all have a similar familiar theme of a misunderstanding between people or of a situation that results in a surprise twist. He has a wonderful gift for 'spinning a yarn',.
His short stories were the perfect reading material during the hectic holiday season... each story was only about 5 -7 pages long, easy reading material when you can only pick a book up for a few minutes at a time.
In this collection, there were only a few stories that fell flat, and I would give the overall collection a 3.75 rating.
We are all familiar with THE GIFT OF THE MAGI, but I was pleased to find that most of his short stories all have a similar familiar theme of a misunderstanding between people or of a situation that results in a surprise twist. He has a wonderful gift for 'spinning a yarn',.
His short stories were the perfect reading material during the hectic holiday season... each story was only about 5 -7 pages long, easy reading material when you can only pick a book up for a few minutes at a time.
In this collection, there were only a few stories that fell flat, and I would give the overall collection a 3.75 rating.
April 27, 2019
Read this book on the Juggernaut mobile app - it is a collection of 12 short stories written by O.Henry. Most of these stories are good ones with the exception of one or two which I didn't enjoy much because frankly speaking I couldn't comprehend them. The stories that I particularly loved are The Last Leaf, Witches' Loaves, The Gift of the Magi, The Ransom of the Red Chief, and A Retrieved Reformation. After Twenty Years, Man About Town, Mammon and the Archer, On Behalf of the Management, and The Pride of the Cities are also quite fine works. I didn't like Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen and The Passing of Black Eagle. Overall, a nice and quick read. The rating is 3.5 stars.
June 27, 2018
The book description is inaccurate; the Playaway version contains 7 short stories. I was familiar with a few of them, but some were new to me! The disadvantage of listening to a lot of O. Henry all at once is that you come to expect and predict the twists at the end, I suppose. Still, it's a solid collection of enjoyable tales.
December 24, 2019
For the most part I enjoyed these stories. They all have a similar formula about ordinary people living life but each story ends with a surprise twist. It also gives the reader an idea of what life was like in the early 1900’s.
November 29, 2024
So went looking for The Last Leaf, and this didn’t have it. I noted the stories. About 7 in all. And though interesting. Slightly racist and mostly stories about men talking to men not a bad collection of tales of their time.
September 25, 2017
Không chắc đúng quyển này không nữa.
Tuyển tập O'Henry, quả xứng đáng là văn học kinh điển.
Những câu chuyện thường ngày của tuyến nhân vật phụ :)
Tuyển tập O'Henry, quả xứng đáng là văn học kinh điển.
Những câu chuyện thường ngày của tuyến nhân vật phụ :)
May 11, 2018
Have always loved O. Henry's surprise endings.
October 30, 2020
What can I say? O'Henry! Everyone could enrich their lives by reading this Auther's clever stories that may surprise.
November 30, 2020
Confusing.
March 16, 2022
One of my long-time favorites. Right up there with Poe….
October 26, 2022
I grew up with the Gift of the Magi and The Ransom of Red Chief stories. I never knew these were O. Henry stories. I enjoyed his other stories in this collection. This was a nice and calming listen.
February 22, 2023
Really enjoyed this little series of short stories
August 24, 2023
a couple were three stars. most 2. some 1. good to just get a flavor/understanding
February 16, 2024
A “shop-girl”, a thief, and a drunkard each encounter a crisis of conscience. How will they measure up? Listened to on The Classic Tales Podcast.
November 14, 2025
Read this way back in the day. Still remember the copy from the library
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