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杜魯门·卡波特（ Truman Capote，1924—1984），美国文学史上著名的小说家、编剧、剧作家，很多作品后来都成了经典之作，如短篇小说《蒂凡尼的早餐》（Breakfast at Tiffany’s，1958）和纪实罪案小说《冷血》（In Cold Blood，1966）。
卡波特五岁时就自学读书写字，十一岁时发现了自己对写作的热爱，从十七岁起就经常在《纽约客》《大西洋月刊》等刊物上发表作品，二十一岁时，创作短篇小说《米里亚姆》（ Miriam，1945），获欧-亨利小说奖，成为美国文坛新秀。后又创作小说《别的声音，别的房间》（Other Voices，Other Rooms，1948）、《草竖琴》（The Grass Harp，1951）、《蒂凡尼的早餐》（Breakfast at Tiffany’s，1958），但真正奠定其文坛地位的作品是他花费四年时间，根据一桩真实罪案创作的非虚构小说《冷血》，该书不但在出版后占踞畅销书榜首达一年之久，更使卡波特成为新新闻主义流派的开创者。
卡波特原名Truman Persons，卡波特是其继父的姓氏。由于父母离异，年仅四岁的卡波特曾被送到阿拉巴马州母亲的亲戚家寄养，在那里和他母亲的远亲Nanny Rumbley Faulk成为忘年交，这一段生活经历后来出现在他的很多短篇小说中，如下面所选的《一个圣诞节的回忆》（A ChristmasMemory，1956）便是其中之一。
Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.
A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly， like a bantam hen; but， due to a long youthful illness， her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable-not unlike Lincoln’s， craggy like that， and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too， finely boned， and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. “Oh my，” she exclaims， her breath smoking the windowpane， “it’s fruitcake weather！”
The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something. We are cousins， very distant ones， and we have lived together-well， as long as I can remember. Other people inhabit the house， relatives; and though they have power over us， and frequently make us cry， we are not， on the whole， too much aware of them. We are each other’s best friend. She calls me Buddy， in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend. The other Buddy died in the 180s， when she was still a child. She is still a child.
“I knew it before I got out of bed，” she says， turning away from the windows with purposeful excitement in her eyes. “The courthouse bell sounded so cold and cleat. And there were no birds singing; they’ve gone to warmer country， yes indeed. Oh， Buddy， stop stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. We’ve thirty cakes to bake.”
It’s always the same： a morning arrives in November， and my friend， as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and fuels the blaze of her heart， announces： “It’s fruitcake weather！ Fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat.” The hat is found， a straw cartwheel corsaged with velvet roses out-of-doors has faded： it once belonged to a more fashionable relative. Together， we guide our buggy， a dilapidated baby carriage， out to the garden and into a grove of pecan trees. The buggy is mine; that is， it was bought for me when I was born. It is made of wicker， rather unraveled， and the wheels wobble like a drunkard’s legs. But it is a faithful object; springtimes， we take it to the woods and fill it with flowers， herbs， wild fern for our porch pots; in the summer， we pile it with picnic paraphernalia and sugar-cane fishing poles and roll it down to the edge of a creek; it has its winter uses， too： as a truck for hauling firewood from the yard to the kitchen， as a warm bed for Queenie， our tough little orange and white rat terrier who has survived distemper and two rattlesnake bites. Queenie is trotting beside it now.
Three hours later we are back in the kitchen hulling a heaping buggyload of windfall pecans. Our backs hurt from gathering them： how hard they were to find （the main crop having been shaken off the trees and sold by the orchard’s owners， who are not us） among the concealing leaves， the frosted， deceiving grass. Caarackle！ A cheery crunch， scraps of miniature thunder mounts in the milk-glass bowl. Queenie begs to taste， and now and again my friend sneaks her a mite， though insisting we deprive ourselves. “We mustn’t， Buddy. If we start， we won’t stop. And there’s scarcely enough as there is. For thirty cakes.” The kitchen is growing dark. Dusk turns the window into a mirror： our reflections mingle with the rising moon as we work by the fireside in the firelight. At last， when the moon is quite high， we toss the final hull into the fire and， with joined sighs， watch it catch flame. The buggy is empty; the bowl is brimful.
We eat our supper （cold biscuits， bacon， blackberry jam） and discuss tomorrow. Tomorrow the kind of work I like best begins： buying. Cherries and citron， ginger and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple， rinds and raisins and walnuts and whiskey and oh， so much flour， butter， so many eggs， spices， flavorings： why， we’ll need a pony to pull the buggy home.
But before these purchases can be made， there is the question of money. Neither of use has any. Except for skinflint sums persons in the house occasionally provide （a dime is considered very big money）; or what we earn ourselves from various activities： holding rummage sales， selling buckets of hand-picked blackberries， jars if homemade jam and apple jelly and peach preserves， rounding up flowers for funerals and weddings. Once we won seventy-ninth prize， five dollars， in a national football contest. Not that we know a fool thing about football. It’s just that we enter any contest we hear about： at the moment our hopes are centered on the fifty-thousand-dollar Grand Prize being offered to name a new brand of coffee （we suggested “A.M.”; and， after some hesitation， for my friend thought jt perhaps sacrilegious， the slogan “A.M，！ Amen！”）. To tell the truth， our only really profitable enterprise was the Fun and Freak Museum we conducted in a back-yard woodshed two summers ago. The Fun was a stereopticon with slide views of Washington and New York lent us by a relative who had been to those places （she was furious when she discovered why we’d borrowed it）; the Freak was a three-legged biddy chicken hatched by one of our own hens. Everybody hereabouts wanted to see that biddy： we charged grownups a nickel， kids two cents. And took in a good twenty dollars before the museum shut down due to the decease of the main attraction. But one way and another we do each year accumulate Christmas savings， a Fruitcake Fund. These moneys we keep hidden in an ancient bead purse under a loose board under the floor under a chamber pot under my friend’s bed. The purse is seldom removed from this safe location except to make a deposit， or， as happens every Saturday， a withdrawal; for on Saturdays I am allowed ten cents to go the picture show. My friend has never been to a picture show， nor does she intend to： “I’d rather hear you tell the story， Buddy. That way I can imagine it more. Besides， a person my age shouldn’t squander their eyes. When the Lord comes， let me see him clear.”
想象一下11月底的一个早晨。二十多年前冬天来临的一个早晨。设想边远小镇上一座四散延伸的老房子里的厨房。黑色的大火炉是这个厨房的一大标志，但厨房里还有张大圆桌，壁炉前放着两把摇椅。今天壁炉发出季节到来的呼叫。
一个白头发剪得很短的妇人站在厨房的窗前。网球鞋，夏天穿的印花布裙外罩一件不成形的灰毛衣。她个头很小，精神饱满，像只矮脚母鸡;但由于小时候的一场病，她的肩膀有点佝偻，怪可怜的。她的脸很独特——和林肯的脸不无相像，一样因风吹日晒而略显粗糙，但很精致，骨肉停匀;眼睛像雪利酒一样的色泽，怯生生的。“哦，老天，”她大声说，呵出来的气烟雾般弥漫在窗玻璃上，“这是做水果蛋糕的好天气。”
她对谁说话呢？我。那时我七岁，她六十多了。我们是表亲，很远的表亲。从我记事起，我们俩就住在一起。房子里住着别的人，就是一些亲戚。他们有权对我们发号施令，还常常把我们弄哭，但大体上我们俩不太在意他们。我们是彼此最要好的朋友。她叫我“巴迪”，为了纪念她以前最好的朋友。那个巴迪在19世纪80年代死了，当时她还是个孩子呢。她现在也还是个孩子。
“我没起床就知道。”她从窗边转过来，眼中闪动着兴奋，意味深长，“教堂的钟声又冷冽又清楚。鸟儿也不唱了，它们都飞到暖和的地方去了。肯定是的。哎，巴迪，别吃饼干了，去推我们的小推车。帮我把帽子找出来。我们要烤三十个水果蛋糕呢。”
一直都是這样：11月一个早晨到来，我的朋友仿佛代表官方，宣布这年圣诞季的到来。对节日的想象使她精神振奋，心中的火焰因为圣诞季来了而燃烧：“这是做水果蛋糕的好天气！去推我们的小推车。帮我把帽子找出来。”
帽子找到了，一顶宽边草帽，装饰着天鹅绒做的玫瑰，因为在户外戴而褪色了：它以前属于一个挺时髦的亲戚。我们一起推那辆小推车，一辆破旧的婴儿车。我们把它推出花园，推进山核桃树丛。这推车是我的，就是说，我出生时人家买给我的。它由柳条编织成，不过柳条都松散了，推车的轮子摇摇晃晃像醉鬼的脚。但这辆推车可是个可靠的伙伴：春天，我们推它到树林里，装上花啊草啊羊齿植物，回来放进阳台上那些陶罐里;夏天，我们在推车里堆放野餐用具和甘蔗做的钓鱼竿，推到小溪边去;冬天它也能派上用场：从院子里装柴火拖到厨房;当奎尼的暖床：奎尼是我们养的橙色白色斑驳的小花猎犬。它得过犬热病，还被响尾蛇咬过两次，都挺过去活下来了。现在它就在推车旁边小跑着呢。
三小时后，我们回到厨房，推回来堆满一车的风吹落的山核桃。捡这些山核桃可把我们累得腰酸背痛：在落满冰霜的草丛里，要找出潜藏其中的它们很不容易（大多数果实都被果园主人摇下来卖掉了，我们可不是果园主人）。咔咔嚓嚓！核桃壳敲碎发出轻轻雷击般的响声，嘎吱嘎吱听起来很欢快。象牙光泽的山核桃肉散发出甜美的香气，油滋滋的，在牛奶玻璃碗里堆成座小山。奎尼求我们给它点尝尝，我的朋友就时不时偷偷给它一丁点，但我们俩是绝对不可以吃的。“我们可不行，巴迪。我们要是一吃，就肯定停不了。这些山核桃还不见得够做三十个水果蛋糕呢。”厨房渐渐暗了下来。夜色把窗玻璃变成了一面镜子：我们在炉边火光中敲碎核桃壳时，窗玻璃上我们的影子和升起的月亮交织在一起。最后，明月高照，我们终于把最后一颗山核桃的壳丢进壁炉，都松了口气，看着它烧掉。推车空了，碗却满满的。
我们吃了晚饭（冷饼干、火腿、黑莓酱），讨论明天的事。明天，我最喜欢的事就开始了：大采购。樱桃、柑橘、姜、香草、罐装夏威夷风梨、橘皮、葡萄干、栗子、还有威士忌，对了，还有大量的面粉和黄油，许多鸡蛋、香料和调味料：哇，我们得找匹小马驹来把推车拉回家才行。
但采购前，有个钱的问题。我们俩都没钱。除了家里人偶尔给点零花钱（给我们一角钱镍币他们就认为是给了笔大钱），或者我们自己干各种活儿赚钱：卖捐赠品，卖成桶采来的黑莓、一罐罐自制的果酱、苹果冻、桃脯，采摘花束供人家葬礼或婚礼。有一次，我们中了五块钱，是全国橄榄球比赛的79等奖。我们俩对橄榄球可一无所知。只不过我们听说什么比赛就参加：现在，我们寄希望于给新上市咖啡取名的大赛，要是中了有五千块奖金呢（我们建议取名为“A.M.”（万福玛丽亚）;但犹豫了一下，因为我的朋友觉得有点亵渎神，所以改为“A.M.！阿门！”）。老实说，我们唯一真正赚过钱的事业是奇趣展览，两年前在后院树荫下办的。所谓的趣是放华盛顿和纽约城市风光的幻灯片，那是一个去过这些地方的一个亲戚借给我们的（她发现我们借来的用处后大发雷霆）;所谓奇是一只长了三只脚的鸡，我们养的一只母鸡孵出来的怪物。这附近人人都来看，我们收参观费，大人一角钱，小孩两分钱。等那富有感召力的展览物死去我们的奇趣展览馆被迫关门时，我们已经整整赚了二十块大洋。
每年我们总能用尽各种方法，筹到这么一笔圣诞存款，作为水果蛋糕基金。我们把这些钱放进一只古旧的珠子钱包，藏在我的朋友床底那只夜壶盖住的地板中一块松动的木板下。这只钱包绝少从安全藏身处取出，除非要把钱存放进去，或者每周六取出一点来;因为每周六，我获准拿出一角钱去看电影。我的朋友从来没有去过电影院，也没打算去：“我情愿听你讲故事情节，巴迪。那样我会想象得更多。还有，我这把年纪的人可不能太挥霍我的视力。蒙主圣恩时，我才能把他看得更清楚。”
【文章赏读】
《一个圣诞节的回忆》是卡波特成名之后的忆旧之作，这时作者对文字的把握已日趋娴熟老练，因此整个故事文笔优美清新，富有诗意。故事中的白发老妪是作者童年的挚友，一个是垂垂老矣、少人问津的老妇，一个是父母离异、不得不寄养在亲戚家的稚子，一老一小，同样缺乏关爱、同样孤寂，于是便成了彼此的陪伴和慰藉。虽然如此，故事却还是充满温情的。圣诞将至，两位心意相通的好友按照惯例，着手做水果蛋糕，他们推着小推车去山上捡被风吹落的山核桃、用攒了一年的钱去买做蛋糕需要的其他配料，做了蛋糕却都寄给了一些陌生人，自己只能喝到一点做蛋糕剩下的威士忌。他们还去很远的山里砍圣诞树，费尽力气拖回来，可用来装饰圣诞树的却只有别人丢弃不要的东西。尽管如此，他们心中却总是充满了节日的欢乐，令读者不由得心向往之，也不由得想起自己童年那简单快乐的时光。
卡波特五岁时就自学读书写字，十一岁时发现了自己对写作的热爱，从十七岁起就经常在《纽约客》《大西洋月刊》等刊物上发表作品，二十一岁时，创作短篇小说《米里亚姆》（ Miriam，1945），获欧-亨利小说奖，成为美国文坛新秀。后又创作小说《别的声音，别的房间》（Other Voices，Other Rooms，1948）、《草竖琴》（The Grass Harp，1951）、《蒂凡尼的早餐》（Breakfast at Tiffany’s，1958），但真正奠定其文坛地位的作品是他花费四年时间，根据一桩真实罪案创作的非虚构小说《冷血》，该书不但在出版后占踞畅销书榜首达一年之久，更使卡波特成为新新闻主义流派的开创者。
卡波特原名Truman Persons，卡波特是其继父的姓氏。由于父母离异，年仅四岁的卡波特曾被送到阿拉巴马州母亲的亲戚家寄养，在那里和他母亲的远亲Nanny Rumbley Faulk成为忘年交，这一段生活经历后来出现在他的很多短篇小说中，如下面所选的《一个圣诞节的回忆》（A ChristmasMemory，1956）便是其中之一。
Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.
A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly， like a bantam hen; but， due to a long youthful illness， her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable-not unlike Lincoln’s， craggy like that， and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too， finely boned， and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. “Oh my，” she exclaims， her breath smoking the windowpane， “it’s fruitcake weather！”
The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something. We are cousins， very distant ones， and we have lived together-well， as long as I can remember. Other people inhabit the house， relatives; and though they have power over us， and frequently make us cry， we are not， on the whole， too much aware of them. We are each other’s best friend. She calls me Buddy， in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend. The other Buddy died in the 180s， when she was still a child. She is still a child.
“I knew it before I got out of bed，” she says， turning away from the windows with purposeful excitement in her eyes. “The courthouse bell sounded so cold and cleat. And there were no birds singing; they’ve gone to warmer country， yes indeed. Oh， Buddy， stop stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. We’ve thirty cakes to bake.”
It’s always the same： a morning arrives in November， and my friend， as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and fuels the blaze of her heart， announces： “It’s fruitcake weather！ Fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat.” The hat is found， a straw cartwheel corsaged with velvet roses out-of-doors has faded： it once belonged to a more fashionable relative. Together， we guide our buggy， a dilapidated baby carriage， out to the garden and into a grove of pecan trees. The buggy is mine; that is， it was bought for me when I was born. It is made of wicker， rather unraveled， and the wheels wobble like a drunkard’s legs. But it is a faithful object; springtimes， we take it to the woods and fill it with flowers， herbs， wild fern for our porch pots; in the summer， we pile it with picnic paraphernalia and sugar-cane fishing poles and roll it down to the edge of a creek; it has its winter uses， too： as a truck for hauling firewood from the yard to the kitchen， as a warm bed for Queenie， our tough little orange and white rat terrier who has survived distemper and two rattlesnake bites. Queenie is trotting beside it now.
Three hours later we are back in the kitchen hulling a heaping buggyload of windfall pecans. Our backs hurt from gathering them： how hard they were to find （the main crop having been shaken off the trees and sold by the orchard’s owners， who are not us） among the concealing leaves， the frosted， deceiving grass. Caarackle！ A cheery crunch， scraps of miniature thunder mounts in the milk-glass bowl. Queenie begs to taste， and now and again my friend sneaks her a mite， though insisting we deprive ourselves. “We mustn’t， Buddy. If we start， we won’t stop. And there’s scarcely enough as there is. For thirty cakes.” The kitchen is growing dark. Dusk turns the window into a mirror： our reflections mingle with the rising moon as we work by the fireside in the firelight. At last， when the moon is quite high， we toss the final hull into the fire and， with joined sighs， watch it catch flame. The buggy is empty; the bowl is brimful.
We eat our supper （cold biscuits， bacon， blackberry jam） and discuss tomorrow. Tomorrow the kind of work I like best begins： buying. Cherries and citron， ginger and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple， rinds and raisins and walnuts and whiskey and oh， so much flour， butter， so many eggs， spices， flavorings： why， we’ll need a pony to pull the buggy home.
But before these purchases can be made， there is the question of money. Neither of use has any. Except for skinflint sums persons in the house occasionally provide （a dime is considered very big money）; or what we earn ourselves from various activities： holding rummage sales， selling buckets of hand-picked blackberries， jars if homemade jam and apple jelly and peach preserves， rounding up flowers for funerals and weddings. Once we won seventy-ninth prize， five dollars， in a national football contest. Not that we know a fool thing about football. It’s just that we enter any contest we hear about： at the moment our hopes are centered on the fifty-thousand-dollar Grand Prize being offered to name a new brand of coffee （we suggested “A.M.”; and， after some hesitation， for my friend thought jt perhaps sacrilegious， the slogan “A.M，！ Amen！”）. To tell the truth， our only really profitable enterprise was the Fun and Freak Museum we conducted in a back-yard woodshed two summers ago. The Fun was a stereopticon with slide views of Washington and New York lent us by a relative who had been to those places （she was furious when she discovered why we’d borrowed it）; the Freak was a three-legged biddy chicken hatched by one of our own hens. Everybody hereabouts wanted to see that biddy： we charged grownups a nickel， kids two cents. And took in a good twenty dollars before the museum shut down due to the decease of the main attraction. But one way and another we do each year accumulate Christmas savings， a Fruitcake Fund. These moneys we keep hidden in an ancient bead purse under a loose board under the floor under a chamber pot under my friend’s bed. The purse is seldom removed from this safe location except to make a deposit， or， as happens every Saturday， a withdrawal; for on Saturdays I am allowed ten cents to go the picture show. My friend has never been to a picture show， nor does she intend to： “I’d rather hear you tell the story， Buddy. That way I can imagine it more. Besides， a person my age shouldn’t squander their eyes. When the Lord comes， let me see him clear.”
想象一下11月底的一个早晨。二十多年前冬天来临的一个早晨。设想边远小镇上一座四散延伸的老房子里的厨房。黑色的大火炉是这个厨房的一大标志，但厨房里还有张大圆桌，壁炉前放着两把摇椅。今天壁炉发出季节到来的呼叫。
一个白头发剪得很短的妇人站在厨房的窗前。网球鞋，夏天穿的印花布裙外罩一件不成形的灰毛衣。她个头很小，精神饱满，像只矮脚母鸡;但由于小时候的一场病，她的肩膀有点佝偻，怪可怜的。她的脸很独特——和林肯的脸不无相像，一样因风吹日晒而略显粗糙，但很精致，骨肉停匀;眼睛像雪利酒一样的色泽，怯生生的。“哦，老天，”她大声说，呵出来的气烟雾般弥漫在窗玻璃上，“这是做水果蛋糕的好天气。”
她对谁说话呢？我。那时我七岁，她六十多了。我们是表亲，很远的表亲。从我记事起，我们俩就住在一起。房子里住着别的人，就是一些亲戚。他们有权对我们发号施令，还常常把我们弄哭，但大体上我们俩不太在意他们。我们是彼此最要好的朋友。她叫我“巴迪”，为了纪念她以前最好的朋友。那个巴迪在19世纪80年代死了，当时她还是个孩子呢。她现在也还是个孩子。
“我没起床就知道。”她从窗边转过来，眼中闪动着兴奋，意味深长，“教堂的钟声又冷冽又清楚。鸟儿也不唱了，它们都飞到暖和的地方去了。肯定是的。哎，巴迪，别吃饼干了，去推我们的小推车。帮我把帽子找出来。我们要烤三十个水果蛋糕呢。”
一直都是這样：11月一个早晨到来，我的朋友仿佛代表官方，宣布这年圣诞季的到来。对节日的想象使她精神振奋，心中的火焰因为圣诞季来了而燃烧：“这是做水果蛋糕的好天气！去推我们的小推车。帮我把帽子找出来。”
帽子找到了，一顶宽边草帽，装饰着天鹅绒做的玫瑰，因为在户外戴而褪色了：它以前属于一个挺时髦的亲戚。我们一起推那辆小推车，一辆破旧的婴儿车。我们把它推出花园，推进山核桃树丛。这推车是我的，就是说，我出生时人家买给我的。它由柳条编织成，不过柳条都松散了，推车的轮子摇摇晃晃像醉鬼的脚。但这辆推车可是个可靠的伙伴：春天，我们推它到树林里，装上花啊草啊羊齿植物，回来放进阳台上那些陶罐里;夏天，我们在推车里堆放野餐用具和甘蔗做的钓鱼竿，推到小溪边去;冬天它也能派上用场：从院子里装柴火拖到厨房;当奎尼的暖床：奎尼是我们养的橙色白色斑驳的小花猎犬。它得过犬热病，还被响尾蛇咬过两次，都挺过去活下来了。现在它就在推车旁边小跑着呢。
三小时后，我们回到厨房，推回来堆满一车的风吹落的山核桃。捡这些山核桃可把我们累得腰酸背痛：在落满冰霜的草丛里，要找出潜藏其中的它们很不容易（大多数果实都被果园主人摇下来卖掉了，我们可不是果园主人）。咔咔嚓嚓！核桃壳敲碎发出轻轻雷击般的响声，嘎吱嘎吱听起来很欢快。象牙光泽的山核桃肉散发出甜美的香气，油滋滋的，在牛奶玻璃碗里堆成座小山。奎尼求我们给它点尝尝，我的朋友就时不时偷偷给它一丁点，但我们俩是绝对不可以吃的。“我们可不行，巴迪。我们要是一吃，就肯定停不了。这些山核桃还不见得够做三十个水果蛋糕呢。”厨房渐渐暗了下来。夜色把窗玻璃变成了一面镜子：我们在炉边火光中敲碎核桃壳时，窗玻璃上我们的影子和升起的月亮交织在一起。最后，明月高照，我们终于把最后一颗山核桃的壳丢进壁炉，都松了口气，看着它烧掉。推车空了，碗却满满的。
我们吃了晚饭（冷饼干、火腿、黑莓酱），讨论明天的事。明天，我最喜欢的事就开始了：大采购。樱桃、柑橘、姜、香草、罐装夏威夷风梨、橘皮、葡萄干、栗子、还有威士忌，对了，还有大量的面粉和黄油，许多鸡蛋、香料和调味料：哇，我们得找匹小马驹来把推车拉回家才行。
但采购前，有个钱的问题。我们俩都没钱。除了家里人偶尔给点零花钱（给我们一角钱镍币他们就认为是给了笔大钱），或者我们自己干各种活儿赚钱：卖捐赠品，卖成桶采来的黑莓、一罐罐自制的果酱、苹果冻、桃脯，采摘花束供人家葬礼或婚礼。有一次，我们中了五块钱，是全国橄榄球比赛的79等奖。我们俩对橄榄球可一无所知。只不过我们听说什么比赛就参加：现在，我们寄希望于给新上市咖啡取名的大赛，要是中了有五千块奖金呢（我们建议取名为“A.M.”（万福玛丽亚）;但犹豫了一下，因为我的朋友觉得有点亵渎神，所以改为“A.M.！阿门！”）。老实说，我们唯一真正赚过钱的事业是奇趣展览，两年前在后院树荫下办的。所谓的趣是放华盛顿和纽约城市风光的幻灯片，那是一个去过这些地方的一个亲戚借给我们的（她发现我们借来的用处后大发雷霆）;所谓奇是一只长了三只脚的鸡，我们养的一只母鸡孵出来的怪物。这附近人人都来看，我们收参观费，大人一角钱，小孩两分钱。等那富有感召力的展览物死去我们的奇趣展览馆被迫关门时，我们已经整整赚了二十块大洋。
每年我们总能用尽各种方法，筹到这么一笔圣诞存款，作为水果蛋糕基金。我们把这些钱放进一只古旧的珠子钱包，藏在我的朋友床底那只夜壶盖住的地板中一块松动的木板下。这只钱包绝少从安全藏身处取出，除非要把钱存放进去，或者每周六取出一点来;因为每周六，我获准拿出一角钱去看电影。我的朋友从来没有去过电影院，也没打算去：“我情愿听你讲故事情节，巴迪。那样我会想象得更多。还有，我这把年纪的人可不能太挥霍我的视力。蒙主圣恩时，我才能把他看得更清楚。”
【文章赏读】
《一个圣诞节的回忆》是卡波特成名之后的忆旧之作，这时作者对文字的把握已日趋娴熟老练，因此整个故事文笔优美清新，富有诗意。故事中的白发老妪是作者童年的挚友，一个是垂垂老矣、少人问津的老妇，一个是父母离异、不得不寄养在亲戚家的稚子，一老一小，同样缺乏关爱、同样孤寂，于是便成了彼此的陪伴和慰藉。虽然如此，故事却还是充满温情的。圣诞将至，两位心意相通的好友按照惯例，着手做水果蛋糕，他们推着小推车去山上捡被风吹落的山核桃、用攒了一年的钱去买做蛋糕需要的其他配料，做了蛋糕却都寄给了一些陌生人，自己只能喝到一点做蛋糕剩下的威士忌。他们还去很远的山里砍圣诞树，费尽力气拖回来，可用来装饰圣诞树的却只有别人丢弃不要的东西。尽管如此，他们心中却总是充满了节日的欢乐，令读者不由得心向往之，也不由得想起自己童年那简单快乐的时光。