1. 内含唯一正版林徽因译本。
　　2. 周作人、巴金、梁思成都倾心的童话集，梁实秋、胡适、陈伯吹盛赞。
　　3. 林徽因献给徐志摩，王尔德献给孩子、妻子和自己，我把它献给所有18岁以上的儿童。
　　4. 王尔德童话的美，美到哀伤，让人禁不住心疼起来；王尔德的智慧，刺中笑穴，让人忍不住笑出声来。
　　5. 王尔德童话全集（区别于部分集合）。
　　6. 附英文原版1册。
　　7. 在英文中找不出来能够跟它们相比的童话。它们读起来（或讲起来）叫小孩和大人都感到兴趣，同时它们中间还贯穿着一种微妙的哲学。
　　——R?H?谢拉尔德
　　8. 父亲在给我们朗读自己的作品时，也会因此感动得潸然泪下。
　　——王尔德的小儿子
　　9. 这第一个故事就使我觉得王尔德有一颗小孩儿的心。
　　每一句话都是深思熟虑写出来的，但同时却有自发的动人力量。
　　——L?C?英格列比，第一次读《快乐王子》时说
　　10. 当王尔德把《石榴屋》献给他妻子的时候，他那对于美的爱和对于人的爱还是并行不悖的。
　　——L?C?英格列比

　王尔德童话包括两个集子，《石榴屋》与《快乐王子及其他故事》，其中“夜莺与玫瑰”为林徽因在梁思成病重期间，以“尺棰”为笔名发表在《晨报》五周年纪念刊上的。
　　王尔德童话的美，美到哀伤，这种动人的忧伤的美，有时叫人心禁不住痛起来。王尔德的智慧，刺中笑穴，这种自发的诙谐和机智，有时叫人禁不住笑出声来。他还钟情艳丽的颜色，一般的色彩他是瞧不上眼的。他的红色必须是饱满得眼看马上就要滴出来的才好，他的白要像凝脂一样要白得有手感才好，他的绿必须是碧绿的，必须是明亮的，必须仿佛马上就有生命从里面跳出来。

　王尔德，英国两大童话大师之一（另一为安徒生），所写童话“叫大人和孩子同样都有兴致”（ R·H·谢拉尔德语）。他把《石榴屋童话集》献给自己的妻子，把《快乐王子与其他故事》献给自己的孩子，每每读到，“自己都感动得潸然泪下”（王尔德之子语）。他的风格在英国广泛流传，为无数人倾心，死后，他的“墓碑上印满了吻痕”。

序 从未长大的王尔德，从未离开的徐志摩
快乐王子
夜莺与玫瑰
自私的巨人
忠实的朋友
了不起的火箭
年轻的国王
小公主的生日
星星的孩子
渔夫和他的灵魂
The Happy Prince
The Nightingale and the Rose
The Selfish Giant
The Devoted Friend
The Remarkable Rocket
The Young King
The Birthday of the Infanta
The Star-Child
The Fisherman and His Soul

夜莺与玫瑰
　　尺棰
　　“她说我若为她采得红玫瑰，便与我跳舞。”青年学生哭着说，“但我全园里何曾有一朵红玫瑰。”
　　夜莺在橡树上巢中听见，从叶丛里望外看，心中诧异。
　　青年哭道：“我园中并没有红玫瑰！”他秀眼里满含着泪珠。“呀！幸福倒靠着这些区区小东西！古圣贤书我已读完，哲学的玄秘，我已彻悟，然而因为求一朵红玫瑰不得，我的生活便这样难堪。”
　　夜莺叹道：“真情人竟在这里。以前我虽不曾认识，我却夜夜地歌唱他，我夜夜将他的一桩桩事告诉星辰，如今我见着他了。他的头发黑如风信子花，嘴唇红比他所切盼的玫瑰，但是挚情已使他脸色憔悴，烦恼已在他眉端印着痕迹。”
　　青年又低声自语：“王子今晚宴会跳舞，我的爱人也将与会。我若为她采得红玫瑰，她就和我跳舞直到天明，我若为她采得红玫瑰，我将把她抱在怀里，她的头，在我肩上枕着，她的手，在我掌中握着。但我园里没有红玫瑰，我只能寂寞地坐着，看她从我跟前走过。她不睬我，我的心将要粉碎了。”
　　“这真是个真情人。”夜莺又说着，“我所歌唱，是他尝受的苦楚，在我是乐的，在他却是悲痛。‘爱’果然是件非常的东西。比翡翠还珍重，比玛瑙更宝贵。珍珠、榴石买不得它，黄金亦不能作他的代价，因为他不是在市上出卖，也不是商人贩卖的东西。”
　　青年说：“乐师们将在乐坛上弹弄丝竹，我那爱人也将按着弦琴的音节舞蹈。她舞得那么翩翩，莲步都不着地，华服的少年们就会艳羡地围着她。但她不同我跳舞，因我没有为她采到红玫瑰。”于是他卧倒在草里，两手掩着脸哭泣。
　　绿色的小壁虎说：“他为什么哭泣？”说完就竖起尾巴从他跟前跑过。
　　蝴蝶正追着太阳光飞舞，她亦问说：“唉，怎么？”
　　金盏花亦向他的邻居低声探问道：“唉，怎么？”
　　夜莺说：“他为着一朵红玫瑰哭泣。”
　　他们叫道：“为着一朵红玫瑰！真笑话！”那小壁虎本来就刻薄，于是大笑。
　　然而夜莺了解那青年烦恼里的秘密，她静坐在橡树枝上细想“爱”的玄妙。忽然她张起棕色的双翼，冲天地飞去。她穿过那树林如同影子一般，如同影子一般的，她飞出了花园。草地当中站着一株绝美的玫瑰树，她看到那树，向前飞去落在一枝枝头上。
　　她叫道：“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱我最婉转的歌。”
　　但是那树摇头。“我的玫瑰是白的。”那树回答她，“白如海涛的泡沫，白过山巅上积雪。请你到古日晷旁找我兄弟，或者他能应你所求。”
　　于是夜莺飞到日晷旁边那丛玫瑰上。她又叫道：“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱最醉人的歌。”
　　但是那树摇头。“我的玫瑰是黄的，”那树回答她，“黄如琥珀座上人鱼神的头发，黄过割草人未割以前的金水仙。请你到那青年窗下找我兄弟，或者他能应你所求。”
　　于是夜莺飞到青年窗下，那丛玫瑰上。她仍旧叫道：“给我一朵鲜红玫瑰，我为你唱最甜美的歌。”但是那树摇头。
　　那树回答她说：“我的玫瑰是红的，红如白鸽的脚趾，红过海底岩下扇动的珊瑚。但是严冬已冻僵了我的血脉，寒霜已啮伤了我的萌芽，暴风已打断了我的枝干，今年我不能再开了。”
　　夜莺央告说：“一朵红玫瑰就够了。只要一朵红玫瑰！请问有甚法子没有？”
　　那树答道：“有一个法子，只有一个，但是太可怕了，我不敢告诉你。”
　　“告诉我吧。”夜莺勇敢地说，“我不怕。”
　　那树说道：“你若要一朵红玫瑰，你须在月色里用音乐制成，然后用你自己的心血染他。你须将胸口顶着一根尖刺，为我歌唱。你须整夜地为我歌唱，那刺须刺入你的心头，你生命的血液得流到我的心房里变成我的。”
　　夜莺叹道：“拿死来买一朵红玫瑰，代价真不小，谁的生命不是宝贵的。坐在青郁的森林里看太阳在黄金车里，月娘在白珠辇内驰骋，真是一桩乐事。山楂花的味儿真香，山谷里的吊钟花和山坡上野草真美。然而‘爱’比生命更可贵，一个鸟的心又怎能和人的心比？”于是她张起棕色的双翼，冲天地飞去。她过那花园如同影子一般，如同影子一般，她荡出了那树林子。
　　那青年仍旧偃卧在草地上方才她离他的地方，他那副秀眼里的泪珠还没有干。
　　夜莺喊道：“高兴罢，快乐罢；你将要采到你那朵红玫瑰了。我将用月下的歌音制成它，再用我自己的心血染红它。我向你所求的酬报，仅是要你做一个真挚的情人，因为哲理虽智，爱比它更慧；权力虽雄，爱比它更伟。焰光的色彩是爱的双翅，烈火的颜色是爱的躯干。它有如蜜的口唇，若兰的吐气。”
　　青年从草里抬头侧耳静听，但是他不懂夜莺对他所说的话，因他只晓得书上所讲的一切。那橡树却是懂得，他觉得悲伤，因为他极爱怜那枝上结巢的小夜莺。他轻声说道：“唱一首最后的歌给我听罢，你别去后，我要感到无限的寂寥了。”
　　于是夜莺为橡树唱起来。她恋别的音调就像在银瓶里涌溢的水浪一般的清越。
　　她唱罢时，那青年站起身来从衣袋里抽出一本日记簿和一枝笔。他一面走出那树林，一面自语道：“那夜莺的确有些恣态。这是人所不能否认的；但是她有感情么？我怕没有。实在她就像许多美术家一般，尽是仪式，没有诚心。她必不肯为人牺牲。她所想的无非是音乐，但是谁不知道艺术是为己的。虽然，我们总须承认她有醉人的歌喉。可惜那种歌音也是毫无意义，毫无实用。”于是他回到自己室中，躺在他的小草垫的床上想念他的爱人；过了片时他就睡去。
　　待月娘升到天空、放出她的光艳时，那夜莺也就来到玫瑰枝边，将胸口插在刺上。她胸前插着尖刺，整夜地歌唱，那晶莹的月亮倚在云边静听。
　　她整夜地啭着歌喉，那刺越插越深，她生命的血液渐渐溢去。
　　最先她歌颂的是稚男幼女心胸里爱恋的诞生。于是那玫瑰的顶尖枝上结了一苞卓绝的玫瑰蕾，歌儿一首连着一首地唱，花瓣一片跟着一片地开。起先那瓣儿是黯淡得如同河上罩着的薄雾，黯淡得如同晨曦的脚迹，银灰得好似曙光的翅翼，那枝上玫瑰蕾就像映在银镜里的玫瑰影子或是照在池塘的玫瑰化身。
　　但是那树还催迫着夜莺紧插那枝刺。“靠紧那刺，小夜莺，”那树连声地叫唤，“不然，玫瑰还没开成，晓光就要闯来了。”
　　于是夜莺越紧插入那尖刺，越扬声的她唱的歌，因她这回所歌颂的是男子与女子性灵里烈情的诞生。
　　如今那玫瑰瓣上生了一层娇嫩的红晕，如同初吻新娘时新郎的绛颊。
　　但是那刺还未插到夜莺的心房，所以那花心尚留着白色，因为只有夜莺的心血可以染成玫瑰花心。
　　那树复催迫着夜莺紧插那枝刺，“靠紧那刺，小夜莺，”那树连声地叫唤，“不然玫瑰还没开成，晓光就要闯来了。”
　　于是夜莺紧紧插入那枝刺，那刺居然插入了她的心，但是一种奇痛穿过她的全身，那种惨痛愈猛，愈烈，她的歌声越狂，越壮，因为她这回歌颂的是因死而完成的挚爱和冢中不朽的烈情。
　　那卓绝的玫瑰于是变作鲜红，如同东方的天色。花的外瓣红同烈火，花的内心赤如绛玉。
　　夜莺的声音越唱越模糊了，她的双翅拍动起来，她的眼上起了一层薄膜，她的歌声模糊了，她觉得喉间哽咽了。
　　于是她放出末次的歌声，白色的残月听见，忘记天晓，挂在空中停着。
　　那红玫瑰听见，凝神战栗着，在清冷的晓风里瓣瓣地开放。回音将歌声领入山坡上的紫洞，将牧童从梦里惊醒。歌声流到河边苇丛中，苇叶将这信息传与大海。
　　那树叫道：“看！这玫瑰已制成了。”
　　然而夜莺并不回答，她已躺在乱草里死去，那刺还插在心头。
　　日午时青年开窗望外看。他叫道：“怪事，真是难遇的幸运；这儿有朵红玫瑰，这样好玫瑰，我生来从没看到过。它这样美红定有很繁长的拉丁名字。”说着便俯身下去折了这花。
　　于是他戴上帽子，跑往教授家去，手里拈着红玫瑰。
　　教授的女儿正坐在门前卷一轴蓝色绸子，她的小狗伏在她脚前。
　　青年叫道：“你说过我若为你采得红玫瑰，你便同我跳舞。这里有一朵全世界最珍贵的红玫瑰。你可以将它插在你的胸前，我们同舞的时候，这花便能告诉你，我怎样的爱你。”
　　那女郎只皱着眉头。
　　她答说：“我怕这花不能配上我的衣裳，而且大臣的侄子送我许多珠宝首饰，人人都知道珠宝比花草贵重。”
　　青年怒道：“我敢说你是个无情义的人。”他便将玫瑰掷在街心，掉在车辙里，让一个车轮轧过。
　　女郎说：“无情义？我告诉你罢，你实在无礼；况且到底你是谁？不过一个学生文人。我看像大臣侄子鞋上的那银扣，你都没有。”说着站起身来走回房去。
　　青年走着自语道：“爱好傻呀，远不如伦理学那般有实用，它所告诉我们的，无非是空中楼阁，实际上不会发生的，和漂渺虚无不可信的事件。
　　“在现在的世界里存在，首要有实用的东西，我还是回到我的哲学和玄学书上去吧。”
　　于是他回到房中取出一本笨重的、满堆着尘土的大书埋头细读。
　　
　　The Nightingale and the Rose
　　“She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,” cried the young Student; “but in all my garden there is no red rose.”
　　From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
　　“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. “Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.”
　　“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”
　　“The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,” murmured the young Student, “and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.”
　　“Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. “What I sing of, he suffers—what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.”
　　“The musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young Student, “and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her”; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
　　“Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
　　“Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
　　“Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbor, in a soft, low voice.
　　“He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale.
　　“For a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
　　But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
　　Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
　　In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
　　“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
　　But the Tree shook its head.
　　“My roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
　　So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
　　“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
　　But the Tree shook its head.
　　“My roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
　　So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window.
　　“Give me a red rose,” she cried, “and I will sing you my sweetest song.”
　　But the Tree shook its head.
　　“My roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.”
　　“One red rose is all I want,” cried the Nightingale, “only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?”
　　“There is away,” answered the Tree; “but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.”
　　“Tell it to me,” said the Nightingale, “I am not afraid.”
　　“If you want a red rose,” said the Tree, “you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.”
　　“Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried the Nightingale, “and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?”
　　So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
　　The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
　　“Be happy,” cried the Nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-colored are his wings, and colored like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.”
　　The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
　　But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
　　“Sing me one last song,” he whispered; “I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.”
　　So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
　　When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
　　“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove—”that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.” And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
　　And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
　　She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvelous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn, as the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
　　But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”
　　So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
　　And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
　　And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. “Press closer, little Nightingale,” cried the Tree, “or the Day will come before the rose is finished.”
　　So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
　　And the marvelous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
　　But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
　　Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
　　“Look, look!” cried the Tree, “the rose is finished now”; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
　　And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
　　“Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name”; and he leaned down and plucked it.
　　Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand.
　　The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
　　“You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,” cried the Student. “Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.”
　　But the girl frowned.
　　“I am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and, besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”
　　“Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
　　“Ungrateful!” said the girl. “I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has”; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
　　“What I a silly thing Love is,” said the Student as he walked away. “It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.”
　　So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.