The Gold Bug, which won a prize, is one of the most popular of Poe’s stories.

Ukázka:

Many years ago I made friends with Mr. William Legrand. He was of an old French family, and had once been very rich, but a series of misfortunes had made him quite poor. Because of this, he left New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and settled down at Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.
This island is a very strange one. Most of it is covered with sea sand. It is about three miles long and nowhere more than a quarter of a mile wide. It is separated from the mainland by a tiny creek whose waters flow slowly through a forest of reeds full of marsh-hens. The vegetation of the island is rather poor. No tall trees are to be seen except in the western part where Fort Moultrie stands and where there are some poor buildings occupied during summer by people from Charleston, who wish to get away from its dust and fever; but the whole island, with the exception of this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the seacoast, is covered with thick shrubs of myrtle. The shrubs here often reach the height of fifteen or twenty feet and the air is full of their sweet smell.
Among the myrtles, not far from the eastern end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small hut, which he occupied when I met him for the first time. We soon became good friends. He was well educated and very intelligent, but full either of enthusiasm or of melancholy. He had with him plenty of books, but seldom read them. What he liked best was hunting, fishind and walking along the beach and through the myrtles, looking for shells and beetles. He had a very interesting collection of the latter. On these walks he was usually accompanied by and old Negro, called Jupiter. The Negro loved his master, and served him with great devotion.
The winters in Sullivan’s Island are seldom very severe, and in the fall of the year a fire is hardly necessary. About the middle of October, 18–, there happened, however, a very cold day. Just before sunset I made my way through the shrubs of myrtle to the hut of my friend, whom I had not visited for several weeks. At that time I lived in Charleston, nine miles from the island, and in those days it was not easy at all to get there and back. When I reached the hut, I knocked as usual and, getting no answer, looked for the key where I knew it was hidden, unlocked the door, and went in. A fine fire was burning and I was glad of it. I took off my overcoat, sat down in an armchair and waited for Legrand and his servant.