Old

Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past

sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a

satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years

he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his

Mistress's robe.

He

had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For

several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of

commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those

young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He

drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest

he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one,

and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two

young artists in the studio above.

Sue

found Behrman smelling strongly o...

"Leaves.

On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for

three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"

"Oh,

I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn.

"What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to

love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me

this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see

exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost

as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk

past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her

drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick

child, and pork chops for her greedy self."

"You

needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the

window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any bro...

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward.

"Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together.

Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away.

An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the b...

One

morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, grey

eyebrow.

"She

has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the

mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want

to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes

the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that

she's not going to get well.

Has

she anything on her mind?"

"She

- she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue.

"Paint?

- bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for

instance?"

"A

man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth

- but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."

"Well,

it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that

...

《最后一片叶子》描写的是华盛顿贫民窟的两个年青的画家苏和琼西同她们的邻居贝尔曼之间发生的故事。琼西在寒冷的十一月患上了严重的肺炎，并且其病情越来越重。作为画家的她，将生命的希望寄托在窗外最后一片藤叶上，以为藤叶落下之时，就是她生命结束之时。于是，她失去了活下去的勇气和信念。作为她的朋友苏很伤心，便将琼西的想法告诉了老画家贝尔曼，这个老画家是个脾气火爆，爱取笑人的酒鬼，终日与酒为伴。画了近四十年的画，一事无成，每天都说要创作出一篇惊世之作，却始终只是空谈。但是他对这两位年青的画家却是照顾有佳。他听到了此事后，便骂了一通，但仍无计可施。

然而令人惊奇的事发生了：尽管屋外的风刮得那样厉害，而锯齿形的叶子边缘已经枯萎发黄，但它仍然长在高高的藤枝上。琼西看到最后一片叶子仍然挂在树上，叶子经过凛冽的寒风依然可以存留下来， 自己为什么不能？于是又重拾生的信念，顽强地活了下来。可是故事并不是到此就结束了，真相才刚刚打开：原来是年过六旬的贝尔曼，在一个风雨交加的夜晚，为了画上最后一片藤叶，因着凉，染上了肺炎。在他生命的最后时刻，他终于完成了令人震撼的杰作。

In

a little district w...

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case o...

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they...

It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?&quo...

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor ho...

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both.

Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxicati...