最后一片叶子英文原文Word文件下载.docx

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　　ThatwasinMay。

InNovemberacold，unseenstranger,whomthedoctorscalledPneumonia,stalkedaboutthecolony,touchingonehereandtherewithhisicyfingers.Overontheeastsidethisravagerstrodeboldly，smitinghisvictimsbyscores,buthisfeettrodslowlythroughthemazeofthenarrowandmoss—grown"

places."

　　Mr.Pneumoniawasnotwhatyouwouldcallachivalricoldgentleman。

AmiteofalittlewomanwithbloodthinnedbyCaliforniazephyrswashardlyfairgameforthered—fisted，short—breathedoldduffer.ButJohnsyhesmote；

andshelay，scarcelymoving,onherpaintedironbedstead,lookingthroughthesmallDutchwindow-panesattheblanksideofthenextbrickhouse.

　　OnemorningthebusydoctorinvitedSueintothehallwaywithashaggy,greyeyebrow.

　　"

Shehasonechancein—letussay，ten,”hesaid,asheshookdownthemercuryinhisclinicalthermometer.”Andthatchanceisforhertowanttolive。

Thiswaypeoplehaveoflining—uonthesideoftheundertakermakestheentirepharmacopoeialooksilly。

Yourlittleladyhasmadeuphermindthatshe'

snotgoingtogetwell。

Hassheanythingonhermind？

"

　　”She-shewantedtopainttheBayofNaplessomeday."

saidSue.

Paint?

-bosh！

Hassheanythingonhermindworththinkingtwice-amanforinstance?

”

Aman?

saidSue,withajew’s—harptwanginhervoice.”Isamanworth—but,no,doctor；

thereisnothingofthekind。

Well,itistheweakness,then,”saidthedoctor。

”Iwilldoallthatscience，sofarasitmayfilterthroughmyefforts,canaccomplish.ButwhenevermypatientbeginstocountthecarriagesinherfuneralprocessionIsubtract50percentfromthecurativepowerofmedicines。

IfyouwillgethertoaskonequestionaboutthenewwinterstylesincloaksleevesIwillpromiseyouaone—in—fivechanceforher,insteadofoneinten。

　　AfterthedoctorhadgoneSuewentintotheworkroomandcriedaJapanesenapkintoapulp.ThensheswaggeredintoJohnsy'

sroomwithherdrawingboard,whistlingragtime.

　　Johnsylay，scarcelymakingarippleunderthebedclothes,withherfacetowardthewindow.Suestoppedwhistling,thinkingshewasasleep.

　　Shearrangedherboardandbeganapen-and—inkdrawingtoillustrateamagazinestory.YoungartistsmustpavetheirwaytoArtbydrawingpicturesformagazinestoriesthatyoungauthorswritetopavetheirwaytoLiterature.

　　AsSuewassketchingapairofeleganthorseshowridingtrousersandamonocleofthefigureofthehero，anIdahocowboy，sheheardalowsound,severaltimesrepeated.Shewentquicklytothebedside.

　　Johnsy'

seyeswereopenwide。

Shewaslookingoutthewindowandcounting—countingbackward.

Twelve，"

shesaid,andlittlelater”eleven"

；

andthen"

ten，"

and"

nine"

;

eight"

and”seven”，almosttogether.

　　Suelooksolicitouslyoutofthewindow.Whatwastheretocount?

Therewasonlyabare，drearyyardtobeseen，andtheblanksideofthebrickhousetwentyfeetaway。

Anold,oldivyvine,gnarledanddecayedattheroots，climbedhalfwayupthebrickwall。

Thecoldbreathofautumnhadstrickenitsleavesfromthevineuntilitsskeletonbranchesclung,almostbare，tothecrumblingbricks.

Whatisit，dear？

”askedSue。

Six,"

saidJohnsy，inalmostawhisper。

"

They’refallingfasternow。

Threedaysagotherewerealmostahundred.Itmademyheadachetocountthem。

Butnowit'

seasy.Theregoesanotherone。

Thereareonlyfiveleftnow。

Fivewhat，dear?

TellyourSudie。

Leaves。

Ontheivyvine.WhenthelastonefallsImustgo，too。

I’veknownthatforthreedays.Didn’tthedoctortellyou？

　　”Oh，Ineverheardofsuchnonsense，”complainedSue,withmagnificentscorn。

Whathaveoldivyleavestodowithyourgettingwell？

Andyouusedtolovethatvineso,younaughtygirl.Don’tbeagoosey.Why，thedoctortoldmethismorningthatyourchancesforgettingwellrealsoonwere—let'

sseeexactlywhathesaid-hesaidthechancesweretentoone!

Why,that'

salmostasgoodachanceaswehaveinNewYorkwhenwerideonthestreetcarsorwalkpastanewbuilding。

Trytotakesomebrothnow，andletSudiegobacktoherdrawing,soshecanselltheeditormanwithit,andbuyportwineforhersickchild，andporkchopsforhergreedyself。

Youneedn'

tgetanymorewine，”saidJohnsy，keepinghereyesfixedoutthewindow。

”Theregoesanother.No,Idon’twantanybroth.Thatleavesjustfour.Iwanttoseethelastonefallbeforeitgetsdark.ThenI’llgo，too.”

　　”Johnsy,dear,"

saidSue，bendingoverher,”willyoupromisemetokeepyoureyesclosed,andnotlookoutthewindowuntilIamdoneworking?

Imusthandthosedrawingsinbyto-morrow.Ineedthelight,orIwoulddrawtheshadedown。

Couldn'

tyoudrawintheotherroom？

”askedJohnsy，coldly。

　　”I’dratherbeherebyyou,”saidSue。

Beside，Idon'

twantyoutokeeplookingatthosesillyivyleaves."

Tellmeassoonasyouhavefinished,"

saidJohnsy,closinghereyes,andlyingwhiteandstillasfallenstatue，"

becauseIwanttoseethelastonefall.I’mtiredofwaiting.I’mtiredofthinking.Iwanttoturnloosemyholdoneverything，andgosailingdown，down,justlikeoneofthosepoor,tiredleaves。

Trytosleep，”saidSue。

ImustcallBehrmanuptobemymodelfortheoldhermitminer。

I’llnotbegoneaminute。

Don'

ttrytomove'

tilIcomeback。

　　OldBehrmanwasapainterwholivedonthegroundfloorbeneaththem.HewaspastsixtyandhadaMichaelAngelo’sMosesbeardcurlingdownfromtheheadofasatyralongwiththebodyofanimp.Behrmanwasafailureinart.FortyyearshehadwieldedthebrushwithoutgettingnearenoughtotouchthehemofhisMistress'

srobe。

Hehadbeenalwaysabouttopaintamasterpiece,buthadneveryetbegunit.Forseveralyearshehadpaintednothingexceptnowandthenadaubinthelineofcommerceoradvertising.Heearnedalittlebyservingasamodeltothoseyoungartistsinthecolonywhocouldnotpaythepriceofaprofessional.Hedrankgintoexcess，andstilltalkedofhiscomingmasterpiece.Fortheresthewasafiercelittleoldman，whoscoffedterriblyatsoftnessinanyone,andwhoregardedhimselfasespecialmastiff-in-waitingtoprotectthetwoyoungartistsinthestudioabove.

　　SuefoundBehrmansmellingstronglyofjuniperberriesinhisdimlylighteddenbelow.Inonecornerwasablankcanvasonaneaselthathadbeenwaitingtherefortwenty-fiveyearstoreceivethefirstlineofthemasterpiece。

ShetoldhimofJohnsy'

sfancy，andhowshefearedshewould，indeed，lightandfragileasaleafherself，floataway，whenherslightholdupontheworldgrewweaker。

　　OldBehrman，withhisredeyesplainlystreaming，shoutedhiscontemptandderisionforsuchidioticimaginings。

　　”Vass！

hecried."

Isderepeopleindeworldmitderfoolishnesstodiebecauseleafsdeydropofffromaconfoundedvine？

Ihafnotheardofsuchathing.No，Iwillnotboseasamodelforyourfoolhermit—dunderhead。

Vydoyouallowdotsillypusinesstocomeinderbrainofher？

Ach，dotpoorleetleMissYohnsy。

Sheisveryillandweak,"

saidSue,”andthefeverhaslefthermindmorbidandfullofstrangefancies.Verywell，Mr.Behrman，ifyoudonotcaretoposeforme,youneedn'

t.ButIthinkyouareahorridold—oldflibbertigibbet。

Youarejustlikeawoman!

”yelledBehrman."

WhosaidIwillnotbose？

Goon.Icomemityou.ForhalfanhourIhafpeentryingtosaydotIamreadytobose.Gott！

disisnotanyblaceinwhichonesogootasMissYohnsyshallliesick.SomedayIvillbaintamasterpiece,andveshallallgoaway.Gott！

yes。

　　Johnsywassleepingwhentheywentupstairs。

Suepulledtheshadedowntothewindow-sill，andmotionedBehrmanintotheotherroom.Intheretheypeeredoutthewindowfearfullyattheivyvine.Thentheylookedateachotherforamomentwithoutspeaking。

Apersistent,coldrainwasfalling，mingledwithsnow。

Behrman，inhisoldblueshirt，tookhisseatasthehermitmineronanupturnedkettleforarock.

　　WhenSueawokefromanhour'

ssleepthenextmorningshefoundJohnsywithdull,wide—openeyesstaringatthedrawngreenshade。

　　”Pullitup；

Iwanttosee,”sheordered，inawhisper.

　　WearilySueobeyed。

　　But，lo！

afterthebeatingrainandfiercegustsofwindthathadenduredthroughthelivelongnight，thereyetstoodoutagainstthebrickwalloneivyleaf。

Itwasthelastoneonthevine。

Stilldarkgreennearitsstem，withitsserratededgestintedwiththeyellowofdissolutionanddecay，ithungbravelyfromthebranchsometwentyfeetabovetheground.

　　”Itisthelastone，"

saidJohnsy."

Ithoughtitwouldsu