最後一片藤葉

真實姓名：威廉·西德尼·波特(William Sydney Porter)

筆 名：歐·亨利(O·Henry)

生卒年代：1862-1910

職 稱：美國著名批判現實主義作家，世界短篇小説大師之一。

1862年9月11日，美國最著名的短篇小説家之一歐·亨利（O. Henry）出生於美國北卡羅來納州一個小鎮。父親是醫生。15歲在叔父的藥房裏當學徒。五年後去得克薩斯州一個牧場放牛。1884年後做過會計員、土地局辦事員和銀行出納員。1896年，銀行發現缺少一小筆款子，歐·亨利因涉嫌被傳訊。他卻取道新奧爾良去拉丁美洲避難。1897年，回國探望妻子，因而被捕，判處5年徒刑。在獄中曾擔任藥劑師，並開始以歐·亨利為筆名寫作短篇小説，於《麥克呂爾》雜誌發表。1901年，因“行為良好”提前獲釋，來到紐約專事寫作。

歐·亨利創作的短篇小説共有300多篇，收入《白菜與國王》(1904)、《四百萬》(1906)、《西部之心》(1907)、《市聲》(1908)、《滾石》(1913)等集子，其中以描寫紐約曼哈頓市民生活的作品為最著名。他把那兒的街道、小飯館、破舊的公寓的氣氛渲染得十分逼真，故有“曼哈頓的桂冠詩人”之稱。他曾以騙子的生活為題材，寫了不少短篇小説。作者企圖表明道貌岸然的上流社會里，有不少人就是高級的騙子，成功的騙子。歐·亨利對社會與人生的觀察和分析並不深刻，有些作品比較淺薄，但他一生困頓，常與失意落魄的小人物同甘共苦，又能以別出心裁的藝術手法表現他們複雜的感情。因此，他最出色的短篇小説如《愛的犧牲》、《警察與讚美詩》、《帶傢俱出租的房間》、《麥琪的禮物》、《最後一片藤葉》等都可列入世界優秀短篇小説之中。

從藝術手法上看，歐·亨利善於捕捉生活中令人啼笑皆非而富於哲理的戲劇性場景，用漫畫般的筆觸勾勒出人物的特點。作品情節的發展較快，在結尾時突然出現一個意料不到的結局，使讀者驚愕之餘，不能不承認故事合情合理，進而讚歎作者構思的巧妙。他的文字生動活潑，善於利用雙關語、訛音、諧音和舊典新意，妙趣橫生。他還以準確的細節描寫，製造與再現氣氛。特別是大都會夜生活的氣氛。

在紐約，由於大量佳作出版，他名利雙收。他不僅揮霍無度，而且好賭，好酒貪杯。寫作的勞累與生活的無節制使他的身體受到嚴重損傷。1907年，歐·亨利再婚。可惜，第二次婚姻對他來説並沒有什麼幸福可言。1910年6月3日，他病倒了。兩天後，即6月5日，與世長辭，死於肝硬化，年僅48歲。

《最後一片葉子》，一譯《最後的常春藤葉》，主人公是瓊西、蘇、貝爾門。它描寫患肺炎的窮學生瓊西看着窗外對面牆上的爬山虎葉子不斷被風吹落，他説，最後一片葉子代表她，它的飄落，代表自己的死亡。貝爾曼，一個偉大的畫家，在聽完蘇講述完同學瓊西的故事後，在最後一片葉子飄落，下着暴雨的夜裏，用心靈的畫筆畫出了一片“永不凋落”的長春藤葉，編造了一個善良且真實的謊言，而自己卻從此患上肺炎，一病不起。

最後一片常春藤葉依然留在古老的牆面；瓊西也綻放出了往日的笑容；偉大的畫家貝爾曼永遠留在人們的心中。文中作者着力挖掘和讚美小人物的偉大人格和高尚品德，展示他們嚮往人性世界的美好願望。最後一片葉子”的故事，讓我們着實為瓊西的命運緊張了一番，為蘇的友誼感嘆了一回，為貝爾門的博愛震撼了一次。

在華盛頓廣場西邊的一個小區裏，街道都橫七豎八地伸展開去，又分裂成一小條一小條的“衚衕”。這些“衚衕”稀奇古怪地拐着彎子。一條街有時自己本身就交叉了不止一次。有一回一個畫家發現這條街有一種優越性：要是有個收帳的跑到這條街上，來催要顏料、紙張和畫布的錢，他就會突然發現自己兩手空空，原路返回，一文錢的帳也沒有要到！

所以，不久之後不少畫家就摸索到這個古色古香的老格林尼治村來，尋求朝北的窗户、18世紀的尖頂山牆、荷蘭式的閣樓，以及低廉的房租。然後，他們又從第六街買來一些蠟酒杯和一兩隻火鍋，這裏便成了“藝術區”。

蘇和瓊西的畫室設在一所又寬又矮的三層樓磚房的頂樓上。“瓊西”是瓊娜的愛稱。她倆一個來自緬因州，一個是加利福尼亞州人。她們是在第八街的“台爾蒙尼歌之家”吃份飯時碰到的，她們發現彼此對藝術、生菜色拉和時裝的愛好非常一致，便合租了那間畫室。那是5月裏的事。到了11月，一個冷酷的、肉眼看不見的、醫生們叫做“肺炎”的不速之客，在藝術區裏悄悄地遊蕩，用他冰冷的手指頭這裏碰一下那裏碰一下。在廣場東頭，這個破壞者明目張膽地踏着大步，一下子就擊倒幾十個受害者，可是在迷宮一樣、狹窄而鋪滿青苔的“衚衕”裏，他的步伐就慢了下來。

肺炎先生不是一個你們心目中行俠仗義的老的紳士。一個身子單薄，被加利福尼亞州的西風颳得沒有血色的弱女子，本來不應該是這個有着紅拳頭的、呼吸急促的老傢伙打擊的對象。然而，瓊西卻遭到了打擊；她躺在一張油漆過的鐵牀上，一動也不動，凝望着小小的荷蘭式玻璃窗外對面磚房的空牆。

一天早晨，那個忙碌的醫生揚了揚他那毛茸茸的灰白色眉毛，把蘇叫到外邊的走廊上。

“我看，她的病只有十分之一的恢復希望，”他一面把體温表裏的水銀柱甩下去，一面説，“這一分希望就是她想要活下去的念頭。有些人好像不願意活下去，喜歡照顧殯儀館的生意，簡直讓整個醫藥界都無能為力。你的朋友斷定自己是不會痊癒的了。她是不是有什麼心事呢？”

“她---她希望有一天能夠去畫那不勒斯的海灣。”蘇説。

“畫畫？---真是瞎扯！她腦子裏有沒有什麼值得她想了又想的事---比如説，一個男人？”

“男人？”蘇像吹口琴似的扯着嗓子説，“男人難道值得---不，醫生，沒有這樣的事。”

“能達到的全部力量去治療她。可要是我的病人開始算計會有多少輛馬車送她出喪，我就得把治療的效果減掉百分之五十。只要你能想法讓她對冬季大衣袖子的時新式樣感到興趣而提出一兩個問題，那我可以向你保證把醫好她的機會從十分之一提高到五分之一。”醫生走後，蘇走進工作室裏，把一條日本餐巾哭成一團濕。後來她手裏拿着畫板，裝做精神抖擻的樣子走進瓊西的屋子，嘴裏吹着爵士音樂調子。

瓊西躺着，臉朝着窗口，被子底下的身體紋絲不動。蘇以為她睡着了，趕忙停止吹口哨。

她架好畫板，開始給雜誌裏的故事畫一張鋼筆插圖。年輕的畫家為了鋪平通向藝術的道路，不得不給雜誌裏的故事畫插圖，而這些故事又是年輕的作家為了鋪平通向文學的道路而不得不寫的。

蘇正在給故事主人公，一個愛達荷州牧人的身上，畫上一條馬匹展覽會穿的時髦馬褲和一片單眼鏡時，忽然聽到一個重複了幾次的低微的聲音。她快步走到牀邊。

瓊西的眼睛睜得很大。她望着窗外，數着……倒過來數。

“12，”她數道，歇了一會又説，“11，”然後是“10，”和“9”，接着幾乎同時數着“8”和“7”。

蘇關切地看了看窗外。那兒有什麼可數的呢？只見一個空蕩陰暗的院子，20英尺以外還有一所磚房的空牆。一棵老極了的長春藤，枯萎的根糾結在一塊，枝幹攀在磚牆的半腰上。秋天的寒風把藤上的葉子差不多全都吹掉了，幾乎只有光禿的枝條還纏附在剝落的磚塊上。

“什麼呀，親愛的？”蘇問道。

“6，”瓊西幾乎用耳語低聲説道，“它們現在越落越快了。三天前還有差不多一百片。我數得頭都疼了。但是現在好數了。又掉了一片。只剩下五片了。”

“五片什麼呀，親愛的。告訴你的蘇娣吧。”

“葉子。長春藤上的。等到最後一片葉子掉下來，我也就該去了。這件事我三天前就知道了。難道醫生沒有告訴你？”

“哼，我從來沒聽過這種傻話，”蘇十分不以為然地説，“那些破長春藤葉子和你的病好不好有什麼關係？你以前不是很喜歡這棵樹嗎？你這個淘氣孩子。不要説傻話了。瞧，醫生今天早晨還告訴我，説你迅速痊癒的機會是，讓我一字不改地照他的話説吧---他説有九成把握。噢，那簡直和我們在紐約坐電車或者走過一座新樓房的把握一樣大。喝點湯吧，讓蘇娣去畫她的畫，好把它賣給編輯先生，換了錢來給她的病孩子買點紅葡萄酒，再給她自己買點豬排解解饞。”

“你不用買酒了，”瓊西的眼睛直盯着窗外説道，“又落了一片。不，我不想喝湯。只剩下四片了。我想在天黑以前等着看那最後一片葉子掉下去。然後我也要去了。”

“瓊西，親愛的，”蘇俯着身子對她説，“你答應我閉上眼睛，不要瞧窗外，等我畫完，行嗎？明天我非得交出這些插圖。我需要光線，否則我就拉下窗簾了。”

“你不能到那間屋子裏去畫嗎？”瓊西冷冷地問道。

“我願意呆在你跟前，”蘇説，“再説，我也不想讓你老看着那些討厭的長春藤葉子。”

“你一畫完就叫我，”瓊西説着，便閉上了眼睛。她臉色蒼白，一動不動地躺在牀上，就像是座橫倒在地上的雕像。“因為我想看那最後一片葉子掉下來，我等得不耐煩了，也想得不耐煩了。我想擺脱一切，飄下去，飄下去，像一片可憐的疲倦了的葉子那樣。”

“你睡一會吧，”蘇説道，“我得下樓把貝爾門叫上來，給我當那個隱居的老礦工的模特兒。我一會兒就回來的。不要動，等我回來。”

老貝爾門是住在她們這座樓房底層的一個畫家。他年過60，有一把像米開朗琪羅的摩西雕像那樣的大鬍子，這鬍子長在一個像半人半獸的森林之神的頭顱上，又鬈曲地飄拂在小鬼似的身軀上。貝爾門是個失敗的畫家。他操了四十年的畫筆，還遠沒有摸着藝術女神的衣裙。他老是説就要畫他的那幅傑作了，可是直到現在他還沒有動筆。幾年來，他除了偶爾畫點商業廣告之類的玩意兒以外，什麼也沒有畫過。他給藝術區裏窮得僱不起職業模特兒的年輕畫家們當模特兒，掙一點錢。他喝酒毫無節制，還時常提起他要畫的那幅傑作。除此以外，他是一個火氣十足的小老頭子，十分瞧不起別人的温情，卻認為自己是專門保護樓上畫室裏那兩個年輕女畫家的一隻看家狗。

蘇在樓下他那間光線黯淡的斗室裏找到了嘴裏酒氣撲鼻的貝爾門。一幅空白的畫布繃在個畫架上，擺在屋角里，等待那幅傑作已經25年了，可是連一根線條還沒等着。蘇把瓊西的胡思亂想告訴了他，還説她害怕瓊西自各兒瘦小柔弱得像一片葉子一樣，對這個世界的留戀越來越微弱，恐怕真會離世飄走了。

老貝爾門兩隻發紅的眼睛顯然在迎風流淚，他十分輕蔑地嗤笑這種傻呆的胡思亂想。

“什麼話！”他嚷道，“難道世界上竟有這種傻子，因為可惡的藤葉落掉而想死？我活了一輩子也沒有聽到過這種怪事。不，我沒有心思替你當那無聊的隱士模特兒。你怎麼能讓她腦袋裏有這種傻念頭呢？唉，可憐的小瓊珊小姐。”

“她病得很厲害，很虛弱，”蘇艾説，“高燒燒得她疑神疑鬼，滿腦袋都是希奇古怪的念頭。好嗎，貝爾曼先生，既然你不願意替我當模特兒，我也不勉強了。我認得你這個可惡的老──老貧嘴。”

“你真女人氣！”貝爾曼嚷道，“誰説我不願意？走吧。我跟你一起去。我已經説了半天，願意替你替你效勞。天哪！像瓊珊小姐那樣好的人實在不應該在這種地方害病。總有一天，我要畫一幅傑作，那麼我們都可以離開這裏啦。天哪！是啊。”

他們上樓時，瓊珊已經睡着了。蘇艾把窗簾拉到窗檻上，做手勢讓貝爾曼到另一間屋子裏去。他們在那兒擔心地瞥着窗外的常春藤。接着，他們默默無言地對瞅了一會兒。寒雨夾着雪花下個不停。貝爾曼穿着一件藍色的舊襯衫，坐在一翻轉過身的權棄岩石的鐵鍋上，扮作隱居的礦工。

第二天早晨，蘇艾睡了一個小時醒來的時候，看到瓊珊睜着無神的眼睛，凝視着放下末的綠窗簾。

“把窗簾拉上去，我要看。”她用微弱的聲音命令着。

蘇艾睏倦地照着做了。

可是，看哪1經過了漫漫長夜的風吹雨打，仍舊有一片常春藤的葉子貼在牆上。它是藤上最後的一片了。靠近葉柄的顏色還是深綠的，但那鋸齒形的邊緣已染上了枯敗的黃色，它傲然掛在離地面二十來英尺的一根藤枝上面。

“那是最後的一片葉子。”瓊珊説，“我以為昨夜它一定會掉落的。我聽到颳風的聲音。它今天會脱落的，同時我也要死了。”

“哎呀，哎呀！”蘇艾把她睏倦的臉湊到枕邊説，“如果你不為自己着想，也得替我想想呀。我可怎麼辦呢？”

但是瓊珊沒有回答。一個準備走上神秘遙遠的死亡道路的心靈，是全世界最寂寞、最悲哀的了。當她與塵世和友情之間的聯繫一片片地脱離時，那個玄想似乎更有力地掌握了她。

那一天總算熬了過去。黃昏時，她們看到牆上那片孤零零的藤葉仍舊依附在莖上。隨夜晚同來的北風的怒號，雨點不住地打在窗上，從荷蘭式的低屋檐上傾瀉下來。

天色剛明的時候，狠心的瓊珊又吩咐把窗簾拉上去。

那片常春藤葉仍在牆上。

瓊珊躺着對它看了很久。然後她喊喊蘇艾，蘇艾正在煤卸爐上攪動給瓊珊喝的雞湯。

“我真是一個壞姑娘，蘇艾，”瓊珊説，“冥冥中有什麼使那最後的一片葉子不掉下來，啓示了我過去是多麼邪惡。不想活下去是個罪惡。現在請你拿些湯來，再弄一點摻葡萄酒的牛奶，再──等一下；先拿一面小鏡子給我，用枕頭替我墊墊高，我想坐起來看你煮東西。”

一小時後，她説：

“蘇艾，我希望有朝一日能去那不勒斯海灣寫生。”

下午，醫生來，他離去時，蘇艾找了個藉口，跑到過道上。

“好的希望有了五成。”醫生抓住蘇艾瘦小的、顫抖的手説，“只要好好護理，你會勝利。現在我得去樓下看看另一個病人。他姓貝爾曼──據我所知，也是搞藝術的。也是肺炎。他上了年紀，身體虛弱，病勢來得很猛。他可沒有希望了，不過今天還是要把他送進醫院，讓他舒服些。”

那天下午，蘇艾跑到牀邊，瓊珊靠在那兒，心滿意足地在織一條毫無用處的深藍色户巾，蘇艾連枕頭把她一把抱住。

“我有些話要告訴你，小東西。”她説，“貝爾曼在醫院裏去世了。他害肺炎，只病了兩天。頭天早上，看門人在樓下的房間裏發現他痙得要命。他的鞋子和衣服都濕透了，冰涼冰涼的。他們想不出，在那種悽風苦雨的的夜裏，他窨是到什麼地方去了。後來，他們找到了一盞還燃着的燈籠，一把從原來地方挪動過的樣子，還有幾去散落的的畫筆，一塊調色板，上面和了綠色和黃色的顏料，末了──看看窗外，親愛的，看看牆上最後的一片葉子。你不是覺得納悶，它為什麼在風中不飄不動嗎？啊，親愛的，那是貝爾曼的傑作──那晚最後 的一片葉子掉落時，他畫在牆上的。” ^[1] 

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the tabled'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss- grown "places."

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

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 science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

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 brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.

"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."

"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."

"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 broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."

"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."

"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.

"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."

"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."

"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back."

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 of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."

"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet."

"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.

When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.

Wearily Sue obeyed.

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."

And hour later she said:

"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.

"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."

The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all."

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell." ^[2] 

冬天一定會到，樹上的葉也一定會落盡——藤葉也不例外。不要以為這是樹木鬥不過天，它是無能的，也是無奈的。因為這恰恰體現了樹木的一種智慧，為了明年春天的萌發，它實在沒有必要死守着最後一片葉子，苦苦地掙扎，為此耗盡了最後一絲力量。

因為，葉子落盡並未表示生命的死亡或者希望徹底地成為泡影；反之，這是一種大智的等待，重新萌生的希望——在它落盡最後一片葉子時，新的希望，也就在葉子落下的葉柄處悄悄地孕育了，萌生了。然後是靜靜地、靜靜地等待。此時的靜靜也就像沉睡的火山，一旦春天到來，它就以不可阻擋之勢爆發出來了。

而假如，到了冬天所有的葉子都不落下來，那麼第二年也就會少了許多新生的芽，至少我們將失去欣賞一樹新芽花朵般盛開的機會。

也因此，守住你的最後一片藤葉的辦法就是讓秋天的葉子隨風飄盡，而守住那葉子落下處的飽滿的葉芽，因為那葉芽裏面，就是一片新的藤葉，一個新的春天。

我們今天也一樣，我們要學的決不是如何使自己永不摔倒，而是要學會在摔倒之後如何站起來，如何在摔倒中吸取教訓，汲取力量，使摔倒的地方成為重新站起和前進的起點。這樣，摔倒越多，吸取的力量也就越多，就像小溪東流，越流越寬廣，最後成為大海。而堅守住最後一片上一個秋天的藤葉，讓自己在冬天中耗盡養份的笨辦法，只會招之更大的失敗。我們現在已經是初三了，對於部分同學來説，高中的理想已經成了風中的最後一片藤葉，對此，我的觀點是順應自然，讓落葉落盡，等待春天，另闢蹊徑，再萌生新的希望之嫩芽。

冬天的落葉，你隨風去吧！但你千萬別忘了在明年春來之時，重新長出嫩芽！

人生如夢亦如歌!