THE LAST LEAF
I’m Johnsy. Sue, my best friend, and I met at a cafe on Eighth Street. We have the same tastes in art chicory salad and bishop sleeves, so we joint studio.
In November, unfortunately, the Pneumonia stalked about the district. When I heart that I was among the victims, everything seemed to lose color. I was too disappointed to live because of the small chances.  However, Sue, never losing confidence, was always staying with me and looking after me. Every time when the doctor invited Sue into the hallway, I know my body condition is worse. In order to encourage me, she created cheerful atmosphere.
  But for me, I was a pessimistic person that I have no optimistic attitude to fight with the illness. I looked out of the window. I noticed an old ivy vine which only has few leaves in the bare, dreary yard. The cold breath of autumn had blown away its leaves. “Twelve, eleven, ten,” I counted the lucky leaves of the tree. “Six,” I said, 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.” I thought my li
fe is similar to the leaves of tree.
  “Sue. When the last one falls I must go, too. I’ve know that for three days.” I told to her. “Look. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. I’ll go, too.” After hearing that, her face blanched. She let me try to sleep. Then, she called Behrman up to be her model for the old miner.
Lying on the sickbed, I thought nothing. I was tired of thinking and waiting. I just wanted to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves. Gradually, I fell asleep. Maybe, tomorrow, I would go another place.
  The beating rain and fierce wind never stopped all night. When I awoke, I asked Sue to pull the curtain up. What surprised me was that the last leaf on the vine. The day wore away and even through the twilight we could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall.
  At this moment, I suddenly felt that I was so selfish. The weak leaf could live through the horrible nigh. On the contrary, I just wanted to die.
I felt sorry to myself and my best friend. I knew I must build up the confidence. I told to Sue, “You bring me a little soup now, and some milk with a little port in it, and then pack some pillows.” Sue was too happy to say a word.
  With the care of Sue and doctor, finally, I beat the disease. Because of the last leaf, I restored my confidence. However, indeed, a man, Mr. Behrman, is more important than the last leaf. I will never forget Mr. Behrman. I thank him more than I can say.
Mr. Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath us. Perhaps in other’ mind, he was not a great person. He was a failure in art. For forty years he had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but never began it. He drank gin to excess and also had a bad temper. Besides, he was a fierce little old man, who mocked terribly at softness in any one.
Indeed, he was a warm and friendly person.
Sue invited Behrman to be her model that day. Sue told him of my fancy, painting the Bay o
f Maples some day, and how she feared I would ,indeed, light and fragile as a leaf ,float away. Although he showed his contempt for such foolish imaginings after hearing that, the tears fell down. In his heart, he was deeply moved.
At that night, I could not imagine how he spen最后的常青藤叶t such horrible night. He used the lantern to light the way and used the ladder climb up the old ivy vine and hung the painted leaf when the last leaf fell. No one knew that he was ill.
It was Mr. Behrman’s masterpiece painting the last leaf. The leaf changed my fate. But, Mr. Behrman left us forever because of the pneumonia.