你好.舊時光-每天讀點好英文-升級版大全集

內容概要

　　“每天讀點好英文”系列升級版是專為有提高英文水平需要和興趣的年輕朋友們量身打造的一套“超級學習版”雙語讀物，此套圖書在選取優(yōu)美文章的同事，附有較強的學習功能。 “美文欣賞”、“詞匯筆記”、“小試身手”“短語家族”將是閱讀《每天讀點好英文：你好，舊時光》的提升重點，這就真正形成了一個初學者的學習體系——記憶單詞、學習語法、運用詞組、實踐運用，不愁英語功底學習得不扎實。　　作為雙語讀物，《每天讀點好英文：你好，舊時光》讓英語學習變得輕松有趣，在閱讀中潛移默化地學習。突顯學習功能，補充句型詳解，提升語法實力。文后附閱讀測驗，提升文章理解力。

作者簡介

　　常青藤語言教學中心，長期致力于雙語讀物的編撰工作，在編選與翻譯方面兼具專業(yè)性與權威性。

書籍目錄

· 最后一片葉　　歐·亨利The Last Leaf　　O. Henry· 麥琪的禮物　　歐·亨利The Gift of the Magi　　O.Henry· 卡拉維拉縣有名的跳蛙　　馬克·吐溫The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County　　Mark Twain· 寂靜的雪野　　杰克·倫敦The White Silence　　Jack London· 變色龍　　安東·契訶夫Chameleon　　Anton Chekhov· 競選州長　　馬克·吐溫Running for Governor　　Mark Twain· 阿拉比　　詹姆斯·喬伊斯Araby　　James Joyce· 最后一課　　阿爾封斯·都德The Last Lesson　　Alphonse Daudet· 一小時的故事　　凱特·肖邦The Story of an Hour　　Kate Choplin· 存根簿　　彼得羅·德·阿拉爾貢The Stub-book　　Pedro de Alarcon· 一桶白葡萄酒　　埃德加·愛倫·坡The Cask of Amontillado　　Edgar Allan Poe· 殺人者　　歐內斯特·海明威The Killers　　Ernest Hemingway· 獻給愛米麗的一朵玫瑰　　威廉·?？思{A Rose for Emily　　William Faulkner· 警察與贊美詩　　歐·亨利The Cop and the Anthem　　O. Henry· 在樹林里　　居伊·德·莫泊桑In the Wood　　Guy de Maupassant· 修軟墊椅的女人　　居伊·德·莫泊桑Lasting Love　　Guy de Maupassant· 小職員之死　　安東·契訶夫The Death of a Government Clerk　　Anton Chekhov· 熱愛生活　　杰克·倫敦Love of Life　　Jack London· 項鏈　　居伊·德·莫泊桑The Necklace 　　Guy de Maupassant· 一杯茶　　阿方索·博略特The Cup of Tea　　Affonco Botelho· 金絲雀　　凱瑟琳·曼斯菲爾德The Canary　　Katherine Mansfield

章節(jié)摘錄

　　最后一片葉　　The Last Leaf　　歐·亨利 / O. Henry　　歐·亨利（1862—1910），20世紀初美國著名短篇小說家，美國現(xiàn)代短篇小說創(chuàng)始人，批判現(xiàn)實主義作家，被譽為“美國的莫泊?！薄Ｋ簧鷺O富傳奇色彩，當過藥房學徒、牧羊人、辦事員、新聞記者、銀行出納員。1898年2月，他因貪污銀行公款罪被判處五年徒刑，后提前獲釋。他的作品貼近百姓生活，結局往往出人意料，以“含淚微笑”的風格被譽為“美國生活的幽默百科全書”。代表作有《麥琪的禮物》《警察與贊美詩》《最后一片葉》等?！　n 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 table d’hote 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 she 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， gray 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-up 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 ablut 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 percent 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 on 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 streetcars 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 tomorrow. 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 until 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 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. “Are there people in the world with the foolishness to die because leaves drop off a confounded vine· I had not heard of such a thing. No， I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Why do you allow such silly business to come in the brain of her· Ach， poor little 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 pose· Go on. I come with you. For half an hour I had been trying to say that I am ready with to pose. Gott！ This is not any place in which one so good as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I will pain a masterpiece， and we shall all go away. Gott！ Yes.”　　Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window. She， and 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， look！ 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， but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay， it hung bravely from a 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 today， 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 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 today to be made more comfortable.”　　The next day the doctor said to Sue， “She’s out of danger. You’ve 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 today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on 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 colors 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.”　　華盛頓廣場西面的一個小區(qū)里，街道錯綜復雜，形成了崎嶇狹長的小胡同，被稱為“巷子”。這些“巷子”角度怪異，線條奇特，街道甚至會同自己交叉一兩次。一位藝術家曾經(jīng)發(fā)現(xiàn)了這條大街的可貴之處：如果有人來收顏料、紙張和畫布的賬款，就會在這條大街上七轉八拐，最后突然發(fā)現(xiàn)自己又繞回了原處，但依舊兩手空空，未收回一文錢！　　所以，搞藝術的人很快就都聚集到了這個古老而離奇的格林尼治村。他們四處搜尋朝北的窗子、18世紀的山墻、荷蘭式的閣樓和低廉的房租。然后，他們從第六街區(qū)“進口”幾只錫鉛合金的杯子和一兩個烘鍋，這就成了他們的“據(jù)點”?！　∮幸惶幍桶娜龑哟u瓦頂樓，那兒就是蘇和瓊西的畫室，瓊西是喬安娜的昵稱。她們一個來自緬因州，一個來自加利福尼亞。她們是在第八大街的“德爾莫尼科”的餐館里吃飯時相遇的，發(fā)現(xiàn)彼此在藝術、飲食和衣著品味上都非常契合，于是就共同創(chuàng)建了那家畫室?！　∧鞘俏逶路莸氖铝?。到了十一月，街區(qū)里突然闖進了一位冷酷的不速之客，它冰冷的魔爪肆意橫行——醫(yī)生稱之為“肺炎”。這個無情的蹂躪者在廣場東面趾高氣揚地肆虐，殘害了很多人的生命。然而，在這個狹窄擁塞、青苔蔓生、迷宮一般的“巷子”里，它卻放慢了腳步。　　“肺炎先生”可不是你們所謂的那種具有騎士風范的老紳士。一個被加利福尼亞的西風吹得不見血色的柔弱女子哪是這個摩拳擦掌、氣勢洶洶的老混蛋的對手。可它還是沒有放過瓊西。瓊西一動不動地躺在那張刷過油漆的鐵床上，透過荷蘭式的窗格，凝望著對面磚屋空白的墻壁?！　∫惶煸绯?，那長著亂蓬蓬灰色眉毛的醫(yī)生神色匆匆地把蘇叫到走廊上?！　　奥犖艺f，她的病只有——十分之一的希望，”他一邊說一邊甩著體溫表，讓水銀柱滑下來，“而這一線希望取決于她的求生欲望。人要是放棄了生存的念頭，存心想去殯儀館排隊，那任何醫(yī)藥都無能為力。您這位朋友認定自己是好不了了——她有什么心事嗎？”　　“她——她希望有朝一日能去畫那不勒斯海灣。”蘇說?！　　爱嫯?？——胡扯！有沒有值得讓她一再花心思去想的事——比方說一個男人？”　　“男人？”蘇像猶太的豎琴一樣從鼻子里哼了一聲，“男人難道值得——可是，哎，算了，醫(yī)生，根本沒那回事。”　　“哦，那么，這正是她虛弱的原因?！贬t(yī)生說，“我會竭盡全力，用科學所能達到的一切辦法來為她治療。可要是我的病人開始數(shù)她出殯隊伍中的車輛，那我醫(yī)藥的療效就要減少百分之五十。如果你能使她對今年冬季大衣袖子的新款式有興趣并提個問題，我就可以向你作五分之一的保證，而非十分之一?！薄　♂t(yī)生走后，蘇走進工作室，哭了，眼淚把一張日式餐巾紙弄得一團濕。然后，她帶上畫板，吹著輕松歡快的口哨，裝作精神抖擻的樣子跨進了瓊西的房間?！　…偽鞴诒蛔永?，臉對著窗子，一動不動。蘇以為她睡著了，趕緊停止了口哨?！　∷芷甬嫲澹_始為一本雜志上的故事畫鋼筆插圖。青年畫家必須通過為雜志社的故事作插圖來鋪平他們通往藝術的道路，而那些故事則是青年作家通往自己的文學殿堂的鋪路石?！　√K正在為小說里的主人公——一個愛達荷州的牛仔，畫一條在馬匹展覽會上穿的高雅馬褲和一柄單片眼鏡。一個低低的聲音傳入了她的耳朵，一次又一次地重復著，她急忙來到床邊?！　…偽麟p眼圓睜，盯著窗外，數(shù)著數(shù)——是倒著數(shù)的。　　“十二，”她說，過了一會兒，“十一”，接著“十”、“九”，“八”和“七”幾乎連在了一起?！　√K關切地看看窗外，那兒有什么好計算的呢？只有一個光禿禿、陰沉沉的院子，20英尺外，還有一堵磚屋的空白墻壁。一株滄桑衰老的常春藤，攀爬在磚墻的半中央，根部扭曲枯朽。寒瑟的秋風幾乎掃落了藤上所有的葉子，只剩下光禿禿的枯枝虛弱地攀附在那幾乎化為齏粉的磚塊上?！　　霸趺戳耍H愛的？”蘇問道?！　　傲杯偽髡f道，幾乎是在耳語，“它們現(xiàn)在落得更快了。三天前，還有將近一百片，數(shù)起來讓我頭疼，可現(xiàn)在簡單了，又落了一片，只剩五片了?！薄　　拔迤裁窗。H愛的？告訴你的蘇迪?！薄　　叭~子，常春藤上的葉子，當最后一片落下時，我也得走了。兩天前我就知道了，難道醫(yī)生沒有告訴你嗎？”　　“哦，我可從來沒聽過這種無稽之談，”蘇極其不滿地奚落道，“那老藤葉和你健康的恢復有什么關系呢？你過去不是一直很喜歡那株藤樹嗎？你這淘氣的姑娘，別犯傻了。對了，今早醫(yī)生告訴我，你很快就會康復的——讓我想想他到底是怎么說的——他說十有八九能好！啊，那就是說康復的可能性幾乎與我們在紐約搭街車或是走過一幢新建筑物一樣。來喝點兒肉湯吧，讓蘇迪回去畫畫吧，這樣才能賣給那些編輯，來給她生病的孩子買葡萄酒，也給自己買點兒豬排解解饞?！薄　　澳銢]必要再買什么酒了，”瓊西說，眼睛定定地看著窗外，“又落了一片，不，我也不要什么肉湯，葉子只剩四片了。我想天黑前看到最后一片葉子落下來，那時，我也該走了?！薄　　碍偽?，親愛的，”蘇俯下身說，“拜托你在我畫完前閉上眼睛，不要看窗外，好不好？那些插圖我明天必須得交。要不是需要光，我早就把窗簾拉上了。”　　“你不能到另一間屋子里去畫嗎？”瓊西冷冷地問?！　　拔覍幵复谀氵@兒，”蘇說，“再說，我也不想你老盯著那些無聊的藤葉。”　　“你一畫完就告訴我，”瓊西閉上眼睛躺了下來，她面色蒼白，一動不動，像一尊倒下的雕塑，“我想看到最后一片藤葉落下。我累了，不想再等了，也不愿再想了，我想擺脫一切，像那可憐的、疲憊的藤葉一樣慢悠悠地飄下去，飄下去。”　　“趕緊睡吧，”蘇說，“我得把貝爾曼叫上來，讓他給我當那個隱居老礦工的模特，我一會兒就會回來的，我回來之前別亂動?！薄　±县悹柭且晃划嫾?，住在她們樓下底層，六十多歲。他長著像米開朗基羅的雕像摩西一樣的胡子，它從森林之神薩迪的腦袋上沿著小鬼般的身體卷曲地垂下來。貝爾曼在藝術上非常失敗，他揮著畫筆畫了四十年，還不曾摸到藝術女神的裙帶邊兒。他總是醞釀著一幅傳世經(jīng)典之作，但始終也沒見他動筆。幾年以來，除了時不時涂抹一些商業(yè)畫和廣告畫之外，他什么也沒畫過。他給那些“據(jù)點”里雇不起專職模特的青年藝術家充當模特，掙幾個錢。他過量地飲用杜松子酒，不斷地談論他未來的杰作。除此之外，他還是一個脾氣暴躁的小老頭兒，猛烈地嘲諷任何人的溫情，卻甘愿做保護樓上兩位青年藝術家的看門狗。　　在樓下光線昏暗的小窩里，蘇找到了酒氣撲鼻的貝爾曼。角落的畫架上是一塊空白畫布，二十五年來，一直等候著迎接傳世之作的線條。蘇把瓊西奇怪的想法告訴了他。她是多么害怕那輕柔脆弱的瓊西會抓不住她與人世的最后一絲聯(lián)系，像枯葉一樣隨風飄逝?！　±县悹柭t紅的眼睛里分明涌出了淚水，他咆哮著表明他對這白癡的想法是多么地輕蔑和不屑?！　　盎鞄ぴ挘　彼碌?，“世界上還會有這樣的笨蛋，葉子一落就想死。我從沒聽過還有這種事。不，我沒心情給你那個傻瓜隱士當模特。哎，你怎么會叫她的腦袋里生出這種愚蠢的念頭呢？哎，可憐的瓊西小姐！”　　“她病得很嚴重，很虛弱，”蘇說，“高燒把她燒糊涂了，她滿腦子古怪的想法。好了，老貝爾曼先生，如果你不想給我當模特，我不勉強你，但我覺得你是個討人厭的老——老啰嗦鬼?！薄　　澳阏媸莻€婦人！”貝爾曼叫道，“誰說我不愿意？走啊，我陪你去。我都說老半天了愿意幫你忙。天啊！像瓊西這樣的好姑娘，不該在這種地方生病啊?？傆幸惶煳視嬕环茏鳎綍r我們就離開這里。天啊，會的！”　　他們上樓時，瓊西已經(jīng)睡了。蘇把窗簾拉下，一直遮住窗臺，示意貝爾曼去另一間屋子。在那兒，他們憂心忡忡地看著窗外的那株常春藤，四顧無言。過了一會兒，冷雨夾著冰雪固執(zhí)而持久地下著。貝爾曼穿著藍色的舊襯衣，坐在一只倒放的作為巖石的大鼓上，扮成隱居的礦工?！　〉诙煲辉?，蘇睡了一個多小時后，醒過來，發(fā)現(xiàn)瓊西睜大著兩眼，呆呆地盯著那拉下的綠色窗簾。　　“把窗簾拉開，我想看看?！彼吐暶畹馈！　√K怏怏地聽從了?！　】墒牵磪?！經(jīng)歷了一夜漫長的狂風暴雨，那兒居然還有一片常春藤葉依偎在磚墻上。那是藤條上的最后一片了?？拷~柄處是深綠的，但鋸齒狀的葉片邊緣已經(jīng)呈現(xiàn)出枯黃，它傲然地懸掛在離地面二十英尺高的枝杈上?！　　八亲詈笠黄耍杯偽髡f，“我想它昨晚準會落的。我聽到了風聲。今天它會落下的，而那時我也就死了?！薄　　坝H愛的，親愛的！”蘇說著，疲倦的臉貼在枕頭上，“即便你不想自己，也想想我啊。我該怎么辦??？”　　可瓊西沒有回答。世界上最孤寂的莫過于一個準備踏上神秘而遙遠的死亡之旅的靈魂了。當她與友誼和塵世的紐帶一點點松開時，那種幻想似乎把她抓得更緊了?！　∵@一天終于挨過去了，黃昏時分，她們仍然看到那片孤零零的藤葉倚著墻壁緊緊地掛在莖上。隨著夜色漸濃，北風又開始咆哮，雨點不停地敲打著窗戶，雨水從低矮的荷蘭式的屋檐上傾瀉下來?！　√靹偯擅闪?，毫不留情的瓊西又要把窗簾拉起來?！　∧瞧偃~依舊在那兒?！　…偽魈芍?，久久地注視著它。然后她開始喊蘇。蘇正在煤氣爐邊忙著給她熬雞湯?！　　疤K，我是個壞女孩，”瓊西說道，“天意讓最后一片藤葉留在那兒，來表明我曾經(jīng)有多邪惡。想死就是罪惡?，F(xiàn)在給我點兒肉湯，再加點帶葡萄酒的牛奶，再——不，先給我拿面小鏡子來，再替我把枕頭墊起來，我要坐著看你煮湯。”　　一小時后，她說：“蘇，我希望有朝一日能去畫那不勒斯海灣?！薄　∠挛玑t(yī)生來了，在他離開時，蘇找了個借口跟他來到走廊?！　　鞍俜种迨南Ｍ?，”醫(yī)生握著蘇瘦弱顫抖的手說道，“好好照顧她，你會成功的?，F(xiàn)在我得去樓下看另一個病號了，貝爾曼——他的名字好像是——我想或者是個藝術家之類的人，也得了肺炎。他年紀太大，身體又弱，病得很嚴重，幾乎沒什么希望了，不過今天還是讓他進了醫(yī)院，好讓他過得好受些?！薄　〉诙欤t(yī)生告訴蘇：“她已經(jīng)脫離危險了，你成功了。現(xiàn)在只需要加強營養(yǎng)和精心調養(yǎng)了。”　　下午，蘇來到瓊西床邊，瓊西正靠在那兒，心滿意足地織一條毫無用處的深藍色羊毛披肩，蘇用一只胳膊把她連同枕頭一把摟住?！　　拔矣屑孪敫嬖V你，小家伙，”她說，“貝爾曼先生今天在醫(yī)院去世了，他得了肺病，才兩天時間啊。頭一天早上，看門人發(fā)現(xiàn)他在自己的房間里痛苦而無助地呻吟著。他的鞋子和衣服都濕透了，冰冷徹骨。誰也想不到，在那樣一個可怕的夜晚他會去哪兒。后來，他們找到了一只燈籠，還依舊亮著，一架不知從哪兒拖來的梯子，幾只散落的畫筆，還有一塊調著黃色和綠色的調色板，還有——看看窗外吧，親愛的，看看墻上那最后一片藤葉吧。你難道不覺得奇怪，狂風大作時它居然動也不動！啊，親愛的，它就是貝爾曼的傳世之作——最后一片葉子掉落時，他把它畫了上去?！薄　∠嘈拍亲詈笠黄~子會永遠掛在那里，任憑風吹雨打，絕對不會搖一搖，動一動，它會那么堅強地掛在高高的枝頭上，告訴瓊西，告訴所有人，生命總是有希望的，所有的人都要對生命充滿信心！　　curve [k·：v] n. 曲線；彎曲狀　　The path of an arrow is a curve.　　箭的軌跡是一條曲線?！　avager ['r·vid··] n. 破壞者；蹂躪者；劫掠者　　The main combat role of the ravager is that of support.　　掠奪者在戰(zhàn)斗中的主要角色是支援?！　hermometer [θ·'m·mit·]  n. 溫度計；體溫計　　When thermometer drops below zero celsius， water freezes into ice.　　當溫度計降至攝氏零度時，水便會結冰?！　olony ['k·l·ni] n. 殖民地　　An independence movement grow in the colony.　　殖民地的獨立運動得到發(fā)展。　　我想擺脫一切，像那可憐的、疲憊的藤葉一樣慢悠悠地飄下去，飄下去?！　≡谀莾?，他們憂心忡忡地看著窗外的那株常春藤，四顧無言?！　∮H愛的，它就是貝爾曼的傳世之作?！　he lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious．　　make ready：準備好　　A ladder that had been dragged from its place.　　drag from：從……拖出　　……

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