“每天读点好英文”系列升级版是专为有提高英文水平需要和兴趣的年轻朋友们量身打造的一套“超级学习版”双语读物，此套图书在选取优美文章的同事，附有较强的学习功能。 “美文欣赏”、“辞彙笔记”、“小试身手”“短语家族”将是阅读《每天读点好英文你好，旧时光》的提升重点，这就真正形成了一个初学者的学习体系——记忆单词、学习语法、运用词组、实践运用，不愁英语功底学习得不扎实。

作为双语读物，《每天读点好英文你好，旧时光》让英语学习变得轻鬆有趣，在阅读中潜移默化地学习。突显学习功能，补充句型详解，提升语法实力。文后附阅读测验，提升文章理解力。

1.学英语不再枯燥无味《每天读点好英文你好，旧时光》内文篇目均取自国外最经典、最权威、最流行、最动人的篇章，中英双语，适于诵读，提升阅读能力；

2.学英语不再沉闷辛苦优美的语言、深厚的情感、地道的英文，让我们在阅读这些动人的绝美篇章时，不仅能够提升生活质量，丰富人生内涵，更能够轻鬆提升英文领悟能力，体味英文之美，轻鬆提高学习兴趣；

3.学英语不再学了就忘每篇文章的旁边列有辞彙，均是生活和学习中的常见辞彙，读者可重点记忆。文章后附有填空、句型、短语等语法练习，用最短的时间、最有趣的方式就能完成複习与巩固，提升语法能力。

常青藤语言教学中心，长期致力于双语读物的编撰工作，在编选与翻译方面兼具专业性与权威性。

· 一片叶　欧·亨利

The Last Leaf　O. Henry

· 麦琪的礼物　欧·亨利

The Gift of the Magi　O.Henry

· 卡拉维拉县有名的跳蛙　马克·吐温

The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County　Mark Twain

· 寂静的雪野　杰克·伦敦

The White Silence　Jack London

· 变色龙　安东·契诃夫

Chameleon　Anton Chekhov

· 竞选州长　马克·吐温

Running for Governor　Mark Twain

· 阿拉比　詹姆斯·乔伊斯

Araby　James Joyce

· 一课　阿尔封斯·都德

The Last Lesson　Alphonse Daudet

· 一小时的故事　凯特·萧邦

The Story of an Hour　Kate Choplin

· 存根簿　彼得罗·德·阿拉尔贡

The Stub-book　Pedro de Alarcon

· 一桶白葡萄酒　埃德加·爱伦·坡

The Cask of Amontillado　Edgar Allan Poe

· 杀人者　欧内斯特·海明威

The Killers　Ernest Hemingway

· 献给爱米丽的一朵玫瑰　威廉·福克纳

A Rose for Emily　William Faulkner

· 警察与讚美诗　欧·亨利

The Cop and the Anthem　O. Henry

· 在树林里　居伊·德·莫泊桑

In the Wood　Guy de Maupassant

· 修软垫椅的女人　居伊·德·莫泊桑

Lasting Love　Guy de Maupassant

· 小职员之死　安东·契诃夫

The Death of a Government Clerk　Anton Chekhov

· 热爱生活　杰克·伦敦

Love of Life　Jack London

· 项鍊　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

· 金丝雀　凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德

The Canary　Katherine Mansfield

一片叶

The Last Leaf

欧·亨利/ O. Henry

欧·亨利（1862—1910），20世纪初美国着名短篇小说家，美国现代短篇小说创始人，批判现实主义作家，被誉为“美国的莫泊桑”。他一生极富传奇色彩，当过药房学徒、牧羊人、办事员、新闻记者、银行出纳员。1898年2月，他因贪污银行公款罪被判处五年徒刑，后提前获释。他的作品贴近百姓生活，结局往往出人意料，以“含泪微笑”的风格被誉为“美国生活的幽默百科全书”。代表作有《麦琪的礼物》《警察与讚美诗》《一片叶》等。

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 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.”

……