故事开头先写出故事的名称和作者，再大致的简述概括，最后再总结。
The last leaf is about the story of two young painters in Washington slums, Su and Qiongxi, and their neighbor, Belman. Qiongxi suffered from severe pneumonia in the cold November, and her condition became more and more serious.
As a painter, she put the hope of life on the last rattan leaf outside the window, thinking that when the rattan leaves fall, it is the end of her life. As a result, she lost the courage and faith to live.
As her friend Su was very sad, she told the old painter Belman about Johnsy's idea. The old painter was a hot tempered, teasing drunkard who was always accompanied by wine. After nearly 40 years of painting, nothing has been achieved.
Every day, I say I want to create a masterpiece, but it's just empty talk. But he took good care of the two young painters. When he heard about it, he scolded, but there was nothing to do.
But the amazing thing happened: even though the wind outside the house was so strong, and the serrated leaf edge had withered and turned yellow, it still grew on the high rattan branch.
Qiongxi saw that the last leaf was still hanging on the tree, and that the leaf could survive the cold wind. Why couldn't she? So he regained his life belief and survived tenaciously. But this is not the end of the story.
The truth has just been opened: it was Behrman who was over sixty years old. On a stormy night, in order to draw the last rattan leaf, he caught pneumonia because of a cold. At the last moment of his life, he finally completed a shocking masterpiece.
译文：
《最后一片叶子》描写的是华盛顿贫民窟的两个年青的画家苏和琼西同她们的邻居贝尔曼之间发生的故事。琼西在寒冷的十一月患上了严重的肺炎，并且其病情越来越重。作为画家的她，将生命的希望寄托在窗外最后一片藤叶上，以为藤叶落下之时，就是她生命结束之时。
于是，她失去了活下去的勇气和信念。作为她的朋友苏很伤心，便将琼西的想法告诉了老画家贝尔曼，这个老画家是个脾气火爆，爱取笑人的酒鬼，终日与酒为伴。画了近四十年的画，一事无成，每天都说要创作出一篇惊世之作，却始终只是空谈。
但是他对这两位年青的画家却是照顾有佳。他听到了此事后，便骂了一通，但仍无计可施。然而令人惊奇的事发生了，尽管屋外的风刮得那样厉害，而锯齿形的叶子边缘已经枯萎发黄，但它仍然长在高高的藤枝上。
琼西看到最后一片叶子仍然挂在树上，叶子经过凛冽的寒风依然可以存留下来， 自己为什么不能？于是又重拾生的信念，顽强地活了下来。可是故事并不是到此就结束了，真相才刚刚打开。
原来是年过六旬的贝尔曼，在一个风雨交加的夜晚，为了画上最后一片藤叶，因着凉，染上了肺炎。在他生命的最后时刻，他终于完成了令人震撼的杰作。
扩展资料；
人物简介；
“琼西”是乔安娜的昵称，琼西来自加利福尼亚，女孩琼西被肺炎袭击，躺在床上。琼西的朋友苏毫不犹豫地照顾她。当琼西听到医生近乎绝望的诊断时，苏非常伤心。因为医生说约翰西康复的希望在于她自己对生存的渴望。
琼西的梦想是生存，有一天能画那不勒斯湾，这是画家的愿望。于是，苏编了一个善意的谎言，但她发现约翰西很失望地数着常春藤上的几片叶子，绝望地想，当最后一片叶子枯萎时，她也离开了这个世界。苏听后很伤心，说服琼西睡觉。此后，继而忍痛进行创作，赚取琼西的医疗费及营养费。
贝尔曼是一位60多岁的老画家，他一直把自己看作是“苏”和“琼西”的守护神。他是个老人，靠给穷画家做模特和画一些商业广告来挣生活费。
尽管他喝得太多了，但他始终坚信自己能够完成尚未开始的优秀作品，从而成为一名成功的作家。贝尔曼得了肺炎。他在风雨中为琼西画上最后一片珍贵的叶子。他的伟大和毅力总是集中在常春藤的叶子上。
The Last Leaf by O Henry
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'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, 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-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.本回答被网友采纳