标题：acorp 佰钰 4D845G
重要参数
主芯片组：Intel 845G 
CPU插槽：Socket 478 
CPU类型：奔腾4 
内存类型：DDR　 
集成芯片：全整合　 
基本参数
[1]集成芯片：全整合　
芯片厂商：Intel
主芯片组：Intel 845G
显示芯片：显卡集成在北桥芯片内，整合Intel 全新Extreme 3D高速显示内核，完全支持DVD音频和视频回放，采用Intel 的D.V.M技术共享系统显存，最大可共享128MB主内存作为显存　
音频芯片：AC'97 2.2兼容; 16位立体声解码器　
网卡芯片：内建硬件监测芯片,I/O芯片,板载 Realtek 网卡控制芯片，板载 RAID 控制芯片　
CPU类型：奔腾4
CPU插槽：Socket 478
CPU描述：支持Intel Socket478封装Pentium 4处理器1.5GHz至2.2GHz或更高　
支持CPU数量：1颗
主板总线：533
内存类型：DDR　
内存描述：2 DIMMs of 184-pin DDR 插槽，支持PC1600/DDR200 or PC2100/DDR266 DDR 内存，最高支持 2GB DDR 内存　
显卡插槽：1 x AGP 4X 插槽　
PCI插槽：6 个 PCI 插槽支持 33Mhz 与 PCI 2.2兼容　
IDE插槽：板载 2 个 Ultra DMA 33/66/100 bus master IDE 接口，两个 RAID ATA133 接口支持 磁盘阵列IDE RAID 0.1　
FDD插槽：板载1 个 FDD　
USB接口：板载 2 个 USB 端口，4 个线连的 USB 端口（连线可选),支持USB 2.0　
外接端口：板载1 个 Gameport, 1 个 Line-in, 1 个 Line-out, 1 个 MIC,1 个 IrDA 红外,1 个 VGA 接口,1 个 RJ-45 接口　
PS/2接口：一个PS/2键盘接口和一个PS/2鼠标接口　
并口串口：一个并口（SPP/ECP/EPP）与二个串口（兼容6550A)　
主板板型：ATX板型　
外形尺寸：305 x 245　
BIOS性能：2 Mbit (256KB) 可擦写 RAM,AMI BIOS,支持从 IDE#1~#4, SCSI, LS 120, ZIP & CD-ROM 启动　
电源管理：可通过 Windows95/98/Me/XP/2000/ 和电源软开关安全关机,可由网络, RTC, Modem 和 电源开关开机　
电源插口：ATX 20-pin 电源标准接口和 ATX 4-pin 12V 标准接口　
超频功能：硬件监控系统电压检测 (Vcore,VDD ,Vcc,+12V)　
包装清单：主板说明书一本，一根硬盘线，一根软驱线，带有固定螺丝　

故事介绍
穷画家琼珊得了重病,在病房里看着窗外对面树上的常春藤叶子不断被风吹落，她认为最后一片叶子的凋谢代表自己的死亡，于是她失去了生存的意志。医生认为再这样下去琼珊会死去。贝尔曼，一个伟大的画家，在听完苏艾讲述室友琼珊的事情后，夜里冒着暴雨，用心灵的画笔画出了一片“永不凋落”的常春藤叶，让琼珊重拾生存的意志，对生命充满希望,而自己却因此患上肺炎，去世了。
原文
在华盛顿广场西面的一个小区里，街道仿佛发了狂似的分成了许多叫做“巷子”的小胡同。这些“巷子”形成许多奇特的角度和曲线。一条街有时自己本身就交叉了不止一次。有一回一个画家发现这条街有他可贵之处。如果一个商人去收颜料、纸张和画布的账款，在这条街上转弯抹角、大兜圈子的时候，突然碰到一文钱也没收到、空手而归的自己，那才有意思呢！
所以，不久之后不少画家就摸索到这个古色古香的老格林尼治村来了。他们逛来逛去，寻求朝北的窗户、18世纪的三角墙、荷兰式的阁楼，以及低廉的房租。然后，他们又从第六街买来一些锡蜡杯子和一两只烘锅，组成了一个“艺术区”。
苏艾和琼珊在一座矮墩墩的的三层楼砖屋的顶楼设立了她们的画室。“琼珊”是琼娜的昵称。她俩一个来自缅因州，一个是加利福尼亚州人。她们德尔蒙戈饭馆”吃客饭时碰到的，彼此一谈，发现她们彼此对艺术、饮食、衣着的口味十分相投，结果便联合租下了那间画室。
那是5月里的事。到了11月，一个冷酷的、肉眼看不见的、医生们叫做“肺炎”的不速之客，在艺术区里悄悄地游荡，用他冰冷的手指头这里碰一下那里碰一下。在广场东头，这个破坏者明目张胆地踏着大步，一下子就击倒几十个受害者，可是在迷宫一样、狭窄而铺满青苔的“胡同”里，他的步伐就慢了下来。
肺炎先生不是一个你们心目中行侠仗义的老的绅士。一个身子单薄，被加利福尼亚州的西风刮得没有血色的弱女子，本来不应该是这个有着红拳头的、呼吸急促的老家伙打击的对象。然而，琼西却遭到了打击；她躺在一张油漆过的铁床上，一动也不动，凝望着小小的荷兰式玻璃窗外对面砖房的空墙。
一天早晨，那个忙碌的医生扬了扬他那毛茸茸的灰白色眉毛，把苏叫到外边的走廊上。
“我看，她的病只有一成希望，”他说，一面把体温表里的水银甩下去，“这一成希望在于她自己要不要活下去。人们不想活，情愿照顾殡仪馆的生意，这种精神状态使医药一筹莫展。你的这位小姐满肚子以为自己不会好了。她有什么心事吗？”
“她——她希望有一天能够去画那不勒斯海湾。”苏艾说。
“绘画？——别瞎扯了！她心里有没有值得想两次的事情。比如说，[1]男人？”
“男人？”苏艾像吹口琴似的扯着嗓子说，“男人难道值得... ...不，医生，没有这样的事。”
“能达到的全部力量去治疗她。可要是我的病人开始算计会有多少辆马车送她出丧，我就得把治疗的效果减掉百分之五十。只要你能想法让她对冬季大衣袖子的时新式样感到兴趣而提出一两个问题，那我可以向你保证把医好她的机会从十分之一提高到五分之一。”医生走后，苏艾走进工作室里，把一条日本餐巾哭成一团湿。后来她手里拿着画板，装做精神抖擞的样子走进琼西的屋子，嘴里吹着爵士音乐调子。
琼西躺着，脸朝着窗口，被子底下的身体纹丝不动。苏以为她睡着了，赶忙停止吹口哨。
她架好画板，开始给杂志里的故事画一张钢笔插图。年轻的画家为了铺平通向艺术的道路，不得不给杂志里的故事画插图，而这些故事又是年轻的作家为了铺平通向文学的道路而不得不写的。
苏艾正在给故事主人公，一个爱达荷州牧人的身上，画上一条马匹展览会穿的时髦马裤和一片单眼镜时，忽然听到一个重复了几次的低微的声音。她快步走到床边。
琼珊的眼睛睁得很大。她望着窗外，数着……倒过来数。
“12，”她数道，歇了一会又说，“11”，然后是“10”，和“9”，接着几乎同时数着“8”和“7”。
苏艾关切地看了看窗外。那儿有什么可数的呢？只见一个空荡阴暗的院子，20英尺以外还有一所砖房的空墙。一棵老极了的长春藤，枯萎的根纠结在一块，枝干攀在砖墙的半腰上。秋天的寒风把藤上的叶子差不多全都吹掉了，几乎只有光秃的枝条还缠附在剥落的砖块上。
“什么，亲爱的？”苏问道。
“6，”琼西几乎用耳语低声说道，“它们现在越落越快了。三天前还有差不多一百片。我数得头都疼了。但是现在好数了。又掉了一片。只剩下五片了。”
“五片什么，亲爱的。告诉你的苏艾。”
“叶子。常春藤上的。等到最后一片叶子掉下来，我也就该去了。这件事我三天前就知道了。难道医生没有告诉你？”
“哟，我从来没听过这么荒唐的话，”苏艾满不在乎地说，“那些破长春藤叶子同你的病有什么相干？你以前不是很喜欢这棵树吗？得啦，你这个淘气的姑娘。不要说傻话了。瞧，医生今天早晨还告诉我，说你迅速痊愈的机会是，让我想想他是怎么说的---他说你好的几率有十比一！噢，那简直和我们在纽约坐电车或者走过一座新楼房的把握一样大。喝点汤吧，让苏艾去画她的画，好把它卖给编辑先生，换了钱来给她的病孩子买点红葡萄酒，再买些猪排给自己解解馋。”
“你不用买酒了，”琼艾的眼睛直盯着窗外说道，“又落了一片。不，我不想喝汤。只剩下四片了。我想在天黑以前等着看那最后一片叶子掉下去。然后我也要去了。”
“琼珊，亲爱的，”苏艾俯着身子对她说，“你画完，行吗？明天我非得交出这些插图。我需要光线，否则我就拉下窗帘了。”
“你就不能到另一间屋子里去画吗？”琼西冷冷地问道。
“我要在这儿陪你，和你在一起，”苏艾说，“再说，我不喜欢你老是盯着那些叶子看。”
“你一画完就叫我，”琼珊说着，便闭上了眼睛。她脸色苍白，一动不动地躺在床上，就像是座横倒在地上的雕像。“因为我想看那最后一片叶子掉下来，我等得不耐烦了，也想得不耐烦了。我想摆脱一切，飘下去，飘下去，像一片可怜的疲倦了的叶子那样。”
“你争取睡一会儿，”苏艾说道，“我得下楼把贝尔曼叫上来，给我当那个隐居的老矿工的模特儿。我一会儿就回来的。不要动，等我回来。”
老贝尔曼是住在她们这座楼房底层的一个画家。他年过60，有一把像米开朗琪罗的摩西雕像那样的大胡子，这胡子长在一个像半人半兽的森林之神的头颅上，又鬈曲地飘拂在小鬼似的身躯上。贝尔曼是个失败的画家。他操了四十年的画笔，还远没有摸着艺术女神的衣裙。他老是说就要画他的那幅杰作了，可是直到现在他还没有动笔。几年来，他除了偶尔画点商业广告之类的玩意儿以外，什么也没有画过。他给艺术区里穷得雇不起职业模特儿的年轻画家们当模特儿，挣一点钱。他喝酒毫无节制，还时常提起他要画的那幅杰作。除此以外，他是一个火气十足的小老头子，十分瞧不起别人的温情，却认为自己是专门保护楼上画室里那两个年轻女画家的一只看家狗。
苏艾在楼下他那间光线黯淡的斗室里找到了嘴里酒气扑鼻的贝尔曼。一幅空白的画布绷在个画架上，摆在屋角里，等待那幅杰作已经25年了，可是连一根线条还没等着。苏艾把琼珊的胡思乱想告诉了他，还说她害怕琼珊自各儿瘦小柔弱得像一片叶子一样，对这个世界的留恋越来越微弱，恐怕真会离世飘走了。
老贝尔曼两只发红的眼睛显然在迎风流泪，他十分轻蔑地嗤笑这种傻呆的胡思乱想。
“什么，”他喊道，“世界上竟会有人蠢到因为那些该死的长春藤叶子落掉就想死？我从来没有听说过这种怪事。不，我才没功夫给你那隐居的矿工糊涂虫当模特儿呢。你怎么可以让她胡思乱想？唉，可怜的琼珊小姐。”
“她病得很厉害很虚弱，”苏艾说，“发高烧发得她神经昏乱，满脑子都是古怪想法。好吧，贝尔曼先生，你不愿意给我当模特儿就算了，我看你是个讨厌的老... ...老啰唆鬼。”
“你简直太婆婆妈妈了！”贝尔曼喊道，“谁说我不愿意当模特儿？走，我和你一块去。我不是讲了半天愿意给你当模特儿吗？老天爷，像琼珊小姐这么好的姑娘真不应该躺在这种地方生病。总有一天我要画一幅杰作，那时我们就可以都搬出去了。“
“一定的！”
他们上楼以后，琼珊正睡着觉。苏艾把窗帘拉下，一直遮住窗台，做手势叫贝尔曼到隔壁屋子里去。他们在那里提心吊胆地瞅着窗外那棵长春藤。后来他们默默无言，彼此对望了一会。寒冷的雨夹杂着雪花不停地下着。贝尔曼穿着他的旧的蓝衬衣，坐在一把翻过来充当岩石的铁壶上，扮作隐居的矿工。
第二天早晨，苏艾只睡了一个小时的觉，醒来了，她看见琼珊无神的眼睛睁得大大地注视拉下的绿窗帘。
“把窗帘拉起来，我要看看。”她低声地命令道。
苏艾疲倦地照办了。
然而，看呀！经过了漫长一夜的风吹雨打，在砖墙上还挂着一片藤叶。它是长春藤上最后的一片叶子了。靠近茎部仍然是深绿色，可是锯齿形的叶子边缘已经枯萎发黄，它傲然挂在一根离地二十多英尺的藤枝上。
“这是最后一片叶子。”琼艾说道，“我以为它昨晚一定会落掉的。我听见风声的。今天它一定会落掉，我也会死的。”
“哎呀，哎呀，”苏艾把疲乏的脸庞挨近枕头边上对她说，“你不肯为自己着想，也得为我想想啊。我可怎么办呢？”
可是琼珊不回答。当一个灵魂正在准备走上那神秘的、遥远的死亡之途时，她是世界上最寂寞的人了。那些把她和友谊极大地联结起来的关系逐渐消失以后，她那个狂想越来越强烈了。
白天总算过去了，甚至在暮色中她们还能看见那片孤零零的藤叶仍紧紧地依附在靠墙的枝上。后来，夜的到临带来了呼啸的北风，雨点不停地拍打着窗子，雨水从低垂的荷兰式屋檐上流泻下来。
天刚蒙蒙亮，琼珊就毫不留情地吩咐拉起窗帘来。
那片枯藤叶仍然在那里。
琼珊躺着对它看了许久。然后她招呼正在煤气炉上给她煮鸡汤的苏。
“我是一个坏女孩儿，苏艾，”琼珊说，“天意让那片最后的藤叶留在那里，证明我曾经有多么坏。想死是有罪过的。你现在就给我拿点鸡汤来，再拿点掺葡萄酒的牛奶来，再---不，先给我一面小镜子，再把枕头垫垫高，我要坐起来看你做饭。”
过了一个钟头，她说道：“苏艾，我希望有一天能去画那不勒斯的海湾。”
下午医生来了，他走的时候，苏艾找了个借口跑到走廊上。
“有五成希望。”医生一面说，一面把苏艾细瘦的颤抖的手握在自己的手里，“好好护理你会成功的。现在我得去看楼下另一个病人。他的名字叫贝尔曼... ...听说也是个画家。也是肺炎。他年纪太大，身体又弱，病势很重。他是治不好的了；今天要把他送到医院里，让他更舒服一点。”
第二天，医生对苏艾说：“她已经脱离危险，你成功了。现在只剩下营养和护理了。”
下午苏艾跑到琼珊的床前，琼珊正躺着，安详地编织着一条毫无用处的深蓝色毛线披肩。苏艾用一只胳臂连枕头带人一把抱住了她。
“我有件事要告诉你，小家伙，”她说，“贝尔曼先生今天在医院里患肺炎去世了。他只病了两天。头一天早晨，门房发现他在楼下自己那间房里痛得动弹不了。他的鞋子和衣服全都湿透了，冰凉冰凉的。他们搞不清楚在那个凄风苦雨的夜晚，他究竟到哪里去了。后来他们发现了一盏没有熄灭的灯笼，一把挪动过地方的梯子，几支扔得满地的画笔，还有一块调色板,上面涂抹着绿色和黄色的颜料，还有，亲爱的，瞧瞧窗子外面，瞧瞧墙上那最后一片藤叶。难道你没有想过，为什么风刮得那样厉害，它却从来不摇一摇、动一动呢？唉，亲爱的，这片叶子才是贝尔曼的杰作。就是在最后一片叶子掉下来的晚上，他把它画在那里的。”
英文原文
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'h&ocirc;te 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."
作者简介
生平1862年9月11日，美国最著名的短篇小说家之——欧·亨利（O.Henry）出生于美国北卡罗来纳州有个名叫格林斯波罗的小镇。曾被评论界誉为曼哈顿桂冠散文作家和美国现代短篇小说之父。1862年他出身于美国北卡罗来纳州格林斯波罗镇一个医师家庭。父亲是医生。他原名威廉·西德尼·波特(William Sydney Porter)。他所受教育不多，15岁便开始在药房当学徒，20岁时由于健康原因去德克萨斯州的一个牧场当了两年牧牛人，积累了对西部生活的亲身经验。1884年以后做过会计员、土地局办事员、新闻记者。此后，他在德克萨斯做过不同的工作，包括在奥斯汀银行当出纳员。他还办过一份名为《滚石》的幽默周刊，并在休斯敦一家日报上发表幽默小说和趣闻逸事。1887年，亨利结婚并生了一个女儿。 正当他的生活颇为安定之时，却发生了一件改变他命运的事情。1896年，奥斯汀银行指控他在任职期间盗用资金。他为了躲避受审，逃往洪都拉斯。1897年，后因回家探视病危的妻子被捕入狱，判处5年徒刑。在狱中曾担任药剂师，他创作第一部作品的起因是为了给女儿买圣诞礼物，但基于犯人的身份不敢使用真名，乃用一部法国药典的编者的名字作为笔名，在《麦克吕尔》杂志发表。1901年，因“行为良好”提前获释，来到纽约专事写作。 正当他的创作力最旺盛的时候，健康状况却开始恶化，于1910年病逝。名作欧·亨利在大概十年的时间内创作了短篇小说共有300多篇，收入《白菜与国王》(1904)[其唯一一部长篇，作者通过四五条并行的线索，试图描绘出一幅广阔的画面，在写法上有它的别致之处。不过从另一方面看，小说章与章之间的内在联系不够紧密，各有独立的内容]、《四百万》(1906)、《西部之心》(1907)、《市声》(1908)、《滚石》(1913)等集子，其中以描写纽约曼哈顿市民生活的作品为最著名。他把那儿的街道、小饭馆、破旧的公寓的气氛渲染得十分逼真，故有“曼哈顿的桂冠诗人”之称。他曾以骗子的生活为题材，写了不少短篇小说。作者企图表明道貌岸然的上流社会里，有不少人就是高级的骗子，成功的骗子。欧·亨利对社会与人生的观察和分析并不深刻，有些作品比较浅薄，但他一生困顿，常与失意落魄的小人物同甘共苦，又能以别出心裁的艺术手法表现他们复杂的感情。他的作品构思新颖，语言诙谐，结局常常出人意外；又因描写了众多的人物，富于生活情趣，被誉为“美国生活的幽默百科全书”。因此，他最出色的短篇小说如《爱的牺牲》(A Service of Love)、《警察与赞美诗》(The Cop and the Anthem)、《带家具出租的房间》(The Furnished Room)、《麦琪的礼物》(The Gift of the Magi)、《最后的常春藤叶》（The Last Leaf）等都可列入世界优秀短篇小说之中。
他的文字生动活泼，善于利用双关语、讹音、谐音和旧典新意，妙趣横生,被喻为[含泪的微笑]。他还以准确的细节描写，制造与再现气氛，特别是大都会夜生活的气氛。手法欧·亨利还以擅长结尾闻名遐迩，美国文学界称之为“欧·亨利式的结尾”他善于戏剧性地设计情节，埋下伏笔，作好铺垫，勾勒矛盾，最后在结尾处突然让人物的心理情境发生出人意料的变化，或使主人公命运陡然逆转，使读者感到豁然开朗，柳暗花明，既在意料之外，又在情理之中，不禁拍案称奇，从而造成独特的艺术魅力。有一种被称为“含泪的微笑”的独特艺术风格。欧·亨利把小说的灵魂全都凝聚在结尾部分，让读者在前的似乎是平淡无奇的而又是诙谐风趣的娓娓动听的描述中，不知不觉地进入作者精心设置的迷宫，直到最后，忽如电光一闪，才照亮了先前隐藏着的一切，仿佛在和读者捉迷藏，或者在玩弄障眼法，给读者最后一个惊喜。在欧·亨利之前，其他短篇小说家也已经这样尝试过这种出乎意料的结局。但是欧·亨利对此运用得更为经常，更为自然，也更为纯熟老到。小人物描写小人物是欧·亨利的短篇小说最引人瞩目的内容，其中包含了深厚的人道主义精神。欧·亨利长期生活在社会底层，深谙下层人民的苦难生活，同时也切身感受过统治阶层制定的法律对穷人是如何无情。因此，他把无限的同情都放在穷人一边。在他的笔下，穷人有着纯洁美好的心灵，仁慈善良的品格，真挚深沉的爱情。但是他们却命运多坎，弱小可怜，孤立无援，食不果腹，身无居所，苟延残喘，往往被社会无情地吞噬。这种不公平的现象与繁华鼎盛的社会景象相映照，显得格外刺目，其中隐含了作者的愤愤不平。欧·亨利纪念奖欧·亨利给美国的短篇小说带来新气息，他的作品因而久享盛名，并具有世界影响。美国自1918年起“欧·亨利纪念奖”，以奖励每年度的最佳短篇小说，由此可见其声望之卓著。死因在纽约，由于大量佳作出版，他名利双收。他不仅挥霍无度，而且好赌，好酒贪杯。写作的劳累与生活的无节制使他的身体受到严重损伤。1907年，欧·亨利再婚。可惜，第二次婚姻对他来说并没有什么幸福可言。1910年6月3日，他病倒了。两天后，即6月5日，与世长辞，死于肝硬化，年仅48岁。创作特色意料之外，情理之中
从题材的性质来看，欧·亨利的作品大致可分为三类。一类以描写美国西部生活为主。二类写的是美国一些大城市的生活。三类则以拉丁美洲生活为对象。这些不同的题材，显然与作者一生中几个主要生活时期的不同经历，有着密切的关系。
而三类作品当中，无疑又以描写城市生活的作品数量最多，意义最大。思想和作品的弱点欧·亨利思想的矛盾和他作品的弱点，与他的创作环境有极大关系。即使在他已经成名，受到读者广泛欢迎的时候，他的生活也依然经常处于拮据状态。他曾经直言不讳地说：我是为面包而写作的”。作品评价欧·亨利因为他本身是一个穷苦的人，因此他的文章主人公大多是一些贫穷的劳动人民，充满了对劳动人民的同情。我认为，欧·亨利的小说之所以让我喜欢，是因为他的小说，我们往往猜不出结果是什么，而真正的结果会让我们难以置信，这也说明了他丰富的想象力，欧·亨利的小说语言很生动而且很精练，他的短篇小说一开始就抓住了我们的兴趣和注意力，小说中除了文字的幽默诙谐之外，总有一些让费人猜测的地方，他常常让我们以为以逻辑思维就可以猜到的结局，却往往情节一转，使故事的结尾变的出人意料却又合情合理,从而造成独特的艺术魅力,因此被誉为“欧·亨利式结尾”，这也是欧·亨利最为出名的一个方面。《欧·亨利》的短篇小说内容很多：其中多为描写一些小人物，描写美国西部牧场，描写那些死要面子，成天做白日梦的小职员，以及一些城市的骗子，和对拜金主义者的嘲讽。尽管欧·亨利对于社会现状总有不满，可他也没有放弃希望，因此，悲惨的故事和人物总会有一个相对比较好的结局，也让我们深深的体会到微笑里的辛酸，讽刺里的悲哀和无可奈何。作品目录有译名
"Girl" “姑娘”
“Next To Reading Matter”“醉翁之意”
"What You Want" “君欲何求”
An Adjustment of Nature 自然之修正
After Twenty Years 二十年后
An Afternoon Miracle 午后的奇迹
The Atavism Of John Tom Little Bear 小熊约翰·汤姆的返祖现象
Babes In The Jungle 丛林中的孩子
Best-Seller 畅销品
Between Rounds 闹剧
A Bird Of Bagdad 巴格达的鸟
A Blackjack Bargainer 闪锌矿的讲价者
Blind Man's Holiday 盲人的节日
The Brief Debut of Tildy 特尔迪的登场
Buried Treasure 埋藏的珍宝
By Courier 邮差
The Caballero's Way 绅士之道
The Cactus 仙人掌
Caliph 哈里发
The Cupid and the Clock 丘比特与钟
A Call Loan 电话贷款
The Call Of The Tame 驯服的号召
Calloway's Code 卡罗威密码
The Chair Of Philanthromathematics慈善事业数学讲座
Confessions of a Humorist 幽默家的告白
Conscience In Art 艺术良心
The Cop and the Anthem警察与赞美诗
A Cosmopolite in a Cafe 咖啡馆里的世界公民
The Day Resurgent 复活日
The Detective Detector 几位侦探
A Double-dyed Deceiver双料骗子
The Duel 决斗
The Duplicity of Hargraves 哈格里弗斯的两面性
The Fifth Wheel 第五轮
From the Cabby's Seat
The Furnished Room 带家具出租的房间
Georgia's Ruling 乔治亚的统治
The Gift of the Magi麦琪的礼物（也有人译为《贤人的礼物》）
The Girl And The Graft 女孩与贪污
The Girl And The Habit 女孩与习惯
The Gold That Glittered 闪亮的金子
The Green Door 绿色的门
The Handbook of Hymen 婚姻手册
The Head-Hunter 猎头者
Hearts and Crosses 心与十字架
Hearts and Hands 心与手
The Hiding of Black Bill 布莱克·比尔藏身记
The Higher Abdication 退位
The Higher Pragmatism 实用主义
Hygeia at the Solito 索利托牧场的卫生学
The Hypotheses of Failure 失败的假设
The Indian Summer of Dry Valley Johnson 干燥峡谷约翰逊的印第安夏日
Jimmy Hayes And Muriel 吉米·海斯和缪里尔
Jeff Peters As A Personal Magnet 催眠术家杰甫·彼得斯
The Last Leaf 最后一片常春藤叶
A Little Local Colour 地方特色
A Little Talk About Mobs 小谈暴徒
Lost on Dress Parade 华而不实
Madame Bo-peep of the Ranches 女牧场主波皮普
Mammon and the Archer 爱神与财神
Man About Town 城中男子
The Man Higher Up 黄雀在后
The Marionettes 提线木偶
The Marry Month of May 五月是个结婚月
Memoirs of a Yellow Dog 黄狗追思录
The Missing Chord 断了的弦
The Moment of Victory 胜利时刻
A Municipal Report 市政报告
A Newspaper Story 报纸的故事
A Night In New Arabia 新阿拉伯一夜
No Story 没有故事
One Dollar's Worth 一元钱的价值
Out of Nazareth 拿撒勒之外
The Pimienta Pancakes 比绵塔薄饼
The Poet And The Peasant 诗人与农夫
A Poor Rule 愚昧的规定
The Princess and the Puma公主与美洲狮
Proof Of The Pudding 布丁的证明
Psyche And The Pskyscraper 心理分析与摩天大楼
A Ramble In Aphasia 小谈失语症
The Ransom of Mack 马克的救赎
The Ransom of Red Chief 红色酋长的救赎
The Red Roses of Tonia 托尼娅的红玫瑰
The Reformation of Calliope 雄辩女神的改变
The Roads We Take 我们选择的道路
The Robe Of Peace 和平之长袍
The Romance of a Busy Broker 证券经纪人的浪漫故事
The Rose of Dixie 南部之花
The Rubber Plant's Story 橡胶树的故事
A Sacrifice Hit 祭祀冲突
Schools and Schools 学校
Seats of the Haughty 傲慢之席位
A Service of Love 爱的牺牲
Shearing The Wolf 虎口拔牙
The Skylight Room 带天窗的房间
The Snow Man 雪人
Sociology in Serge and Straw
The Song and the Sergeant 歌曲与警官
The Sparrows in Madison Square 麦迪逊广场的麻雀
The Sphinx Apple 斯芬克斯苹果
Suite Homes and their Romance 套间的浪漫
Supply and Demand 供需
A Technical Error 技术性失误
Telemachus, Friend 刎颈之交
The Theory and the Hound 理论与猎犬
Thimble Thimble 顶针
The Third Ingredient 第三种成分
To Him Who Waits 给等待的人
Tobin's Palm 托宾的手掌
Tommy's Burglar 汤米的窃贼
Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen 两位感恩节的绅士
An Unfinished Story 没说完的故事
The Unknown Quantity 未知数量
The Venturers 投机者
While The Auto Waits 汽车等待的时候
The Whirligig of Life 生活的波折
Withes' Loaves 女巫的面包
The World and the Door 世界与门无译名A Chaparral Christmas Gift
A Chaparral Prince
Christmas by Injunction
The Coming-Out of Maggie
Compliments Of The Season
The Dog and the Playlet
Cupid a la Carte
He Also Serves
The Love-Philtre of Ikey Schoenstein
A Matter of Mean Elevation
Past One At Rodney's
Round The Circle
Rus in Urbe
Sisters of the Golden Circle
Springtime a la Carte
Strictly Business
The Things The Play
赏析
欧·亨利的小说通俗易懂，其中无论发生了什么，发生在何处，也无论主人公是何等人物，他的故事写的都是世态人情，并且易有浓郁的美国风味。一般说来，驱使人们行动的欲望和动机是相当复杂的，但是欧·亨利人物的思想相对来说却都比较简单，动机也比较单一，矛盾冲突的中心似乎都是贫与富。这一方面大概因为美国是个平民社会，不存在天生高人一等的贵族阶级，既然金钱面前人人平等，贫富就成了社会的主要矛盾。另一方面，此时正值美国内战后的“镀金时代”，拜金主义盛行，坑蒙拐骗样样齐全，贪污舞泛滥成灾，似乎只人能赚到钱便是成功，并不问问钱的来历是否清白合法，难怪金钱的占有程度便成了人们关注的中心，与欧·亨利同时代的马克·吐温说得好：“在世界上任何地方，贫穷总是不方便的。但只有在美国，贫穷是耻辱。”欧·亨利笔下的芸芸众生就是生活在这样一个金钱主宰的世界中，他们的处境动机，他们的的喜怒哀乐，大都与金钱的占有有关，所以欧·亨利描绘的世态人情，无论是善是恶，都有某种美国式的单纯。
两难的处理和意外的结局往往产生令人啼笑皆非的幽默效果，在欧·亨利的小说中，幽默是贯穿始终的，有的专门是为幽默而幽默的。绑架孩子的歹徒被顽童折磨得苦不堪言，宁可倒贴钱把孩子护送回家。幽默家被近日复一日地制造幽默，竟变成了一个心力交瘁的吸血鬼，最终在殡仪馆的后房中才得以告别尘世的愚蠢，重新恢复了一个正常人的知觉。欧·亨利显然是把自己视为一个幽默家，他在《幽默家自白》中写道：“我的笑话的性质是和善亲切的，绝不流于讽刺，使别人生气。”这句话也适用于欧·亨利本人，他讽刺，但不流于讽刺，他的嘲讽和幽默通常是善意的，有时能令人震惊地揭示出人生的真谛，如《生活的陀螺》和《钟摆》那样，它们体现了欧·亨利透视生活的能力。欧·亨利的语言本身也充满了夸张和幽默，而幽默能直到淡化事物悲剧性的作用，使大众读者更能接受。
歌曲Last Leaf
歌曲信息
歌名：Last Leaf
歌手：Tom Waits
伴唱：Keith Richards
吉他：Tom Waits, Keith Richards, Marc Ribot
贝斯：James Whiton
管风琴：Tom Waits
专辑：《Bad As Me》(2011)
内容简介
本歌曲选自美国民谣歌手汤姆·韦茨（Tom Waits）2011年发行的新专辑《Bad As Me》。汤姆·韦茨生于1949年12月7日，1973年发行第一张个人专辑《Closing Time》，至今已发行24张专辑。他的音乐作品多以低下层人民的生活为主题，以低哑的嗓音、幽默而辛酸的歌词，及充满灵性的词曲编配手法，演绎出一个个楚楚动人的人生故事。通过Last Leaf 这首歌，汤姆·韦茨用苍老的歌喉重新演绎了美国短篇小说家欧·亨利(O.Henry)的经典小说The Last Leaf(最后一片树叶)，表达了自己对人生的坚定信念及对音乐的执着追求。
英文歌词
Last Leaf
I'm the last leaf on the tree
The autumn took the rest
But they won't take me
I'm the last leaf on the tree
When the autumn wind blows
They're already gone
They flutter to the ground
Cause they can't hang on
There's nothing in the world
That I ain't seen
I greet all the new ones
That are coming in green
I'm the last leaf on the tree
The autumn took the rest
But they won't take me
I'm the last leaf on the tree
They say I got staying power
Here on the tree
But I've been here since Eisenhower
And I've out lived even he
I'm the last leaf on the tree
The autumn took the rest
But they won't take me
I'm the last leaf on the tree
I fight off the snow
I fight off the hail
Nothing makes me go
I'm like some vestigial tail
I'll be here through eternity
If you want to know how long
If they cut down this tree
I'll show up in a song
I'm the last leaf on the tree
The autumn took the rest
But they won't take me
I'm the last leaf on the tree
I'm the last leaf on the tree
I'm the last leaf on the tree