大学英语口语第一部分 讨论题目

新视野听力

1.How do you understand the sentence “Cherish the love from others”?

2.How to improve your health?

3.Why should we be aware of mental health?

4.What are your success strategies?

5.How do you understand the sentence “Opportunities favor the prepared mind”?

6.What’s your favorite works in American literature?

7.Can you briefly describe the birth of the US as a nation?

8.What do you think is the national symbol of China?

9.What do you want to do before you die?

10.What should we do to get ready for an earthquake?

11.How can we deal with global warming?

12.What can we do to clean up the environment?

13.Who do you think is the great man or woman in history? Give reasons.

14.How do you understand the sentence “Great acts are made up of small deeds”?

15.Do you know the history of cloning? Discuss it.

16.What are the benefits and risks in cloning?

17.What does your family mean to you?

18.What’s the ideal family in your eyes?

19.How to build a lasting friendship?

20.What does friendship mean to you?

There are two things I have always wanted to do — write and live on a farm. Today I’m doing both. I am not in E. B. White’s class as a writer or in my neighbors’ league as a farmer, but I’m getting by. And after years of frustration with city and suburban living, my wife Sandy and I have finally found contentment here in the country. It’s a self-reliant sort of life. We grow nearly all of our fruits and vegetables. Our hens keep us in eggs, with several dozen left over to sell each week. Our bees provide us with honey, and we cut enough wood to just about make it through the heating season. It’s a satisfying life too. In the summer we canoe on the river, go picnicking in the woods and take long bicycle rides. In the winter we ski and skate. We get excited about sunsets. We love the smell of the earth warming and the sound of cattle lowing. We watch for hawks in the sky and deer in the cornfields. But the good life can get pretty tough. Three months ago when it was 30 below, we spent two miserable days hauling firewood up the river on a sled. Three months from now, it will be 95 above and we will be cultivating corn, weeding strawberries and killing chickens. Recently, Sandy and I had to retile the back roof. Soon Jim, 16 and Emily, 13, the youngest of our four children, will help me make some long-overdue improvements on the outdoor toilet that supplements our indoor plumbing when we are working outside. Later this month, we’ll spray the orchard, paint the barn, plant the garden and clean the hen house before the new chicks arrive .In between such chores, I

manage to spend 50 to 60 hours a week at the typewriter or doing reporting for the freelance articles I sell to magazines and newspapers. Sandy, meanwhile, pursues her own demanding schedule. Besides the usual household routine, she oversees the garden and beehives, bakes bread, cans and freezes, drives the kids to their music lessons, practices with them, takes organ lessons on her own, does research and typing for me, writes an article herself now and then, tends the flower beds, stacks a little wood and delivers the eggs.

There is, as the old saying goes, no rest for the wicked on a place like this — and not much for the virtuous either

None of us will ever forget our first winter. We were buried under five feet of snow from December through March. While one storm after another blasted huge drifts up against the house and barn, we kept warm inside burning our own wood, eating our own apples and loving every minute of it.

我一直想做的事情就是写和生活在一个农场里。今天我都在做。我不是在E B的类作为一个作家或在我的邻居的联盟作为一个农民，但我得到的。我和妻子在城市和郊区生活了几年的挫折之后，终于在乡下找到了满足的生活。这是一种自力更生的生活。我们种植几乎所有的水果和蔬菜。我们的母鸡把我们养在鸡蛋里，每星期都有几十只剩下来卖。我们的蜜蜂为我们提供蜂蜜，我们把足够多的木材切成足够的木材，以使它通过加热季节。这是一个令人满意的生活。夏日里我们在河边，去树林里野餐，骑着自行车长时间。在冬天我们滑雪和滑冰。我们兴奋的日落。我们爱地球变暖和爱听牛群哞叫气味。我们看在玉米地里的天空和鹿鹰。但好的生活可以变得非常艰难。三个月前，30岁以下的时候，我们用了两个可怜的日子将河上的一条雪橇拖到河边。三个月后，它将95以上，我们将种植玉米，除草草莓和杀害鸡。最近，我和桑迪不得不翻修后屋顶。很快吉姆，16和艾米丽，13岁，我们四个孩子中最小的，将有助于我做一些长期在室外厕所的改善，补充我们的室内管道时，我们在外面工作。本月晚些时，我们将在果园里喷上果园，油漆谷仓，在花园里种植花园，在新的小鸡到来之前打扫干净的母鸡屋。在这类家务之间，我设法花50到60个小时在打字机或做报告的自由撰稿我卖杂志和报纸。同时，沙地也在追求她自己的时间表。除了日常的家务，她还照管菜园和蜂房，烘烤面包，罐头、冷藏，开车送孩子学音乐，和他们一起练习，自己还要上风琴课，为我做些研究并打字，自己有时也写写文章然后，花圃，堆摞木柴和提供鸡蛋。

正如俗话所说，没有人可以在这样的地方上休息，也不为人所为

我们中没有人会忘记我们的第一个冬天。我们被埋葬在五英尺的积雪从十二月到3月。当一场风暴在另一场巨大的风暴袭击了房子和谷仓的时候，我们在燃烧着自己的木头，吃着自己的苹果，并且爱着它的每一分钟都是温暖的。

\

A gentle breeze swept the Canadian plains as I stepped outside the small two-story house. Alongside me was a slender woman in a black dress, my guide back to a time when the surrounding settlement in Dresden, Ontario, was home to a hero in American history. As we walked toward a plain gray church, Barbara Carter spoke,proudly of her great-great-grandfather, Josiah Henson. “He was confident that the Creator intended all men to be created equal. And he never gave up struggling for that freedom.”

Carter’s devotion to her ancestor is about more than perso nal pride: it is about family honor. For Josiah Henson has lived on through the character in American fiction that he helped inspire: Uncle Tom, the long-suffering slave in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Ironically, that character has come to symbolize everything Henson was not. A racial sellout unwilling to stand up for himself? Carter gets angry at the thought.

“Josiah Henson was a man of principle,” she said firmly.

I had traveled here to Henson’s last home —now a historic site that Carter formerly directed — to learn more about a man who was, in many ways, an African-American Moses. After winning his own freedom from slavery, Henson secretly helped hundreds of other slaves to escape north to Canada — and liberty. Many settled here in Dresden with him.

Yet this stop was only part of a much larger mission for me. Josiah Henson is but one name on a long list of courageous men and women who together forged the Underground Railroad, a secret web of escape routes and safe houses that they used to liberate slaves from the American South. Between 1820 and 1860, as many as 100,000 slaves traveled the Railroad to freedom,In October 2000, President Clinton authorized $16 million for the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center to honor this first great civil-rights struggle in the U. S.

The center is scheduled to open in 2004 in Cincinnati. And it’s about time. For the heroes of the Underground Railroad remain too little remembered, their exploits still largely unsung. I was intent on telling their stories.

John Parker tensed when he heard the soft knock. Peering out his door into the night, he recognized the face of a trusted neighbor. “There’s a party of escaped slaves hiding in the woods

in Kentucky, twenty miles from the river,” the man whispered urgently. Parker didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go,” he said, pushing a pair of pistols into his pockets.

微风轻轻拂过加拿大平原作为我走出这栋两层小屋。与我一起是一个穿着黑色连衣裙的苗条女人，我的导游回到了安大略德累斯顿的一个时代，是美国历史上的英雄。当我们向一个普普通通的灰色教堂走去，巴巴拉卡特自豪地说，她的曾祖父，约西亚汉森。“他有信心，创造了所有的人都是平等的。他从未放弃为自由而奋斗。”

卡特的奉献她的祖先不仅仅是个人的骄傲，是家族的荣誉。约西亚Henson一直生活在美国小说中的人物，他帮助启发：汤姆叔叔，哈丽特比彻斯托的汤姆叔叔的小屋长期受苦的奴隶。具有讽刺意味的是，这样的性格来象征一切汉森不是。一个种族的背叛不愿意自己站起来吗？卡特对此颇为愤慨。

“约西亚他是个有原则的人，”她坚定地说。

我远道前来亨森最后的家-现在的古迹，卡特曾管理要了解一个男人，在很多方面，黑人摩西。他自己从奴隶主获得自由后，他暗中帮助其他许多黑奴逃往加拿大和自由。许多定居在德累斯顿与他在这里。

然而，这只是一个更大的任务的一部分，我。约西亚那一个名字在一长串的勇敢的男人和女人们一起建立的地下铁路网，一个秘密的逃生路线和安全的房屋，他们用以解放美国南方黑奴的。在1860至1820年间，多达100000名奴隶在通往自由的铁路上行驶，十月2000时，克林顿总统授权1600万美元用于全国地下铁道自由中心，以纪念美国第一次伟大的民权斗争。

该中心将于2004日在辛辛那提举行。这是关于时间。因为地下铁路的英雄依然很少为人依然默默无闻，他们的业绩。我是故意讲他们的故事。

约翰派克紧张当他听到轻轻的敲门声。他凝视着夜色，认出了一个值得信赖的邻居。“在树林里藏着一个逃跑的奴隶

在肯塔基，二十英里的河，“这人急切地说。帕克毫不犹豫。“我去，”他说，把两支手枪揣进口袋。

In the house where I grew up, it was our custom to leave the front door on the latch at night. I don’t know if that was a local term or if it is universal; “on the latch” meant the door was closed but not locked. None of us carried keys; the last one in for the evening would close up, and that was it.

Those days are over. In rural areas as well as in cities, doors do not stay unlocked, even for part of an evening Suburbs and country areas are, in many ways, even more vulnerable than well-patroled urban streets. Statistics show the crime rate rising more dramatically in those allegedly tranquil areas than in cities. At any rate, the era of leaving the front door on the latch is over.

It has been replaced by dead-bolt locks, security chains, electronic alarm systems and trip wires hooked up to a police station or private guard firm. Many suburban families have sliding glass doors on their patios, with steel bars elegantly built in so no one can pry the doors open.

It is not uncommon, in the most pleasant of homes, to see pasted on the windows small notices announcing that the premises are under surveillance by this security force or that guard company.The lock is the new symbol of America. Indeed, a recent public-service advertisement by a large insurance company featured not charts sho wing how much at risk we are, but a picture of a child’s bicycle with the now-usual padlock attached to it.The ad pointed out that, yes, it is the insurance companies that pay for stolen goods, but who is going to pay for what the new atmosphere of distrust and fear is doing to our way of life? Who is going to make the psychic payment for the transformation of America from the Land of the Free to the Land of the Lock?

For that is what has happened. We have become so used to defending ourselves against the new atmosphere of American life, so used to putting up barriers, that we have not had time to think about what it may mean.

For some reason we are satisfied when we think we are well-protected; it does not occur to us to ask ourselves: Why has this happened?

Why are we having to barricade ourselves against our neighbors and fellow citizens, and when, exactly, did this start to take over our lives?

And it has taken over. If you work for a medium- to large-size company, chances are that you don’t just wander in and out of work. You probably carry some kind of access card, electronic or otherwise, that allows you in and out of your place of work. Maybe the security guard at the front desk knows your face and will wave you in most days, but the fact

remains that the business you work for feels threatened enough to keep outsiders away via these “keys.”

It wasn’t always like this. Even a decade ago, most private businesses had a

policy of free access. It simply didn’t occur to manag ers that the proper thing to do was to distrust people.

Look at the airports. Parents used to take children out to departure gates to watch planes land and take off. That’s all gone. Airports are no longer a place of education and fun; they are the most sophisticated of security sites.

With electronic X-ray equipment, we seem finally to have figured out a way to hold the terrorists, real and imagined, at bay; it was such a relief to solve this problem that we did not think much about what such a state of affairs says about the quality of our lives.

That may be the legacy we remember best when we look back on this age: In dealing with the unseen horrors among us, we became prisoners of ourselves. All of us prisoners, in this time of our troubles.

在我长大的房子里，我们习惯在晚上离开前门的大门。我不知道这是否是一个本地术语，如果它是通用的，“在锁存器”意味着门是关闭的，但没有上锁。我们没有人带钥匙，最后一个在傍晚就要关门了，那是它的。

那些日子已经结束了。在农村以及城市，门不待解锁，即使是一个eveningsuburbs 及乡村地区的一部分，在许多方面，甚至比巡查严密的城市街道更脆弱。统计显示，在那些据称安宁地区的犯罪率比城市更为显著。无论如何，在锁存器上离开前门的时代已经结束了。

它已被锁死螺栓锁，安全链，电子报警系统和电线连接到一个警察局或私人保安公司。郊区的许多人家滑动玻璃门在他们的庭院，用钢条，这样就没人能把门撬开。

在最令人愉快的家里，看到贴在窗户上的小告示，宣布房屋被这一安全部队或保安公司监视，这并不少见。锁是美国的新标志。事实上，由一家大保险公司最近的一则公益广告没有图表显示多少我们是危险的，但一张孩子的自行车与无所不在的挂锁。该广告指出，是的，它是保险公司支付被盗的货物，但谁将支付的不信任和恐惧的新氛围，是对我们的生活方式？谁将使美国的改造，从自由的土地的锁的心灵支付？

这就是发生了什么。我们已经变得如此习惯于保护自己不受美国生活的新氛围的保护，所以我们习惯于把障碍放在我们没有时间去考虑它可能意味着什么。

当我们认为我们得到很好的保护的时候，我们会感到满意；我们不想问自己：为什么会发生这样的事？

我们为什么要防着自己的邻居和同胞时，确切地说，这样做开始接管我们的生活？

它已经接管。如果你为一个中型的公司工作，很有可能你不只是在工作中徘徊。您可能携带某种存取卡，电子或其他方式，使您在和您的工作场所。也许在前台的保安人员知道你的脸，在大多数日子里，你会摇你，但事实上

仍然是你工作的商业感觉受到威胁，足以让外界通过这些“钥匙”。

这并不总是这样。即使是十年前，大多数私营企业有一个自由访问的政策。对管理者来说，不信任别人的事是不信任的。

看机场。父母常带孩子去登机口看飞机起飞降落。所有的都不见了。机场不再是一个教育和娱乐的地方，他们是最先进的安全网站。

电子X射线设备，我们似乎终于找到了一种方式来抓住恐怖分子，真实和想象，在海湾，这是这样的一种救济来解决这个问题，我们没有想到什么这样的国家的

事务说，我们的生活质量。

这可能是我们记得最好的遗产，当我们回顾这一时代：在处理我们之间看不见的恐怖时，我们成了自己的囚徒。我们所有的囚犯，在这个时候，

It was 1943, during World War II, and I was a young U.S. coastguardsman. My ship, the USS Murzim, had been under way for several days. Most of her holds contained thousands of cartons of canned or dried foods. The other holds were loaded with five-hundred-pound bombs packed delicately in padded racks. Our destination was a big base on the island of Tulagi in the South Pacific.

I was one of the Murzim’s several cooks and, quite the same as for folk ashore, this Thanksgiving morning had seen us busily preparing a traditional dinner featuring roast turkey.

Well, as any cook knows, it’s a lot of hard work to cook and serve a big meal, and clean up and put everything away. But finally, around sundown, we finished at last I decided first to go out on the Murzim’s afterdeck for a breath of open air.

I made my way out there, breathing in great, deep draughts while walking slowly about, still wearing my white cook’s hat.

I got to thinking about Thanksgiving, of the Pilgrims, Indians, wild turkeys, pumpkins, corn on the cob, and the rest.

Yet my mind seemed to be in quest of something else — some way that I could personally apply to the close of Thanksgiving.It must have taken me a half hour to sense that maybe some key to an answer could result from reversing the word “Thanksgiving” —at least that suggested a verbal direction, “Giving thanks Giving thanks —as in praying, thanking God, I thought. Yes, of course. Certainly.

Yet my mind continued turning the idea over.

After a while, like a dawn’s brightening, a further answer did come —that there were people to thank, people who had done so much for me that I could never possibly repay them. The embarrassing truth was I’d always just accepted what they’d done, taken all of it for granted. Not one time had I ever bothered to express to any of them so much as a simple, sincere “Thank you”.At least seven people had been particularly and lastingly helpful to me. I realized, swallowing hard, that about half of them had since died — so they were forever beyond any possible expression of gratitude from me. The more I thought about it, the more ashamed I became. Then I pictured the three who were still alive and, within minutes, I was down in my cabin.

这是1943，第二次世界大战期间，我是一个年轻的美国海岸警卫队队员。我的船，美国军舰军市一号已经进行了好几天。大多数的她认为包含成千上万的罐头或干燥食品的纸箱。另装着五百磅重的炸弹，小心翼翼地放在垫架。我们的目的地是南太平洋图拉吉岛上一个大基地。

我的一个murzim的厨师，相当的岸上，这感恩节的上午，我们忙着准备传统的晚餐以烤火鸡。

好吧，正如任何厨师都知道的，它是一个很难的工作，做饭和服务一个大的一餐，

并清理和把所有的一切。但最后，在日落时分，我们完成了最后我决定先去的murzim的后甲板为呼吸空气。我信步走去，呼吸着空气，深吃水而慢慢地走，还穿着我的白色的厨师帽。

我开始思考感恩的朝圣者，印度人，野生火鸡，南瓜，玉米棒子，其余的。

然而，我的心似乎是在寻求一些别的东西，某种程度上，我可以亲自去接近感恩节。我花了一个半小时的时间去感觉，也许有一个答案的关键，可能是因为“感恩”，至少是口头上的建议，“给予感谢

感谢上帝，感谢上帝，我想。是的，当然。当然了

然而，我的心继续把这个主意。

过了一会儿，像黎明的光亮，进一步的回答真的来了，有人要感谢，那些曾经为我做了这么多，我不可能偿还的。令人尴尬的事实是，我总是接受他们所做的，把所有的一切都理所当然。我曾经有过一次不曾费心去表达对他们的任何一个简单的，真诚的“谢谢”。至少七人已经特别对我影响深远的帮助。我意识到，吞咽困难，大约有一半的人已经死了，所以他们永远无法表达我的感激之情。我越想越觉得羞愧。然后我想象了三个还活着的人，在几分钟之内，我就在我的小屋里。

.At the top of a three-story brick building, Sue and Johnsy had their studio.

“Johnsy” wa s familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California.

They had met at a cafe on Eighth Street and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so much in tune that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the district, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Johnsy was among his victims.

She lay, scarcely moving on her bed, looking through the small window at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a bushy, gray eyebrow.

“She has one chance in ten,” he said. “And that chance is for her to want to live. 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 about twice —a man, for instance?”

“A man?” said Sue. “Is a man worth —but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind.”

“Well,” said the doctor. “I will do all that science 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.” After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried. Then she marched into Johnsy’s room with her drawing board, whistling a merry tune.

在一三层砖楼的顶层，苏和琼西的画室。

“琼珊”是乔安娜的昵称。一个是从缅因州，另一个来自加利福尼亚。

他们相遇在第八大街的一个咖啡馆，发现他们的艺术品味，菊苣沙拉和灯笼袖的曲子那么多，画室。

这是在可能。在十一月的一个寒冷的、肉眼看不见的，被医生称为肺炎肆虐的地区，在这里和那里，用他冰冷的手指触摸。约翰西也为其所害。

她躺在床上，几乎一动不动地躺在床上，望着隔壁的小窗户。

一天上午，忙碌的医生邀请苏成的浓眉，灰色的眉毛。

“她有一个机会在十，”他说。“那机会是她要活的。你的小姑娘已经记起来了，她不想得到好的。她有什么事吗？

“她--她想有一天能画那不勒斯海湾，”苏说。

“油漆？-波什！她有什么关于她的心价值思考的两次一个男人，例如？“

“一个人？“苏。“一个人是值得的，但是，没有，医生；没有什么是善良的。”“好吧，”医生说。“我会做所有的科学可以完成的。但每当我的病人开始数多少马车送她出丧，我从药物的疗效减去50分。”医生走后，苏走进工作室哭了。然后她走进琼珊的房间她的画板，吹着欢快的曲调。

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a movement under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. She was looking out and counting — counting backward.

“Twelve,” she said, and a little later “eleven”; and then “ten,” and “nine”; and then “eight” and “seven,” almost together.

Sue looked 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 climbed half way up the brick

brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had blown away its leaves, leaving it almost bare.

“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.”

That leave s just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I’ll go, too. 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 miner. I’ll not be gone a minute. ”

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a long white beard curling down over his chest. Despite looking the part, Behrman was a failure in art. For forty years he had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it.

He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists 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 mocked terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as guard dog to the two young artists in the studio above.约翰西躺在被子下几乎一动不动，脸朝着窗。她正望着，数着计数。

“十二，”她说，“十一”，然后“十”和“九”，然后“八”和“七”，几乎在一起。

苏朝窗外望去。那里算什么？那里只有一个光秃秃的，沉闷的院子里，二十英尺以外的砖家的空白边。一个古老的常春藤爬上一半的砖

砖墙。秋天的寒冷的气息吹走了它的叶子，它几乎光秃秃的。

“六，”琼西说，几乎在耳语。“他们现在正在下降。三天以前，几乎一百。我的头痛要数他们。但现在很容易。还有另一个。现在只有五个了。”

那只剩下四。我想看到最后一个下降之前，它变得黑暗。然后我也会去。我厌倦了等待。我厌倦了思考。我想把我的一切都变松，去航海，下来，就像那些可怜的，疲惫的叶子一样。

“试着睡觉，”苏。“我必须打电话给贝尔曼，我的老矿工的模式。我不会走一分钟。“

老贝尔曼是一个画家，他住在地下的底层。他是六十，有一个长长的白色胡须卷曲在他的胸部。尽管看了这一部分，贝尔曼是一个失败的艺术。四十年来，他一直想画一幅杰作，但还没有开始它。

他为那些无法支付专业价格的年轻艺术家们提供了一个小小的服务。他喝了酒，还谈到了他即将到来的杰作。其余的他是一个凶猛的小老头，他在任何一个温柔的时候都嘲笑他，他认为自己是在工作室里的两个年轻的艺术家。

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of gin in his dimly lighted studio 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.shouted his contempt for such foolish imaginings.

“What!” he cried. “Are there people in the world foolish enough to die because leafs drop off from a vine? I have never heard of such a thing. Why do you allow such silly ideas to come into that head of hers? God! This is not a place in which one so good as Miss Johnsy should lie sick. Some day I will paint a masterpiece, and we shall all go away. Yes.”

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down, 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 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 wind that had endured through the night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its edges colored yellow, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet above the ground.

苏发现贝尔曼散发着强烈的杜松子酒在他的光线昏暗的工作室下面。在一个角落里有一个画架上，早已等候在那里的二十五年收到的杰作的第一行空白的画布。

她把琼西的胡思乱想告诉了他，她是多么担心她会，事实上，光和脆弱的自己，一片叶子飘走了，当她抓住世界越来越小。老贝尔曼，与他的红眼睛清楚。他对这种愚蠢念头轻蔑喊道。

“什么！“他哭了。“世界上有笨死的人因为叶子从藤上掉落？我从未听说过这样的事。你为什么会允许这种愚蠢的想法出现在她的头上？神！这不是一个像约翰西小姐这样的好姑娘躺倒生病。总有一天我会画一幅杰作，我们都要走了。是的。”

他们上楼时，琼西正睡着觉。苏把窗帘拉下，示意贝尔曼到另一间屋子。在那里他们担心地瞥着窗外的常春藤。然后，他们彼此看了看对方一刻不说话。一个持续的，寒冷的雨落下，夹杂着雪。贝尔曼，在他的旧的蓝衬衣，坐在一个岩石上翘的壶矿工。

当苏醒了一个小时的觉，隔天早上她发现琼西无神的眼睛睁得大大的，注视着拉下的绿窗帘。“把它拉起来，我想看看，”她命令道，轻声说。

苏疲倦地照办了。

但是，瞧！风雨过后，狂风大得经过一夜，一片常春藤，一片常春藤。这是最后一次的葡萄藤。靠近茎部仍然是深绿色，但边缘泛黄了，它无所畏惧地挂在离地二十英尺的一个分支。

“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

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.

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 soup 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 soup now, and some milk with a little port in it and — no; bring bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook.”

An 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 b e made more comfortable.”

“The next day the doctor said to Sue: “She’s out of danger. You’ve won. The right food and care now —that’s all.”

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay and put one arm around her.

“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. He was found on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy co ld. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on

such a terrible night. And then they found a lantern, stilling

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 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.”

这是最后一个，”琼西。“我想，它肯定会在夜间下降。我听到风。今天会落下，我会死在同一时间

这一天逐渐消失，甚至穿过黄昏，他们可以看到一片孤零零的常春藤叶，紧贴着它的茎干。然后，在晚上又是北风，松开。

当它被光琼西，无情的，命令把窗帘拉下。

常春藤叶仍然在那里。

琼西躺着对它看了许久。然后她打电话给苏，谁在煤气灶上搅了她的鸡汤。

“我是一个坏女孩，苏艾，”琼西。“有什么使那最后一片叶子留在那里，让我知道我是多么邪恶。要死是一种罪过。你可以给我一点汤，还有一些牛奶带一个小的端口，没有，带

先给我拿一把手镜，然后给我包些枕头，我会坐起来看你做饭。”

一小时后她说：

“苏艾，我希望有一天能去画那不勒斯的海湾。”

下午医生来了，苏找了个借口，离开了走廊。

“甚至有可能，”医生说，带着苏的薄，颤抖的手在他的。

“有了良好的护理，你会赢的。现在，我必须看到另一个情况下，我有楼下。贝尔曼，他的名字是一个艺术家，我相信。肺炎，太。他是一个老的，软弱的人，攻击是严重的。他没有希望，但今天他去医院做了更舒服的工作。”

“第二天，医生对苏说：”她脱离了危险。你赢了。正确的饮食和照顾，这是所有的。”

那天下午，苏来到约翰西的床头，把她一把抱住。

“我有话要告诉你，白老鼠，”她说。“贝尔曼先生今天在医院死于肺炎。他病了只有2天了。他被发现在他房间的第一天上午在楼下的无奈与痛苦。他的鞋子和衣服都湿透了，冰冷的。他们无法想象他在这样一个可怕的夜晚。然后他们发现了一个灯笼，消力池

还点着一架梯子，从它的地方拖出来，一些零星的刷子，一个绿色和黄色的调色板混合在上面，亲爱的，在墙上的最后一片常春藤。你不知道不知道为什么它不飘不动的时候，风吹的？啊，亲爱的，这是贝尔曼的杰作，他在那儿把最后一片叶子落下的那晚漆成了它。