你发现了吗，我们身边总有那么一些爱的天使，给我们以帮助、鼓励，让我们体会到爱的无私和圣洁。当你的心也被无私和圣洁所充满时，你就站在了真正的爱之门前了。
Unconditional Love 无条件的爱
The following story took place long ago in Israel. One day when government officials were rebuilding a barn， they found a mouse hole in a corner and used smoke to force the mice inside the hole to come out. A while later they indeed saw mice running out， one after another.
Then， everyone thought that all the mice had escaped. But just as they just about to start to clean up， they saw two mice squeezing out at the exit of the hole. After some endeavor， the mice finally got out. The strange thing was that after they came out of the hole， they did not run away immediately. Instead， one chased after the other near the exit of the hole. It seemed that one was trying to bite the tail of the other.
Everyone was puzzled， so they stepped closer to take a look. They realized that one of the mice was blind and could not see anything， and the other one was trying to allow the blind mouse to bite on his tail so he could pull the blind one with him to escape.
After witnessing what happened， everyone was speechless and lost in thought. During meal time， the group of people sat down in a circle and started to chat about what happened to the two mice.
One serious Rome official said： “I think the relationship between those two mice was that of emperor and minister.” The others thought for a while and said： “That was why！” Thus the Rome official showed his arrogance superciliously.
A smart Israeli said： “I think the relationship between those two mice was husband and wife.” Again the others thought for a while， and all felt it made sense； so they expressed assent. Therefore， the Israeli’s countenance showed self-satisfaction.
A Chinese， who was accustomed to the firm tradition of loyalty to parents， said： “I think the relationship between those two mice was that of mother and son.” Once again the others thought for a while， and felt this was more reasonable. So they expressed assent yet another time. Therefore， the face of the Chinese conveyed professional humility.
At that moment， one pure-minded Samaritan who was squatted on the ground resting his chin in his palms， bewilderedly looked at other people， and asked： “Why did those two mice have to have a certain relationship？”
Suddenly， the atmosphere froze. Stupefied， the group looked back at the Samaritan and remained speechless. The Rome official， the Israeli and the Chinese who had spoken earlier all lowered their heads in shame， and did not dare to respond.
In fact， the true love is not established on benefit， friendship and loyalty or blood relationship. Instead， it is based on no relationship.
很久以前，在以色列发生了以下一段故事：有一天当政府人员在翻新谷仓时，发现墙角有一个老鼠洞，于是众人用烟熏的方式，希望逼使里面的老鼠出来。待了一会，果然看到老鼠一只只地逃窜出来。
众人正忖度老鼠大概已经逃光了，可以上前打扫之际，却见还有两只老鼠在洞口处推挤，经过一番努力，双双才逃出来。但很奇怪的是，两只老鼠出了洞口以后，却不立时逃走，而是在洞口附近互相追赶，像是要咬对方的尾巴似的。
众人都很纳闷，便走上前去细看，这才发现原来其中一只老鼠瞎眼看不见，而另一只正设法使对方咬着自己的尾巴，然后带领同伴一起逃走。
众人见状，都默然不语，陷入沉思中。吃饭的时候，众人又围着坐下，并开始讨论刚才的两只老鼠。
严肃的罗马官长说：“我认为刚才的两只老鼠是君臣主仆的关系。”众人思考一会后说：“原来如此！”于是罗马官兵摆出一副高傲的模样。
聪明的以色列人说：“我认为刚才的两只老鼠是夫妇关系。”众人又思考了一会，觉得不错，连声称是。于是以色列人露出一副飘飘然得意的嘴脸。
强调孝义的中国人说：“我认为刚才的两只老鼠是母子关系。”众人又思考了一会，更觉合理，又连声称是。于是中国人的脸上立时堆满了专业的谦虚。
此时，单纯的撒玛利亚人蹲在地上托着下巴，呆呆地望着众人，问道：“为什么两只老鼠一定要有什么关系呢？”
空气在剎那之间凝固了，众人呆呆地望着这个撒玛利亚人，不发一语。先前说话的罗马官长、以色列人和中国人都面露惭色地低下头不敢作声。
事实上，真正的爱并非建基于利益、情义或血缘的关系上，而是建基于“没有任何关系”上。
The Praying Hands祈祷之手
Back in the fifteenth century， in a tiny village near Nuremberg， lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen！ In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob， the father and head of the household， a goldsmith by profession， worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition， two of the Albrecht Durer’s elder children had the same dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art， but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy.
After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed， the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and， with his earnings， support his brother while he attended the academy. Then， when that brother who won the toss completed his studies， in four years， he would support the other brother at the academy， either with sales of his artwork or， if necessary， also by laboring the mines.
They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and， for the next four years， financed his brother， whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht’s etchings， his woodcuts， and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors， and by the time he graduated， he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works.
When the young artist returned to his village， the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht’s triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal， punctuated with music and laughter， Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were， “And now， Albert， blessed brother of mine， now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream， and I will take care of you.”
All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat， tears streaming down his pale face， shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated， over and over， “No ...no ...no ...no.”
Finally， Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved， and then， holding his hands close to his right cheek， he said softly， “No， brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look... look what four years in the mines has done to my hands！ The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once， and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast， much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No， brother ... for me it is too late.”
More than 450 years have passed. By now， Albrecht Durer’s hundreds of masterful portraits， pen and silver-point sketches， watercolors， charcoals， woodcuts， and copper engravings hang in every great museum， but the odds are great that you， like most people， are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer’s works. More than merely being familiar with it， you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office.
One day， to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed， Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother’s abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply “Hands，” but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love “The Praying Hands.”
The next time you see a copy of that touching creation， take a second look. Let it be your reminder， if you still need one， that no one—no one ever makes it alone！
十五世纪时，在德国纽伦堡附近的一个小村庄里，住了一个有十八个孩子的家庭。十八个！父亲是一名冶金匠，为了维持一家生计，他每天工作十八个小时。生活尽管窘迫逼人，然而都爵家其中两个年长的孩子却有着同样的梦想。他们两人都希望可以发展自己在艺术方面的天份。不过他们也了解，父亲无法在经济上供他们俩到纽伦堡艺术学院读书。
晚上，两兄弟在床上经过多次讨论后，得出结论：以掷铜板决定──胜者到艺术学院读书，败者则到附近的矿场工作赚钱；四年后，在矿场工作的那一个再到艺术学院读书，由学成毕业那一个赚钱支持。如果需要，可能也要到矿场工作。
星期日早上做完礼拜，他们掷了铜板，结果，弟弟亚布瑞秋胜出，去了纽伦堡艺术学院。亚伯特则去了危险的矿场工作，四年来一直为弟弟提供经济支持。亚布瑞秋在艺术学院表现很突出，他的油画简直比教授的还要好。到毕业时，他的作品已经能赚不少钱了。
在这位年轻的艺术家返回家乡的那一天，家人为他准备了盛宴，庆祝他学成归来。当漫长而难忘的宴席快要结束时，伴随着音乐和笑声，亚布瑞秋起身答谢敬爱的亚伯特几年来对他的支持，他说：“现在轮到你了，亲爱的亚伯特，我会全力支持你到纽伦堡艺术学院攻读，实现你的梦想！”
所有的目光都急切地转移到桌子的另一端，坐在那里的亚伯特双泪直流，只见他垂下头，边摇头边重复说着：“不……不……”
终于，亚伯特站了起来他，擦干脸颊上的泪水，看了看长桌两边他所爱的亲友们的脸，把双手移近右脸颊，说：“不，亚布瑞秋，我上不了纽伦堡艺术学院了。太迟了。看看我的双手──四年来在矿场工作，毁了我的手，关节动弹不得，现在我的手连举杯为你庆贺也不可能，何况是挥动画笔或雕刻刀呢？不，亚布瑞秋……已经太迟了……”
四百五十多年过去了，亚布瑞秋有成千上百部的杰作流传下来，他的速写、素描、水彩画、木刻、铜刻等可以在世界各地博物馆找到；然而，大多数人最为熟悉的，却是其中的一件作品。也许，你的家里或者办公室里就悬挂着一件它的复制品。
为了补偿亚伯特所做的牺牲，表达对亚伯特的敬意，一天，亚布瑞秋下了很大的工夫把亚伯特合起的粗糙的双手刻了下来。他把这幅伟大的作品简单地称为“双手”，然而，全世界的人都立刻敞开心扉，瞻仰这幅杰作，把这幅爱的作品重新命名为“祈祷之手”。
下次当你看到这幅感人的作品，仔细看一下。如果你也需要这么一幅画，就让它成为你的提醒，没有人──没有人能单枪匹马地获得成功！
If This Is Not Love假如这都不算爱
A girl and a boy were on a motorcycle， speeding through the night.
They loved each other a lot…
Girl： Slow down a little. I’m scared...
Boy： No， it’s so fun...
Girl： Please... it’s so scary...
Boy： Then say that you love me...
Girl： Fine... I love you... Can you slow down now？
Boy： Give me a big hug...
The girl gave him a big hug.
Girl： Now can you slow down？
Boy： Can you take off my helmet and put it on？ It’s uncomfortable and it’s bothering me while I drive.
Then next day， there was a story in the newspaper： a motorcycle had crashed into a building because its brakes were broken.
There were two people on the motorcycle， of which one died， and the other had survived...
The guy knew that the brakes were broken. He didn’t want to let the girl know， because he knew that the girl would have gotten scared.
Instead， he was told the last time that she loved him， got a hug from her， put his helmet on her so that she can live， and die himself...
Once in a while， right in the middle of an ordinary life， love gives us a fairytale...
一天夜里，男孩骑摩托车带着女孩超速行驶。
他们彼此深爱着对方。
女孩：慢一点……我怕……
男孩：不，这样很有趣……
女孩：求求你……这样太吓人了……
男孩：好吧，那你说你爱我……
女孩：好……我爱你……你现在可以慢下来了吗？
男孩：紧紧抱我一下……
女孩紧紧拥抱了他一下。
女孩：现在你可以慢下来了吧？
男孩：你可以脱下我的头盔并自己戴上吗？它让我感到不舒服，还干扰我驾车。
第二天，报纸报道：一辆摩托车因为刹车失灵而撞毁在一幢建筑物上。
车上有两个人，一个死亡，一个幸存……
驾车的男孩知道刹车失灵，但他没有让女孩知道，因为那样会让女孩感到害怕。
相反，他让女孩最后一次说她爱他，最后一次拥抱他，并让她戴上自己的头盔，结果，女孩活着，他自己死了……
就在一会儿的时间里，就在平常的生活里，爱向我们展示了一个神话。
Beautiful， She Said 真漂亮，她说
I never thought that I understood her. She always seemed so far away from me. I loved her， of course. We shared mutual love from the day I was born. I came into this world with a bashed head and deformed features because of the hard labor my mother had gone through. Family members and friends wrinkled their noses at the disfigured baby I was. They all commented on how much I looked like a beat-up football player. But no， not her. Nana thought I was beautiful. Her eyes twinkled with splendor and happiness at the ugly baby in her arms. Her first granddaughter. “Beautiful”， she said.
Before final exams in my junior year of high school， she died. Seven years ago， her doctors diagnosed Nana with Alzheimer’s disease. Seven years ago， our family became experts on this disease as， slowly， we lost her.
She always spoke in fragmented sentences. As the years passed， the words she spoke became fewer and fewer， until finally she said nothing at all. We were lucky to get one occasional word out of her. It was then our family knew she was near the end.
About a week or so before she died， she lost the abilities for her body to function at all， and the doctors decided to move her to a hospice. A hospice！ Where those who entered would never come out.
I told my parents I wanted to see her. I had to see her. My uncontrollable curiosity had taken a step above my gut-wrenching fear.
My mother brought me to the hospice two days after my request. My grandfather and two of my aunts were there as well， but all hung back in the hallway as I entered Nana’s room. She was sitting in a big， fluffy chair next to her bed， slouched over， eyes shut， mouth numbly hanging open. The morphine was keeping her asleep. My eyes darted around the room at the windows， the flowers， and the way Nana looked. I was struggling very hard to take it all in， knowing that this would be the last time I ever saw her alive.
I slowly sat down across from her. I took her left hand and held it in mine， brushing a stray lock of golden hair away from her face. I just sat and stared， motionless， in front of her， unable to feel anything. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I could not get over how awful she looked sitting there， helpless.
Then it happened. Her little hand wrapped around mine tighter and tighter. Her voice began what sounded like a soft howl. She seemed to be crying in pain. And then， she spoke.
“Jessica，” Plain as day. My name. Mine. Out of four children， two son-in-laws， one daughter-in-law， and six grandchildren， she knew it was me.
At that moment， it was like someone was showing a family filmstrip in my head. I saw Nana at my baptizing. I saw her at my fourteen dance recitals. I saw her bringing me roses and beaming with pride. I saw her tap dancing on our kitchen floor. I saw her pointing at her own wrinkled cheeks and telling me that it was from her that I inherited my big dimples. I saw her playing games with us grandkids while the other adults ate Thanksgiving dinner. I saw her sitting with me in my living room at Christmas time admiring our brightly decorated tree.
I then looked at her as she was...and I cried.
I knew she would never see my final senior dance recital. I knew she would never see me cheer for another football game. I knew she would never sit with me and admire our Christmas tree again. I knew she would never see me go off to my senior prom. I knew she would never see me graduate high school or college or see me get married. And I knew she would never be there the day my first child was born. This made tear after tear roll down my face.
But above all， I cried because I finally knew how she had felt the day I had been born. She had looked through what she saw on the outside and looked to the inside and saw ... a life.
I slowly released her hand from mine and brushed away the tears staining her cheeks， and mine. I stood， leaned over， and kissed her.
“You look beautiful”， I said.
And with one long last look， I turned and left the hospice.
我以为我从来就不了解她。她仿佛离我很遥远。当然，我爱她。从我出生那天起我们就爱护彼此。因为母亲难产，我生下来便头部受伤，面貌丑陋。家人和朋友对我这个畸形婴儿不屑一顾，他们都评论说我看起来多么像一个蓬头垢面的足球运动员。但是，她没有。祖母认为我很漂亮。看着怀中丑陋的婴儿，她的眼睛变得光彩夺目，幸福万分。这是她第一个孙女啊。“真漂亮”，她说。
在我高一期末考试之前，她去世了。七年前，她的医生就诊断出奶奶患了早老性痴呆症；七年前，我们家就成为这种疾病的专家，然而，逐渐地，我们还是失去了她。
她说话的时候总是断断续续。一年年过去了，她说的话也越来越少，直到最后一个字也说不出了。偶尔能听到她说出一个字我们就觉得运气很好了。那时我们家才意识到她的一生走到终点了。
她去世前一个星期，身体就完全不能自理了，医生们决定把她送到收容所。收容所！进到那里面的人没有活着出来的。
我告诉父母我想去看她。我必须见到她。我抑制不住的好奇心战胜了压抑勇气的恐惧。
在我请求两天之后妈妈带我去了收容所。祖父和两个姑姑也去了那里，但当我走进奶奶的房间里时，他们都在走廊里止步了。祖母坐在一个靠近她床的松软的大椅子里，无精打采地坐着，闭着眼睛，嘴巴麻木地张开着。吗啡使她处于睡眠状态。我的眼神快速地移动，留意着窗户、花卉以及祖母看人的眼神。我艰难地接受着这一切，心里明白这将是我最后一次见到祖母了。
我慢慢地在她对面坐下来，拿起她的左手，握在我的手心里，拂去她脸上一缕零散的金发。我就坐在她面前，一动不动地看着她，没有任何感觉。我张了张嘴，却什么也没有说。我无法接受她坐在那里的糟糕情形，那么无助。
接着，她的小手把我的手抓得越来越紧。她开始说话，听起来好似轻柔的呼叫。她好像要痛苦地哭起来。然后，她说话了：
“杰西卡，”清晰明白。我的名字，是在叫我！在四个孩子、两个女婿、一个儿媳、六个孙子中，她认出是我了。
那一刻，就好像有人在我脑子里放映家庭电影一样。我看到祖母为我洗礼；我看到她出现在我十四岁那年的独舞表演上；我看到她满脸自豪地带给我玫瑰；我看到她在厨房的地板上跳踢踏舞；我看到她指着自己布满皱纹的脸颊告诉我说我的大酒窝就是从她那里继承的；我看到当其他大人都在吃感恩节晚餐时她在跟孙儿孙女们玩游戏。我看到在圣诞节时她和我坐在我的卧室里赞美我们装饰明亮的圣诞树。
现在我看着她，就像以前她看我一样……我哭了。
我知道她再也看不到我最后的毕业独舞表演了；我知道她再也看不到我为另一场足球赛欢呼了；我知道她再也不会和我坐在一起欣赏圣诞树了；我知道她再也不会去参加我的毕业舞会了；我知道她再也看不到我高中毕业、大学毕业，也看不到我结婚了；我知道她再也看不到我第一个孩子出世了。想到此，我的眼泪不停地顺着脸颊流下来。
然而我之所以哭泣，主要是因为我终于明白我出生那天她的感受了。她仔细地看了外部更注意到了内部，她看到的是一个小生命。
我慢慢地放开了她的手，擦了擦弄脏她脸颊以及我的脸颊的泪水。然后我站起来，弯下身子亲了亲她。
“你看起来真漂亮”，我说。
最后我久久地凝视了她一眼，转身离开了收容所。
Roses From Heaven来自天堂的玫瑰
Red roses were her favorites， her name was also Rose. And every year her husband sent them， tied with pretty bows. The year he died， the roses were delivered to her door. The card said， “Be my valentine，” like all the year？before.
Each year he sent her roses， and the note would always say， “I love you even more this year， than last year on this day. My love for you will always grow， with every passing years.” She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear.
She thought， he ordered roses in advance before this day. Her loving husband did not know that he would pass away. He always liked to do things early， way before the time. Then， if he got too busy， everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems， and places them in a very special vase. Then， sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face. She would sit for hours， in her husband’s favorite chair. While staring at his picture， and the roses sitting there.
A year went by， and it was hard to live without her mate. With loneliness and solitude， that had become her fate. Then， the very hour， as on Valentine’s Day before， the doorbell rang， and there were roses， sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in， and then just looked at them in shock. Then， went to get the telephone， to call the florist shop. The owner answered. She asked him if he would explain why would someone do this to her， causing her such pain？
“I know your husband passed away， more than a year ago，” The own said. “I knew you’d call， and you would want to know. The flowers you received today were paid for in advance. Your husband always planned ahead， he left nothing to chance. There is a standing order， that I have one file down here， and he has paid， well in advance， you’ll get them every year. There also is another thing that I think you should know， he wrote a special little card he did this year ago. Then， should ever， I find out that he’s no longer here. That’s the card that should be sent to you the following year.” She thanked him and hung up the phone， her tears now flowing hard.
Her fingers shaking， as she slowlyreached to get the card. Inside the card， he says that he had written her a note. Then， as she stared in total silence， this is what he wrote：
“Hello my love， I know it’s been a year since I’ve been gone， I hope it hasn’t been too hard for you to overcome. I know it must be lonely， and the pain is very real. For if it was the other way， I know how I would feel. The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life. I loved you more than words can say， you were the perfect wife. You were my friend and lover， you fulfilled my every need. I know it’s only been a year， but please try not to grieve. I want you to be happy， even when you shed your tears. That is why the roses will be sent to you for years. When you get these roses， think of all the happiness that we had together， and how both of us were blessed. I have always loved you and I know I always will. But， my love， you must go on， you have some living still. Please try to find happiness， while living out your days， I know it is not easy， but I hope you find some ways. The roses will come every year， and they will only stop， when your door’s not answered， when the florist stops to knock. He will come five times that day， in case you have gone out. But after his last visit， he will know without a doubt， to take the roses to the place， where I’ve instructed him， and place the roses where we are， together once agian.”
红玫瑰是她的最爱，她的名字也叫玫瑰，每年他都会送给她玫瑰花，上面系着漂亮的蝴蝶结。他过世那年，玫瑰花仍然送到她家门口，玫瑰上的卡片像每年一样，照旧写着：“送给我的恋人！”
以往每一年他送她玫瑰的时候，卡片总是这样写的：“我爱你，甚至今年的这一天要比去年的多，我对你的爱无时无刻不在心中滋长！”她知道这次是她最后一次收到玫瑰。
她想，他总是在情人节前几天预定这些玫瑰，她那充满爱心的丈夫不知道自己将会离开。他总喜欢提前安排好事情，这样，如果他忙起来的话，每一件事情也会进行地顺利。
她修剪了一下花的根部，把它们插进一个非常别致的花瓶里面，然后把花瓶安置在她丈夫遗照旁边，照片上的他面带微笑。她经常会坐在他最喜欢的椅子上，凝视着他那张照片，旁边就是那些玫瑰花。
就这样，一年过去了。没有老伴儿的日子是艰难的，只有孤单和寂寞陪伴着她。在情人节快要到来之前的那个非常时刻，门铃响了，一束玫瑰花静静地躺在她的门口。
她把那束玫瑰花拿到屋里，惊讶地看着它。然后走到电话前，拿起电话，拨通了花店的号码。店主接的电话，她问到是否可以解释一下为什么会有人这样对她，让她如此痛苦。
花店老板说：“我知道你丈夫一年前已经去世，我知道你会打电话问我是怎么回事。你今天收到的花是预定好的，你丈夫总是提前计划好一切，他从不会有任何侥幸心理。我这儿有个长期订单，就在这儿。你丈夫他已经很早前就付清。你会每年这个时候收到玫瑰花的。还有一件事你必须知道，他在一年多前写下了一张特殊的小卡片。接着，我就得知他过世的消息。这就是本应该在今年送给你的卡片。”她谢过店主，挂上电话，眼泪不由自主地流了出来。
她手指颤动着缓慢地拿起那张卡片，在卡片里她看到了他留下的那个笔迹，在她静静的目光下，上面写着：
“我的爱人，我知道我离开你有一年了，我希望，没有我的日子你依然过得很好。我知道你现在很孤单，心很痛。如果有一种方法，我愿意去感觉你心底的孤单和痛楚。我们分享着所有美好的事情。我无法用言语表达我有多么爱你，你是一个完美的妻子。你是我的朋友和爱人，你给我所需要的一切，我知道仅仅过去了一年，但是请试着不要悲伤，我想要你快乐，甚至在你流下眼泪的时候，这就是我为什么要在以后每年送你玫瑰的原因。当你收到玫瑰的时候，想想我们在一起的快乐时光和我们得到的祝福，我总是这样地爱你，将来我也是！但是我的爱人，你必须走下去，你仍然需要生活。请试着寻找快乐，当我不在你身边的时候，我知道这不是很容易，但是我希望你能用一些方法做到，玫瑰花每年都会送到，直到按你门铃没有人应答或花店关门，每年情人节哪天他们会来五次，万一你不在。但是在第五次之后，他们就会确定，把玫瑰拿到我指定的地方，那里埋葬着我们，像曾经一样！”
Scars Of Love爱的伤疤
Some years ago on a hot summer day in south Florida a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind his house.
In a hurry to dive into the cool water， he ran out the back door， leaving behind shoes， socks， and shirt as he went. He flew into the water， not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake， an alligator was swimming toward the shore. His mother—in the house was looking out the window—saw the two as they got closer and closer together. In utter fear， she ran toward the water， yelling to her son as loudly as she could.
Hearing her voice， the little boy became alarmed and made a U-turn to swim to his mother. It was too late. Just as he reached her， the alligator reached him.
From the dock， the mother grabbed her little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs. That began an incredible tug-of-war between the two. The alligator was much stronger than the mother， but the mother was much too passionate to let go. A farmer happened to drive by， heard her screams， raced from his truck， took aim and shot the alligator.
Remarkably， after weeks and weeks in the hospital， the little boy survived. His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal and， on his arms， were deep scratches where his mother’s fingernails dug into his flesh in her effort to hang on to the son she loved.
The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma， asked if he would show him his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs. And then， with obvious pride， he said to the reporter；But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms， too. I have them because my mom wouldn‘t let go.
You and I can identify with that little boy. We have scars， too. No， not from an alligator， or anything quite so dramatic. But， the scars of a painful past. Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret. But， some wounds， my friend， are because God has refused to let go. In the midst of your struggle， He‘s been there holding on to you. The Scripture teaches that God loves you. If you have Christ in your life， you have become a child of God. He wants to protect you and provide for you in everyway.
But sometimes we foolishly wade into dangerous situations. The swimming hole of life is filled with peril， and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack. That’s when the tug-of-war begins—and if you have the scars of his love on your arms—be very， very grateful.
几年前的一个炎炎夏日，在美国佛罗里达州南部，有个小男孩为贪图凉快，决定去自家房子后面一个形成已久的深水潭中游泳。
因为迫不及待地想投入到清凉的水中，他飞快地从后门跑了出去，边跑边脱掉鞋子、袜子和衬衣，把它们随手抛在了身后。他一头扎进了水里，丝毫没有意识到自己游往潭中心的同时，一只美洲鳄也正在朝岸边游来。小男孩的母亲当时在屋子里透过窗子向外看着，发现那只美洲鳄正向她的孩子步步逼近。她极度惊恐起来，一边迅速奔向水潭，一边声嘶力竭地朝自己的孩子呼喊着。
听到她的呼喊，小男孩才猛然意识到了危险，立即掉头向岸边的母亲游去。可这时已经无济于事。他的手勉强刚够到他的母亲，鳄鱼也已经接触到了他。
母亲在岸上拼命地拽紧儿子的手臂，而此时美洲鳄也死死地咬住孩子的腿不放。为了争夺小男孩，母亲和鳄鱼之间俨然展开了一场让人难以置信的拔河较量。美洲鳄的力气显然要比母亲强大得多，但是母亲挽救儿子的坚定信念让她无论如何也绝不放手。就在这万分危急的关头，一位农夫恰巧驾车经过，一听到孩子母亲的尖叫便飞速从卡车上跳下，瞄准鳄鱼并开枪将其射杀。
值得庆幸的是，经过医院数周的抢救治疗，小男孩居然存活了下来。鳄鱼凶残的袭击在他的腿上刻下了触目惊心的伤痕。不仅如此，他的双臂上也留下了深深的抓痕，那是在生死关头母亲为了牢牢抓住挚爱的儿子，以至于手指甲都掐入了儿子的肉中所留下的。
事后，这位死里逃生的小男孩接受了一位报社记者的采访。当记者问他是否愿意让大家看看他身上的伤疤时，小男孩挽起了自己的裤腿，腿上深深的疤痕暴露无遗。紧接着，他满脸自豪地告诉记者，“大家还是看看我的手臂吧，我的手臂上也有好多伤疤呢。这是妈妈不放开我，在救我的时候留下的。”
看了这个小男孩的故事后，人们都能感同身受。其实我们每个人身上都有伤疤。只不过并不是被鳄鱼咬的，或任何如此戏剧性事件所造成，而是过往的痛苦经历所留下的。那些伤疤是如此难看，让人深感懊悔。但是，我的朋友，你可曾想过有些伤口是一些不想放弃你的人造成的。在你挣扎的过程中，那些爱你的人为了拉住你，才在你身上留下了这些伤疤。
在人生之路上，有时我们会愚蠢地步入危险的境地，全然不知前方是什么情况。生活的水潭危机四伏，而我们总忘了潜在的敌人在伺机而动。当较量开始的时候——如果你的手臂上有爱的伤疤——你应该心怀感激，因为在你的生命中有人不曾也永远不会放弃你。
Right Beside You 身边总有你
The passengers on the bus watched sympathetically as the young woman with the white cane made her way carefully up the steps. She paid the driver and then， using her hands to feel the location of the seats， settled in to one. She placed her briefcase on her lap and rested her cane against her leg.
It had been a year since Susan， thirty-four， became blind. As the result of a medical accident she was sightless， suddenly thrown into a world of darkness， anger， frustration and self-pity. All she had to cling to was her husband Mark.
Mark was an Air Force officer and he loved Susan with all his heart. When she first lost her sight， he watched her sink into despair and he became determined to use every means possible to help his wife.
Finally， Susan felt ready to return to her job， but how would she get there？ She used to take the bus， but she was now too frightened to get around the city by herself. Mark volunteered to ride the bus with Susan each morning and evening until she got the hang of it. And that is exactly what happened.
For two weeks， Mark， military uniform from head to feet， accompanied Susan to and from work each day. He taught her how to rely on her other senses， specifically her hearing， to determine where she was and how to adapt to her new environment. He helped her befriend the bus drivers who could watch out for her， and save her a seat.
Each morning they made the journey together， and Mark would take a taxi back to his office. Although that meant he had to travel through the city and the routine was costly and exhausting， Mark knew it was only a matter of time before Susan would be able to ride the bus on her own. He believed in her.
Finally， Susan decided that she was ready to try the trip on her own. Monday morning arrived. Before she left， she embraced her husband tightly. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude for his loyalty， his patience， and his love. She said goodbye and， for the first time， they went their separate ways. Monday， Tuesday， Wednesday， Thursday... Each day on her own went perfectly， and a wild gaiety took hold of Susan. She was doing it！ She was going to work all by herself！
On Friday morning， Susan took the bus to work as usual. As she was exiting the bus， the driver said， “Miss， I sure envy you.” Curious， Susan asked the driver why.
“You know， every morning for the past week， a fine looking gentleman in a military uniform has been standing across the corner watching you when you get off the bus. He makes sure you cross the street safely and he watches you until you enter your office building. Then he blows you a kiss， gives you a salute and walks away. You are one lucky lady，” the bus driver said.
Tears of happiness poured down Susan’s cheeks. She was so lucky for he had given her a gift more powerful than sight， a gift she didn’t need to see to believe—the gift of love that can bring light where there is darkness.
当这个手持白杖的年轻女子小心翼翼地上车时，车上的乘客都向她投去怜悯的目光。她向司机付了车费之后，双手摸索着座位，然后坐好，把公文包放在膝盖上，手杖靠着腿。
34岁的苏珊失明已有一年了。一起医疗事故夺去了她的视力，她顿时陷入黑暗之中，内心充满愤怒、沮丧，还有顾影自怜，而她可以依靠的只有她的丈夫马克了。
马克是名空军军官，他深爱着苏珊。苏珊失明的头些日子，他眼睁睁地看着妻子陷入绝望，心里打定主意，要尽一切办法帮助她。
苏珊终于愿意重返工作岗位了。可她怎么去上班呢？以前都是乘公交车去的，但是她现在很害怕，自己一个人不敢在城里转。于是马克自告奋勇早晚坐公车接送，直到她可以一个人应付。这就是事情的经过。
整整两周，马克每天都一身戎装，陪着苏珊一起上下班，教她怎么凭借其他感官，尤其是听觉，判断她所处的位置，以及如何适应新的环境。他还帮她与司机交好，这样司机就能照顾她，并给她留个座位。
每天早上，他们都一起同行，然后马克再乘出租车回去上班。尽管马克得穿过整座城市，而且疲惫不堪，又花费不菲，但是他坚信苏珊一定能独立乘车的，只是时间问题。
最后，苏珊决定自己独自坐车上班。星期一上午，临行前，她紧紧地拥抱着自己的丈夫，眼里蓄满了感激的泪水，感谢他的忠诚，他的耐心，还有他的爱。她向他道了别，他们第一次朝着不同的方向走去。周一、周二、周三、周四……每天她的独行之旅都很顺利，苏珊感到一阵狂喜。她成功了！她真的能一个人去上班了！
周五早上，苏珊照常乘公共汽车去上班。就要下车了，司机说：“小姐，我真羡慕你啊。”苏珊感到很奇怪，便问司机为什么。
“是这样的，上星期，每天早上都有一个仪表堂堂穿着军装的男士一直站在拐弯处看着你下车，看着你安全地穿过街道，又看着你走进办公楼，他向你飞一个吻，冲你行个礼，然后才动身离去。你真是个幸运的姑娘啊！” 司机说。
苏珊的脸上流下幸福的泪水。她是幸运的，因为马克给了她比视力更珍贵的礼物，一份她不需要看就能体会到的礼物——这就是爱的礼物，它能给黑暗带来光明。
When Love Beckons You 当爱召唤你时
When love beckons to you， follow her， though her ways are hard and steep. And when her wings enfold you， yield to her， though the sword hidden among her pinions may wound you. And when she speaks to you， believe in her， though her voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall she crucify you. Even as she is for your growth so is she for your pruning. Even as she ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun， so shall she descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
But if， in your fear， you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure， then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor， into the reasonless world where you shall laugh， but not all of your laughter， and weep， but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not， nor would it be possessed， for love is sufficient unto love.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must have desires， let these be your desires：
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understandings of love；
And to willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving；
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy；
To return home at eventide with gratitude；
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
当爱召唤你时，请追随她，尽管爱的道路艰难险峻。当爱的羽翼拥抱你时，请顺从她，尽管隐藏在其羽翼之下的剑可能会伤到你。当爱向你诉说时，请相信她，尽管她的声音可能会打破你的梦想，就如同北风吹落花园里所有的花瓣。
爱会给你戴上桂冠，也会折磨你。爱会助你成长，也会给你修枝。爱会上升到枝头，抚爱你在阳光下颤动的嫩枝，也会下潜至根部，撼动你紧抓泥土的根基。
但是，如果你在恐惧中只想寻求爱的平和与快乐，那你就最好掩盖住真实的自我，避开爱的考验，进入不分季节的世界，在那里你将欢笑，但并不是开怀大笑，你将哭泣，但并非尽情地哭。爱只将自己付出，也只得到自己。爱一无所有，也不会为谁所有，因为爱本身就已自足。
爱除了实现自我别无他求。但是如果你爱而又不得不有所求，那就请期望：
将自己融化并像奔流的溪水一般向夜晚吟唱自己优美的曲调；
明了过多的温柔所带来的苦痛；
被自己对爱的理解所伤害；
并情愿快乐地悲伤。
在黎明带着轻快的心醒来并感谢又一个有爱的日子；
在中午休息并品味爱的喜悦；
在黄昏怀着感恩的心回家；
然后为内心所爱之人祈祷，吟唱赞美之歌，并带着祷告和歌声入眠。
In Giving I Connect With Others给予，让你我相连
I have lived with passion and in a hurry， trying to accomplish too many things. I never had time to think about my beliefs until my 28-year-old daughter Paula fell ill. She was in a coma for a year and I took care of her at home， until she died in my arms in December of 1992.
During that year of agony and the following year of my grieving， everything stopped for me. There was nothing to do—just cry and remember. However， that year also gave an opportunity to reflect upon my journey and the principles that hold me together. I discovered that there is consistency in my beliefs， my writing and the way I lead my life. I have not changed， I am still the same girl I was fifty years ago， and the same young woman I was in the seventies. I still lust for life， I am still ferociously independent， I still crave justice and I fall madly in love easily.
Paralyzed and silent in her bed， my daughter Paula taught me a lesson that is now my mantra： You only have what you give. It’s by spending yourself that you become rich.
Paula led a life of service. She worked as a volunteer helping women and children， eight hours a day， six days a week. She never had any money， but she needed very little. When she died she had nothing and she needed nothing. During her illness I had to let go of everything： her laughter， her voice， her grace， her beauty， her company and finally her spirit. When she died I thought I had lost everything. But then I realized I still had the love I had given her. I don’t even know if she was able to receive that love. She could not respond in any way， her eyes were somber pools that reflected no light. But I was full of love and that love keeps growing and multiplying and giving fruit.
The pain of losing my child was a cleansing experience. I had to throw overboard all excess baggage and keep only what is essential. Because of Paula， I don’t cling to anything anymore. Now I like to give much more than to receive. I am happier when I love than when I am loved. I adore my husband， my son， my grandchildren， my mother， my dog， and frankly I don’t know if they even like me. But who cares？ Loving them is my joy.
Give， give， give—what is the point of having experience， knowledge or talent if I don’t give it away？ Of having stories if I don’t tell them to others？ Of having wealth if I don’t share it？ I don’t intend to be cremated with any of it！ It is in giving that I connect with others， with the world and with the divine.
It is in giving that I feel the spirit of my daughter inside me， like a soft presence.
我总是生活在激情和匆忙之中，想做太多的事。直到我28岁的女儿保拉病倒，我才抽出时间去思考我的信仰。她昏迷了整整一年，我在家照料她，直到1992年12月，她在我怀中死去。
在那一年的痛苦和接下来整整一年的悲恸中，我生活中的一切都停止了。我什么都不做——只是哭泣和回忆。然而，这一年也使我得以回顾走过的人生，思考那些支撑我的信念。我发现我的信念原则、我的作品风格和我的生活方式是一贯的。我没有改变，我仍然是五十年前那个女孩，仍然是七十年代那个姑娘。我仍然渴望真正的生活，仍然保持极端的独立，仍然追求正义，仍然轻易地陷入热恋之中。
瘫痪在床、昏迷不醒的女儿教会我并使我坚信的是：给予什么，就拥有什么。只有付出才能使人富有。
女儿的一生都在付出。她是一个帮助妇女和儿童的志愿者，风雨无阻。她没有多少收入，但她所求甚少。在她去世的时候，一无所有，她也一无所求。在她卧床期间，我眼睁睁地看着她的一切都离我远去：她的笑貌，她的音容，她的婉约，她的娇美，她的陪伴，甚至她的灵魂。当她去世的时候，我以为我已经一无所有了。可是后来我意识到，我仍然拥有我给予她的爱。我甚至不知道那个时候她能否感受到我的爱。她无法作出任何反应，她的双眼就像浑浊的水潭，没有一丝光泽。但我心中充满了爱，这种爱生生不息，开花结果。
失去爱女之痛对我而言是一种净化。我必须剔除那些无谓的累赘，留下生命的精髓。因为女儿，我不再是那个什么事情都放不下的人。如今，我希望给予甚于受赠。爱人比被爱更让我欣喜。我爱丈夫，爱儿子，爱孙子，爱母亲，爱我的狗。说实话，我甚至不知道他们是不是喜欢我。但我不在乎，爱他们我就很开心。
给予，给予，给予——如果不彰显，那些经验、学识和天赋有何意义？如果不讲述，那些经历过的故事有何意义？如果不分享，那些财富又有何意义？我可不打算将这些带进棺材。在给予中，我与他人紧紧相连，与世界紧紧相连，与上帝紧紧相连。
在给予中，我仿佛感到女儿的灵魂悄悄地醒来，与我紧紧相连。
Who You Love你爱的是谁
Jim was waiting for the girl whose heart he knew， but whose face he didn’t， the girl with the rose.
“You’ll recognize me，” she wrote， “by the red rose I’ll be wearing on my lapel.” So he was looking for the girl with the red rose.
A young woman in a green suit was coming toward him， her figure long and slim and her eyes were blue as flowers. Almost uncontrollably he made one step closer to her， and just at this moment he saw Hollis Maynell—a woman well past 40. The girl was walking quickly away. He felt as though he split in two， so keen was his desire to follow her， and yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned him and upheld his own.
He did not hesitate. He squared his shoulders and said， “I’m John， and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me； may I take you to dinner？”
The woman smiled， “I don’t know what this is about， son，” she answered， “but the young lady in the green suit begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner， I should tell you that she is waiting for you in the restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test！”
It’s not difficult to admire Miss Maynell’s wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in it’s response to the unattractive.
吉姆正在等一个带着玫瑰花的女孩，他和她深交已久，却素未谋面。
“你会认出我的，”她写道，“我会把一朵红玫瑰别在衣领上。”所以他就在车站寻找那位带着红玫瑰的女孩。
一位身穿绿色衣服的年轻女子向他走来，她身材修长而苗条，眼睛蓝蓝的，美如鲜花。他几乎是不由自主地向她走近。就在那时，他看见了——哈里斯·玛尼尔——一位年过40的女人。女孩很快地走开了。他感觉自己好像被分裂成了两半——他是多么强烈地想跟随这位年轻女子，然而又是如此深深地向往这位在心灵上陪伴他，鼓舞他的女人。
他没有迟疑，挺起胸膛，说道，“我是约翰，你一定是玛尼尔小姐吧。我很高兴你来和我相见，我能请你吃饭吗？”
女人笑了笑，回答说：“孩子，我不知道这是怎么回事，但是那位穿绿衣的年轻女子请求我把这朵玫瑰别在我的外套上面。她说如果你邀请我吃饭的话，我就告诉你她在马路对面的餐厅等你。她说这是一种考验！”
玛尼尔小姐的智慧让人敬佩。一个人对那些平淡无奇的事物的表现恰恰反映出他内心的本质。
The Ideals Of Love理想的爱
Love is often nothing but a favorable exchange between two people who get the most of what they can expect， considering their value on the personality market.
Immature love says “I love you because I need you.” Mature love says “I need you because I love you.” Let your mind start a journey thru a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the world you know before. Let your soul take you where you long to be… Close your eyes， let your spirit start to soar， and you’ll live as you’ve never lived before.
As long as anyone believes that his ideal and purpose is outside him， that it is above the clouds， in the past or in the future， he will go outside himself and seek fulfillment where is cannot be found. He will look for solutions and answers at every point except where they can be found in himself.
The successful revolutionary is a statesman， the unsuccessful one a criminal.
There is no meaning to life except the meaning man gives to his life by unfolding of his powers.
Not be who has is rich， but he who gives much.
There can be no real freedom without the freedom to fail.
They only truly affluent are those who do not want more than they have.
Love is not primarily a relationship to a specific person； it is an attitude， an orientation of character which determines the relatedness of a person to the world as a whole， not towards on ‘object’ of love.
爱是两个人之间欢娱的交流。他们有着共通的价值观念，他们从对方那里得到了他们期望得到的东西。
不成熟的爱人说：“我爱你，因为我需要你。”成熟的爱人说：“我需要你，因为我爱你。”让你的思绪在一个全新的世界里遨游，将你以前所拥有的思想完全抛弃，放飞你的心灵，你将会发现一个和你以前生活的世界完全不同的世界。
只要有人相信他的目标是存在于他自身之外的，或许是虚幻的，或许是过去或将来，他就会到他自身之外去寻找其实现手段，那样肯定是徒劳的。他会尽他所能，到处寻找，然而唯一的办法是——从他自身去寻找到所有的答案。
成者为王，败者为寇。
只有当人们完全释放出自己的能量，这样的生活才有意义。
人们有多富并不重要，重要的是他能奉献多少。
若没有失败的自由，世界就不会有真正的自由。
那些不去奢望得到比他们所拥有更多的人才是真正的富人。
爱不仅仅是对某一个人的关切，它是一种态度，一种方向，一种把全世界都作为一个整体来关心的定位，而不是只对于某一特定“物体”的爱。
The Last Leaf 最后一片绿叶
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 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 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 ‘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. Why do you allow dot silly idea to come into brain of her? Ach, dot poor little Miss Johnsy.”
“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 to be your model? Go on. I come meet you. For half an hour I have been trying to say dot I am ready to be your model. God! This is not any reason in which one as good as Miss Johnsy shall lie sick. Some day I will paint a masterpiece, and we shall all go away. God! 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 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 lonesome thing in the whole 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 today 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 woolen 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 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.”
在华盛顿广场西边的一个小区里，街道都横七竖八地伸展开去，又分裂成一小条一小条的“胡同”。这些“胡同”稀奇古怪地拐着弯子。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一种优越性：要是有个收帐的跑到这条街上，来催要颜料、纸张和画布的钱，他就会突然发现自己两手空空，原路返回，一文钱的帐也没有要到！
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，寻求朝北的窗户、18世纪的尖顶山墙、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蜡酒杯和一两只火锅，这里便成了“艺术区”。
苏和琼西的画室设在一所又宽又矮的三层楼砖房的顶楼上。“琼西”是琼娜的爱称。她俩一个来自缅因州，一个是加利福尼亚州人。她们是在第八街的“台尔蒙尼歌之家”吃份饭时碰到的，她们发现彼此对艺术、生菜、色拉和时装的爱好非常一致，便合租了那间画室。
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，她的病只有十分之一的恢复希望，”他一面把体温表里的水银柱甩下去，一面说，“这一分希望就是她想要活下去的念头。有些人好像不愿意活下去，喜欢照顾殡仪馆的生意，简直让整个医药界都无能为力。你的朋友断定自己是不会痊愈的了。她是不是有什么心事呢？”
“她……她希望有一天能够去画那不勒斯的海湾。”苏说。
“画画？真是瞎扯！她脑子里有没有什么值得她想了又想的事，比如说，一个男人？”
“男人？”苏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。”
“我会尽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，忽然听到一个重复了几次的低微的声音。她快步走到床边。
琼西的眼睛睁得很大。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。
“什么呀，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。”
“五片什么呀，亲爱的。告诉你的苏娣吧。”
“叶子。长春藤上的。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？”
“哼，我从来没听过这种傻话，”苏十分不以为然地说，“那些破长春藤叶子和你的病好不好有什么关系？你以前不是很喜欢这棵树吗？你这个淘气孩子。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，让我一字不改地照他的话说吧——他说有九成把握。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，让苏娣去画她的画，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，再给她自己买点猪排解解馋。”
“你不用买酒了，”琼西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。”
“琼西，亲爱的，”苏俯着身子对她说，“你答应我闭上眼睛，不要瞧窗外，等我画完，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。”
“你不能到那间屋子里去画吗？”琼西冷冷地问道。
“我愿意呆在你跟前，”苏说，“再说，我也不想让你老看着那些讨厌的长春藤叶子。”
“你一画完就叫我，”琼西说着，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。”
“你睡一会吧，”苏说道，“我得下楼把贝尔门叫上来，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。”
老贝尔门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。贝尔门是个失败的画家。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门。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。苏把琼西的胡思乱想告诉了他，还说她害怕琼西自个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。
老贝尔门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，“世界上真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，我才不给你那隐居的矿工糊涂虫当模特儿呢。你干吗让她胡思乱想？唉，可怜的琼西小姐。”
“她病得很厉害很虚弱，”苏说，“发高烧发得她神经昏乱，满脑子都是古怪想法。好，贝尔门先生，你不愿意给我当模特儿，就拉倒，我看你是个讨厌的老……老罗唆鬼。”
“你简直太婆婆妈妈了！”贝尔门喊道，“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，琼西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，我们就可以都搬出去了。一定的！”
他们上楼以后，琼西正睡着觉。苏把窗帘拉下，一直遮住窗台，做手势叫贝尔门到隔壁屋子里去。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。贝尔门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，苏只睡了一个小时的觉，醒来了，她看见琼西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。”琼西说道，“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？”
可是琼西不回答。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。那些把她和友谊及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，琼西就毫不留情地吩咐拉起窗帘来。
那片藤叶仍然在那里。
琼西躺着对它看了许久。然后她招呼正在煤气炉上给她煮鸡汤的苏。
“我是一个坏女孩子，苏娣，”琼西说，“天意让那片最后的藤叶留在那里，证明我是多么坏。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：“苏娣，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，苏找了个借口跑到走廊上。
“有五成希望。”医生一面说，一面把苏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。他的名字叫贝尔门，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。”
下午苏跑到琼西的床前，琼西正躺着，安详地编织着一条毫无用处的深蓝色毛线披肩。苏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，“贝尔门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，这片叶子才是贝尔门的杰作——就是在最后一片叶子掉下来的晚上，他把它画在那里的。”
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