2024年5月14日发(作者：)

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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