By O. Henry
In a little district west of Washington Square the streetshave run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called“places.” These “places” make strange angles and curves. Onestreet crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovereda valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector witha bill for paints， paper and canvas should， in traversing thisroute， suddenly meet himself coming back， without a centhaving been paid on account！
So， to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people sooncame prowling， hunting for north windows and eighteenthcenturygables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then theyimported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two fromSixth avenue， and became a “colony.”
At the top of a squatty， three-story brick Sue and Johnsyhad their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. One wasfrom Maine； the other from California. They had met at thetable d’hote of an Eighth street “Delmonico’s，” and found theirtastes in art， chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial thatthe 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 theeast side this ravager strode boldly， smiting his victims byscores， but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrowand moss-grown “places.”
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric oldgentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned byCalifornia zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted， shortbreathedold duffer. But Johnsy he smote； and she lay， scarcelymoving， on her painted iron bedstead， looking through the smallDutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallwaywith a shaggy， gray eyebrow.
“She has one chance in—let us say， ten，” he said， as he shookdown the mercury in his clinical thermometer. “And that chanceis for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-up onthe side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopeia looksilly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she’s not goingto get well. Has she anything on her mind？”
“She—she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day，” saidSue.
“Paint？—bosh！ Has she anything on her mind worththinking about twice—a man， for instance？”
“A man？” said Sue， with a jew’s-harp twang in her voice. “Isa man worth—but， no， doctor； there is nothing of the kind.”
“Well， it is the weakness， then，” said the doctor. “I will doall that science， so far as it may filter through my efforts， canaccomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count thecarriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent. fromthe curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask onequestion about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I willpromise you a one-in-five chance for her， instead of one in ten.”
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom andcried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered intoJohnsy’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 toillustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their wayto Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that youngauthors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow ridingtrousers and a monocle on the figure of the hero， an Idahocowboy， she heard a low sound， several times repeated. Shewent quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy’s eyes were open wide. She was looking out thewindow 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 solicitously out the window. What was there tocount？ There was only a bare， dreary yard to be seen， and theblank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old， old ivyvine， gnarled and decayed at the roots， climbed half way up thebrick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leavesfrom the vine until its skeleton branches clung， almost bare， tothe crumbling bricks.
“What is it， dear？” asked Sue.
“Six，” said Johnsy， in almost a whisper. “They’re fallingfaster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. Itmade my head ache to count them. But now it’s easy. Theregoes 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， withmagnificent scorn. “What have old ivy leaves to do with yourgetting well？ And you used to love that vine so， you naughtygirl. Don’t be a goosey. Why， the doctor told me this morningthat your chances for getting well real soon were—let’s seeexactly what he said—he said the chances were ten to one！
Why， that’s almost as good a chance as we have in New Yorkwhen we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Tryto 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 hersick child， and pork chops for her greedy self.”
“You needn’t get any more wine，” said Johnsy， keeping hereyes fixed out the window. “There goes another. No， I don’twant any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last onefall before it gets dark. Then I’ll go， too.”
“Johnsy， dear，” said Sue， bending over her， “will you promiseme to keep your eyes closed， and not look out the window until Iam 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. “Besides I don’t wantyou to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.”