On the first really blustery NYC day after the autumn color has turned to a bleaker brown, there are always piles and piles of fallen and tousled leaves around the city, and a few stalwarts are clinging to branches as if it were their job to defy the seasons. And I always think of O. Henry's short story The Last Leaf. Do yourself a favor and take a few minutes to read this little tale. I always wonder if I relate more with Sudie or Johnsy. Or Behrman.