Little Women

THE life of Louisa May Alcott, the author of “Little Women,” reads like a fairy-tale—a fairy-tale of everyday life. As in the fairy-tale, little Cinderella becomes a princess ; her wishes become real Sa and in their realisation take a shape more bright and astonishing than the most daring of her wishes had ever pictured. The little Louisa’s early days were full of hardship and denials; yet they were brightened by one inestimable treasure, and one which Cinderella had to go without, an unusually strong and tender family love. “Little Women” gives a fairly true picture of the Alcott family life, with Jo for Louisa; but there is one important difference: delightful and interesting characters though Mrs. Alcott and her four daughters were, the most interesting of them all was the head of the family, Mr. Alcott, the beloved friend of Emerson. Mr. Alcott was an American Froebel of smaller practical ability but larger outlook; he was a philosopher, a lover of heavenly wisdom, and he was not content with the love only of this heavenly wisdom; he strove as very few have done to put all that he could see or find into practice. He thought it wrong to kill animals for food, so the children and their mother never touched meat. Their food was of the poorest and plainest— boiled rice without sugar, porridge without syrup. Louisa was often glad to fetch the pies and cakes that a kind old friend saved for the hungry children. Mr. Alcott thought it wrong to strive overmuch for money, so there was often no money at all, and when Louisa was only ten years old she began to have a troubled mind. In her childish journals we find such entries as: “I rose at five, and after breakfast washed the dishes, and then helped mother work.” And a little later on there is a hint of trouble which afterwards came: “In the evening father and mother and Anna and IJ had a long talk. I was very unhappy, and we all cried, Anna and I cried in bed, and I prayed God to keep us all together.” ix X Introduction Mr. Alcott believed that all men are brethren, and should live and work together as equals. Therefore he took all manner of people into his home, even outcasts, whom his wife and young daughters served; and this when there was not food or money fer themselves. ‘More people coming to live with us,” writes the little girl; “I wish we could be together, and no one else. I don’t see who is to clothe and feed us all, when we are so poor now.” It was a wonderful and a hard thing for one man and his wife and little daughters to fight against the world and its selfish ways, and very often the world was the stronger, and Mr. Alcott’s little family came by some very hard knocks. At one time some foreign refugees were sheltered in the garden, and from them Mr. and Mrs. Alcott and all the girls caught smallpox, and had te get well without a doctor. Later on, while nursing a poor family through scarlet fever, the youngest daughter, the dearly loved Beth, caught the complaint, and, never recovering, died just as we read in “ Little Women.” To fight against such troubles as these, Louisa brought a bright, sturdy, and self-sacrificing temper. She laughed and lived for others. She saw the comical side of everything. Once when she was asked for a definition of a philosopher, she answered, “ My definition is of a man up in a balloon with his family and friends holding the ropes that confine him to earth and trying to haul him down.” Louisa’s way of hauling upon the ropes was by early undertaking thé family support. It is nothing short of amazing to find a mother writing to her little girl of eleven, “I imagined you might be just such an industrious daughter and I such a feeble but loving mother, looking to your labour for my daily bread” —and the little girl responding in touching verses :-— TO MOTHER, $*T hope that soon, dear mother, You and I may be In the quiet room my fancy Has so often made for thee— The pleasant sunny chamber, The cushioned easy-chair, The book laid for your reading, The vase of flowers fair; While I sit close beside you, Content at last to see That you can rest, dear mother, And I ean eherish thee " Introduction xi Here is the note that Miss Alcott herself added later in life; “The dream came true, and for the last ten years of her life Marmee sat in peace with every wish granted, even to the ‘grouping together,’ for she died in my arms.” Soon, very soon, did the little girl begin the struggle. Born in 1832, at the age of fifteen she began keeping school in a barn. It is easy to realise her appearance at this time, already tall, with a free, majestic walk, a mane of long dark hair, bright dark eyes, strong, eager, quick, and keen; sometimes moody and sad, but always recovering her mental balance again through the essential rightness of her spirit. At seventeen she is keeping school in Boston and writing plays. At nineteen we actually find her going out to service, where, although the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Alcott, she is treated with every kind of indignity. At twenty her first story is published, and she receives five dollars—an English pound—for it. The writing of this story and others represent only a trifling exercise by the way in the life of this brave girl. Here is her own astonishing record of her twentieth year. “In January I started a little school. ... In May when my school closed I went to L. as second girl. I needed the change, could do the wash, and was glad to earn my two dollars a week. Home in October, with thirty-four dollars for my wages. After two days rest, began school again with ten children... . A hard year. Summer distasteful and lonely. Winter tiresome with school and people I didn’t like.” And a little later: “I earned a good deal by sewing in the evening when my day’s work was done.” It was characteristic of Miss Alcott that though she might grumble to her journal, she never grumbled to her friends. It was also characteristic of her that most of this distastefully earned money was spent in the service of her family. Now it was her pretty sister May’s need of a new outfit that set her buying and making new frocks and hats when her own were shabby and needed renewing. Now it was the thought of her dear people at home that kept her from spending for herself a hard-earned twenty dollars. “Eight cold feet on a straw carpet marched to and fro so pathetically that I locked up the tempting fiend and fell to sewing as a Saturday treat.” Is it not a strange picture—philosophy in the person of Mr. Alcott sitting serenely with cold feet on a matting in winter; on the other side, the eager loving-hearted daughter painfully overworking herself to supply the comfort that philosophy was content to go without?) We may discover here the secret of Miss Alcott’s xii Introduction life-work. In her we find the revolt against transcendentalism ; she did not like Concord and its atmosphere of higher thought, which had spelt for her, tears and hard labour and boiled rice witHout syrup. She fled from its cold purity to the warmer atmosphere of human love and the simplicities and actualities of everyday life. The first decided sign of the coming change in her fortunes is found in the journal of her twenty-third year, when we read, “The principal event of the winter is the appearance of my book ‘Flower Fables.” An edition of sixteen hundred. It has sold very well, and people seem to like it. I received thirty-two dollars.” After this point more and more of hope and pleasure steal into her life. A gentle courage and consolation came to her from the beautiful life and early death of her young sister Beth. Her sister Anna, Meg of ‘Little Women,” is married and happy; and she herself growing to be the good providence of her dearly loved mother, of her father, and her art-loving sister May. The fairy godmother of everyday life sometimes takes the form of happy chance, sometimes that of a powerful benevolence in anothers heart, but more often, and particularly so in the case of Louisa Alcott, the severe though beautiful form of labour and duty. She sewed continually, and while her busy fingers travelled as fast and as cleverly as those of a professional needlewoman, she planned stories and plays and novels without end. She had a wonderful memory, and was able to plan out a tale and afterwards write it down, full speed and word for word, when she found spare time. Many of the stories written at this time were poor sensational stuff. From her childhood Louisa Alcott had a passion for acting and theatricals of all sorts, and later for the theatre itself. She even wished, as many a clever girl has done, to go upon the stage. She had a frank taste for melodrama, and her nimble invention was often busy in wild and impossible scenes. She had not found her true self yet ; but she was wise enough to know that this sort of work really was only an inferior means to the good end of helping her people, and through the writing of such tales came a lighter pen. The pen that ran so fast in painting the wild episodes of impossible romance was soon to run equally fast in painting the true things of life. A great experience came to Miss Alcott in the year 1862, She had felt, like all American women of that day, the deepest excitement on the breaking out of the war between North and South. ceo Introduction Xill In “Little Women” it is the father who goes to the seat of war; in real life it was Miss Alcott herself who went as hospital nurse to the seat of war. She describes her journey: “I said my prayers as I went rushing through the country white with tents, all alive with patriotism, and already red with blood.” And later on: “ Began my new life by seeing a poor man die at dawn, and sitting all day between a boy with pneumonia and a man shot through the lungs. A strange day, but I did my best, and when I put mother’s little black shawl round the boy while he sat up panting for breath, he smiled and said, ‘You are real motherly, ma‘am.’” Miss Alcott gives a terrible picture of the hospital: “A more perfect pestilence box than this house I never saw, cold, damp, dirty, full of vile odours.” Her patients she loves and helps, and observes them so well that she can give a picture of each favourite in a few brief words. Take that of John Sulie, the Virginia blacksmith: “About thirty, tall and handsome, mortally wounded and dying royally without reproach, repining, or remorse.” Six weeks of this life, of “doing painful duties all day long and leading a life of constant excitement, surrounded by three or four hundred men in all stages of suffering, disease, and death,” completely broke down Miss Alcott’s health. She became desperately ill, and was fetched home a distance of five hundred miles to lie unconscious for three weeks in fever and delirium. At length she recovered, but she was never again the strong and unceasingly active creature that she had been. Active she was, too active and hard-working, but she had to pay for it in illness, frequent breakdowns, and severe nervous trouble. She continued to work her head mercilessly hard. Out of her nursing experiences she wove the book called ‘Hospital Sketches,” a book which had an immediate and assured success, and made many friends for her of the best sort and most worth having. So she is able to write in her journal: “My year closes with a novel well launched, and about three hundred dollars to pay debts and make the family happy and comfortable till spring.” The keep of the family was expensive, and she was soon pushed to further effort. ‘You ask what I am writing—well, two books half done, nine stories simmering, and stacks of fairy stories moulding on the shelf.” All this writing was in addition to heavy household work—baking, sweeping, washing. As usual all her money is spent upon others, and, half in fun, she describes herself as “a young woman with one dollar, no bonnet, half a gown, and a discontented mind,” xiv Introduction In the year 1865 Miss Alcott visited Europe, and seems particularly to have enjoyed her stay in London, which was a known place to her through her love of Dickens. After her return her life grows more and more full and honoured and busy, and at last, in May 1868, the publishing firm of Roberts Bros. ask her to write a story for girls. Though she always cared more for writing about boys than girls, she fortunately consented to try, and she tried to such good purpose that “ Little Women” was actually finished in the following July. It was at once accepted and published, and everywhere took childrens’ hearts by storm. Miss Alcott, through less than two months’ work, became rich, happy, and the beloved idol of American girls. Her publishers, most honourable men, relieved her of all business troubles ; every debt of her father’s that vexed her soul was paid; every dream came true, the realisation often outshining the dream. Even the little Louisa’s most ambitious dreams can hardly have whispered to her of a success that would not only render her famous but also endeared; of a success that would bring her an income of three or four thousand a year, and a name everywhere known and loved, everywhere powerful for good. “ Little Women” has been translated into almost every language, and has won hearts for the author in every land; little Louisa’s early trials and difficulties have helped unnumbered little American, English, French, German, Spanish, and Dutch little girls in the bearing of theirs, Here is what Miss Alcott herself says of what is true and what is not true to her own life in “ Little Women” :— “The early plays and experiences; Beth’s death; Jo’s literary and Amy’s artistic experiences; Meg’s happy home; John Brooke and his death ; Demi’s character. Mr. March did not go to the war, but Jo did. Mrs. March is all true, only not half good enough. “ Laurie is not an American boy, though every lad I ever knew claims the character. He was a Polish boy met abroad in 1865, Mr. Laurence is my grandfather, Colonel Joseph May. Aunt March is no one.” I wish I could say that once success had come Miss Alcott lived happy ever after, as they say in fairy-tale. But that is not the way of everyday life, not even of its fairy-tales. There is nearly always some sorrow mixed with the joy of a realised dream. Miss Alcott had spent herself too freely; she had laboured unsparingly and given with both hands; brain and nerves were overtaxed, and she was very often so suffering as Introduction XV te miss the enjoyment of the happiness she had won. A passionate lover of her own people, she mourned greatly at the loss ‘of the noble mother whose favourite child she had ever been, and also at the early death of her sister May, who died after two years married happiness abroad, and who left her baby, “Lulu,” to the care of Miss Alcott. During her last years of enfeebled health she still devoted herself to her father, whom she took a pride in dressing and fitting out according to her own ideas; to the two fine sons of “John Brooke,” who early lost their father, and to the baby, Lulu. She had always the joy of being wanted, of feeling that she herself was a centre of help and comfort, though she was never herself to know the comfort of resting upon another. In March 1888 Mr. Alcott began to fail very fast, quietly and serenely as he had lived. One cold day, with bright sun, Miss Alcott drove out to see him, and deceived by the sunlight left a warm fur wrap behind. On her return she became suddenly seriously ill, and died early on the morning of March 6, 1888, her father having, unknown to her, already passed away. The last words she ever wrote were: “I think up my mercies and sing cheerfully, as dear Marmee used to do, ‘Thus far the Lord hath led me on !’” Visitors to the famous town of Concord are shown the picturesque timbered house which was the home of the Alcott family for twenty-five years. The town which has counted among its great inhabitants such spirits as Emerson and Hawthorne and Thoreau, may yet be proud to remember that it can claim Louisa M. Alcott ; and her brave and bright message to young girls, which declares for the simple life, and that life without love is void, is one that may well be associated with the pine-woods and green places of New England which helped to foster her. GRACE RHYS BIBLIOGRAPHY works. Dates in parentheses are of first British publication, Flower Fables. Boston, 1855; Hospital Sketches (letters written to her mother and sisters while acting as volunteer nurse in the military hospitals at Washington). Boston, 1863 (1881); Moods. Boston, ¢. 1864 (1866); On Picket Duty, and other tales. Boston, 1864; Little Women, or, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Boston, 1868 (1871); Little Women and Good Wives: being stories for givls. By the Author of ‘An Old-Fashioned Girl,’ etc. (1871); Morning-Glories, and other stories. Boston, 1868; An Old-Fashioned Girl. Boston, 1870 (1870); Fiveside and Camp Stories. By the author of ‘ Little Women’ (1873); Little Men: life at Plumfield with Jo’s Boys (1871). Boston, 1872; Aunt Jo’s Scrap Bag, My Boys, Shawl-Stvaps, Cupid and Chow-Chow, and other stories, My Girls, Jimmy’s Cruise in the ‘Pinafore’ etc., An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving, and other stories. Six vols., Boston, 1872-82 (1882, vol. 6); Work: a story of experience. 2 vols. (1873); Eight Cousins; or, the Aunt-Hill. Boston, 1874 (1875); Rose in Bloom. A sequel to ‘ Eight Cousins’, etc. Boston, 1876 (1877) ; Silver Pitchers: and Independence, a Centennial love story, Boston, 1876 (1876); Under the lilacs (1877); Jack and Jill. Boston, 1880 (1880); L. M. Alcott’s Proverb Stories. Kitty’s Class-Day. Aunt Kipp. Psyche’s Art. Boston, 1868 (1862); Spinning-Wheel Stories. Boston, 1884; Lulu’s Library Tales, Boston, 1886 [1885]; (1886 [1885]); Jo’s Boys, and how they turned out. A sequel to ‘Little Men.’ Boston, 1886 (1886); A Garland for Girls, etc. Boston, 1888 (1888 [1887]) ; Recollections of my Childhood’s Days (1890). BIOGRAPHIES. M. Stern, Louisa May Alcott (1952); Marjorie Worthington, Miss Alcott of Concord. A biography. New York, 1958. Catherine O. Peare, Louisa May Alcott (1963); Martha Robinson, The Young Louisa May Alcott, etc. (1963). CHAPTER I » PLAYING PILGRIMS “CHRISTMAS won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug. “It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress. “T don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an injured sniff. “We've got father and mother and each other,” said Beth contentedly, from her corner. The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,— “We haven’t got father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say “perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of father far away, where the fighting was. ~ Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone,— : “You know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for every one ; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don’t ;” and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted. “ But I don’t think the little we should spend would do any good. We’ve each got a dollar, and the army wouldn’t be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and 2 Little Women Sintram for myself; I’ve wanted it so long,” said Jo, who was a bookworm. “T planned to spend mine in new music,” said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth-brush and kettle-holder. “‘T shall get a nice box of Faber’s drawing pencils; I really need them,” said Amy decidedly. “Mother didn’t say anything about our money, and she won’t wish us to give up everything. Let’s each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I’m sure we work hard enough to earn it,” cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner. ‘‘T know / do,—teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I’m longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg, in the complaining tone again. “You don’t have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo. ** How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to fly out of the window or cry?” LeTYs naughty to fret; but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross; and my hands get so stiff, I can’t practise well at all;” and Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time. “*T don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy; “for you don’t have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don’t know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn’t rich, and insult you when your nose isn’t nice.” “Tf you mean /e/, I’d say so, and not talk about /adels, as if papa was a pickle-bottle,” advised Jo, laughing. “T know what I mean, and you needn’t be statirical about it. It’s proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,” returned Amy, with dignity. “ Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had the money papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me, how happy and good we’d be, if we had no worries!” said Meg, who could remember better times. “You said the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money.” **So I did, Beth, Well, I think we are; for, though we do Playing Pilgrims | 3 have to work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty Jolly set, as Jo would say.” “Jo does use such slang words,” observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle. “Don’t, Jo; it’s so boyish.” *That’s why I do it.” *“T detest rude, unlady-like girls!” “JT hate affected, niminy-piminy chits.” ‘‘* Birds in their little nests agree,’” sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the “‘ pecking” ended for that time. “Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. ‘‘ You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn’t matter so much when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady.” “Tm not! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I’m twenty,” cried Jo, pulling off her net and shaking down achestnut mane. ‘I hate to think I’ve got to grow up and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China-aster. It’s bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys’ games and work and manners. I can’t get over my disappointment in not being a boy, and it’s worse than ever now, for I’m dying to go and fight with papa, and I can only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!” And Jo shook the blue army-sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room. ‘Poor Jo! It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped; so you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls,” said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that all the dish-washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch. * As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “‘ you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected little goose if you don’t take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don’t try to be elegant; but your absurd words are as bad as Jo’s slang.” “If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth, ready to share the lecture. -* You're a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly; 4 Little Women and no one contradicted her, for the ‘‘ Mouse” was the pet of the family. As young readers like to know ‘‘ how people look,” we will take, this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home-peace pervaded it. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt; for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, grey eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty; but it was usually bundled into a net to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman, and didn’t like it. Elizabeth—or Beth, as every one called her—was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression, which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her “Little Tranquillity,” and the name suited her excellently ; for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person—in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders; pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were, we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six; and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls; for mother was coming, and every one brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and litghted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy-chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how Playing Pilgrims : 5 ae she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the aze. “They are quite worn out ; Marmee must have a new pair.” “T thought I’d get her some with my dollar,” said Beth. ** No, I shall!” cried Amy. * 1’m the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided— **T’m the man of the family now papa is away, and J shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he was gone.” **T’1l tell you what we’ll do,” said Beth; “let’s each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.” _ That’s like you, dear! What will we get?” exclaimed Jo, Every one thought soberly for a minute; then Meg an- - nounced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, “I shall give her a nice pair of gloves,” ‘“‘ Army shoes, best to be had,” cried Jo. “Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth. *T’ll get a little bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won’t cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils,” added Amy, ** How will we give the things?” asked Meg. ‘ ‘*Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don’t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?” answered Jo. “T used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,” said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea, at the same time. . “Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping to-morrow afternoon, Meg; there is so much to do about the play for Christmas * night,” said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air. “1 don’t mean to act any more after this time; I’m getting too old for such things,” observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about “‘ dressing-up” frolics. “You won’t stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with ‘your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress we’ve got, and there’ll be an end of everything if you quit the boards,” said Jo. “We ought to rehearse to-night. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.” 6 Little Women “T can’t help it; I never saw any one faint, and I don’t choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop; if I can’t, I shall fallsinto a chair and be graceful; I don’t care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,” returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece. “Do it this way; clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, ‘Roderigo! save me! save me!’” and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling. Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery; and her “Ow!” was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun, with interest. “Tt’s no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laugh, don’t blame me. Come on, Meg.” Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect ; Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a, wild “Ha! ha!” “It’s the best we’ve had yet,” said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows. “TJ don’t see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're a regular Shakespeare!” exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things. ““Not quite,” replied Jo modestly. “I do think ‘The Witch’s Curse, an Operatic Tragedy,’ is rather a nice thing; but I’d like to try Macbeth, if we only had a trap-door for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. ‘Is that a dagger that I see before me ?’” muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do. ‘No, it’s the toasting-fork, with mother’s shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth’s stage-struck!” cried Meg, and the re- hearsal ended in a general burst of laughter. “Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady, with a “can-I-help-you” look about her Playing Pilgrims 7 which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the grey cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world. “Well, dearies, how have you got on to-day? There was s0 much to do, getting the boxes ready to go to-morrow, that I didn’t come home to dinner. Has any one called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come _and kiss me, baby.” While making these maternal inquiries, Mrs. March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and, sitting down in the easy-chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. ‘The girls flew about, trying -to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea-table; Jo brought wood, and set chairs, dropping, overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and fro between parlour and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave directions to every one, as she sat with her hands folded. As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, ‘‘ I’ve got a treat for you after supper.” A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, “A letter! a letter! Three cheers for father!” “‘Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,” said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. ‘Hurry and get done! Don’t stop to quirk your little finger, and simper over your plate, Amy,” cried Jo, choking in ‘her tea, and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet, in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away, to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. “T think it was so splendid in father to go as a chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,” said Meg warmly. “Don’t I wish I could go as a drummer, a wivan—what’s its name? or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him,” exclaimed Jo, with a groan. 8 Little Women ‘It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,” sighed Amy. “When will he come home, Marmee?” asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. ““ Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter.” They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the home-sickness conquered; it was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news; and only at the end did the writer’s heart overflow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home. ‘Give them all my dear love anda kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before 1 see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer them- selves so beautifully, that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women.” Everybody sniffed when they came to that part; Jo wasn’t ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother’s shoulder and sobbed out, “I am a selfish girl! but I’ll truly try to be better, so he mayn’t be disappointed in me by-and-by.” “We all will!” cried Meg. “I think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won’t any more, if I can help it.” *‘T’'ll try and be what he loves to call me, ‘a little woman,’ and not be rough and wild; but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else,” said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South, Playing Pilgrims 9 ‘Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army- -sock, and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all that father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy coming home. Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo’s words, by Saying in her cheery voice, “Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim’s Progress when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me tie my piece-bags on ' your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the house-top, where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make _ a Celestial City.” “What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting” Apollyon, and passing through the Valley where the hob- goblins were!” said Jo. *‘T liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,” said Meg. “My favourite part was when we came out on the flat oot where our flowers and arbours and pretty things were, and alk stood and sung for joy up there in the sunshine,” said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant moment had come back to her. “IT don’t remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the top. IfI wasn't too old for such things, I’d rather like to play it over again,” said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things at the mature age of twelve. ““We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get before father comes home.” “ Really, mother? Where are our bundles?” asked aay, who was a very literal young lady. “Each of you told what your burden was just now, afeepe Beth ; I rather think she hasn’t got any,” said her mother. “Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people.” 10 Little Women Beth’s bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh; but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much. “Tet us do it,” said Meg thoughtfully. ‘It is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us; for though we do want to be good, it’s hard work, and we forget, and don’t do our best.” ‘We were in the Slough of Despond to-night, and mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that ?” asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty. “‘Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find your guide-book,” replied Mrs. March. They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table ; then out came the four little work-baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but to-night no one grumbled. They adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them. At nine they stopped work, and sung, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sung. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak ora quaver that spoilt the most pensive tune. ‘They had always done this from the time they could lisp * Crinkle, crinkle, ’ittle ’tar,” and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went about the house singing like a lark; and the last |sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never_ grew too old for that familiar lullaby, A Miemy?Chtistmas -~ 4 CHAPTER II A MERRY CHRISTMAS Jo was the first to wake in the grey dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was so crammed with goodies. Then she remembered her mother’s promise, and slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the _ best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guide-book for any pilgrim going the long journey. She woke Meg with a ‘‘ Merry Christmas,” and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke, to rummage and find their little books also— one dove-coloured, the other blue; and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day. {n spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given. ‘“‘ Girls,” said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, “ mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it; but since father went away, and all this war _ trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please; but / shall keep my book on the table here, and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good, and help me through the day.” Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her, and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face. “ How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let’s do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'll explain things if ' we don’t understand,” whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters’ example. 12 Little Women ‘I’m glad mine is blue,” said Amy; and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. ‘‘Where is mother?” asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half-an-hour later. “Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter come a-beggin’, and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. ‘Lhere never was such a woman for givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes and firin’,” replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant. “She will be back soon, I think; so fry your cakes, and have everything ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. ‘‘ Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?” she added, as the little flask did not appear. “ She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion,” replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army-slippers. “ How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself,” said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labour. “Bless the child! she’s gone and put ‘ Mother’ on them instead of ‘M. March.’ How funny!” cried Jo, taking up one. “Tsn’t it right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg’s initials are ‘M. M.,’ and I don’t want any one to use these but Marmee,” said Beth, looking troubled. “It’s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea; quite sensible, too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,” said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. ‘“‘There’s mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed, and steps sounded in the hall. Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. “Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you ?” asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early. “Don’t laugh at me, Jo! I didn’t mean any one should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little A Merry Christmas * 8 bottle for a big one, and I gave a// my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more.” As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which re- placed the cheap one: and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself, that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her “‘a trump,” while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle. “You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up; and I’m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.” Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast. __ “Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books; we read some, and mean to every day,” they cried, in chorus. ‘Merry Christmas, little daughters! I’m glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little new-born baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there; and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present ?” They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke; only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously,— “I’m so glad you came before we began!” “May I-go and help carry the things to the poor little children?” asked Beth eagerly. ““ 7 shall take the cream and the muffins,” added Amy, heroically giving up the articles she most liked. _ Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. “TJ thought you’d do it,” said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. “You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinner time.” ; They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party. _ A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bed-clothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and 14 Little Women a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm. How the big eyes stared, and the blue lips smiled, as the girks went in! “Ach, mein Gott! it is good angels come to us!” said the poor woman, crying for joy. “Funny angels in hoods and mittens,” said Jo, and set them laughing. In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls, meantime, spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds ; laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English, “Das ist gut!” “Die Engel-kinder!” cried the poor things, as they ate, and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a “Sancho” ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn’t get any of it; and when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts, and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning. “That’s loving our neighbour better than ourselves, and I like it,” said Meg, as they set out their presents, while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels. Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles; and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table. “She’s coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!” cried Jo, prancing about, while Meg went to conduct mother to the seat of honour. Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs.-March was both surprised and touched ; and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents, and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new A Merry Christmas 2 a handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy’s cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a “perfect fit.” There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and. explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work. The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time, that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theatre, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and— necessity being the mother of invention—made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions; paste- board guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butterboats, covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armour covered with the same useful diamond-shaped bits, left in sheets when the lids of tin preserve-pots were cut out. The furniture was used to being turned topsy-turvy, and the big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels. No gentlemen were admitted; so Jo played male parts to her heart’s content, and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet-leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo’s chief treasures, and appeared on all occasions. ‘The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece ; and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society. On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled on to the bed, which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains, in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the Operatic Tragedy began. 16 Little Women “A gloomy wood,” according to the one play-bill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a. clothes-horse for a roof, bureaus for walls; and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it, and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark, and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside; then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouched hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, “ What ho! minion! I need thee!” Out came Meg, with grey horse-hair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter :— . ** Hither, hither, from thy home, Airy sprite, I bid thee come! Born of roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew? Bring me here, with eltin speed, The fragrant philter which I need; Make it sweet and swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my song!” A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glitter- ing wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head, Waving a wand, it sang :— « Hither I come, From my airy home, Afar in the silver moon, Take the magic spell, And use it well, - Or its power will vanish soon {® . A Merry Christmas 17 And dropping a small gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition—not a lovely one; for, with a bang, an ugly black imp appeared, and, having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo, and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks, and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed; and Hagar informed the audience that, as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, she has cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play. A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again; but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage-carpentering had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb! A tower rose to the ceiling; half-way up appeared a window with a lamp burning at it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut love-locks, a guitar, and the boots, of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara replied, and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a ropeladder with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. ‘Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo’s shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down, when, “ Alas, alas for Zara!” she forgot her train—it caught in the window; the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins! . A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck, and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, “I told you so! I told you so!” With wonderful presence of mind Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter with a hasty aside,— “Don’t laugh! Act as if it was all right!” and ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall of the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old gentleman, and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara; she also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains, and led them away, looking very much frightened, and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made. 18 Little Women Act third was the castle hall; and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming, and hides ; sees him put the potions into two cups of wine, and bid the timid little servant “ Bear them | to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall comeanon.” The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the “ minion,” carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and, after.a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies; while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody. This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long hair rather marred the effect of the villain’s death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together. Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself, because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is true, but in danger, and he can save her, if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains, and rushes away to find and rescue his lady-love. Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it; and, after a touching appeal, is about to faint, when Roderigo dashes in and demands herhand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously, but cannot agree, and Roderigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair, and an awful doom to Don Pedro if he doesn’t make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage, till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the “stern sire ;” he consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace. A Merry Christmas 19 Tumultuous applause followed, but received an unexpected check ; for the cot-bed, on which the “dress circle” was built, suddenly shut up, and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter. ‘The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with “ Mrs. March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper?” This was a surprise, even to the actors ; and when they saw the table they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them; but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice-cream—actually two dishes of it, pink and white—and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons, and in the middle of the table four great bouquets of hothouse flowers! It quite took their breath away ; and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely. “Ts it fairies?” asked Amy. *Tt’s Santa Claus,” said Beth. “Mother did it;” and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her grey beard and white eyebrows. “Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration. “ All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March. ‘The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don’t know him!” exclaimed Meg. “ Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father, years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honour of the day. I could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread and milk breakfast.” “That boy put it into his head. I know he did! He’s a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us; but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when we pass,” said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with “Ohs!” and “ Ahs!” of satisfaction. 20 Little Women “You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?” asked one of the girls. ‘ My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says he’s very proud, and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbours. He keeps his grandson shut up when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us girls.” ‘Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally—all about cricket, and so on—when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day ; for he needs fun, I’m sure he does,” said Jo decidedly. “T like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman ; so I’ve no objection to your knowing him if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic, and evidently having none of his own.” “Tt’s a mercy you didn’t, mother!” laughed Jo, looking at her boots. ‘ But we’ll have another play some time, that he can see. Perhaps he’ll help act ; wouldn’t that be jolly?” “T never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!” and Meg examined her flowers with great interest. “They ave lovely! But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,” said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt. Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, “I wish I could send my bunch to father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as we are.” CHAPTER III THE LAURENCE BOY ‘Jo! Jo! where are you?” cried Meg, at the foot of the garret stairs. “‘ Here!” answered a husky voice from above ; and running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the “ Heir of Redcliffe,” wrapped up in a comforter on an old threelegged sofa by the sunny window. ‘This was Jo’s favourite refuge ; and here she loved to retire with half-a-dozen russets The Laurence Boy | 21 and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by, and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks, and waited to hear the news. “Such fun ! only see! a regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for to-morrow night !” cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then proceeding to read it, with girlish delight. “Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and _ Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year’s Eve.’ Marmee is willing we should go; now what sha// we wear?” ‘‘What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven’t got anything else,” answered _ Jo, with her mouth full. “Tf I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. ‘ Mother says I may when I’m eighteen, perhaps ; but two years is an everlasting time to wait.” “]’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? the burn shows badly, and I can’t take any out.” “You must sit still all you can, and keep your back out ot sight ; the front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.” “ Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress, _ Vou must have gloves, or I won’t go,” cried Meg decidedly. “Gloves are more important than anything else ; you can’t dance without them, and if you don’t I should be so mortified.” “Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing; it’s no fun to go sailing round; I like to fly about and cut capers.” “ You can’t ask mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said, when you spoilt the others, that she shouldn’t get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?” asked Meg anxiously. “ J can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are; that’s all I cando. No! [ll tell you how we can manage—each wear one good one and carry a bad one ; don’t you see?” *‘ Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my 22 Little Women glove dreadfully,” began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her. “Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say!” cried Jo, taking up her book. “You may have it, you may! only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely. Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say ‘ Christopher Columbus !’ will you?” ** Don’t worry about me; I’ll be as prim as I can, and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story.” So Meg went away to “accept with thanks,” look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble. On New Year’s Eve the parlour was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing-maids, and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of “ getting ready for the party.” Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burnt hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs. “ Ought they to smoke like that?” asked Beth, from her perch on the bed. “It’s the dampness drying,” replied Jo. “What a queer smell! it’s like burnt feathers,” observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air. “There, now I ]l take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets,” said Jo, putting down the tongs. She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. “Oh. oh, oh! what Aave you done? I’m spoilt! I can’t go! My hair, oh, my hair!” wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead. “Just my luck! you shouldn’t have asked me to do it; I always spoil everything. I’m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve made a mess,” groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of regret. “Itisn’t spoilt ; just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I’ve seen many girls do it so,” said Amy consolingly. » The Laurence Boy | 23 “Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I’d let my hair alone,” cried Meg petulantly. **So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again,” said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the family, Jo’s hair was got up, and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple - suits— Meg in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemuin or two for her only Ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one _ soiled one, and all pronounced the effect “quite easy and fine.” Meg’s high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let us be elegant or die! “Have a good time, dearies,” said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. ‘ Don’t eat much supper, and come away at eleven, when I send Hannah for you.” As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window,— “Girls, girls! ave you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?” “Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,” cried Jo, adding, with a laugh, as they went on, ‘I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake.” “It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,” replied Meg, who had a good many little “aristocratic tastes” of her own. ‘““Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. ‘ Is my sash right? and does my hair look very bad?” said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner’s dressingroom, after a prolonged prink. “T know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?” returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch, and her head a hasty brush. “No, winking isn’t lady-like; I’ll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight, and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to any one, it isn’t the thing.” “How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn’t that music gay?” 24 Little Women Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and, informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly, and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie, and was at her ease very soon ; but Jo, who didn’t care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower-garden. Half-a-dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group near her dwindled away, till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big, red-headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the ‘‘ Laurence boy.” “Dear me, I didn’t know any one was here!” stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in. But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled,— “ Don’t mind me; stay if you like.” “Shan’t I disturb you?” “Not a bit; I only came here because I don’t know many people, and felt rather strange at first, you know.” **So did I. Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.” The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy,— “I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near us, don’t you?” “Next door ;” and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo’s prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home. That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way,— The Laurence Boy | 25 “We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.” “Grandpa sent it.” ‘But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?” “ How is your cat, Miss March ?” asked the boy, trying to look sober, while his black eyes shone with fun. “Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I’m only Jo,” returned the young lady. ‘Vm not Mr. Laurence; I’m only Laurie.” “ Laurie Laurence—what an odd name.” “My first name is Theodore, but 1 don’t like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.” ““T hate my name, too—so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo, instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?” “T thrashed ’em.” “T can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it ;” and Jo resigned herself with a sigh. “ Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her. “T like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and every one is lively. In a place like this, I’m sure to upset something, tread on people’s toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief, and let Meg sail about. Don’t you dance ?” ‘“* Sometimes ; you see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.” “ Abroad!” cried Jo. ‘Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly ‘to hear people describe their travels.” Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin ; but Jo’s eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers. “Don’t I wish I’d been there!” cried Joe. “ Did you go to Paris?” “We spent last winter there.” “Can you talk French?” “We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.” “Do say some. I can read it, but can’t pronounce.” “Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?” said Laurie good-naturedly. dG 26 Little Women “How nicely you do it! Let me see—you said, ‘Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers,’ didn’t you ?” “Qui, mademoiselle.” “JIt’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty ?” “Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.” Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticised and chatted, till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore off, for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanour amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy” better than ever, and took several: good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls; for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them. “Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am; very polite for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?” It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask; but she checked herself in time, and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout way. “I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books—no, I mean studying hard ;” and Jo blushed at the dreadful “pegging” which had escaped her. Laurie smiled, but didn’t seem shocked, and answered with a shrug, — ““Not for a year or two; I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.” “ Aren’t you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad whom she had imagined seventeen already. “Sixteen next month.” ‘“* How I wish I was going to college! You don’t look as if you liked it.” “I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like the way fellows do either, in this country.” “What do you like?” “To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.” Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was; but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she The Laurence Boy ) 27 changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, “ That’s a splendid polka! Why don’t you go and try it?” ? “If you will come too,” he answered, with a gallant little ow. “T can’t; for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because—” There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. “ Because what?” asked Laurie curiously. “You won’t tell?” * Never |” “Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one; and, though it’s nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may laugh if you want to; it is funny, I know.” But Laurie didn’t laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently,— “Never mind that; I’ll tell you how we can manage: there’s a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come?” Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when she saw the nice pearl-coloured ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students’ festival at Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side-room, ‘where she found her on a sofa holding her foot, and looking ale. ae I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to get home,” she said, rocking to and fro in pain. “T knew you’d hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I’m sorry. But I don’t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke. “‘T can’t have a carriage without its costing ever so much; I dare say I can’t get one at all, for most people come in their ‘own, and it’s a long way to the stable, and no one to send.” “Tirso. 23 Little Women “No, indeed! It’s past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can’t stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her.’ I’ll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best | can.” “T’ll ask Laurie; he will go,” said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her. ‘‘Mercy, no! Don’t ask or tellany one. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I can’t dance any more ; but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes.” ‘“They are going out to supper now. [I'll stay with you; I’d rather.” “No, dear; run along, and bring me some coffee. I’m so tired, I can’t stir.” So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining-room, which she found after going into a china closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilt, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back. ‘Oh, dear! what a blunderbuss I am!” exclaimed Jo, finish- ing Meg’s glove by scrubbing her gown with it. “Can I help you?” said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other. “T was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and some one shook me, and here I am, in a nice state,” answered Jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-coloured glove. “Too bad! I was looking for some one to give this to. May I take it to your sister?” “Oh, thank you; I’ll show you where she is. I don’t offer to take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did.” Jo led the way; and, as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second instalment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a “ nice boy.” They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet game of “buzz” with two or three other young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot, and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain. The Laurence Boy | 29 ** Hush! don’t say anything,” she whispered ; adding aloud, ae It’s nothing; I turned my foot a little—that’s all,” and limped upstairs to put her things on. Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits’ end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down, and finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter, who knew nothing about the neighbourhood ; and Jo was looking round _ for help, when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather’s carriage, which had just come for him, he said. _ “Tt’sso early! You can’t mean to go yet,” began Jo, looking . relieved, but hesitating to accept the offer. “T always go early—I do, truly. lease let me take you home? It’s all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.” That settled it; and telling him of Meg’s mishap, Jo gratefully accepted, and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does; so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box, so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom. “J had a capital time. Did you?” asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable. “Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie’s friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with ber when Sallie does. She is going in the spring, when the opera comes, and it will be perfectly splendid if mother only lets me go,” answered Meg, cheering up at the thought. ‘“