LITTLE WOMEN

by Louisa May Alcott

CHAPTER ONE

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.

"I 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 everyone;

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 helpedby our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother oryou, but I do want to buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself. I'vewanted it so long," said Jo, who was a bookworm.

"I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a

little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.

"I 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.

"I know I 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 the window or cry?"

"It's 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 practice well at all."

And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could

hear that time.

"I 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."

"If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as

if Papa was a pickle bottle," advised Jo, laughing.

"I 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

have to work, we make fun of 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."

"I detest rude, unladylike girls!"

"I 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."

"I'm 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 a chestnut 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 agirl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manners! Ican'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 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 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,

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 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, gray 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 flyaway 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 everyone 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 Miss Tranquility', 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

everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and

lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked,

and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers

nearer to the blaze.

"They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair."

"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.

"No, I shall!" cried Amy.

"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided,

"I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide

the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while

he was gone."

"I'll 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.

Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, 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.

"I'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.

"I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the

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, andthen surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow 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.

"I 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 tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene,

for you are as stiff as a poker in that."

"I can't help it. I never saw anyone 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 fall into 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.

"It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and ifthe audience laughs, 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.

"I 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 Witches Curse,

an Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try

_Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor 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 rehearsal

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 which was truly delightful.

She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the

girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most

splendid mother in the world.

"Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much todo, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come hometo dinner. Has anyone 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, over-turning, and clattering

everything she touched. Beth trotted to and fro between parlor

kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions to everyone, 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 on 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.

"I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain

when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough fora soldier," said Meg warmly.

"Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan--what's its

name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed

Jo, with a groan.

"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 homesickness 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 over-flow with fatherly love and longingfor the little girls at home.

"Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I thinkof them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfortin their affection at all times. A year seems very long to waitbefore I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may allwork, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they willremember all I said to them, that they will be loving children toyou, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely,and conquer themselves so beautifully that when I come back to themI may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women."

Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Jo wasn'tashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, andAmy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face onher mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "I am a selfish girl! ButI'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in meby-and-by."

"We all will," cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks andhate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it."

"I'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.

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

Pilgrims 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 housetop, 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.

"I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbleddownstairs," said Meg.

"I 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. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'drather like to play it over again," said Amy, who began to talkof 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 Amy, who was

a very literal young lady.

"Each of you told what your burden was just now, except 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."

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.

"Let 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 tonight, 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 guidebook," replied Mrs. March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared thetable, then out came the four little work baskets, and the needlesflew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninterestingsewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of

dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quartersEurope, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally,especially when they talked about the different countries as theystitched their way through them.

At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before theywent 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 sang. 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 or a quaver that spoiled 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.

CHAPTER TWO

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

Jo was the first to wake in the gray 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 crammed so full of 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 guidebook forany pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a "MerryChristmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a fewwords written by their mother, which made their one present veryprecious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage

and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other

blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the

east grew rosy with the coming day.

In 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 I 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.

"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 came a-beggin', and

your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There 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 labor.

"Bless the child! She's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead

of 'M. March'. How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up.

"Isn't that right? I thought it was better to do it so,

because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone 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 anyone should know till

the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big

one, and I gave all 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 replaced

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 all 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 newborn 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.

"I shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically

giving up the article she most liked.

Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread

into one big plate.

"I 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 dinnertime."

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 bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and 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 girls

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 to

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 promisesof help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it hadbeen 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 neighbor 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 honor.

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 handkerchief was slipped

into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose wasfastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfectfit.

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 theater,

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, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps

made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper,

gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from

a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond

shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of preserve pots were

cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels.

No gentleman 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 onto 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.

"A gloomy wood," according to the one playbill, 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 slouching 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 for 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 gray horsehair hanging about her face,

a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon hercloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promisedboth, 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 elfin 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 glittering

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!

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 had 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 carpentery

had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb.

A tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a

lamp burning in it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara ina lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came ingorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, aguitar, 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 rope ladder, 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 from 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.

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 come anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to

tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others whichare harmless. Ferdinando, the 'minion', carries them away, andHagar 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 red

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 her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich.

They shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and

Rodrigo 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.

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 hot house 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.

"Is it fairies?" asked Amy.

"Santa Claus," said Beth.

"Mother did it." And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her

gray 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 honor 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.

"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 neighbors.

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.

"I 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 ofhis own."

"It's a mercy you didn't, Mother!" laughed Jo, looking at

her boots. "But we'll have another play sometime that he can

see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?"

"I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!"

And Meg examined her flowers with great interest.

"They are 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 THREE

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

Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa

by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she

loved to retire with half a dozen russets 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 tomorrow 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 shall we wear?"

"What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wearour poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo

with her mouth full.

"If 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."

"I'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 of 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 spoiled 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.

"You 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 spoiled the others that she

shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?"

"I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know

how stained they are. That's all I can do. No! I'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 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 parlor 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 burned 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 burned feathers," observed Amy,

smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

"There, now I'll 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 have you done? I'm spoiled! 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 little black

pancakes with tears of regret.

"It isn't spoiled. 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.

"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 entire family Jo's hair was got up

and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits,

Meg's 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 chrysanthemum 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! Have you 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 dressing room after

a prolonged prink.

"I 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 ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if any

thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your

shoulder straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if

you are introduced to anyone. It isn't the thing."

"How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't

that music gay?"

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'tcare much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her ba

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 737