[Illustration: LITTLE WOMEN
MEG, JO, BETH, AND AMY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT]
LITTLE WOMEN.
[Illustration: "They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair, with
Beth at her feet"
(See page 9) FRONTISPIECE]
LITTLE WOMEN
OR
Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy
BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE MEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL"
"SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES," ETC.
_With more than 200 illustrations by Frank T. Merrill
and a picture of the Home of the Little Women
by Edmund H. Garrett_
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1868 and 1869, by
LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
In the Clerk's office of the
District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
_Copyright, 1880_,
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
_Copyright, 1896_,
BY JOHN S. P. ALCOTT.
BOSTON
ALFRED MUDGE & SON INC. PRINTERS
[Illustration: Preface]
"_Go then, my little Book, and show to all
That entertain and bid thee welcome shall,
What thou dost keep close shut up in thy breast;
And wish what thou dost show them may be blest
To them for good, may make them choose to be
Pilgrims better, by far, than thee or me.
Tell them of Mercy; she is one
Who early hath her pilgrimage begun.
Yea, let young damsels learn of her to prize
The world which is to come, and so be wise;
For little tripping maids may follow God
Along the ways which saintly feet have trod._"
Adapted from JOHN BUNYAN.
[Illustration: Contents]
Part First.
CHAPTER
I. PLAYING PILGRIMS
II. A MERRY CHRISTMAS
III. THE LAURENCE BOY
IV. BURDENS
V. BEING NEIGHBORLY
VI. BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL
VII. AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION
VIII. JO MEETS APOLLYON
IX. MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR
X. THE P. C. AND P. O.
XI. EXPERIMENTS
XII. CAMP LAURENCE
XIII. CASTLES IN THE AIR
XIV. SECRETS
XV. A TELEGRAM
XVI. LETTERS
XVII. LITTLE FAITHFUL
XVIII. DARK DAYS
XIX. AMY'S WILL
XX. CONFIDENTIAL
XXI. LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE
XXII. PLEASANT MEADOWS
XXIII. AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION
Part Second.
XXIV. GOSSIP
XXV. THE FIRST WEDDING
XXVI. ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS
XXVII. LITERARY LESSONS
XXVIII. DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES
XXIX. CALLS
XXX. CONSEQUENCES
XXXI. OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT
XXXII. TENDER TROUBLES
XXXIII. JO'S JOURNAL
XXXIV. A FRIEND
XXXV. HEARTACHE
XXXVI. BETH'S SECRET
XXXVII. NEW IMPRESSIONS
XXXVIII. ON THE SHELF
XXXIX. LAZY LAURENCE
XL. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
XLI. LEARNING TO FORGET
XLII. ALL ALONE
XLIII. SURPRISES
XLIV. MY LORD AND LADY
XLV. DAISY AND DEMI
XLVI. UNDER THE UMBRELLA
XLVII. HARVEST TIME
[Illustration: Tail-piece to Contents]
[Illustration: List of illustrations.]
[The Illustrations, designed by FRANK T. MERRILL, drawn, engraved,
and printed under the supervision of GEORGE T. ANDREW.]
PAGE
They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair, with
Beth at her feet
Preface
Contents
Tail-piece to Contents
List of Illustrations
Tail-piece to Illustrations
Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents
Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm
I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in
the big chair
Do it this way, clasp your hands so
It was a cheerful, hopeful letter
How you used to play Pilgrim's Progress
No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano
At nine they stopped work and sung as usual
Merry Christmas
The procession set out
Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face
A little figure in cloudy white
The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing
We talked over the fence
Tail-piece
Eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe"
Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks
Mrs. Gardiner greeted them
Face to face with the Laurence boy
They sat down on the stairs
Tell about the party
The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach
Curling herself up in the big chair
Reading that everlasting Belsham
He took her by the ear! by the ear!
Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish
Tail-piece
Being neighborly
Laurie opened the window
Poll tweaked off his wig
Putting his finger under her chin
Please give these to your mother
Tail-piece
O sir, they do care very much
Mr. Laurence often opened his study door
She put both arms around his neck and kissed him
The Cyclops
Amy bore without flinching several tingling blows
You do know her
Girls, where are you going?
I burnt it up
Held Amy up by his arms and hockey
Packing the go abroady trunk
Meg's partner appeared
Asked to be introduced
I wouldn't, Meg
Holding a hand of each, Mrs. March said, &c.
Mr. Pickwick
Jo threw open the door of the closet
Jo spent the morning on the river
Amy sat down to draw
O Pip! O Pip!
Miss Crocker made a wry face
We'll work like bees
Beth was post-mistress
Amy capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin on her nose 151
Mr. Laurence waving his hat
Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you
A very merry lunch it was
He went prancing down a quiet street
"Oh, rise," she said
A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon
He sneezed
The Portuguese walked the plank
Will you give me a rose?
Miss Kate put up her glass
Ellen Tree
Tail-piece
Swinging to and fro in his hammock
It was rather a pretty little picture
Waved a brake before her face
I see him bow and smile
Tail-piece
Jo was very busy
Hurrah for Miss March
Jo darted away
Jo laid herself on the sofa and affected to read
November is the most disagreeable month in the year
One of them horrid telegraph things
She came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke
The man clipped
Tail-piece
Letters
She rolled away
I wind the clock
Yours Respectful, Hannah Mullet
Tail-piece
It didn't stir, and I knew it was dead
He sat down beside her
What do you want now?
Beth did have the fever
Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do
Amy's Will
Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot
On his back, with all his legs in the air
I should choose this
Gravely promenaded to and fro
Amy's Will
Tail-piece
Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side
Tail-piece
Letters
Jo and her mother were reading the note
Get up and don't be a goose
"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears
He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path
Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day
The Jungfrau
Popping in her head now and then
He sat in the big chair by Beth's sofa with the other
three close by
Shall I tell you how?
Bless me, what's all this?
For Mrs. John Brooke
Home of the Little Women
The Dove Cote
A small watchman's rattle
Tail-piece
The First Wedding
Artistic Attempts
Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster
Please don't, it's mine
Tail-piece
Literary Lessons
A check for one hundred dollars
Tail-piece
Domestic Experiences
Both felt desperately uncomfortable
A bargain, I assure you, ma'am
Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put
into his arms
Calls
She took the saddle to the horse
It might have been worse
The call at Aunt March's
Tail-piece
You shall have another table
Bought up the bouquets
Tail-piece
Flo and I ordered a hansom-cab
Every one was very kind, especially the officers
I've seen the imperial family several times
Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion's head on the wall
She leaned her head upon her hands
Now, this is filling at the price
Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee
I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over
the seat
Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer
He waved his hand, sock and all
Dis is mine effalunt
I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate
Tail-piece
In the presence of three gentlemen
A select symposium
He doesn't prink at his glass before coming
Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove
He put the sisters into the carriage
He laid his head down on the mossy post
O Jo, can't you?
Tail-piece
With her head in Jo's lap, while the wind blew
healthfully over her
Tail-piece
He hurried forward to meet her
Here are your flowers
Demi and Daisy
Mornin' now
My dear man, it's a bonnet
Tail-piece
Sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped
Laurie threw himself down on the turf
A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse
The Valley of the Shadow
Tail-piece
Sat staring up at the busts
Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger
O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come
How well we pull together
Jo and her father
Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried
A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her
The tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the
small nephew
O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you
Mr. Bhaer sang heartily
Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap
They began to pace up and down
Tail-piece
Me loves evvybody
What makes my legs go, dranpa?
Dranpa, it's a We
Tail-piece
Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades
Looking up she saw Mr. Bhaer
Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?
Under the umbrella
Tail-piece
Harvest time
Teddy bore a charmed life
Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival
tree
Tail-piece
[Illustration: Tail-piece to Illustrations]
[Illustration: Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents]
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.
"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 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 Sintram for myself; I've wanted 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 of 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 practise 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 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."
"I detest rude, unlady-like girls!"
"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"
"'Birds in their little nests agree,'" sang Beth, the peace-maker, 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 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 tom-boy 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
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,
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 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 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.
[Illustration: Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm]
"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.
Every one 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.
[Illustration: I used to be so frightened when it was my
turn to sit in the big chair]
"I 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.
"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 to-night. 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 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 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.
[Illustration: Do it this way, clasp your hands so]
"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 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.
"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 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 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 to-day? There was so 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 parlor 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.
"I 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 _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 overflow with fatherly love and
longing for the little girls at home.
[Illustration: It was a cheerful, hopeful letter]
"Give them all my dear love and a 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 I 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 themselves 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."
"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.
[Illustration: How you used to play Pilgrim's Progress]
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 hobgoblins were!" said Jo.
"I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled down stairs,"
said Meg.
"My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our
flowers and arbors and pretty things were, and all stood and sung for
joy up there in the sunshine," said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant
moment had come back to her.
"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'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 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 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.
[Illustration: No one but Beth could get much music out of the old
piano]
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 or a 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.
[Illustration: At nine they stopped work and sung as usual]
[Illustration: A Merry Christmas]
II.
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 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-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 come 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 up one.
"Isn'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 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 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.
"_I_ 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.
"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 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.
[Illustration: The procession set out]
A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,
ragged bed-clothes, 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 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 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 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,--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 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.
"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!"
[Illustration: Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face]
Out came Meg, with gray 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 elfin speed,
The fragrant philter which I need;
Make it sweet and swift and strong,
Spirit, answer now my song!"
[Illustration: A little figure in cloudy white]
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 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 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 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.
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 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.