had a delicious redowa with him."
"He looked like a grasshopper in a fit, when he did the new step. Laurie
and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?"
"No; but it was very rude. What _were_ you about all that time, hidden
away there?"
Jo told her adventures, and, by the time she had finished, they were at
home. With many thanks, they said "Good night," and crept in, hoping to
disturb no one; but the instant their door creaked, two little
night-caps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out,--
"Tell about the party! tell about the party!"
With what Meg called "a great want of manners," Jo had saved some
bonbons for the little girls; and they soon subsided, after hearing the
most thrilling events of the evening.
"I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home
from the party in a carriage, and sit in my dressing-gown, with a maid
to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica, and
brushed her hair.
"I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we
do, in spite of our burnt hair, old gowns, one glove apiece, and tight
slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them."
And I think Jo was quite right.
[Illustration: Tell about the party]
[Illustration: The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach]
IV.
BURDENS.
"Oh dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on," sighed
Meg, the morning after the party; for, now the holidays were over, the
week of merry-making did not fit her for going on easily with the task
she never liked.
"I wish it was Christmas or New-Year all the time; wouldn't it be fun?"
answered Jo, yawning dismally.
"We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does
seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, and
drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It's like other people,
you know, and I always envy girls who do such things; I'm so fond of
luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the
least shabby.
"Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble, but shoulder our
bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt
March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've
learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so
light that I sha'n't mind her."
This idea tickled Jo's fancy, and put her in good spirits; but Meg
didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoilt children,
seemed heavier than ever. She hadn't heart enough even to make herself
pretty, as usual, by putting on a blue neck-ribbon, and dressing her
hair in the most becoming way.
"Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross
midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she muttered,
shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I shall have to toil and moil all my
days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly
and sour, because I'm poor, and can't enjoy my life as other girls do.
It's a shame!"
So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable
at breakfast-time. Every one seemed rather out of sorts, and inclined to
croak. Beth had a headache, and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort
herself with the cat and three kittens; Amy was fretting because her
lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers; Jo _would_
whistle and make a great racket getting ready; Mrs. March was very busy
trying to finish a letter, which must go at once; and Hannah had the
grumps, for being up late didn't suit her.
"There never _was_ such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper
when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot-lacings, and sat down
upon her hat.
"You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum,
that was all wrong, with the tears that had fallen on her slate.
"Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them
drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily, as she tried to get rid of the kitten,
which had scrambled up her back, and stuck like a burr just out of
reach.
Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed, because she
couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.
"Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I _must_ get this off by the
early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs.
March, crossing out the third spoilt sentence in her letter.
There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two
hot turn-overs on the table, and stalked out again. These turn-overs
were an institution; and the girls called them "muffs," for they had no
others, and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold
mornings. Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy
she might be, for the walk was long and bleak; the poor things got no
other lunch, and were seldom home before two.
"Cuddle your cats, and get over your headache, Bethy. Good-by, Marmee;
we are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular
angels. Now then, Meg!" and Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims
were not setting out as they ought to do.
They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was
always at the window, to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.
Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got through the day without
that; for, whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that
motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.
"If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would
serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never
seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and
bitter wind.
"Don't use such dreadful expressions," said Meg, from the depths of the
vail in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.
"I like good strong words, that mean something," replied Jo, catching
her hat as it took a leap off her head, preparatory to flying away
altogether.
"Call yourself any names you like; but _I_ am neither a rascal nor a
wretch, and I don't choose to be called so."
"You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross to-day because you can't
sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make
my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice-cream and
high-heeled slippers and posies and red-headed boys to dance with."
"How ridiculous you are, Jo!" but Meg laughed at the nonsense, and felt
better in spite of herself.
"Lucky for you I am; for if I put on crushed airs, and tried to be
dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can
always find something funny to keep me up. Don't croak any more, but
come home jolly, there's a dear."
Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for
the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm
turn-over, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,
hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.
When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate
friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something toward
their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin too
early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their parents
consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good-will which in
spite of all obstacles, is sure to succeed at last. Margaret found a
place as nursery governess, and felt rich with her small salary. As she
said, she _was_ "fond of luxury," and her chief trouble was poverty. She
found it harder to bear than the others, because she could remember a
time when home was beautiful, life full of ease and pleasure, and want
of any kind unknown. She tried not to be envious or discontented, but it
was very natural that the young girl should long for pretty things, gay
friends, accomplishments, and a happy life. At the Kings' she daily saw
all she wanted, for the children's older sisters were just out, and Meg
caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball-dresses and bouquets, heard
lively gossip about theatres, concerts, sleighing parties, and
merry-makings of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which
would have been so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a
sense of injustice made her feel bitter toward every one sometimes, for
she had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which
alone can make life happy.
Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame, and needed an active
person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt one
of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because her
offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had lost
all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady's will; but the
unworldly Marches only said,--
"We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will
keep together and be happy in one another."
The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but happening to meet Jo
at a friend's, something in her comical face and blunt manners struck
the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take her for a companion. This
did not suit Jo at all; but she accepted the place since nothing better
appeared, and, to every one's surprise, got on remarkably well with her
irascible relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo had
marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it any longer; but Aunt March
always cleared up quickly, and sent for her back again with such urgency
that she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery
old lady.
I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,
which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered
the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges
with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about the queer pictures in
his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her in
the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring down from the
tall book-cases, the cosy chairs, the globes, and, best of all, the
wilderness of books, in which she could wander where she liked, made the
library a region of bliss to her. The moment Aunt March took her nap, or
was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and, curling
herself up in the easy-chair, devoured poetry, romance, history,
travels, and pictures, like a regular book-worm. But, like all
happiness, it did not last long; for as sure as she had just reached the
heart of the story, the sweetest verse of the song, or the most perilous
adventure of her traveller, a shrill voice called, "Josy-phine!
Josy-phine!" and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the
poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour together.
[Illustration: Curling herself up in the big chair]
Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid; what it was she had no
idea, as yet, but left it for time to tell her; and, meanwhile, found
her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn't read, run, and
ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless
spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series
of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training
she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed; and the thought
that she was doing something to support herself made her happy, in spite
of the perpetual "Josy-phine!"
Beth was too bashful to go to school; it had been tried, but she
suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home,
with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to
devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid Societies, Beth went
faithfully on by herself, and did the best she could. She was a
housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and
comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be
loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little
world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy
bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for
Beth was a child still, and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one
whole or handsome one among them; all were outcasts till Beth took them
in; for, when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her,
because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the
more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm
dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals; no harsh words
or blows were ever given them; no neglect ever saddened the heart of the
most repulsive: but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed, with
an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of _dollanity_ had
belonged to Jo; and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in
the rag-bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth, and
taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat
little cap, and, as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these
deficiencies by folding it in a blanket, and devoting her best bed to
this chronic invalid. If any one had known the care lavished on that
dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they
laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets; she read to it, took it out to
breathe the air, hidden under her coat; she sung it lullabys, and never
went to bed without kissing its dirty face, and whispering tenderly, "I
hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear."
Beth had her troubles as well as the others; and not being an angel, but
a very human little girl, she often "wept a little weep," as Jo said,
because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved
music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practised away so patiently
at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if some one (not to
hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw
Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune,
when she was all alone. She sang like a little lark about her work,
never was too tired to play for Marmee and the girls, and day after day
said hopefully to herself, "I know I'll get my music some time, if I'm
good."
There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners
till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the
sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the
sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.
If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she
would have answered at once, "My nose." When she was a baby, Jo had
accidentally dropped her into the coal-hod, and Amy insisted that the
fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big, nor red, like poor
"Petrea's"; it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world
could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself,
and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a
Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.
"Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for
drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing
fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her
teachers complained that, instead of doing her sums, she covered her
slate with animals; the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps
on; and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering
out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as
well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of
deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being
good-tempered, and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.
Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her
accomplishments; for beside her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,
crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two thirds of
the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When papa was rich we did
so-and-so," which was very touching; and her long words were considered
"perfectly elegant" by the girls.
Amy was in a fair way to be spoilt; for every one petted her, and her
small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,
however, rather quenched the vanities; she had to wear her cousin's
clothes. Now Florence's mamma hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy
suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,
unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was
good, well made, and little worn; but Amy's artistic eyes were much
afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull
purple, with yellow dots, and no trimming.
"My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is, that
mother don't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria
Parks' mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful; for sometimes she is
so bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When
I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my flat
nose and purple gown, with yellow sky-rockets on it."
Meg was Amy's confidant and monitor, and, by some strange attraction of
opposites, Jo was gentle Beth's. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her
thoughts; and over her big, harum-scarum sister, Beth unconsciously
exercised more influence than any one in the family. The two older girls
were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger into
her keeping, and watched over her in her own way; "playing mother" they
called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls, with
the maternal instinct of little women.
"Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm
really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat sewing together
that evening.
"I had a queer time with aunt to-day, and, as I got the best of it, I'll
tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. "I was
reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for
aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like
fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy; and, before she
began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by
opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.
[Illustration: Reading that everlasting Belsham]
"'I wish I could, and be done with it,' said I, trying not to be saucy.
"Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and
think them over while she just 'lost' herself for a moment. She never
finds herself very soon; so the minute her cap began to bob, like a
top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the 'Vicar of Wakefield' out of my pocket,
and read away, with one eye on him, and one on aunt. I'd just got to
where they all tumbled into the water, when I forgot, and laughed out
loud. Aunt woke up; and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me
to read a bit, and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy
and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though
she only said,--
"'I don't understand what it's all about. Go back and begin it, child.'
"Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.
Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,
'I'm afraid it tires you, ma'am; sha'n't I stop now?'
"She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave me
a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way,--
"'Finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss.'"
"Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.
"Oh, bless you, no! but she let old Belsham rest; and, when I ran back
after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar that
she didn't hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall, because of the
good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have, if she only
chose. I don't envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich
people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think," added Jo.
"That reminds me," said Meg, "that I've got something to tell. It isn't
funny, like Jo's story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came
home. At the Kings to-day I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the
children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and
papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking
very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed
me, so I shouldn't see how red their eyes were. I didn't ask any
questions, of course; but I felt so sorry for them, and was rather glad
I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family."
"I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than
anything bad boys can do," said Amy, shaking her head, as if her
experience of life had been a deep one. "Susie Perkins came to school
to-day with a lovely red carnelian ring; I wanted it dreadfully, and
wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr.
Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, 'Young ladies,
my eye is upon you!' coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We were
laughing over it, when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he
ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was _parry_lized with fright,
but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the
ear, the ear! just fancy how horrid!--and led her to the recitation
platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding that slate so
every one could see."
[Illustration: He took her by the ear! by the ear!]
"Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who relished the
scrape.
"Laugh? Not one! They sat as still as mice; and Susie cried quarts, I
know she did. I didn't envy her then; for I felt that millions of
carnelian rings wouldn't have made me happy, after that. I never, never
should have got over such a agonizing mortification." And Amy went on
with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue, and the successful
utterance of two long words in a breath.
"I saw something that I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at
dinner, but I forgot," said Beth, putting Jo's topsy-turvy basket in
order as she talked. "When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.
Laurence was in the fish-shop; but he didn't see me, for I kept behind a
barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter, the fish-man. A poor woman came
in, with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would let her do
some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn't any dinner for her
children, and had been disappointed of a day's work. Mr. Cutter was in a
hurry, and said 'No,' rather crossly; so she was going away, looking
hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish with the
crooked end of his cane, and held it out to her. She was so glad and
surprised, she took it right in her arms, and thanked him over and over.
He told her to 'go along and cook it,' and she hurried off, so happy!
Wasn't it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big,
slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence's bed in heaven would be 'aisy.'"
[Illustration: Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish]
When they had laughed at Beth's story, they asked their mother for one;
and, after a moment's thought, she said soberly,--
"As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets to-day, at the rooms, I felt
very anxious about father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should
be, if anything happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do; but I
kept on worrying, till an old man came in, with an order for some
clothes. He sat down near me, and I began to talk to him; for he looked
poor and tired and anxious.
"'Have you sons in the army?' I asked; for the note he brought was not
to me.
"'Yes, ma'am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and
I'm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital,' he
answered quietly.
"'You have done a great deal for your country, sir,' I said, feeling
respect now, instead of pity.
"'Not a mite more than I ought, ma'am. I'd go myself, if I was any use;
as I ain't, I give my boys, and give 'em free.'
"He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give
his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I'd given one man, and thought it
too much, while he gave four, without grudging them. I had all my girls
to comfort me at home; and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say
'good by' to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy, thinking of my
blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and
thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me."