Jo underwent that morning; and the dinner she served up became a
standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,
and discovered that something more than energy and good-will is
necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour, and was
grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.
The bread burnt black; for the salad-dressing so aggravated her, that
she let everything else go till she had convinced herself that she could
not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to her, but
she hammered and poked, till it was unshelled, and its meagre
proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce-leaves. The potatoes had to
be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at
last. The blanc-mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as
they looked, having been skilfully "deaconed."
"Well, they can eat beef, and bread and butter, if they are hungry; only
it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,"
thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and
stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread for
Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose
curious eyes would mark all failures, and whose tattling tongue would
report them far and wide.
Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after
another was tasted and left; while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed,
Miss Crocker pursed up her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all
his might, to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo's one strong
point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of
rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew
a long breath, as the pretty glass plates went round, and every one
looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream.
Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water
hastily. Jo, who had refused, thinking there might not be enough, for
they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he
was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his
mouth, and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of
delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her
napkin, and left the table precipitately.
[Illustration: Miss Crocker made a wry face]
"Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo trembling.
"Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg, with a
tragic gesture.
Jo uttered a groan, and fell back in her chair; remembering that she had
given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes
on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the
refrigerator. She turned scarlet, and was on the verge of crying, when
she met Laurie's eyes, which _would_ look merry in spite of his heroic
efforts; the comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she
laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did every one else, even
"Croaker," as the girls called the old lady; and the unfortunate dinner
ended gayly, with bread and butter, olives and fun.
"I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober
ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose; and Miss Crocker made
ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend's
dinner-table.
They did sober themselves, for Beth's sake; Laurie dug a grave under the
ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears, by his
tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of
violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,
composed by Jo, while she struggled with the dinner:--
"Here lies Pip March,
Who died the 7th of June;
Loved and lamented sore,
And not forgotten soon."
At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome
with emotion and lobster; but there was no place of repose, for the beds
were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up
pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the
remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon, and left them so
tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.
Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour
cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came
home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the
afternoon; and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success of
one part of the experiment.
Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was a
scramble to get ready to see them; then tea must be got, errands done;
and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected till the last minute.
As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered in the porch
where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each groaned or
sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.
"What a dreadful day this has been!" begun Jo, usually the first to
speak.
"It has seemed shorter than usual, but _so_ uncomfortable," said Meg.
"Not a bit like home," added Amy.
"It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth, glancing,
with full eyes, at the empty cage above her head.
"Here's mother, dear, and you shall have another bird to-morrow, if you
want it."
As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as
if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.
"Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another
week of it?" she asked, as Beth nestled up to her, and the rest turned
toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.
"I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.
"Nor I," echoed the others.
"You think, then, that it is better to have a few duties, and live a
little for others, do you?"
"Lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her head. "I'm
tired of it, and mean to go to work at something right off."
"Suppose you learn plain cooking; that's a useful accomplishment, which
no woman should be without," said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the
recollection of Jo's dinner-party; for she had met Miss Crocker, and
heard her account of it.
"Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we'd get
on?" cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.
"Yes; I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing
her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on
pretty well, though I don't think you were very happy or amiable; so I
thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when every
one thinks only of herself. Don't you feel that it is pleasanter to help
one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when it
comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely
to us all?"
"We do, mother, we do!" cried the girls.
"Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again; for though
they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we learn
to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for every one; it
keeps us from _ennui_ and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and
gives us a sense of power and independence better than money or
fashion."
"We'll work like bees, and love it too; see if we don't!" said Jo. "I'll
learn plain cooking for my holiday task; and the next dinner-party I
have shall be a success."
"I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it,
Marmee. I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing; that will be
better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as
they are," said Meg.
"I'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music
and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing,"
was Beth's resolution; while Amy followed their example by heroically
declaring, "I shall learn to make button-holes, and attend to my parts
of speech."
"Very good! then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy
that we shall not have to repeat it; only don't go to the other extreme,
and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play; make each
day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of
time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will
bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite of
poverty."
"We'll remember, mother!" and they did.
[Illustration: We'll work like bees]
XII.
CAMP LAURENCE.
[Illustration: Beth was post-mistress]
Beth was post-mistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it
regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door
and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands full,
and went about the house leaving letters and parcels, like the penny
post.
"Here's your posy, mother! Laurie never forgets that," she said, putting
the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in "Marmee's corner," and was
kept supplied by the affectionate boy.
"Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove," continued Beth, delivering the
articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands.
"Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one," said Meg, looking
at the gray cotton glove.
"Didn't you drop the other in the garden?"
"No, I'm sure I didn't; for there was only one in the office."
"I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My
letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted; I think Mr.
Brooke did it, for this isn't Laurie's writing."
Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham
morning-gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and very
womanly, as she sat sewing at her little work-table, full of tidy white
rolls; so unconscious of the thought in her mother's mind as she sewed
and sung, while her fingers flew, and her thoughts were busied with
girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that
Mrs. March smiled, and was satisfied.
"Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered
the whole post-office, stuck outside," said Beth, laughing, as she went
into the study, where Jo sat writing.
"What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the
fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, 'Why mind the
fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!' I said I would if I had
one, and he has sent me this, to try me. I'll wear it, for fun, and show
him I _don't_ care for the fashion;" and, hanging the antique broad-brim
on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.
One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said
to her,--
"MY DEAR:
"I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction I
watch your efforts to control your temper. You say nothing about
your trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no
one sees them but the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may
trust the well-worn cover of your guide-book. _I_, too, have
seen them all, and heartily believe in the sincerity of your
resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go on, dear,
patiently and bravely, and always believe that no one
sympathizes more tenderly with you than your loving
"MOTHER."
"That does me good! that's worth millions of money and pecks of praise.
O Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I
have you to help me."
Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy
tears, for she _had_ thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts
to be good; and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging,
because unexpected, and from the person whose commendation she most
valued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she
pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she
be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready
for either good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote,--
"DEAR JO,
What ho!
Some English girls and boys are coming to see me to-morrow and
I want to have a jolly time. If it's fine, I'm going to pitch
my tent in Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and
croquet,--have a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all
sorts of larks. They are nice people, and like such things.
Brooke will go, to keep us boys steady, and Kate Vaughn will
play propriety for the girls. I want you all to come; can't let
Beth off, at any price, and nobody shall worry her. Don't
bother about rations,--I'll see to that, and everything
else,--only do come, there's a good fellow!
"In a tearing hurry,
Yours ever, LAURIE."
"Here's richness!" cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.
"Of course we can go, mother? it will be such a help to Laurie, for I
can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some
way."
"I hope the Vaughns are not fine, grown-up people. Do you know anything
about them, Jo?" asked Meg.
"Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and
Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or
ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys; I fancied, from the
way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn't admire
Kate much."
"I'm so glad my French print is clean; it's just the thing, and so
becoming!" observed Meg complacently. "Have you anything decent, Jo?"
"Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and
tramp about, so I don't want any starch to think of. You'll come,
Bethy?"
"If you won't let any of the boys talk to me."
"Not a boy!"
"I like to please Laurie; and I'm not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so
kind; but I don't want to play, or sing, or say anything. I'll work
hard, and not trouble any one; and you'll take care of me, Jo, so I'll
go."
"That's my good girl; you do try to fight off your shyness, and I love
you for it. Fighting faults isn't easy, as I know; and a cheery word
kind of gives a lift. Thank you, mother," and Jo gave the thin cheek a
grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back the
rosy roundness of her youth.
"I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy," said
Amy, showing her mail.
"And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to
him to-night, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go," added Beth,
whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.
"Now let's fly round, and do double duty to-day, so that we can play
to-morrow with free minds," said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a
broom.
When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning, to promise
them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation
for the fête as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of
little curl-papers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her
afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to
atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax by
putting a clothes-pin on her nose, to uplift the offending feature. It
was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their
drawing-boards, therefore quite appropriate and effective for the
purpose to which it was now put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse
the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up, and
roused all her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy's ornament.
[Illustration: Amy capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin on her
nose]
Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a
lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept
reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters' toilets by
frequent telegrams from the window.
"There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch
in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the
sky, and the weathercock; I wish he would go, too. There's Laurie,
looking like a sailor,--nice boy! Oh, mercy me! here's a carriage full
of people--a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is
lame; poor thing, he's got a crutch. Laurie didn't tell us that. Be
quick, girls! it's getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do declare.
Look, Meg, isn't that the man who bowed to you one day, when we were
shopping?"
"So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the
Mountains. There is Sallie; I'm glad she got back in time. Am I all
right, Jo?" cried Meg, in a flutter.
"A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat straight; it looks
sentimental tipped that way, and will fly off at the first puff. Now,
then, come on!"
"O Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It's too absurd! You
shall _not_ make a guy of yourself," remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down,
with a red ribbon, the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned Leghorn Laurie had
sent for a joke.
"I just will, though, for it's capital,--so shady, light, and big. It
will make fun; and I don't mind being a guy if I'm comfortable." With
that Jo marched straight away, and the rest followed,--a bright little
band of sisters, all looking their best, in summer suits, with happy
faces under the jaunty hat-brims.
Laurie ran to meet, and present them to his friends, in the most cordial
manner. The lawn was the reception-room, and for several minutes a
lively scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss Kate,
though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls would
do well to imitate; and she was much flattered by Mr. Ned's assurances
that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie "primmed up
his mouth" when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a
stand-off-don't-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free
and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an observation of the
new boys, and decided that the lame one was not "dreadful," but gentle
and feeble, and she would be kind to him on that account. Amy found
Grace a well-mannered, merry little person; and after staring dumbly at
one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good friends.
Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the
party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving
Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat;
Mr. Brooke and Ned the other; while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did
his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed
water-bug. Jo's funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of
general utility; it broke the ice in the beginning, by producing a
laugh; it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro, as she
rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a
shower came up, she said. Kate looked rather amazed at Jo's proceedings,
especially as she exclaimed "Christopher Columbus!" when she lost her
oar; and Laurie said, "My dear fellow, did I hurt you?" when he tripped
over her feet in taking his place. But after putting up her glass to
examine the queer girl several times, Miss Kate decided that she was
"odd, but rather clever," and smiled upon her from afar.
[Illustration: Mr. Laurence waving his hat]
Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with the
rowers, who both admired the prospect, and feathered their oars with
uncommon "skill and dexterity." Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young
man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet
manners, and considered him a walking encyclopædia of useful knowledge.
He never talked to her much; but he looked at her a good deal, and she
felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned, being in
college, of course put on all the airs which Freshmen think it their
bounden duty to assume; he was not very wise, but very good-natured, and
altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was
absorbed in keeping her white piqué dress clean, and chattering with the
ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror by his pranks.
It was not far to Longmeadow; but the tent was pitched and the wickets
down by the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with three
wide-spreading oaks in the middle, and a smooth strip of turf for
croquet.
"Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young host, as they landed, with
exclamations of delight.
"Brooke is commander-in-chief; I am commissary-general; the other
fellows are staff-officers; and you, ladies, are company. The tent is
for your especial benefit, and that oak is your drawing-room; this is
the mess-room, and the third is the camp-kitchen. Now, let's have a game
before it gets hot, and then we'll see about dinner."
Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the
other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred; Laurie took Sallie,
Jo, and Ned. The Englishers played well; but the Americans played
better, and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the
spirit of '76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes, and
once narrowly escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket, and
had missed the stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was
close behind her, and his turn came before hers; he gave a stroke, his
ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No one was
very near; and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his
toe, which put it just an inch on the right side.
"I'm through! Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you, and get in first," cried
the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.
[Illustration: Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you]
"You pushed it; I saw you; it's my turn now," said Jo sharply.
"Upon my word, I didn't move it; it rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is
allowed; so stand off, please, and let me have a go at the stake."
"We don't cheat in America, but you can, if you choose," said Jo
angrily.
"Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go!"
returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.
Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time,
colored up to her forehead, and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket
with all her might, while Fred hit the stake, and declared himself out
with much exultation. She went off to get her ball, and was a long time
finding it, among the bushes; but she came back, looking cool and quiet,
and waited her turn patiently. It took several strokes to regain the
place she had lost; and, when she got there, the other side had nearly
won, for Kate's ball was the last but one, and lay near the stake.
"By George, it's all up with us! Good-by, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one, so
you are finished," cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to see
the finish.
"Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies," said Jo, with
a look that made the lad redden, "especially when they beat them," she
added, as, leaving Kate's ball untouched, she won the game by a clever
stroke.
Laurie threw up his hat; then remembered that it wouldn't do to exult
over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of a cheer to
whisper to his friend,--
"Good for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him; we can't tell him so, but he
won't do it again, take my word for it."
Meg drew her aside, under pretence of pinning up a loose braid, and said
approvingly,--
"It was dreadfully provoking; but you kept your temper, and I'm so glad,
Jo."
"Don't praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should
certainly have boiled over if I hadn't stayed among the nettles till I
got my rage under enough to hold my tongue. It's simmering now, so I
hope he'll keep out of my way," returned Jo, biting her lips, as she
glowered at Fred from under her big hat.
"Time for lunch," said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch.
"Commissary-general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss
March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee?"
"Jo can," said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling that
her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over
the coffee-pot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys
made a fire, and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched,
and Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes
to serve as plates.