Little Women
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 anyone in the family. The two older girls
were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger
sisters 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 today, 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.”
“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. Shan’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 only she
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’ today 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 and swollen 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
today 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 the slate so
everyone could see.”
“Didn’t the girls laugh at the picture?” asked Jo, who relished the
scrape.
“Laugh? Not one! They sat 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 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
the fish 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 into 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’.”
When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their mother for one,
and after a moments thought, she said soberly, “As I sat cutting out
blue flannel jackets today 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.”
“Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like
to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,”
said Jo, after a minute’s silence.
Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this
little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.
“Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and
drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and
parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.” (Here
the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew
diligently.) “These girls were anxious to be good and made many
excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were
constantly saying, ‘If only we had this,’ or ‘If we could only do
that,’ quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things
they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they
could use to make them happy, and she said, ‘When you feel
discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.’” (Here Jo
looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing
that the story was not done yet.)
“Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were
surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money
couldn’t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people’s houses, another
that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her
youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old
lady who couldn’t enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it
was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and
the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good
behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings
already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken
away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never
disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman’s advice.”
“Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories
against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!” cried Meg.
“I like that kind of sermon. It’s the sort Father used to tell us,”
said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo’s cushion.
“I don’t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more
careful than ever now, for I’ve had warning from Susie’s downfall,”
said Amy morally.
“We needed that lesson, and we won’t forget it. If we do so, you just
say to us, as old Chloe did in _Uncle Tom_, ‘Tink ob yer marcies,
chillen!’ ‘Tink ob yer marcies!’” added Jo, who could not, for the life
of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though
she took it to heart as much as any of them.
CHAPTER FIVE
BEING NEIGHBORLY
“What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?” asked Meg one snowy
afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber
boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the
other.
“Going out for exercise,” answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her
eyes.
“I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough!
It’s cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the
fire, as I do,” said Meg with a shiver.
“Never take advice! Can’t keep still all day, and not being a pussycat,
I don’t like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I’m going to
find some.”
Meg went back to toast her feet and read _Ivanhoe_, and Jo began to dig
paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she
soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the
sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden
separated the Marches’ house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a
suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and
lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two
estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and
shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the
flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately
stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury,
from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and
the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.
Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children
frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and