Summarize in plain English: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
PART 1
CHAPTER ONE
PLAYING PILGRIMS
“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying
on the rug.
“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old
dress.
“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty
things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an
injured sniff.
“We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth contentedly
from her corner.
The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the
cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, “We haven’t got
Father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say
“perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of Father far
away, where the fighting was.
Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, “You know
the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was
because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we
ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in
the army. We can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and
ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don’t,” and Meg shook her
head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.
“But I don’t think the little we should spend would do any good. We’ve
each got a dollar, and the army wouldn’t be much helped by our giving
that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want
to buy _Undine and Sintran_ 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 the window or cry?”
“It’s naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things
tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands
get so stiff, I can’t practice well at all.” And Beth looked at her
rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.
“I don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy, “for you don’t
have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you
don’t know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your
father if he isn’t rich, and insult you when your nose isn’t nice.”
“If you mean libel, I’d say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa
was a pickle bottle,” advised Jo, laughing.
“I know what I mean, and you needn’t be statirical about it. It’s
proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,” returned Amy,
with dignity.
“Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had the money
Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we’d be,
if we had no worries!” said Meg, who could remember better times.
“You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the
King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in
spite of their money.”
“So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work,
we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.”
“Jo does use such slang words!” observed Amy, with a reproving look at
the long figure stretched on the rug.
Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to
whistle.
“Don’t, Jo. It’s so boyish!”
“That’s why I do it.”
“I detest rude, unladylike girls!”
“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!”
“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker, with
such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the
“pecking” ended for that time.
“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to
lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to leave off
boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn’t matter so
much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up
your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady.”
“I’m not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I’ll wear it in two
tails till I’m twenty,” cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down
a chestnut mane. “I hate to think I’ve got to grow up, and be Miss
March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! It’s bad
enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy’s 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 home and knit, like a poky old woman!”
And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like
castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.
“Poor Jo! It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped. So you must try to be
contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us
girls,” said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the
dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its
touch.
“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too particular
and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you’ll grow up an affected
little goose, if you don’t take care. I like your nice manners and
refined ways of speaking, when you don’t try to be elegant. But your
absurd words are as bad as Jo’s slang.”
“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth,
ready to share the lecture.
“You’re a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly, and no one
contradicted her, for the ‘Mouse’ was the pet of the family.
As young readers like to know ‘how people look’, we will take this
moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat
knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly
without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable
room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a
good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,
chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a
pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.
Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being
plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet
mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old
Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she
never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very
much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,
gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,
funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it
was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders
had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the
uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a
woman and didn’t like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her,
was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy
manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom
disturbed. Her father called her ‘Little Miss Tranquility’, and the
name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of
her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved.
Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own
opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow
hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying
herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters
of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.
The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair
of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good
effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened
to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got
out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she
was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.
“They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair.”
“I thought I’d get her some with my dollar,” said Beth.
“No, I shall!” cried Amy.
“I’m the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, “I’m the man
of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for
he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Beth, “let’s each get her something
for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.”
“That’s like you, dear! What will we get?” exclaimed Jo.
Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the
idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, “I shall give
her a nice pair of gloves.”
“Army shoes, best to be had,” cried Jo.
“Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth.
“I’ll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won’t cost
much, so I’ll have some left to buy my pencils,” added Amy.
“How will we give the things?” asked Meg.
“Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.
Don’t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?” answered Jo.
“I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair
with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the
presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was
dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,”
said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same
time.
“Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then
surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so
much to do about the play for Christmas night,” said Jo, marching up
and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.
“I don’t mean to act any more after this time. I’m getting too old for
such things,” observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about
‘dressing-up’ frolics.
“You won’t stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown
with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best
actress we’ve got, and there’ll be an end of everything if you quit the
boards,” said Jo. “We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do
the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.”
“I can’t help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don’t choose to make
myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down
easily, I’ll drop. If I can’t, I shall fall into a chair and be
graceful. I don’t care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,” returned
Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she
was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.
“Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,
crying frantically, ‘Roderigo! Save me! Save me!’” and away went Jo,
with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.
Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and
jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her “Ow!” was
more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo
gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her
bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. “It’s no use! Do the
best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don’t
blame me. Come on, Meg.”
Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech
of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful
incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect.
Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of
remorse and arsenic, with a wild, “Ha! Ha!”
“It’s the best we’ve had yet,” said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and
rubbed his elbows.
“I don’t see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You’re
a regular Shakespeare!” exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her
sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
“Not quite,” replied Jo modestly. “I do think _The Witches Curse, an
Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I’d like to try
_Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do
the killing part. ‘Is that a dagger that I see before me?” muttered Jo,
rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous
tragedian do.
“No, it’s the toasting fork, with Mother’s shoe on it instead of the
bread. Beth’s stage-struck!” cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a
general burst of laughter.
“Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door,
and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a
‘can I help you’ look about her which was truly delightful. She was not
elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the
gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in
the world.
“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do,
getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn’t come home to
dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look
tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby.”
While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things
off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy
to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The
girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own
way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs,
dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth
trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy
gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.
As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly
happy face, “I’ve got a treat for you after supper.”
A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth
clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up
her napkin, crying, “A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!”
“Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through
the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving
wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,” said Mrs.
March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.
“Hurry and get done! Don’t stop to quirk your little finger and simper
over your plate, Amy,” cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her
bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the
treat.
Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood
over the delight to come, till the others were ready.
“I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too
old to be drafted, and not strong enough 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 over-flow with
fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.
“Give them all of 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.
Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo’s words, by saying in her
cheery voice, “Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims Progress
when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me
tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks
and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the
cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop,
where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a
Celestial City.”
“What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and
passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were,” said Jo.
“I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,”
said Meg.
“I don’t remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar
and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the
top. If I wasn’t too old for such things, I’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 tonight, and Mother came and pulled
us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of
directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?” asked Jo,
delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull
task of doing her duty.
“Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your
guidebook,” replied Mrs. March.
They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared 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
tonight 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.
At nine they stopped work, and sang, 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 sang. Meg had a voice like a
flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a
cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always
coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the
most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could
lisp...
Crinkle, crinkle, ’ittle ’tar,
and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.
The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the
house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same
cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar
lullaby.
CHAPTER TWO
A MERRY CHRISTMAS
Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No
stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much
disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down
because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her
mother’s promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a
little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that
beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it
was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a 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 came a-beggin’, and your ma
went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman
for givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes and firin’,” replied Hannah,
who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by
them all more as a friend than a servant.
“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything
ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a
basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper
time. “Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?” she added, as the little
flask did not appear.
“She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on
it, or some such notion,” replied Jo, dancing about the room to take
the first stiffness off the new army slippers.
“How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they? Hannah washed and ironed
them for me, and I marked them all myself,” said Beth, looking proudly
at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.
“Bless the child! She’s gone and put ‘Mother’ on them instead of ‘M.
March’. How funny!” cried Jo, taking one up.
“Isn’t that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg’s
initials are M.M., and I don’t want anyone to use these but Marmee,”
said Beth, looking troubled.
“It’s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for
no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,”
said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.
“There’s Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed
and steps sounded in the hall.
Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters
all waiting for her.
“Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?” asked Meg,
surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so
early.
“Don’t laugh at me, Jo! I didn’t mean anyone should know till the time
came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I
gave all my money to get it, and I’m truly trying not to be selfish any
more.”
As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap
one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget
herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her ‘a
trump’, while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to
ornament the stately bottle.
“You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about
being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the
minute I was up, and I’m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.”
Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the
girls to the table, eager for breakfast.
“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We
read some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus.
“Merry Christmas, little daughters! I’m glad you began at once, and
hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down.
Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby.
Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they
have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy
came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you
give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?”
They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a
minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, “I’m
so glad you came before we began!”
“May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?” asked
Beth eagerly.
“I shall take the cream and the muffings,” added Amy, heroically giving
up the article she most liked.
Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one
big plate.
“I thought you’d do it,” said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. “You
shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and
milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime.”
They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was
early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and
no one laughed at the queer party.
A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,
ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale,
hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.
How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.
“Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!” said the poor woman,
crying for joy.
“Funny angels in hoods and mittens,” said Jo, and set them to laughing.
In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work
there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the
broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the
mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with 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 theater, and not rich enough to
afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their
wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made
whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions,
pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats
covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering
with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the
same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of
preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many
innocent revels.
No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart’s
content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots
given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots,
an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some
picture, were Jo’s chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The
smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors
to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit
for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,
whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage
besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless
amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been
idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.
On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the
dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a
most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling
and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an
occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the
excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew
apart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began.
“A gloomy wood,” according to the one playbill, was represented by a
few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the
distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus
for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black
pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the
glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued
from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed
for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in
with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard,
mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much
agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain,
singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing
resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s
voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were
very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for
breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he
stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding,
“What ho, minion! I need thee!”
Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and
black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon 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!
A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave
appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden
hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang...
Hither I come,
From my airy home,
Afar in the silver moon.
Take the magic spell,
And use it well,
Or its power will vanish soon!
And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit
vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a
lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having
croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a
mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his
boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had
killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and
intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain
fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the
merits of the play.
A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but
when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been
got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose
to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it,
and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver
dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed
cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, 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 from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old
gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She
also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons
of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them
away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech
he ought to have made.
Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to
free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees
him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little
servant, “Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I
shall come anon.” The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something,
and Hagar changes the cups for two others 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 red hair
rather marred the effect of the villain’s death. He was called before
the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose
singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the
performance put together.
Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing
himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as
the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window,
informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if
he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of
rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his
lady love.
Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He
wishes her to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it, and after a
touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands
her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and
gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear
away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter
and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter
informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair
and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn’t make them happy. The bag
is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage
till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the
stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus,
and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s
blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.
Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the
cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and
extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to
the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless
with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared,
with “Mrs. March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to
supper.”
This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table,
they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee
to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was
unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream,
actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and
distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great
bouquets of hot house flowers.
It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and
then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.
“Is it fairies?” asked Amy.
“Santa Claus,” said Beth.
“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray
beard and white eyebrows.
“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a
sudden inspiration.
“All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March.
“The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing
into his head? We don’t know him!” exclaimed Meg.
“Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an
odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago,
and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would
allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending
them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you
have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk
breakfast.”
“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He’s a capital fellow,
and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he’d like to know us
but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when
we pass,” said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt
out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.
“You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?”
asked one of the girls. “My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says
he’s very proud and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps
his grandson shut up, when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor,
and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he
didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us
girls.”
“Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the
fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on,
when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day,
for he needs fun, I’m sure he does,” said Jo decidedly.
“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I’ve no
objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He
brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had
been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went
away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own.”
“It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!” laughed Jo, looking at her boots.
“But we’ll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he’ll
help act. Wouldn’t that be jolly?”
“I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!” And Meg
examined her flowers with great interest.
“They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,” said Mrs. March,
smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.
Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, “I wish I could send my
bunch to Father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as
we are.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE LAURENCE BOY
“Jo! Jo! Where are you?” cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.
“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found
her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped
up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This
was Jo’s favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a
dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a
pet rat who lived near by and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg
appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her
cheeks and waited to hear the news.
“Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner
for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then
proceeding to read it with girlish delight.
“‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at
a little dance on New Year’s Eve.’ Marmee is willing we should go, now
what shall we wear?”
“What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our
poplins, because we haven’t got anything else?” answered Jo with her
mouth full.
“If I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. “Mother says I may when I’m
eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait.”
“I’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.
Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine.
Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can’t take any out.”
“You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The
front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee
will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and
my gloves will do, though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.”
“Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I
shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much
about dress.
“You must have gloves, or I won’t go,” cried Meg decidedly. “Gloves are
more important than anything else. You can’t dance without them, and if
you don’t I should be so mortified.”
“Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing. It’s no
fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers.”
“You can’t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are
so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn’t
get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?”
“I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how
stained they are. That’s all I can do. No! I’ll tell you how we can
manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don’t you see?”
“Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
dreadfully,” began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.
“Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say!” cried Jo, taking
up her book.
“You may have it, you may! Only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely.
Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say ‘Christopher
Columbus!’ will you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be as prim as I can and not get into any
scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me
finish this splendid story.”
So Meg went away to ‘accept with thanks’, look over her dress, and sing
blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her
story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.
On New Year’s Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls
played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the
all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party’. Simple as the
toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing
and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the
house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch
the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
“Ought they to smoke like that?” asked Beth from her perch on the bed.
“It’s the dampness drying,” replied Jo.
“What a queer smell! It’s like burned feathers,” observed Amy,
smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.
“There, now I’ll take off the papers and you’ll see a cloud of little
ringlets,” said Jo, putting down the tongs.
She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the
hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of
little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
“Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I’m spoiled! I can’t go! My hair, oh,
my hair!” wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her
forehead.
“Just my luck! You shouldn’t have asked me to do it. I always spoil
everything. I’m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve made
a mess,” groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with
tears of regret.
“It isn’t spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends
come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.
I’ve seen many girls do it so,” said Amy consolingly.
“Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I’d let my hair alone,”
cried Meg petulantly.
“So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out
again,” said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.
After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the
united exertions of the entire family Jo’s hair was got up and her
dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg’s in silvery
drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in
maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white
chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light
glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect “quite
easy and fine”. Meg’s high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt
her, though she would not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed
stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but,
dear me, let us be elegant or die.
“Have a good time, dearies!” said Mrs. March, as the sisters went
daintily down the walk. “Don’t eat much supper, and come away at eleven
when I send Hannah for you.” As the gate clashed behind them, a voice
cried from a window...
“Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?”
“Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,” cried Jo, adding
with a laugh as they went on, “I do believe Marmee would ask that if we
were all running away from an earthquake.”
“It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real
lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,” replied
Meg, who had a good many little ‘aristocratic tastes’ of her own.
“Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash
right? And does my hair look very bad?” said Meg, as she turned from
the glass in Mrs. Gardiner’s dressing room after a prolonged prink.
“I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind
me by a wink, will you?” returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and
her head a hasty brush.
“No, winking isn’t ladylike. I’ll lift my eyebrows if any thing is
wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight,
and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to
anyone. It isn’t the thing.”
“How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn’t that music
gay?”
Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to
parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to
them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed
them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was
at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn’t care much for girls or
girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall,
and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a
dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the
room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the
joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows
went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to
her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone.
She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth
would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing
began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so
briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered
smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and
fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess,
intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another
bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell
behind her, she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’.
“Dear me, I didn’t know anyone was here!” stammered Jo, preparing to
back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little
startled, “Don’t mind me, stay if you like.”
“Shan’t I disturb you?”
“Not a bit. I only came here because I don’t know many people and felt
rather strange at first, you know.”
“So did I. Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.”
The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to
be polite and easy, “I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you
before. You live near us, don’t you?”
“Next door.” And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo’s prim
manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about
cricket when he brought the cat home.
That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her
heartiest way, “We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas
present.”
“Grandpa sent it.”
“But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?”
“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy, trying to look sober
while his black eyes shone with fun.
“Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I’m only
Jo,” returned the young lady.
“I’m not Mr. Laurence, I’m only Laurie.”
“Laurie Laurence, what an odd name.”
“My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows called
me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.”
“I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo
instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?”
“I thrashed ’em.”
“I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it.” And
Jo resigned herself with a sigh.
“Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he
thought the name suited her.
“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is
lively. In a place like this I’m sure to upset something, tread on
people’s toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and
let Meg sail about. Don’t you dance?”
“Sometimes. You see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t
been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.”
“Abroad!” cried Jo. “Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people
describe their travels.”
Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin, but Jo’s eager questions
soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay,
where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake,
and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their
teachers.
“Don’t I wish I’d been there!” cried Jo. “Did you go to Paris?”
“We spent last winter there.”
“Can you talk French?”
“We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.”
“Do say some! I can read it, but can’t pronounce.”
“Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?”
“How nicely you do it! Let me see ... you said, ‘Who is the young lady
in the pretty slippers’, didn’t you?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
“It’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is
pretty?”
“Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and
quiet, and dances like a lady.”
Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and
stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted
till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore
off, for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and
Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody
lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than
ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him
to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys
were almost unknown creatures to them.
“Curly black hair,