"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 SINTRAM for myself. I've
wanted it so long," said Jo, who
was a bookworm.
"I planned to spend mine in new
music," said Beth, with a little
sigh, which no one heard but the
hearth brush and kettle holder.
"I shall get a nice box of Faber's
drawing pencils. I really need
them," said Amy decidedly.
"Mother didn't say anything about
our money, and she won't wish us
to give up everything. Let's each
buy what we want, and have a
little fun. I'm sure we work hard
enough to earn it," cried Jo,
examining the heels of her shoes
in a gentlemanly manner.
"I know I do--teaching those
tiresome children nearly all day,
when I'm longing to enjoy myself
at home," began Meg, in the
complaining tone again.
"You don't have half such a hard
time as I do," said Jo. "How would
you like to be shut up for hours
with a nervous, fussy old lady, who
keeps you trotting, is never
satisfied, and worries you till you
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 to particular
and prim. Your airs are funny now,
but you'll grow up an affected
little goose, if you don't take care.
I 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, land 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 McBETH, 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. Out 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 herr 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.
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 SINTRAM for myself. I've
wanted it so long," said Jo, who
was a bookworm.
"I planned to spend mine in new
music," said Beth, with a little
sigh, which no one heard but the
hearth brush and kettle holder.
"I shall get a nice box of Faber's
drawing pencils. I really need
them," said Amy decidedly.
"Mother didn't say anything about
our money, and she won't wish us
to give up everything. Let's each
buy what we want, and have a
little fun. I'm sure we work hard
enough to earn it," cried Jo,
examining the heels of her shoes
in a gentlemanly manner.
"I know I do--teaching those
tiresome children nearly all day,
when I'm longing to enjoy myself
at home," began Meg, in the
complaining tone again.
"You don't have half such a hard
time as I do," said Jo. "How would
you like to be shut up for hours
with a nervous, fussy old lady, who
keeps you trotting, is never
satisfied, and worries you till you
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 to particular
and prim. Your airs are funny now,
but you'll grow up an affected
little goose, if you don't take care.
I 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, land 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 McBETH, 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. Out 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 herr 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.