“Grandpa sent it.”
“But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?”
“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy.
“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 everyone 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. 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!”
Laurie 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.”
“Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?”
It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself[6] in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.
“I suppose you are going to college soon?”
Laurie smiled. “I won't go before seventeen, anyway.”
“Aren't you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.
“Sixteen, next month.”
“How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it.”
“I hate it! And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country.”
“What do you like?”
“To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.”
Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but changed the subject by saying, “That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?”
“If you will come too,” he answered.
“I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because…”
“Because, what?”
“You won't tell?”
“Never!”
“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know.”
But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, “Never mind that. I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.”
Jo thanked him and gladly went. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath. That's when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.
“I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned. I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home,” she said, rocking to and fro[7] in pain.
“I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.
“I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send.”
“I'll ask Laurie. He will go,” said Jo.
“Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell anyone. I can't dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes. “
Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said.
“It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?” began Jo, looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer.
“I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.”
They settled in the carriage. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party. By the time Jo had finished telling Meg about her adventures, they were at home.
Chapter four
Burdens
“Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to go on,” sighed Meg the morning after the party. The holidays were over.
“I wish it was Christmas or New Year's all the time. Wouldn't it be fun?” answered Jo, yawning.
“We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much[8] as we do now. But it does seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties.” said Meg. “Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not? I will grow old and ugly and sour, because I'm poor and can't enjoy my life as other girls do. It's a shame!”
She went down, wearing an injured look.
During breakfast everyone seemed rather out of sorts[9]. Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy cried because she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was. Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at once[10].
“Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early mail, and you distract me,” cried Mrs. March, crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.
There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who walked in, laid two hot turnovers on the table, and walked out again.
“Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee. Let's go, Meg!” And Jo walked out of the room.
Once outside, Jo turned to Meg.
“More ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen.”
“Don't use such dreadful expressions,” replied Meg
“I like good strong words that mean something,” replied Jo.
“Call yourself any names you like, but I am not a wretch and I don't choose to be called so.”
“You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can't sit in the lap of luxury[11] all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with.”
“How ridiculous you are, Jo!” But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt better in spite of herself[12].
Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for the day, each going a different way.
When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something toward their own support, at least. Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her small salary. She found poverty harder to bear. She seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel bitter toward everyone sometimes.
Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active person to wait upon her. Jo accepted the place since nothing better appeared and, to every one's surprise, got on remarkably well with her relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.
Part of the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular bookworm.
Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had no idea as yet. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series of ups and downs. But the training she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed.
Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home with her father. Even when he went away, Beth went faithfully on by herself. She had six dolls she dressed every morning, for Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever.
Beth often ‘wept a little weep' as Jo said, because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, but the keys wouldn't keep in tune.
If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point.
“Little Raphael,” as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories.
Meg was Amy's confidant, and by some strange attraction of opposites Jo was Beth's. The two older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way.
“Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a terrible day,” said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening.
“I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I'll tell you about it,” began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. “When she started to nod off, I whipped the Vicar of Wakefield out of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I'd just got to where they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out loud. Aunt woke up and, told me to read a bit and show what frivolous work I preferred to Belsham. I did my very best and she told me to finish the chapter.”
“Did she like it?” asked Meg.
“Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest,” added Jo.
“That reminds me,” said Meg, “that I've got something to tell. It isn't funny, like Jo's story. At the Kings' today one of the children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and Papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking very loud. I felt so sorry for them and was rather glad I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family.”
“I think being disgraced in school is worse than anything bad boys can do,” said Amy, shaking her head. “Susie Perkins drew a picture of Mr. Davis today, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, ‘Young ladies, my eye is upon you!' coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We were laughing over it when all of a sudden he saw us, and ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was parrylized with fright, but she went, and oh, what do you think he did? He took her by the ear – the ear!”
“Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it. I like to think about them afterward,” said Jo, after a minute's silence.
Mrs. March smiled and began at once.
“Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented. These girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, ‘If only we had this,' or ‘If we could only do that,' forgetting how much they already had. So they asked an old woman what they could do to make them happy, and she said, ‘When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'” Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice. One discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, than a certain feeble old lady, a third that nothing was as valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings they already had.”
“Now, Marmee, that is very good of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!” cried Meg.
“I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort Father used to tell us,” said Beth thoughtfully.
“We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it!'” added Jo, who could not, for the life of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon.
Chapter five
Being neighborly
“What are you going to do now, Jo?” asked Meg one snowy afternoon, as her sister came through the house, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.
“Going out for exercise,” answered Jo. “I like adventures, and I'm going to find some.”
Jo went outside and began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion. It seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house. Few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.
To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace. She wanted to know more about it, and to know the Laurence boy.
“That boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!”
The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then went to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window.
“There he is,” thought Jo, “Poor boy! All alone. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him.”
Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out…
“How do you do? Are you sick?”
Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven…
“Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week.”
“I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't you read?”
“Not much. They won't let me.”
“Have someone come and see you then.”
“There isn't anyone I'd like to see. Boys are loud, and my head hurts.”
“Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet.”
“Don't know any.”
“You know us,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped.
“So I do! Will you come, please?” cried Laurie.
“I'm not quiet and nice, but I'll come, if Mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come.”
With that, Jo marched into the house.
Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready. Presently there came a loud ring, then a decided voice, asking for ‘Mr. Laurie', and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.
“All right, let her in, it's Miss Jo,” said Laurie. Jo appeared, looking rosy. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully…