Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Read online

  “Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies.

  “No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.

  “There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly—

  “Yes. It’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”

  Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats‘, and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg’s innocent mind.

  “Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo indignantly. “Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so on the spot?”

  “I couldn‘t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help hearing at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t remember that I ought to go away.”

  “Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having ‘plans,’ and being kind to Laurie because he’s rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won’t he shout when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?” And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good joke.

  “If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you! She mustn‘t, must she, Mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.

  “No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can,” said Mrs. March gravely. “I was very unwise to let you go among people of whom I know so little—kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.”

  “Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me. I’ll forget all the bad and remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go. I’ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, Mother. I know I’m a silly little girl, and I’ll stay with you till I’m fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired, and I can’t help saying I like it,” said Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession.

  “That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.”

  Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and things of that sort; and Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow.

  “Mother, do you have ‘plans,’ as Mrs. Moffat said?” asked Meg bashfully.

  “Yes, my dear, I have a great many; all mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat‘s, I suspect. I will tell you some of them, for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me, and mothers’ lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my ‘plans,’ and help me carry them out, if they are good.”

  Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way—

  “I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good; to be admired, loved, and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world—marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing—and, when well used, a noble thing—but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

  “Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put themselves forward,” sighed Meg.

  “Then we’ll be old maids,” said Jo stoutly.

  “Right, Jo; better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands,” said Mrs. March decidedly. “Don’t be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to time; make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing remember, my girls: Mother is always ready to be your confidante, Father to be your friend; and both of us trust and hope that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives.”

  “We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade them good night.

  10

  The P. C. and P. O.

  As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts. The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, “I’d know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see ‘em in Chiny;” and so she might, for the girls’ tastes differed as much as their characters. Meg’s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it. Jo’s bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying experiments; this year it was to be a plantation of sunflowers, the seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned, fragrant flowers in her garden—sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the bird and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers—rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at—with honeysuckles and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there.

  Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions—some old, some new—all more or less original. One of these was the “P. C.,” for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one; and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick Club.bf With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with a big “P. C.” in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something, while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven o‘clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick; Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass; Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman; and Amy, who was always trying to do what she couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle.* Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which
they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and shortcomings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glasses, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and, having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read:

  “The Pickmick Portfolio”

  MAY 20, 18—

  Poet’s Corner Our Pickwick, always at his post, With reverence we greet,

  ANNIVERSARY ODE As, spectacles on nose, he reads Our well-filled weekly sheet.

  Again we meet to celebrate

  With badge and solemn rite, Our fifty-second anniversary, In Pickwick Hall, tonight. Although he suffers from a cold, We joy to hear him speak, For words of wisdom from him fall, In spite of croak or squeak.

  We all are here in perfect health,

  None gone from our small band; Again we see each well-known face, And press each friendly hand. Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high, With elephantine grace, And beams upon the company, With brown and jovial face.

  *In Dickens’s novel Samuel Pickwick is the club’s chairman and founder, and Tupman Snodgrass, and Winkle are members; all report their adventures and observations at club meetings.

  Poetic fire lights up his eye, He struggles ‘gainst his lot. Behold ambition on his brow, And on his nose a blot! throng that filled the stately halls of Count de Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so with mirth and music the mas querade went on. “Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?” asked a gal lant troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm. “Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she pas sionately hates.” “By my faith, I envy him. Yon der he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows her hand,” returned the trouba dour. “ ’Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the old count,” said the lady, as they joined the dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and, withdrawing the young pair to an alcove hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell upon the gay throng; and not a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves sleeping in the

  Next our peaceful Tupman comes, So rosy, plump, and sweet, Who chokes with laughter at the puns, And tumbles off his seat.

  Prim little Winkle too is here, With every hair in place, A model of propriety, Though he hates to wash his face.

  The year is gone, we still unite To joke and laugh and read, And tread the path of literature That doth to glory lead.

  Long may our paper prosper well, Our club unbroken be, And coming years their blessings pour On the useful, gay “P. C.” A. SNODGRASS.

  THE MASKED MARRIAGE

  A TALE OF VENICE

  Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely load to swell the brilliant

  moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus: “My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services.” All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a low murmur of amazement went through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks. Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding an explanation. “Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the play end. Unmask and receive my blessing.” But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl* was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty. “My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more, for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.” The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdi nand added, with a gay smile of triumph, “To you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by this masked marriage.”

  S. PICKWICK.

  Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel? It is full of unruly members. unruly members.

  THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH

  Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his gar den, and after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to market. A grocerman bought

  *Star-shaped medal, a badge of his rank.

  and put it in his shop. That same morning, a little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up, and boiled it in the big pot; mashed some of it, with salt and butter, for dinner; and to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers; put it in a deep dish, and baked it till it was brown and nice; and next day it was eaten by a family named March. in haste as it is nearly school time

  Yours respectably, N. WINKLE.

  [The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.]

  A SAD ACCIDENT

  On Friday last, we were star tled by a violent shock in our basement, followed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and fallen while getting wood a for domestic purposes. A perfect scene of ruin met our eyes; for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from this per ilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises; and, we are happy to add, is now doing well.

  T. TUPMAN.

  MR. PICKWICK, Sir:—I address you upon the sub ject of sin the sinner I mean is man named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes won’t write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can’t write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains in future I will try to take time by the fet lock* and prepare some work which will be all commy la fo† that means all right I am

  ED.

  *Amy actually means “take time by the forelock”—that is, act quickly, lest an opportunity be lost (a fetlock is a tuft of hair near the back of a horse’s hoof; a fore lock grows over a horse’s head). †That is, comme il faut, French for “proper.”

  THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT For never more by the fire she’ll sit, Nor play by the old green gate.

  It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysteri ous disappearance of our cher ished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the whole com munity. When last seen, she was sit ting at the gate, watching the butcher’s cart; and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been discov ered; and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever. The little grave where her infant sleeps Is ‘neath the chestnut tree; But o’er her grave we may not weep, We know not where it may be.

  Her empty bed, her idle ball, Will never see her more; No gentle tap, no loving purr Is heard at the
parlor door.

  Another cat comes after her mice, A cat with a dirty face; But she does not hunt as our darling did, Nor play with her airy grace.

  Her stealthy paws tread the very hall Where Snowball used to play. But she only spits at the dogs our pet So gallantly drove away.

  A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:

  A LAMENT She is useful and mild, and does her best, But she is not fair to see; And we cannot give her your place,dear, Nor worship her as we wor ship thee.

  FOR S. B. PAT PAW

  We mourn the loss of our little pet, And sigh o‘er her hapless fate,

  A. s.

  ADVERTISEMENTS and orders are respectfully solicited.

  MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished Strong-Minded Lecturer, will deliver her famous Lecture on “WOMAN AND HER POSITION,” at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances. A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which will sur pass anything ever seen on the American stage. “THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger,” is the name of this thrilling drama! ! !

  A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how to cook. Han nah Brown will preside; and all are invited to attend.

  HINTS

  If S. P. didn’t use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn’t always be late at breakfast. A. S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T. T., please don’t forget Amy’s napkin, N. W. must not fret because his dress has not nine tucks.

  THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.

  WEEKLY REPORT

  MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll’s Millinery next week. The latest Paris Fashions have arrived,

  Meg—Good. Jo—Bad. Beth—Very good. Amy—Middling.

  As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass rose to make a proposition.