Jo's Boys Read online

  “I know she will, and I’ll take it to her,” answered Nat, as he vanished, glad of an errand, and sure that he could find Daisy though Emil had missed her.

  Emil chuckled, and handed out a quaintly carved bear whose head opened, showing a capacious ink-stand. This he presented, with a scrape, to Aunt Jo.

  “Knowing your fondness for these fine animals, I brought this one to your pen.”

  “Very good, Commodore! Try again,” said Mrs Jo, much pleased with her gift, which caused the Professor to prophesy “works of Shakespeare” from its depths, so great would be the inspiration of the beloved bruin.

  “As Aunt Meg will wear caps, in spite of her youth, I got Ludmilla to get me some bits of lace. Hope you’ll like ’em” and out of a soft paper came some filmy things, one of which soon lay like a net of snowflakes on Mrs Meg’s pretty hair.

  “I couldn’t find anything swell enough for Aunt Amy, because she has everything she wants, so I brought a little picture that always makes me think of her when Bess was a baby” and he handed her an oval ivory locket, on which was painted a golden-haired Madonna, with a rosy child folded in her blue mantle.

  “How lovely!” cried everyone; and Aunt Amy at once hung it about her neck on the blue ribbon from Bess’s hair, charmed with her gift; for it recalled the happiest year of her life.

  “Now, I flatter myself I’ve got just the thing for Nan, neat but not gaudy, a sort of sign you see, and very appropriate for a doctor,” said Emil, proudly displaying a pair of lava earrings shaped like little skulls.

  “Horrid!” And Bess, who hated ugly things, turned her eyes to her own pretty shells.

  “She won’t wear earrings,” said Josie.

  “Well, she’ll enjoy punching your ears then. She’s never so happy as when she’s overhauling her fellow creatures and going for ’em with a knife,” answered Emil, undisturbed. “I’ve got a lot of plunder for you fellows in my chest, but I knew I should have no peace till my cargo for the girls was unloaded. Now tell me all the news.” And, seated on Amy’s best marble-topped table, the sailor swung his legs and talked at the rate of ten knots an hour, till Aunt Jo carried them all off to a grand family tea in honour of the Commodore.

  CHAPTER 3

  JO’S LAST SCRAPE

  THE MARCH family had enjoyed a great many surprises in the course of their varied career, but the greatest of all was when the Ugly Duckling turned out to be, not a swan, but a golden goose, whose literary eggs found such an unexpected market that in ten years Jo’s wildest and most cherished dream actually came true. How or why it happened she never clearly understood, but all of a sudden she found herself famous in a small way, and, better still, with a snug little fortune in her pocket to clear away the obstacles of the present and assure the future of her boys.

  It began during a bad year when everything went wrong at Plumfield; times were hard, the school dwindled, Jo overworked herself and had a long illness; Laurie and Amy were abroad, and the Bhaers too proud to ask help even of those as near and dear as this generous pair. Confined to her room, Jo got desperate over the state of affairs, till she fell back upon the long-disused pen as the only thing she could do to help fill up the gaps in the income. A book for girls being wanted by a certain publisher, she hastily scribbled a little story describing a few scenes and adventures in the lives of herself and sisters—though boys were more in her line—and with very slight hopes of success sent it out to seek its fortune.

  Things always went by contraries with Jo. Her first book, laboured over for years, and launched full of the high hopes and ambitious dreams of youth, foundered on its voyage, though the wreck continued to float long afterward, to the profit of the publisher at least. The hastily written story, sent away with no thought beyond the few dollars it might bring, sailed with a fair wind and a wise pilot at the helm into public favour, and came home heavily laden with an unexpected cargo of gold and glory.

  A more astonished woman probably never existed than Josephine Bhaer when her little ship came into port with flags flying, cannon that had been silent before now booming gaily, and, better than all, many kind faces rejoicing with her, many friendly hands grasping hers with cordial congratulations. After that it was plain sailing, and she merely had to load her ships and send them off on prosperous trips, to bring home stores of comfort for all she loved and laboured for.

  The fame she never did quite accept; for it takes very little fire to make a great deal of smoke nowadays, and notoriety is not real glory. The fortune she could not doubt, and gratefully received; though it was not half so large a one as a generous world reported it to be. The tide having turned continued to rise, and floated the family comfortably into a snug harbour where the older members could rest secure from storms, and whence the younger ones could launch their boats for the voyage of life.

  All manner of happiness, peace, and plenty came in those years to bless the patient waiters, hopeful workers, and devout believers in the wisdom and justice of Him who sends disappointment, poverty, and sorrow to try the love of human hearts and make success the sweeter when it comes. The world saw the prosperity, and kind souls rejoiced over the improved fortunes of the family; but the success Jo valued most, the happiness that nothing could change or take away, few knew much about.

  It was the power of making her mother’s last years happy and serene; to see the burden of care laid down for ever, the weary hands at rest, the dear face untroubled by any anxiety, and the tender heart free to pour itself out in the wise charity which was its delight. As a girl, Jo’s favourite plan had been a room where Marmee could sit in peace and enjoy herself after her hard, heroic life. Now the dream had become a happy fact, and Marmee sat in her pleasant chamber with every comfort and luxury about her, loving daughters to wait on her as infirmities increased, a faithful mate to lean upon, and grandchildren to brighten the twilight of life with their dutiful affection. A very precious time to all, for she rejoiced as only mothers can in the good fortunes of their children. She had lived to reap the harvest she sowed; had seen prayers answered, hopes blossom, good gifts bear fruit, peace and prosperity bless the home she had made; and then, like some brave, patient angel, whose work was done, turned her face heavenward, glad to rest.

  This was the sweet and sacred side of the change; but it had its droll and thorny one, as all things have in this curious world of ours. After the first surprise, incredulity, and joy, which came to Jo, with the ingratitude of human nature, she soon tired of renown, and began to resent her loss of liberty. For suddenly the admiring public took possession of her and all her affairs, past, present, and to come. Strangers demanded to look at her, question, advise, warn, congratulate, and drive her out of her wits by well-meant but very wearisome attentions. If she declined to open her heart to them, they reproached her; if she refused to endow pet charities, relieve private wants, or sympathize with every ill and trial known to humanity, she was called hardhearted, selfish, and haughty; if she found it impossible to answer the piles of letters sent her, she was neglectful of her duty to the admiring public; and if she preferred the privacy of home to the pedestal upon which she was requested to pose, “the airs of literary people” were freely criticized.

  She did her best for the children, they being the public for whom she wrote, and laboured stoutly to supply the demand always in the mouths of voracious youth—“More stories; more right away!” Her family objected to this devotion at their expense, and her health suffered; but for a time she gratefully offered herself up on the altar of juvenile literature, feeling that she owed a good deal to the little friends in whose sight she had found favour after twenty years of effort.

  But a time came when her patience gave out; and wearying of being a lion, she became a bear in nature as in name, and returning to her den, growled awfully when ordered out. Her family enjoyed the fun, and had small sympathy with her trials, but Jo came to consider it the worse scrape of her life; for liberty had always been her dearest possession, and it seemed to
be fast going from her. Living in a lantern soon loses its charm, and she was too old, too tired, and too busy to like it. She felt that she had done all that could reasonably be required of her when autographs, photographs, and autobiographical sketches had been sown broadcast over the land; when artists had taken her home in all its aspects, and reporters had taken her in the grim one she always assumed on these trying occasions; when a series of enthusiastic boarding-schools had ravaged her grounds for trophies, and a steady stream of amiable pilgrims had worn her doorsteps with their respectful feet; when servants left after a week’s trial of the bell that rang all day; when her husband was forced to guard her at meals, and the boys to cover her retreat out of back windows on certain occasions when enterprising guests walked in unannounced at unfortunate moments.

  A sketch of one day may perhaps explain the state of things, offer some excuse for the unhappy woman, and give a hint to the autograph-fiend now rampant in the land; for it is a true tale.

  “There ought to be a law to protect unfortunate authors,” said Mrs Jo one morning soon after Emil’s arrival, when the mail brought her an unusually large and varied assortment of letters. “To me it is a more vital subject than international copyright; for time is money, peace is health, and I lose both with no return but less respect for my fellow creatures and a wild desire to fly into the wilderness, since I cannot shut my doors even in free America.”

  “Lion-hunters are awful when in search of their prey. If they could change places for a while it would do them good; and they’d see what bores they were when they ‘do themselves the honour of calling to express their admiration of our charming work’,” quoted Ted, with a bow to his parent, now frowning over twelve requests for autographs.

  “I have made up my mind on one point,” said Mrs Jo with great firmness. “I will not answer this kind of letter. I’ve sent at least six to this boy, and he probably sells them. This girl writes from a seminary, and if I send her one all the other girls will at once write for more. All begin by saying they know they intrude, and that I am of course annoyed by these requests; but they venture to ask because I like boys, or they like the books, or it is only one. Emerson and Whittier put these things in the wastepaper-basket; and though only a literary nursery-maid who provides moral pap for the young, I will follow their illustrious example; for I shall have no time to eat or sleep if I try to satisfy these dear unreasonable children” and Mrs Jo swept away the entire batch with a sigh of relief.

  “I’ll open the others and let you eat your breakfast in peace, liebe Mutter,” said Rob, who often acted as her secretary. “Here’s one from the South” and breaking an imposing seal, he read:

  “Madam, As it has pleased Heaven to bless your efforts with a large fortune, I feel no hesitation in asking you to supply funds to purchase a new communion-service for our church. To whatever denomination you belong, you will of course respond with liberality to such a request,

  “Respectfully yours,

  “Mrs X. Y. Zavier”

  “Send a civil refusal, dear. All I have to give must go to feed and clothe the poor at my gates. That is my thank-offering for success. Go on,” answered his mother, with a grateful glance about her happy home.

  “A literary youth of eighteen proposes that you put your name to a novel he has written; and after the first edition your name is to be taken off and his put on. There’s a cool proposal for you. I guess you won’t agree to that, in spite of your soft-heartedness towards most of the young scribblers.”

  “Couldn’t be done. Tell him so kindly, and don’t let him send the manuscript. I have seven on hand now, and barely time to read my own,” said Mrs Jo, pensively fishing a small letter out of the slop-bowl and opening it with care, because the down-hill address suggested that a child wrote it.

  “I will answer this myself. A little sick girl wants a book, and she shall have it, but I can’t write sequels to all the rest to please her. I should never come to an end if I tried to suit these voracious little Oliver Twists, clamouring for more. What next, Robin?”

  “This is short and sweet.

  “Dear Mrs Bhaer, I am now going to give you my opinion of your works. I have read them all many times, and call them first-rate. Please go ahead.

  “Your admirer,

  “Billy Babcock”

  “Now that is what I like. Billy is a man of sense and a critic worth having, since he had read my works many times before expressing his opinion. He asks for no answer, so send my thanks and regards.”

  “Here’s a lady in England with seven girls, and she wishes to know your views upon education. Also what careers they shall follow—the oldest being twelve. Don’t wonder she’s worried,” laughed Rob.

  “I’ll try to answer it. But as I have no girls, my opinion isn’t worth much and will probably shock her, as I shall tell her to let them run and play and build up good, stout bodies before she talks about careers. They will soon show what they want, if they are let alone, and not all run in the same mould.”

  “Here’s a fellow who wants to know what sort of a girl he shall marry, and if you know of any like those in your stories.”

  “Give him Nan’s address, and see what he’ll get,” proposed Ted, privately resolving to do it himself if possible.

  “This is from a lady who wants you to adopt her child and lend her money to study art abroad for a few years. Better take it, and try your hand at a girl, mother.”

  “No, thank you, I will keep to my own line of business. What is that blotted one? It looks rather awful, to judge by the ink,” asked Mrs Jo, who beguiled her daily task by trying to guess from the outside what was inside her many letters. This proved to be a poem from an insane admirer, to judge by its incoherent style.

  “TO J.M.B.

  “Oh, were I a heliotrope,

  I would play poet,

  And blow a breeze of fragrance

  To you; and none should know it.

  “Your form like the stately elm

  When Phoebus gilds the morning ray;

  Your cheeks like the ocean bed

  That blooms a rose in May.

  “Your words are wise and bright,

  I bequeath them to you a legacy given;

  And when your spirit takes its flight,

  May it bloom a flower in heaven.

  “My tongue in flattering language spoke,

  And sweeter silence never broke

  In busiest street or loneliest glen.

  I take you with the flashes of my pen.

  “Consider the lilies, how they grow;

  They toil not, yet are fair,

  Gems and flowers and Solomon’s seal.

  The geranium of the world is J.M. Bhaer.

  “James”

  While the boys shouted over this effusion—which is a true one—their mother read several liberal offers from budding magazines for her to edit them gratis; one long letter from a young girl inconsolable because her favourite hero died, and “would dear Mrs Bhaer rewrite the tale, and make it end good?” another from an irate boy denied an autograph, who darkly foretold financial ruin and loss of favour if she did not send him and all other fellows who asked autographs, photographs, and autobiographical sketches; a minister wished to know her religion; and an undecided maiden asked which of her two lovers she should marry. These samples will suffice to show a few of the claims made on a busy woman’s time, and make my readers pardon Mrs Jo if she did not carefully reply to all.

  “That job is done. Now I will dust a bit, and then go to my work. I’m all behind-hand, and serials can’t wait; so deny me to everybody, Mary. I won’t see Queen Victoria if she comes today.” And Mrs Bhaer threw down her napkin as if defying all creation.

  “I hope the day will go well with thee, my dearest,” answered her husband, who had been busy with his own voluminous correspondence. “I will dine at college with Professor Plock, who is to visit us today. The Jünglings can lunch on Parnassus; so thou shalt have a quiet time.” And smoothing th
e worried lines out of her forehead with his good-bye kiss, the excellent man marched away, both pockets full of books, an old umbrella in one hand, and a bag of stones for the geology class in the other.

  “If all literary women had such thoughtful angels for husbands, they would live longer and write more. Perhaps that wouldn’t be a blessing to the world though, as most of us write too much now,” said Mrs Jo, waving her feather duster to her spouse, who responded with flourishes of the umbrella as he went down the avenue.

  Rob started for school at the same time, looking so much like him with his books and bag and square shoulders and steady air that his mother laughed as she turned away, saying heartily: “Bless both my dear professors, for better creatures never lived!”

  Emil was already gone to his ship in the city; but Ted lingered to steal the address he wanted, ravage the sugar-bowl, and talk with “Mum” for the two had great larks together.

  Mrs Jo always arranged her own parlour, refilled her vases, and gave the little touches that left it cool and neat for the day. Going to draw down the curtain, she beheld an artist sketching on the lawn, and groaned as she hastily retired to the back window to shake her duster.

  At that moment the bell rang and the sound of wheels was heard in the road.

  “I’ll go; Mary lets ’em in” and Ted smoothed his hair as he made for the hall.

  “Can’t see anyone. Give me a chance to fly upstairs,” whispered Mrs Jo, preparing to escape. But before she could do so, a man appeared at the door with a card in his hand. Ted met him with a stern air, and his mother dodged behind the window-curtains to bide her time for escape.