The moment Aunt March took her nap,or was busy with company,Jo hurried to this quiet place,and curling herself up in the easy chair,devoured poetry, romance, history, travels,and pictures like a regular bookworm. But,like all happiness, it did not last long,for as sure as she had just reached the heart of the story,the sweetest verse of a song,or the most perilous adventure of her traveler,a shrill voice called, “Josy-phine!Josy-phine!” and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn,wash the poodle, or read Belsham’s Essays by the hour together.
Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid.What it was, she had no idea as yet,but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile,found her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read,run, and ride as much as she liked. A quick temper,sharp tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes,and her life was a series of ups and downs,which were both comic and pathetic.But the training she received at Aunt March’s was just what she needed,and the thought that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite of the perpetual “Josy-phine!”
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,and her mother was called to devote her skill and energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Beth went faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She was a housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of dollanity had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to this chronic invalid. If anyone had known the care lavished on that dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering tenderly, “I hope you’ll have a good night, my poor dear.”
Beth had her troubles as well as the others,and not being an angel but a very human little girl,she 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,and practiced away so patiently at the jingling old instrument,that it did seem as if someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her.Nobody did, however,and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys,that wouldn’t keep in tune, when she was all alone.She sang like a little lark about her work,never was too tired for Marmee and the girls,and day after day said hopefully to herself,“I know I’ll get my music some time, if I’m good.”
There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet,sitting in corners till needed,and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.
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 not big nor red, like poor ‘Petrea’s’,it was only rather flat,and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point.No one minded it but herself,and it was doing its best to grow,but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose,and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.
“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 with queer specimens of art.Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, “When Papa was rich we did so-and-so,” which was very touching, and her long words were considered ‘perfectly elegant’ by the girls.
Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled,for everyone petted her,and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely.One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities.She had to wear her cousin’s clothes.Now Florence’s mama hadn’t a particle of taste,and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit.Everything was good, well made, and little worn,but Amy’s artistic eyes were much afflicted,especially this winter,when her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no trimming.
“My only comfort,” she said to Meg,with tears in her eyes,“is that Mother doesn’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty,as Maria Parks’s mother does. My dear,it’s really dreadful,for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her knees,and she can’t come to school.When I think of this _deggerredation_,I feel that I can bear even my flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it.”
Meg was Amy’s confidant and monitor,and by some strange attraction of opposites Jo was gentle Beth’s.To Jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts,and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone in the family. 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, ‘playing mother’ they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.
“Has anybody got anything to tell?It’s been such a dismal day I’m really dying for some amusement,” said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening.