Little Women; Or, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy

Capítulo 1

I.

PLAYING PILGRIMS.

"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 every one; 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're ready to

fly out of 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 practise 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 for 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, unlady-like girls!"

"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"

"'Birds in their little nests agree,'" sang Beth, the peace-maker, 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 boys' 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 at 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 at her knee 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 too particular and

prim. Your airs are funny now; but you'll grow up an affected little

goose, if you don't take care. 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 tom-boy 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

old 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 fly-away 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 every one 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 Tranquillity," 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 every one 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.

[Illustration: Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm]

"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, and not get anything for ourselves."

"That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.

Every one 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.

[Illustration: I used to be so frightened when it was my

turn to sit in the big chair]

"I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big

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 to-morrow 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 to-night. 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 any one 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.

[Illustration: Do it this way, clasp your hands so]

"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 laugh, 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 Witch's Curse, an

Operatic Tragedy,' is rather a nice thing; but I'd like to try Macbeth,

if we only had a trap-door 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 to-day? There was so much to do,

getting the boxes ready to go to-morrow, that I didn't come home to

dinner. Has any one 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,

overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and

fro between parlor and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave

directions to every one, 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 in 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 a 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 overflow with fatherly love and

longing for the little girls at home.

[Illustration: It was a cheerful, hopeful letter]

"Give them all 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.

[Illustration: How you used to play Pilgrim's Progress]

Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying in her

cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim's 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 house-top,

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 hobgoblins were!" said Jo.

"I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled down stairs,"

said Meg.

"My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our

flowers and arbors and pretty things were, and all stood and sung for

joy up there in the sunshine," said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant

moment had come back to her.

"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. Our 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.