prompt:
Chapter: XLVI. UNDER THE UMBRELLA.

While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets,
as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr.
Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy
roads and sodden fields.

"I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I should
give it up, just because I often happen to meet the Professor on his way
out," said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters; for, though
there were two paths to Meg's, whichever one she took she was sure to
meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and
never seemed to see her till quite close, when he would look as if his
short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till
that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's, he always had something
for the babies; if her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled
down to see the river, and was just about returning, unless they were
tired of his frequent calls.

Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and
invite him in? If she _was_ tired of his visits, she concealed her
weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee
for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't like tea."

By the second week, every one knew perfectly well what was going on, yet
every one tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in
Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair
three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise; and no
one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while
talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in
love.

Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried
to quench her feelings; and, failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated
life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering,
after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her
especial dread; but, thanks to the new manager, he behaved with
praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer "a capital old fellow" in
public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved
appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's
hat on the Marches' hall-table nearly every evening. But he exulted in
private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of
plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate
coat-of-arms.

For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity;
then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign,--a
proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become
pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance!--very cross.

"Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's
nothing to me, of course; but I _should_ think he would have come and
bid us good-by, like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a
despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary
walk, one dull afternoon.

"You'd better take the little umbrella, dear; it looks like rain," said
her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding
to the fact.

"Yes, Marmee; do you want anything in town? I've got to run in and get
some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the
glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.

"Yes; I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and
two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on,
and something warm under your cloak?"

"I believe so," answered Jo absently.

"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to
see the dear man," added Mrs. March.

Jo heard _that_, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk
rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her
heartache,--

"How good she is to me! What _do_ girls do who haven't any mothers to
help them through their troubles?"

The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and
wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate; but Jo found
herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand,
loitering along as if waiting for some one, examining engineering
instruments in one window and samples of wool in another with most
unfeminine interest; tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by
descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as
if they wondered "how the deuce she got there." A drop of rain on her
cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons; for
the drops continued to fall, and, being a woman as well as a lover, she
felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her
bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten
to take in her hurry to be off; but regret was unavailing, and nothing
could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at
the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black,
forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at
a certain grimy warehouse, with "Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co." over the door,
and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air,--

"It serves me right! What business had I to put on all my best things
and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I'm
ashamed of you! No, you shall _not_ go there to borrow an umbrella, or
find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do
your errands in the rain; and if you catch your death and ruin your
bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!"

With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly
escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into
the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg pardon, ma'am,"
and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself,
spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and, putting
temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the
ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a
somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected
bonnet, attracted her attention; and, looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer
looking down.

              [Illustration: Looking up she saw Mr. Bhaer]

"I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many
horse-noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my
friend?"

"I'm shopping."

Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle-factory on one side, to
the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other; but he only said
politely,--

"You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?"

"Yes, thank you."

Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought
of her; but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking
away arm-in-arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly
burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again,
and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that
day.

"We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking
at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared he
might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.

"Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been
so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if
she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily,--

"No, _I_ didn't; I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we
rather missed you,--father and mother especially."

"And you?"

"I'm always glad to see you, sir."

In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and
the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor,
for his smile vanished, as he said gravely,--

"I thank you, and come one time more before I go."

"You _are_ going, then?"

"I haf no longer any business here; it is done."

"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment
was in that short reply of his.

"I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make
my bread and gif my Jünglings much help."

"Tell me, please! I like to know all about the--the boys," said Jo
eagerly.

"That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in
a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way
smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?"

"Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you
like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging to
the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying.

"Ah! but we shall not meet often, I fear; this place is at the West."

"So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't
matter now what became of her clothes or herself.

Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read
women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was,
therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner,
which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a
dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him
she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that
she had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she
took it with a look that filled him with delight; but when he asked if
she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell
upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost clapped her hands: was
the joy all for the boys? Then, on hearing his destination, she said,
"So far away!" in a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of
hope; but the next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like
one entirely absorbed in the matter,--

"Here's the place for my errands; will you come in? It won't take long."

Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and
particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and despatch
with which she would accomplish the business. But, owing to the flutter
she was in, everything went amiss; she upset the tray of needles, forgot
the silesia was to be "twilled" till it was cut off, gave the wrong
change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon
at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and
blunder; and, as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside,
for he was beginning to see that on some occasions women, like dreams,
go by contraries.

When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful
aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it, on
the whole.

"Should we not do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and
haf a farewell feast to-night if I go for my last call at your so
pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and
flowers.

"What will we buy?" said Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and
sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they went
in.

"May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.

"They eat them when they can get them."

"Do you care for nuts?"

"Like a squirrel."

"Hamburg grapes; yes, we shall surely drink to the Fatherland in those?"

Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy
a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and done with
it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and
finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy
daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a
demijohn. Then, distorting his pockets with the knobby bundles, and
giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they
travelled on again.

"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor,
after a moist promenade of half a block.

"Yes, sir;" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would
hear it.

"I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time
remains to me."

"Yes, sir;" and Jo nearly crushed the small flower-pot with the sudden
squeeze she gave it.

"I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go
alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"

"Yes, sir;" and Jo felt as calm and cool, all of a sudden, as if she had
stepped into a refrigerator.

"Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and
the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a
friendly thing to take the little mother."

"I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer. I'm going very fast and he's
getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself; then, with a mental
shake, she entered into the business with an energy which was pleasant
to behold.

Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and
then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man,
condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be
shopping for their family.

"Your lady may prefer this; it's a superior article, a most desirable
color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable
gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.

             [Illustration: Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?]

"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him,
and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.

"Excellently well; we will haf it," answered the Professor, smiling to
himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters
like a confirmed bargain-hunter.

"Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to
him.

"Yes; it's late, and I'm _so_ tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than
she knew; for now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came
out, the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time
she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her
heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr.
Bhaer was going away; he only cared for her as a friend; it was all a
mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her
head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that
the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.

"This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded
vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.

"I beg your pardon, I didn't see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can
walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking hard,
because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.

Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away;
the sight seemed to touch him very much, for, suddenly stooping down, he
asked in a tone that meant a great deal,--

"Heart's dearest, why do you cry?"

Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said
she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine
fib proper to the occasion; instead of which that undignified creature
answered, with an irrepressible sob,--

"Because you are going away."

"Ach, mein Gott, that is _so_ good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp
his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles. "Jo, I haf nothing
but much love to gif you; I came to see if you could care for it, and I
waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can
you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in
one breath.

"Oh, yes!" said Jo; and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both
hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly
showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even
though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried
it.

It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for, even if he had
desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account
of the mud; neither could he offer Jo his hand, except figuratively, for
both were full; much less could he indulge in tender demonstrations in
the open street, though he was near it: so the only way in which he
could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which
glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be
little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not
loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have done it _then_, for she
looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state, her
rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately,
Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found
him more "Jove-like" than ever, though his hat-brim was quite limp with
the little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the
umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending.

Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they
entirely forgot to hail a 'bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious
of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for
they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any
life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the
plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven.
The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had
nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss; while Jo trudged beside
him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how
she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first
to speak--intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks which followed
her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable
character.

"Friedrich, why didn't you--"

"Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!"
cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful
delight.

"I always call you so to myself--I forgot; but I won't, unless you like
it."

"Like it? it is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou,' also, and
I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."

"Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a
lovely monosyllable.

"Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep
ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say 'thou,'
heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a
romantic student than a grave professor.

"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo
bashfully.

"Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will,
because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo,--ah, the
dear, funny little name!--I had a wish to tell something the day I said
good-by, in New York; but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to
thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes,' then, if I _had_
spoken?"

"I don't know; I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then."

"Prut! that I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came
through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist die
beste;' but that I should not expect."

"Yes, the first love _is_ the best; so be contented, for I never had
another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy," said
Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.

"Good! then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I
haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin."

"I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what
brought you, at last, just when I most wanted you?"

"This;" and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his
waistcoat-pocket.

Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own
contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her
sending it an occasional attempt.

"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.

"I found it by chance; I knew it by the names and the initials, and in
it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him;
I will see that you go not in the wet."

Jo obeyed, and hastily skimmed through the lines which she had
christened--

                        "IN THE GARRET.

        "Four little chests all in a row,
           Dim with dust, and worn by time,
         All fashioned and filled, long ago,
           By children now in their prime.
         Four little keys hung side by side,
           With faded ribbons, brave and gay
         When fastened there, with childish pride,
           Long ago, on a rainy day.
         Four little names, one on each lid,
           Carved out by a boyish hand,
         And underneath there lieth hid
           Histories of the happy band
         Once playing here, and pausing oft
           To hear the sweet refrain,
         That came and went on the roof aloft,
           In the falling summer rain.

        "'Meg' on the first lid, smooth and fair.
           I look in with loving eyes,
         For folded here, with well-known care,
           A goodly gathering lies,
         The record of a peaceful life,--
           Gifts to gentle child and girl,
         A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
           A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
         No toys in this first chest remain,
           For all are carried away,
         In their old age, to join again
           In another small Meg's play.
         Ah, happy mother! well I know
           You hear, like a sweet refrain,
         Lullabies ever soft and low
           In the falling summer rain.

        "'Jo' on the next lid, scratched and worn,
           And within a motley store
         Of headless dolls, of school-books torn,
           Birds and beasts that speak no more;
         Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
           Only trod by youthful feet,
         Dreams of a future never found,
           Memories of a past still sweet;
         Half-writ poems, stories wild,
           April letters, warm and cold,
         Diaries of a wilful child,
           Hints of a woman early old;
         A woman in a lonely home,
           Hearing, like a sad refrain,--
         'Be worthy love, and love will come,'
           In the falling summer rain.

        "My Beth! the dust is always swept
           From the lid that bears your name,
         As if by loving eyes that wept,
           By careful hands that often came.
         Death canonized for us one saint,
           Ever less human than divine,
         And still we lay, with tender plaint,
           Relics in this household shrine.--
         The silver bell, so seldom rung,
           The little cap which last she wore,
         The fair, dead Catherine that hung
           By angels borne above her door;
         The songs she sang, without lament,
           In her prison-house of pain,
         Forever are they sweetly blent
           With the falling summer rain.

        "Upon the last lid's polished field--
           Legend now both fair and true--
         A gallant knight bears on his shield,
           'Amy,' in letters gold and blue.
         Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
           Slippers that have danced their last,
         Faded flowers laid by with care,
           Fans whose airy toils are past;
         Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
           Trifles that have borne their part
         In girlish hopes and fears and shames,--
           The record of a maiden heart
         Now learning fairer, truer spells,
           Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
         The silver sound of bridal bells
           In the falling summer rain.

        "Four little chests all in a row,
           Dim with dust, and worn by time,
         Four women, taught by weal and woe
           To love and labor in their prime.
         Four sisters, parted for an hour,
           None lost, one only gone before,
         Made by love's immortal power,
           Nearest and dearest evermore.
         Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
           Lie open to the Father's sight,
         May they be rich in golden hours,
           Deeds that show fairer for the light,
         Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
           Like a spirit-stirring strain,
         Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
           In the long sunshine after rain.

                                                             "J. M."

"It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was
very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag-bag. I never thought it would
go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the
Professor had treasured so long.

"Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read
all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said Mr.
Bhaer, with a smile, as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind.
"Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself, 'She has
a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a
heart full, full for her; shall I not go and say, 'If this is not too
poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's
name?'"

"And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious
thing I needed," whispered Jo.

"I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your
welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf
her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant
nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he
was to surmount or valiantly knock down.

Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight,
though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.

"What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so
pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that
she could not keep silent.

"It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that
so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to give you, after
much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much
for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?"

"I'm glad you _are_ poor; I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo
decidedly, adding, in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty; I've known it
long enough to lose my dread, and be happy working for those I love; and
don't call yourself old,--forty is the prime of life. I couldn't help
loving you if you were seventy!"

The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his
handkerchief, if he could have got at it; as he couldn't, Jo wiped his
eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two,--

"I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now,
for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing
burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home.
Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolutely, as
he tried to reclaim his load.

"We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away
and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you,
I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy
while we hope and wait?"

"Yes, I know I can; for we love one another, and that makes all the rest
easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy myself
if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or
impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both
be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God
wills."

"Ah! thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back
but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor, quite
overcome.

                   [Illustration: Under the umbrella]

Jo never, never would learn to be proper; for when he said that as they
stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering
tenderly, "Not empty now;" and, stooping down, kissed her Friedrich
under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the
flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for
she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her
own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the
crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and
storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting
to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her lover in, and
shut the door.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                      [Illustration: Harvest time]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: While Amy and Laurie are furnishing their house, Jo and Mr. Bhaer are taking muddy walks together over the fields in the evening. Jo doesn't quite understand what's happening - she usually takes a walk in the evening, and now she somehow meets Mr. Bhaer every time, and he's always going the same direction she is. Hmm, what's going on? After a few weeks, Jo's whole family has figured out that Mr. Bhaer is interested in her. Jo herself, however, still doesn't realize it. She also doesn't realize that she's interested in him! Jo starts to hum and sing to herself, and do her hair, and takes longer walks than usual. She's totally into this guy. Jo is embarrassed by her feelings and tries to stifle them; she really is trying to be an unromantic old maid, just like she told Laurie she would be. She's worried that Laurie will mock her or be angry with her, but Amy keeps him in check. For two weeks, the professor and Jo spend almost every day together. Then, with no warning, he goes away for three days. Jo is worried and then angry. She assumes that he has left town without saying goodbye. One afternoon, Jo decides to walk to town. Her mother gives her a list of things to buy and warns her to take an umbrella, but she forgets. Marmee also tells Jo to bring Mr. Bhaer back to dinner if she sees him. Instead of going to the dry goods store to get the sewing supplies her mother needs, Jo walks to the business district where most of the men hang out. She's completely out of place there and wanders around, telling herself that she's not looking for Mr. Bhaer. It begins to rain. Jo is wearing her new bonnet and doesn't have an umbrella. She tells herself that getting wet and ruining the bonnet is just what she deserves for going out looking for Mr. Bhaer in this silly way. Jo starts to do her errands, but she almost gets hit by a truck rushing across the street. In the confusion she bumps into Mr. Bhaer, who asks if he can go with her to do her errands and shelter her with his umbrella. She agrees. Now extremely happy, Jo strolls along with Mr. Bhaer. She notices him looking at her and explains that she's excited to see him because her family thought he had left town. He says he couldn't have left without saying goodbye to them. Jo is excited by this, but then finds out that the professor has finished his business in the town and will be leaving soon. He's planning to teach at a college in the West and use the money to help his nephews, Franz and Emil. Mr. Bhaer is thoroughly confused by Jo's behavior. She's trying not to act too eager, and so sometimes she seems to be brushing him off, but she also seems really disappointed that he's going so far away. He can't figure out whether she's actually interested in him. Jo and Mr. Bhaer arrive at the store and Jo buys the things her mother wanted. She's hoping to impress Mr. Bhaer with her shopping skills, but she's really flustered and messes up the transaction. After they're done, Mr. Bhaer suggests that they buy some fancy food and flowers for his last meal with the March family. He pays for everything himself, although Jo vetoes wine - her family doesn't approve of drinking. Mr. Bhaer asks Jo to do him a special favor. Jo's heart practically skips a beat, but it turns out that the favor is to help him pick out a dress for Tina and a shawl for her mother. Jo picks out the clothes and they start on their way home. Jo is scatterbrained and upset, drops the flowers, tries to get on the wrong bus, and is generally mixed up. Mr. Bhaer asks Jo what's wrong. She starts crying and says she's upset because he's leaving. This is all the encouragement Mr. Bhaer needs to propose to Jo. She immediately accepts him. It's not an especially romantic proposal - they're carrying a bunch of packages, and it's raining and muddy, and Jo's bonnet is ruined and Mr. Bhaer's gloves have holes in them. But somehow it works, because they do love each other. Jo and Mr. Bhaer - well, we better call him Friedrich now - Jo and Friedrich walk slowly to her parents' house. Jo asks him why he didn't propose, or at least tell her that he loved her, sooner. Like, you know, when they were living in the same boarding house in New York. He says that he thought she was interested in Laurie. Jo laughs and explains that her feelings for Laurie are entirely platonic. Then Jo asks Friedrich why he did come to see her at last. He shows her a poem that she wrote and lost, which he found in the boarding house. The poem is about four trunks in the Marches' attic, one belonging to each girl. In the description of Jo's trunk, there's a hint that she's waiting for someone to love her. Jo is embarrassed by the poem and tears it up. Mr. Bhaer explains that the poem made him realize that she was hungry for love, and he decided to go and offer his to her. Finally, Jo asks one more question - why did he take so long to tell her all this? Because, he says, he wanted to have enough money to be able to offer her a comfortable home. Now that he has this new job out West, that's a possibility. Jo comforts Friedrich and tells him that she is used to poverty and hard work, and even likes them. Jo and Friedrich decide to have a long-distance relationship for the next few years. Each of them will work and store up money, and they'll prepare themselves to get married sometime in the future. Famous scene alert: Friedrich worries that he has nothing to give Jo but his empty hands. She puts her hands in his and tells him they're not empty now. They kiss - in public! - and then Jo leads Friedrich into her parents' house to tell everyone the good news.


prompt:
Chapter: XLVII. HARVEST TIME.

For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met
occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the
price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began
rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March
died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over,--for they loved the
old lady in spite of her sharp tongue,--they found they had cause for
rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of
joyful things possible.

"It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum; for of course you
intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter
over, some weeks later.

"No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle,
whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.

"You don't mean to live there?"

"Yes, I do."

"But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of
money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or
three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it."

"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."

"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds
paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."

"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one;" and Jo laughed.

"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"

"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads,--a good, happy, homelike
school, with me to take care of them, and Fritz to teach them."

"There's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried
Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.

"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.

"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for
trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.

"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her
one all-absorbing son.

"Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all
about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a
hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.

"I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes,
though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she
speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just understand
that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long-cherished plan. Before my
Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no one
needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn
little lads, who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make
life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin,
for want of help at the right minute; I love so to do anything for them;
I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and, oh,
I should _so_ like to be a mother to them!"

Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in
her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not
seen for a long while.

"I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would
like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he's
been doing it all his life,--helping poor boys, I mean, not getting
rich; that he'll never be; money doesn't stay in his pocket long enough
to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better
than I ever deserved, _I'm_ rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at
Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It's just the
place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain.
There's plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside.
They could help in the garden and orchard: such work is healthy, isn't
it, sir? Then Fritz can train and teach in his own way, and father will
help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them; and mother will
be my stand-by. I've always longed for lots of boys, and never had
enough; now I can fill the house full, and revel in the little dears to
my heart's content. Think what luxury,--Plumfield my own, and a
wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me!"

As Jo waved her hands, and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off
into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought
he'd have an apoplectic fit.

"I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard.
"Nothing could be more natural or proper than for my Professor to open a
school, and for me to prefer to reside on my own estate."

"She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in
the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to
support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I'm
afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer."

"Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils,
also,--perhaps begin with such altogether; then, when I've got a start,
I can take a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people's
children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've seen
unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed
forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagement
or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get
through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they need most
patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try
to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn, all at once, from
pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain much,--plucky
little souls,--but they feel it. I've been through something of it, and
I know all about it. I've a special interest in such young bears, and
like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys'
hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads.
I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride
and honor to his family?"

"I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie, with a grateful
look.

"And I've succeeded beyond my hopes; for here you are, a steady,
sensible business man, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying
up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely
a business man: you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself,
and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I _am_
proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and every one feels
it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock,
I'll just point to you, and say, 'There's your model, my lads.'"

Poor Laurie didn't know where to look; for, man though he was, something
of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all
faces turn approvingly upon him.

"I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish
way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for,
except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me
off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless; so, if I've
got on at all, you may thank these two for it;" and he laid one hand
gently on his grandfather's white head, the other on Amy's golden one,
for the three were never far apart.

"I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the
world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually uplifted frame of mind
just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the
three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it
would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more quietly. And
that night, when she went to her room, after a blissful evening of
family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness
that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near
her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.

It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen
in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew
where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a
family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished
surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich; for Mr. Laurence was
continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the
Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for
its support. In this way the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and
furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.

Of course it was up-hill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes; but
the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most
rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her
"wilderness of boys," and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented
had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered
Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of
poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror
of the boys for miles round; and now the exiles feasted freely on
forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and
played cricket in the big field where the irritable "cow with a crumpled
horn" used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort
of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be called the
"Bhaer-garten," as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its
inhabitants.

It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a
fortune; but it _was_ just what Jo intended it to be,--"a happy,
homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness."
Every room in the big house was soon full; every little plot in the
garden soon had its owner; a regular menagerie appeared in barn and
shed, for pet animals were allowed; and, three times a day, Jo smiled at
her Fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows
of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes,
confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for "Mother Bhaer."
She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not
angels, by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and
Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot
which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing
little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and, in time, success; for
no mortal boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as
benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times
seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads; their
penitent sniffs and whispers after wrong-doing; their droll or touching
little confidences; their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans; even
their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more.
There were slow boys and bashful boys; feeble boys and riotous boys;
boys that lisped and boys that stuttered; one or two lame ones; and a
merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was
welcome to the "Bhaer-garten," though some people predicted that his
admission would ruin the school.

Yes; Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much
anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily, and found the
applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world; for
now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers
and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to
increase her happiness,--Rob, named for grandpa, and Teddy, a
happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny
temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up
alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and
aunts; but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough
nurses loved and served them well.

There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most
delightful was the yearly apple-picking; for then the Marches,
Laurences, Brookes, and Bhaers turned out in full force, and made a day
of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals
occurred,--a mellow October day, when the air was full of an
exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise, and the blood dance
healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire;
golden-rod and asters fringed the mossy walls; grasshoppers skipped
briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a
feast; squirrels were busy with their small harvesting; birds twittered
their adieux from the alders in the lane; and every tree stood ready to
send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake.
Everybody was there; everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled
down; everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day or
such a jolly set to enjoy it; and every one gave themselves up to the
simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things
as care or sorrow in the world.

Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and Columella
to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying--

        "The gentle apple's winey juice."

The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic
knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook
and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of
ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones,
rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the
birds' nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs.
March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting
the contributions that kept pouring in; while Amy, with a beautiful
motherly expression in her face, sketched the various groups, and
watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch
beside him.

Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned
up, her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her arm,
ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore a
charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any
anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on
the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent
papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies could digest
anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small
shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in time, safe and
rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with a hearty
welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.

               [Illustration: Teddy bore a charmed life]

At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the
apple-pickers rested, and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg,
with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass,
for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land
literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads
were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment
as they liked,--freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul.
They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for
some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on
their heads, others lent a charm to leap-frog by eating pie in the
pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and
apple-turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The
little girls had a private tea-party, and Ted roved among the edibles at
his own sweet will.

When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular
toast, which was always drunk at such times,--"Aunt March, God bless
her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much
he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to
keep her memory green.

"Now, grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times
three!"

That was given with a will, as you may well believe; and the cheering
once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed,
from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the
astonished guinea-pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search
of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the
queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were
transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some
of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments
to grandma's,--for the children's gifts were all their own. Every stitch
Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed
was better than embroidery to Mrs. March; Demi's shoe-box was a miracle
of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut; Rob's footstool had
a wiggle in its uneven legs, that she declared was very soothing; and no
page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so fair as that on
which appeared, in tipsy capitals, the words,--"To dear Grandma, from
her little Beth."

During this ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared; and, when
Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy
wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing.
Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree
to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sung, with all
their hearts, the little song Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and
the Professor trained his lads to give with the best effect. This was
something altogether new, and it proved a grand success; for Mrs. March
couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every
one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and Emil to the little
quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.

After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and
her daughters under the festival tree.

[Illustration: "Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival
                           tree."--Page 583]

"I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'Unlucky Jo' again, when my
greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer,
taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk-pitcher, in which he was
rapturously churning.

"And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long
ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy, smiling as she
watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.

"Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business, and
frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all
mankind. "Yes, I remember; but the life I wanted then seems selfish,
lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope that I may write
a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will be all the better
for such experiences and illustrations as these;" and Jo pointed from
the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the
Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one
of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother,
sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap
and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which
never could grow old to them.

"My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid
things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I
had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've got
them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world;" and Meg
laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender and
devout content.

"My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter
it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or
confine myself to helping others fulfil their dreams of beauty. I've
begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing
I've ever done. I think so myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that,
whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little angel."

As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping
child in her arms; for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little
creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy's sunshine.
This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and
sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature was growing sweeter,
deeper, and more tender; Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and
firm; and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love
itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blest;
for--

        "Into each life some rain must fall,
         Some days must be dark and sad and dreary."

"She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but
hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tender-hearted Daisy stooped
from her knee, to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale
one.

"I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie
to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly. "He never
lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted
to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always, that I can't love him
enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, 'Thank God,
I'm a happy woman.'"

"There's no need for me to say it, for every one can see that I'm far
happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good husband to her
chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. "Fritz is getting
gray and stout; I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty; we never
shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that
incorrigible Tommy Bangs _will_ smoke sweet-fern cigars under the
bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three times already. But in
spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and
never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among boys,
I can't help using their expressions now and then."

"Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began Mrs. March,
frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of
countenance.

"Not half so good as yours, mother. Here it is, and we never can thank
you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried Jo,
with the loving impetuosity which she never could outgrow.

"I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy
softly.

"A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee
dear," added Meg's tender voice.

Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if
to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and
voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility,--

"O, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater
happiness than this!"

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                             [Illustration]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Jo and Mr. Bhaer spend a year apart, working and waiting to have enough money to get married. In their second year apart, Aunt March dies and leaves her mansion, Plumfield, to Jo. Laurie assumes Jo will sell the mansion, but Jo explains that she is planning to use the building to open a boarding school for boys. The whole family likes Jo's plan: Mr. Bhaer can teach the subjects he knows, Mr. March can experiment with progressive education techniques, and old Mr. Laurence can sponsor the school. Jo explains that she has been considering this plan for a long time - it combines her love for tomboyish sport with her mothering instinct. She's planning to care for abandoned or lost boys who might otherwise be corrupted. Laurie wonders how Jo will pay for the school if all the boys are charity cases. She says that she'll have rich pupils at first, and then use the proceeds from their tuition to grant scholarships to needy boys. After all, rich boys need a good moral education, too. Jo says she's already "brought up" one boy pretty well - Laurie himself! She tells him that he can be a model for the other boys. Jo is overwhelmed by the love and enthusiasm of her family. She only misses one thing - Mr. Bhaer, who is still away in the West earning money as a teacher. Now that Jo has Plumfield, Mr. Bhaer returns and they get married. Their school at Plumfield takes off right away; they have six or seven boys, many of them sponsored by Mr. Laurence. The narrator tells us that the school is "poetic justice" - Aunt March used to terrorize the local boys, and now her estate is a home for them. The school isn't fashionable and they don't make a fortune, but it is happy and they care for their boys well. And now Jo is called - wait for a terrible pun - Mother Bhaer. Say it out loud and...yes, we know, it's a terrible pun. Blame Louisa May Alcott, not Shmoop. Jo does make mistakes and there are a lot of funny incidents at the school, but her love and hard work win out and even the most hard-hearted boy relents and becomes better under her care. After a few years, Jo has two boys of her own: Rob, named for her father, and Teddy, named for Laurie. One day in October, five years after Jo's wedding, the whole extended family - Marches, Laurences, Brookes, and Bhaers - gathers together to pick apples and have a picnic. Everyone eats and talks and has a great time. As they pick apples, the boys play, the men discuss philosophy, Amy sketches and Mrs. March and Meg sort the apples. At 4:00 everyone takes a break and has a meal. Professor Bhaer makes a toast to Aunt March, and then another to Grandma's sixtieth birthday. Grandma, of course, is Marmee. Everyone gives presents to Marmee. Most of the children give handmade gifts. Finally, the Professor leads the boys in singing a song that Jo wrote for the occasion. After the singing, the boys play. The adults sit together and the March girls reminisce about the old days. Amy comments on how different Jo's life is from what she originally thought it would be. Jo says that she's very happy, but she still hopes to write a great book someday. Meg says that she came very close to achieving the "castle in the air" that she built for herself - remember that bit in Chapter 13? She's happy and content with the home that she has. Amy says that her life is also different from what she expected, but like Jo she hasn't given up on her art. She is making a marble statue of her infant daughter, who is sickly and likely to die young. Everyone agrees that they are extremely happy, and the novel ends with Marmee saying that she could never wish them greater happiness than they already have. Aww, isn't that sweet.


prompt:
Chapter: THE towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of
steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as
silver rods. They were neither citadels nor churches, but frankly and
beautifully office-buildings.

The mist took pity on the fretted structures of earlier generations: the
Post Office with its shingle-tortured mansard, the red brick minarets
of hulking old houses, factories with stingy and sooted windows, wooden
tenements colored like mud. The city was full of such grotesqueries, but
the clean towers were thrusting them from the business center, and
on the farther hills were shining new houses, homes--they seemed--for
laughter and tranquillity.

Over a concrete bridge fled a limousine of long sleek hood and noiseless
engine. These people in evening clothes were returning from an all-night
rehearsal of a Little Theater play, an artistic adventure considerably
illuminated by champagne. Below the bridge curved a railroad, a maze
of green and crimson lights. The New York Flyer boomed past, and twenty
lines of polished steel leaped into the glare.

In one of the skyscrapers the wires of the Associated Press were closing
down. The telegraph operators wearily raised their celluloid eye-shades
after a night of talking with Paris and Peking. Through the building
crawled the scrubwomen, yawning, their old shoes slapping. The dawn mist
spun away. Cues of men with lunch-boxes clumped toward the immensity of
new factories, sheets of glass and hollow tile, glittering shops where
five thousand men worked beneath one roof, pouring out the honest wares
that would be sold up the Euphrates and across the veldt. The whistles
rolled out in greeting a chorus cheerful as the April dawn; the song of
labor in a city built--it seemed--for giants.

II

There was nothing of the giant in the aspect of the man who was
beginning to awaken on the sleeping-porch of a Dutch Colonial house in
that residential district of Zenith known as Floral Heights.

His name was George F. Babbitt. He was forty-six years old now, in
April, 1920, and he made nothing in particular, neither butter nor shoes
nor poetry, but he was nimble in the calling of selling houses for more
than people could afford to pay.

His large head was pink, his brown hair thin and dry. His face was
babyish in slumber, despite his wrinkles and the red spectacle-dents on
the slopes of his nose. He was not fat but he was exceedingly well fed;
his cheeks were pads, and the unroughened hand which lay helpless upon
the khaki-colored blanket was slightly puffy. He seemed prosperous,
extremely married and unromantic; and altogether unromantic appeared
this sleeping-porch, which looked on one sizable elm, two respectable
grass-plots, a cement driveway, and a corrugated iron garage. Yet
Babbitt was again dreaming of the fairy child, a dream more romantic
than scarlet pagodas by a silver sea.

For years the fairy child had come to him. Where others saw but Georgie
Babbitt, she discerned gallant youth. She waited for him, in the
darkness beyond mysterious groves. When at last he could slip away from
the crowded house he darted to her. His wife, his clamoring friends,
sought to follow, but he escaped, the girl fleet beside him, and they
crouched together on a shadowy hillside. She was so slim, so white, so
eager! She cried that he was gay and valiant, that she would wait for
him, that they would sail--

Rumble and bang of the milk-truck.

Babbitt moaned; turned over; struggled back toward his dream. He could
see only her face now, beyond misty waters. The furnace-man slammed the
basement door. A dog barked in the next yard. As Babbitt sank blissfully
into a dim warm tide, the paper-carrier went by whistling, and the
rolled-up Advocate thumped the front door. Babbitt roused, his stomach
constricted with alarm. As he relaxed, he was pierced by the familiar
and irritating rattle of some one cranking a Ford: snap-ah-ah,
snap-ah-ah, snap-ah-ah. Himself a pious motorist, Babbitt cranked with
the unseen driver, with him waited through taut hours for the roar of
the starting engine, with him agonized as the roar ceased and again
began the infernal patient snap-ah-ah--a round, flat sound, a shivering
cold-morning sound, a sound infuriating and inescapable. Not till the
rising voice of the motor told him that the Ford was moving was he
released from the panting tension. He glanced once at his favorite tree,
elm twigs against the gold patina of sky, and fumbled for sleep as for a
drug. He who had been a boy very credulous of life was no longer greatly
interested in the possible and improbable adventures of each new day.

He escaped from reality till the alarm-clock rang, at seven-twenty.

III

It was the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced
alarm-clocks, with all modern attachments, including cathedral chime,
intermittent alarm, and a phosphorescent dial. Babbitt was proud
of being awakened by such a rich device. Socially it was almost as
creditable as buying expensive cord tires.

He sulkily admitted now that there was no more escape, but he lay and
detested the grind of the real-estate business, and disliked his family,
and disliked himself for disliking them. The evening before, he had
played poker at Vergil Gunch's till midnight, and after such holidays
he was irritable before breakfast. It may have been the tremendous
home-brewed beer of the prohibition-era and the cigars to which that
beer enticed him; it may have been resentment of return from this fine,
bold man-world to a restricted region of wives and stenographers, and of
suggestions not to smoke so much.

From the bedroom beside the sleeping-porch, his wife's detestably
cheerful "Time to get up, Georgie boy," and the itchy sound, the brisk
and scratchy sound, of combing hairs out of a stiff brush.

He grunted; he dragged his thick legs, in faded baby-blue pajamas, from
under the khaki blanket; he sat on the edge of the cot, running his
fingers through his wild hair, while his plump feet mechanically felt
for his slippers. He looked regretfully at the blanket--forever a
suggestion to him of freedom and heroism. He had bought it for a camping
trip which had never come off. It symbolized gorgeous loafing, gorgeous
cursing, virile flannel shirts.

He creaked to his feet, groaning at the waves of pain which passed
behind his eyeballs. Though he waited for their scorching recurrence, he
looked blurrily out at the yard. It delighted him, as always; it was
the neat yard of a successful business man of Zenith, that is, it was
perfection, and made him also perfect. He regarded the corrugated
iron garage. For the three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth time in a year he
reflected, "No class to that tin shack. Have to build me a frame garage.
But by golly it's the only thing on the place that isn't up-to-date!"
While he stared he thought of a community garage for his acreage
development, Glen Oriole. He stopped puffing and jiggling. His arms were
akimbo. His petulant, sleep-swollen face was set in harder lines. He
suddenly seemed capable, an official, a man to contrive, to direct, to
get things done.

On the vigor of his idea he was carried down the hard, clean,
unused-looking hall into the bathroom.

Though the house was not large it had, like all houses on Floral
Heights, an altogether royal bathroom of porcelain and glazed tile and
metal sleek as silver. The towel-rack was a rod of clear glass set in
nickel. The tub was long enough for a Prussian Guard, and above the
set bowl was a sensational exhibit of tooth-brush holder, shaving-brush
holder, soap-dish, sponge-dish, and medicine-cabinet, so glittering and
so ingenious that they resembled an electrical instrument-board. But the
Babbitt whose god was Modern Appliances was not pleased. The air of the
bathroom was thick with the smell of a heathen toothpaste. "Verona been
at it again! 'Stead of sticking to Lilidol, like I've re-peat-ed-ly
asked her, she's gone and gotten some confounded stinkum stuff that
makes you sick!"

The bath-mat was wrinkled and the floor was wet. (His daughter Verona
eccentrically took baths in the morning, now and then.) He slipped on
the mat, and slid against the tub. He said "Damn!" Furiously he snatched
up his tube of shaving-cream, furiously he lathered, with a belligerent
slapping of the unctuous brush, furiously he raked his plump cheeks
with a safety-razor. It pulled. The blade was dull. He said,
"Damn--oh--oh--damn it!"

He hunted through the medicine-cabinet for a packet of new razor-blades
(reflecting, as invariably, "Be cheaper to buy one of these dinguses and
strop your own blades,") and when he discovered the packet, behind the
round box of bicarbonate of soda, he thought ill of his wife for putting
it there and very well of himself for not saying "Damn." But he did say
it, immediately afterward, when with wet and soap-slippery fingers he
tried to remove the horrible little envelope and crisp clinging oiled
paper from the new blade. Then there was the problem, oft-pondered,
never solved, of what to do with the old blade, which might imperil
the fingers of his young. As usual, he tossed it on top of the
medicine-cabinet, with a mental note that some day he must remove the
fifty or sixty other blades that were also temporarily, piled up there.
He finished his shaving in a growing testiness increased by his spinning
headache and by the emptiness in his stomach. When he was done, his
round face smooth and streamy and his eyes stinging from soapy water,
he reached for a towel. The family towels were wet, wet and clammy and
vile, all of them wet, he found, as he blindly snatched them--his
own face-towel, his wife's, Verona's, Ted's, Tinka's, and the lone
bath-towel with the huge welt of initial. Then George F. Babbitt did
a dismaying thing. He wiped his face on the guest-towel! It was a
pansy-embroidered trifle which always hung there to indicate that the
Babbitts were in the best Floral Heights society. No one had ever used
it. No guest had ever dared to. Guests secretively took a corner of the
nearest regular towel.

He was raging, "By golly, here they go and use up all the towels, every
doggone one of 'em, and they use 'em and get 'em all wet and sopping,
and never put out a dry one for me--of course, I'm the goat!--and then
I want one and--I'm the only person in the doggone house that's got
the slightest doggone bit of consideration for other people and
thoughtfulness and consider there may be others that may want to use the
doggone bathroom after me and consider--"

He was pitching the chill abominations into the bath-tub, pleased by
the vindictiveness of that desolate flapping sound; and in the midst his
wife serenely trotted in, observed serenely, "Why Georgie dear, what are
you doing? Are you going to wash out the towels? Why, you needn't wash
out the towels. Oh, Georgie, you didn't go and use the guest-towel, did
you?"

It is not recorded that he was able to answer.

For the first time in weeks he was sufficiently roused by his wife to
look at her.

IV

Myra Babbitt--Mrs. George F. Babbitt--was definitely mature. She had
creases from the corners of her mouth to the bottom of her chin, and her
plump neck bagged. But the thing that marked her as having passed the
line was that she no longer had reticences before her husband, and no
longer worried about not having reticences. She was in a petticoat now,
and corsets which bulged, and unaware of being seen in bulgy corsets.
She had become so dully habituated to married life that in her full
matronliness she was as sexless as an anemic nun. She was a good woman,
a kind woman, a diligent woman, but no one, save perhaps Tinka her
ten-year-old, was at all interested in her or entirely aware that she
was alive.

After a rather thorough discussion of all the domestic and social
aspects of towels she apologized to Babbitt for his having an alcoholic
headache; and he recovered enough to endure the search for a B.V.D.
undershirt which had, he pointed out, malevolently been concealed among
his clean pajamas.

He was fairly amiable in the conference on the brown suit.

"What do you think, Myra?" He pawed at the clothes hunched on a chair in
their bedroom, while she moved about mysteriously adjusting and patting
her petticoat and, to his jaundiced eye, never seeming to get on with
her dressing. "How about it? Shall I wear the brown suit another day?"

"Well, it looks awfully nice on you."

"I know, but gosh, it needs pressing."

"That's so. Perhaps it does."

"It certainly could stand being pressed, all right."

"Yes, perhaps it wouldn't hurt it to be pressed."

"But gee, the coat doesn't need pressing. No sense in having the whole
darn suit pressed, when the coat doesn't need it."

"That's so."

"But the pants certainly need it, all right. Look at them--look at those
wrinkles--the pants certainly do need pressing."

"That's so. Oh, Georgie, why couldn't you wear the brown coat with the
blue trousers we were wondering what we'd do with them?"

"Good Lord! Did you ever in all my life know me to wear the coat of
one suit and the pants of another? What do you think I am? A busted
bookkeeper?"

"Well, why don't you put on the dark gray suit to-day, and stop in at
the tailor and leave the brown trousers?"

"Well, they certainly need--Now where the devil is that gray suit? Oh,
yes, here we are."

He was able to get through the other crises of dressing with comparative
resoluteness and calm.

His first adornment was the sleeveless dimity B.V.D. undershirt, in
which he resembled a small boy humorlessly wearing a cheesecloth tabard
at a civic pageant. He never put on B.V.D.'s without thanking the God of
Progress that he didn't wear tight, long, old-fashioned undergarments,
like his father-in-law and partner, Henry Thompson. His second
embellishment was combing and slicking back his hair. It gave him a
tremendous forehead, arching up two inches beyond the former hair-line.
But most wonder-working of all was the donning of his spectacles.

There is character in spectacles--the pretentious tortoiseshell, the
meek pince-nez of the school teacher, the twisted silver-framed glasses
of the old villager. Babbitt's spectacles had huge, circular, frameless
lenses of the very best glass; the ear-pieces were thin bars of gold. In
them he was the modern business man; one who gave orders to clerks and
drove a car and played occasional golf and was scholarly in regard to
Salesmanship. His head suddenly appeared not babyish but weighty, and
you noted his heavy, blunt nose, his straight mouth and thick, long
upper lip, his chin overfleshy but strong; with respect you beheld him
put on the rest of his uniform as a Solid Citizen.

The gray suit was well cut, well made, and completely undistinguished.
It was a standard suit. White piping on the V of the vest added a flavor
of law and learning. His shoes were black laced boots, good boots,
honest boots, standard boots, extraordinarily uninteresting boots.
The only frivolity was in his purple knitted scarf. With considerable
comment on the matter to Mrs. Babbitt (who, acrobatically fastening the
back of her blouse to her skirt with a safety-pin, did not hear a word
he said), he chose between the purple scarf and a tapestry effect
with stringless brown harps among blown palms, and into it he thrust a
snake-head pin with opal eyes.

A sensational event was changing from the brown suit to the gray the
contents of his pockets. He was earnest about these objects. They were
of eternal importance, like baseball or the Republican Party. They
included a fountain pen and a silver pencil (always lacking a supply of
new leads) which belonged in the righthand upper vest pocket. Without
them he would have felt naked. On his watch-chain were a gold penknife,
silver cigar-cutter, seven keys (the use of two of which he had
forgotten), and incidentally a good watch. Depending from the chain was
a large, yellowish elk's-tooth-proclamation of his membership in the
Brotherly and Protective Order of Elks. Most significant of all was his
loose-leaf pocket note-book, that modern and efficient note-book
which contained the addresses of people whom he had forgotten, prudent
memoranda of postal money-orders which had reached their destinations
months ago, stamps which had lost their mucilage, clippings of verses by
T. Cholmondeley Frink and of the newspaper editorials from which Babbitt
got his opinions and his polysyllables, notes to be sure and do things
which he did not intend to do, and one curious inscription--D.S.S.
D.M.Y.P.D.F.

But he had no cigarette-case. No one had ever happened to give him
one, so he hadn't the habit, and people who carried cigarette-cases he
regarded as effeminate.

Last, he stuck in his lapel the Boosters' Club button. With the
conciseness of great art the button displayed two words: "Boosters-Pep!"
It made Babbitt feel loyal and important. It associated him with Good
Fellows, with men who were nice and human, and important in business
circles. It was his V.C., his Legion of Honor ribbon, his Phi Beta Kappa
key.

With the subtleties of dressing ran other complex worries. "I feel kind
of punk this morning," he said. "I think I had too much dinner last
evening. You oughtn't to serve those heavy banana fritters."

"But you asked me to have some."

"I know, but--I tell you, when a fellow gets past forty he has to look
after his digestion. There's a lot of fellows that don't take proper
care of themselves. I tell you at forty a man's a fool or his doctor--I
mean, his own doctor. Folks don't give enough attention to this matter
of dieting. Now I think--Course a man ought to have a good meal after
the day's work, but it would be a good thing for both of us if we took
lighter lunches."

"But Georgie, here at home I always do have a light lunch."

"Mean to imply I make a hog of myself, eating down-town? Yes, sure!
You'd have a swell time if you had to eat the truck that new steward
hands out to us at the Athletic Club! But I certainly do feel out of
sorts, this morning. Funny, got a pain down here on the left side--but
no, that wouldn't be appendicitis, would it? Last night, when I was
driving over to Verg Gunch's, I felt a pain in my stomach, too. Right
here it was--kind of a sharp shooting pain. I--Where'd that dime go to?
Why don't you serve more prunes at breakfast? Of course I eat an apple
every evening--an apple a day keeps the doctor away--but still, you
ought to have more prunes, and not all these fancy doodads."

"The last time I had prunes you didn't eat them."

"Well, I didn't feel like eating 'em, I suppose. Matter of fact, I think
I did eat some of 'em. Anyway--I tell you it's mighty important to--I
was saying to Verg Gunch, just last evening, most people don't take
sufficient care of their diges--"

"Shall we have the Gunches for our dinner, next week?"

"Why sure; you bet."

"Now see here, George: I want you to put on your nice dinner-jacket that
evening."

"Rats! The rest of 'em won't want to dress."

"Of course they will. You remember when you didn't dress for the
Littlefields' supper-party, and all the rest did, and how embarrassed
you were."

"Embarrassed, hell! I wasn't embarrassed. Everybody knows I can put
on as expensive a Tux. as anybody else, and I should worry if I don't
happen to have it on sometimes. All a darn nuisance, anyway. All right
for a woman, that stays around the house all the time, but when a
fellow's worked like the dickens all day, he doesn't want to go and
hustle his head off getting into the soup-and-fish for a lot of folks
that he's seen in just reg'lar ordinary clothes that same day."

"You know you enjoy being seen in one. The other evening you admitted
you were glad I'd insisted on your dressing. You said you felt a lot
better for it. And oh, Georgie, I do wish you wouldn't say 'Tux.' It's
'dinner-jacket.'"

"Rats, what's the odds?"

"Well, it's what all the nice folks say. Suppose Lucile McKelvey heard
you calling it a 'Tux.'"

"Well, that's all right now! Lucile McKelvey can't pull anything on
me! Her folks are common as mud, even if her husband and her dad are
millionaires! I suppose you're trying to rub in your exalted social
position! Well, let me tell you that your revered paternal ancestor,
Henry T., doesn't even call it a 'Tux.'! He calls it a 'bobtail jacket
for a ringtail monkey,' and you couldn't get him into one unless you
chloroformed him!"

"Now don't be horrid, George."

"Well, I don't want to be horrid, but Lord! you're getting as fussy as
Verona. Ever since she got out of college she's been too rambunctious
to live with--doesn't know what she wants--well, I know what she
wants!--all she wants is to marry a millionaire, and live in Europe,
and hold some preacher's hand, and simultaneously at the same time stay
right here in Zenith and be some blooming kind of a socialist agitator
or boss charity-worker or some damn thing! Lord, and Ted is just as bad!
He wants to go to college, and he doesn't want to go to college.
Only one of the three that knows her own mind is Tinka. Simply can't
understand how I ever came to have a pair of shillyshallying children
like Rone and Ted. I may not be any Rockefeller or James J. Shakespeare,
but I certainly do know my own mind, and I do keep right on plugging
along in the office and--Do you know the latest? Far as I can figure
out, Ted's new bee is he'd like to be a movie actor and--And here I've
told him a hundred times, if he'll go to college and law-school and
make good, I'll set him up in business and--Verona just exactly as bad.
Doesn't know what she wants. Well, well, come on! Aren't you ready yet?
The girl rang the bell three minutes ago."

V

Before he followed his wife, Babbitt stood at the westernmost window of
their room. This residential settlement, Floral Heights, was on a rise;
and though the center of the city was three miles away--Zenith had
between three and four hundred thousand inhabitants now--he could see
the top of the Second National Tower, an Indiana limestone building of
thirty-five stories.

Its shining walls rose against April sky to a simple cornice like a
streak of white fire. Integrity was in the tower, and decision. It
bore its strength lightly as a tall soldier. As Babbitt stared,
the nervousness was soothed from his face, his slack chin lifted in
reverence. All he articulated was "That's one lovely sight!" but he was
inspired by the rhythm of the city; his love of it renewed. He beheld
the tower as a temple-spire of the religion of business, a faith
passionate, exalted, surpassing common men; and as he clumped down to
breakfast he whistled the ballad "Oh, by gee, by gosh, by jingo" as
though it were a hymn melancholy and noble.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As the city begins to bustle with hordes of men going to work in the huge factories of the city of Zenith, forty-six-year-old George F. Babbitt awakens in his bed on the sleeping-porch in a residential district of Zenith called Floral Heights. Mourning the retreat from his recurrent, romantic dream about a fairy child, he reflects on how very much he detests both "the grind of the real-estate business" and his family. Begrudgingly getting out of bed at his wife's prompting, he considers his home and congratulates himself because it is almost entirely "up-to-date" with all of the modern conveniences and the latest technology. It is entirely "competent and glossy". But it is far too impersonal to be a real home. As he performs his morning routine, he finds himself increasingly infuriated by the seemingly normal habits of his wife, Myra, and their children. George and Myra have a humorously mundane conversation about the state of George's suits and about their diet as he completes his regimen. George complains about the lack of occupational direction exhibited by Verona and Ted, but briefly viewing the city from his window fills him with inspiration for "the religion of business"