prompt:
Chapter: Dearest People, Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,
Piccadilly.  It's not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years
ago, and won't go anywhere else.  However, we don't mean to stay long,
so it's no great matter.  Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it
all!  I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my notebook, for
I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.

I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after
that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of
pleasant people to amuse me.  Everyone was very kind to me, especially
the officers.  Don't laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary
aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have
nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would
smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid.

Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so
when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself.  Such
walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves!  It was
almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so
grandly.  I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much
good.  As for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or
whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and
tooted on the captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a
state of rapture.

It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found
it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there,
ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's countryseats in the
valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning,
but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of
little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead.  I
never shall forget it.

At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when
I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung,
with a look at me...

    "Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?
    She lives on the banks of Killarney;
    From the glance of her eye,
    Shun danger and fly,
    For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney."

Wasn't that nonsensical?

We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours.  It's a dirty, noisy place,
and I was glad to leave it.  Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of
dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved
_a la_ mutton chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he
looked like a true Briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned
off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in
them, and said, with a grin, "There yer har, sir.  I've given 'em the
latest Yankee shine."  It amused Uncle immensely.  Oh, I must tell you
what that absurd Lennox did!  He got his friend Ward, who came on with
us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was
a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's compliments," on the card.  Wasn't
that fun, girls? I like traveling.

I never shall get to London if I don't hurry.  The trip was like riding
through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The
farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves,
latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors.  The
very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in
clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got
nervous like Yankee biddies.  Such perfect color I never saw, the grass
so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a
rapture all the way.  So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to
the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the
rate of sixty miles an hour.  Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but
Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This
is the way we went on.  Amy, flying up--"Oh, that must be Kenilworth,
that gray place among the trees!"  Flo, darting to my window--"How
sweet!  We must go there sometime, won't we Papa?" Uncle, calmly
admiring his boots--"No, my dear, not unless you want beer, that's a
brewery."

A pause--then Flo cried out, "Bless me, there's a gallows and a man
going up."  "Where, where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts
with a crossbeam and some dangling chains.  "A colliery," remarks
Uncle, with a twinkle of the eye.  "Here's a lovely flock of lambs all
lying down," says Amy.  "See, Papa, aren't they pretty?" added Flo
sentimentally.  "Geese, young ladies," returns Uncle, in a tone that
keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy the _Flirtations of
Captain Cavendish_, and I have the scenery all to myself.

Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be
seen but fog and umbrellas.  We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little
between the showers.  Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off
in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a
muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw.  Shopping
in Regent Street is perfectly splendid.  Things seem so cheap, nice
ribbons only sixpence a yard.  I laid in a stock, but shall get my
gloves in Paris.  Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?

Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and
Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that
it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone.  It was so
droll!  For when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so
fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him, but he was up
outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him.  He didn't hear me
call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite
helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck
pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on
poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said...

"Now, then, mum?"

I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with
an "Aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk, as if going to a
funeral.  I poked again and said, "A little faster," then off he went,
helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.

Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more
aristocratic than we look.  The Duke of Devonshire lives near.  I often
see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington's
house is not far off.  Such sights as I saw, my dear!  It was as good
as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and
yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet
coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front.  Smart maids, with
the rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep,
dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and
tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side,
looking so funny I longed to sketch them.

Rotten Row means 'Route de Roi', or the king's way, but now it's more
like a riding school than anything else.  The horses are splendid, and
the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are stiff, and
bounce, which isn't according to our rules.  I longed to show them a
tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in
their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy
Noah's Ark.  Everyone rides--old men, stout ladies, little
children--and the young folks do a deal of flirting here, I saw a pair
exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole,
and I thought it rather a nice little idea.

In the P.M.  to Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to describe it,
that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are
going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest
day of my life.

It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without
telling you what happened last evening.  Who do you think came in, as
we were at tea?  Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn!  I
was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards.
Both are tall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English
style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no
crutches.  They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to
ask us to their house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call,
and see them as we can.  They went to the theater with us, and we did
have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I
talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other
all our days.  Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of
her ill health.  Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his
'respectful compliments to the big hat'. Neither of them had forgotten
Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there.  What ages ago it seems,
doesn't it?

Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop.  I
really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late,
with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks,
theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "Ah!" and twirl
their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness.  I long to see
you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving...

AMY

PARIS

Dear girls,

In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns
were, and what pleasant parties they made for us.  I enjoyed the trips
to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else, for
at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of
pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great
creatures.  The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular
English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I
could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up.  We 'did'
London to our heart's content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry
to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when
they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in
hospitality, I think.  The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter,
and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I
are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred.

Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he
had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober
at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word.  And now
we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like
a native, and I don't know what we should do without him.  Uncle
doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if
it would make people understand him.  Aunt's pronunciation is
old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we
knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do
the '_parley vooing_', as Uncle calls it.

Such delightful times as we are having!  Sight-seeing from morning till
night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafes_, and meeting with
all sorts of droll adventures.  Rainy days I spend in the Louvre,
revelling in pictures.  Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of
the finest, because she has no soul for art, but I have, and I'm
cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can.  She would like the relics
of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and
gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie
Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword,
and many other interesting things.  I'll talk for hours about them when
I come, but haven't time to write.

The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of _bijouterie_ and
lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them.
Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it.  Then the
Bois and Champs Elysees are _tres magnifique_. I've seen the imperial
family several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the
empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought--purple
dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap is a handsome boy, who
sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he
passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets
and a mounted guard before and behind.

We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the
antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise is very
curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in,
one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for
the mourners to sit in when they come to lament.  That is so Frenchy.

Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look
up and down the long, brilliant street.  It is so pleasant that we
spend our evenings talking there when too tired with our day's work to
go out.  Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most
agreeable young man I ever knew--except Laurie, whose manners are more
charming.  I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men, however,
the Vaughns are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won't
find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.

Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel
fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters.  I keep my diary,
and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and
admire', as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my
sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. _"Votre Amie."_

HEIDELBERG

My dear Mamma,

Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you
what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see.

The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with
all my might.  Get Father's old guidebooks and read about it.  I
haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a
lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted
on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about
one o'clock Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our
windows.  We flew up, and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed
us Fred and the students singing away down below.  It was the most
romantic thing I ever saw--the river, the bridge of boats, the great
fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart
of stone.

When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble
for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing
away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose.  Next morning Fred showed me
one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very
sentimental.  I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo,
which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and
turned sensible again.  I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that
boy, it begins to look like it.

The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost
some money, and I scolded him.  He needs someone to look after him when
Frank is not with him.  Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I
quite agree with her that it would be well for him.  Frankfurt was
delightful.  I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's
famous 'Ariadne.'  It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it
more if I had known the story better.  I didn't like to ask, as
everyone knew it or pretended they did.  I wish Jo would tell me all
about it.  I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything,
and it mortifies me.

Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred has just
gone.  He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him.
I never thought of anything but a traveling friendship till the
serenade night.  Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight
walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him
than fun.  I haven't flirted, Mother, truly, but remembered what you
said to me, and have done my very best.  I can't help it if people like
me.  I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for
them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart.  Now I know Mother will
shake her head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!",
but I've made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him,
though I'm not madly in love.  I like him, and we get on comfortably
together.  He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich--ever so
much richer than the Laurences.  I don't think his family would object,
and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous
people, and they like me.  Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the
estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it is!  A city house in a
fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as
comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe
in.  I like it, for it's genuine.  I've seen the plate, the family
jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its
park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses.  Oh, it would be
all I should ask!  And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls
snap up so readily, and find nothing behind.  I may be mercenary, but I
hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can
help.  One of us _must_ marry well.  Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't
yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round.  I wouldn't marry
a man I hated or despised.  You may be sure of that, and though Fred is
not my model hero, he does very well, and in time I should get fond
enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked.
So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it
was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me.  He said nothing, but
little things showed it.  He never goes with Flo, always gets on my
side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we
are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me.
Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then
said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about '_ein
wonderschones Blondchen'_, Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his
meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate.  He isn't one of the
cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood
in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all
of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post
Restante for letters.  We had a charming time poking about the ruins,
the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by
the elector long ago for his English wife.  I liked the great terrace
best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms
inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the
wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it.  I felt as if I'd
got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through
the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and
waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl.  I had a feeling that
something was going to happen and I was ready for it.  I didn't feel
blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little excited.

By-and-by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the
great arch to find me.  He looked so troubled that I forgot all about
myself, and asked what the matter was.  He said he'd just got a letter
begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill.  So he was going at
once on the night train and only had time to say good-by.  I was very
sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute
because he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could
not mistake,  "I shall soon come back, you won't forget me, Amy?"

I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and
there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was
off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to
speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised
his father not to do anything of the sort yet a while, for he is a rash
boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law.  We shall
soon meet in Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say "Yes,
thank you," when he says "Will you, please?"

Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was
going on.  Don't be anxious about me, remember I am your 'prudent Amy',
and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you
like.  I'll use it if I can.  I wish I could see you for a good talk,
Marmee.  Love and trust me.

Ever your AMY

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

completion: Our Foreign Correspondent Amy sends several letters from Europe, detailing her romps through England, France, Germany, and Switzerland. She says that she is trying to absorb every beautiful attraction. Along the way, she runs into Fred and Frank Vaughn, Laurie's English friends. She and Florence, Aunt Carrol's daughter, spend a lot of time with them, and it becomes clear that Fred is interested in courting Amy. She decides that she will accept him if he proposes. She is not madly in love with him, but she likes him and thinks that his fortune will help the whole family. But Fred finds out that Frank is very ill, and must leave abruptly. Fred asks Amy to remember him, and tells her meaningfully that he will return to her soon


prompt:
Chapter: "Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits. I'm sure
there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, Mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as
she used.  I found her crying over the babies the other day.  When she
sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in
her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries
me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or
looked so distressed that I stopped.  I never force my children's
confidence, and I seldom have to wait for long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed
quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's, and after
sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, "I think she is growing up,
and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets,
without knowing why or being able to explain them.  Why, Mother, Beth's
eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child,
forgetting she's a woman."

"So she is.  Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother
with a sigh and a smile.

"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of
worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one.  I promise
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It's a great comfort, Jo.  I always feel strong when you are at home,
now Meg is gone.  Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon,
but when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be
one scrub in a family.  Amy is splendid in fine works and I'm not, but
I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half
the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but
if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little
heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else.  Be very kind, and don't
let her think anyone watches or talks about her.  If she only would get
quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman!  I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are
not very wearing, so they'll keep." and Jo stitched away, with a wise
nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for the present at
least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and
after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which
seemed to explain the change in her.  A slight incident gave Jo the
clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did
the rest.  She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon,
when she and Beth were alone together.  Yet as she scribbled, she kept
her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet.  Sitting at the
window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head
upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the
dull, autumnal landscape.  Suddenly some one passed below, whistling
like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, "All serene! Coming
in tonight."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by
till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, "How
strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for the bright
color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a
tear lay shining on the window ledge.  Beth whisked it off, and in her
half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill.
Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about
needing more paper.

"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own
room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had
just made.  "I never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say?  I
wonder if her..."  there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden
thought.  "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be.
He must.  I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the
picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.
"Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance.  Here's Meg married and a
mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love.  I'm the only
one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently
for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out
her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face
opposite, "No thank you, sir, you're very charming, but you've no more
stability than a weathercock.  So you needn't write touching notes and
smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I
won't have it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake
till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which
only confirmed her suspicion.  Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked
with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,
but so was everybody's. Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he
cared more for her than for the others.  Indeed, a general impression
had prevailed in the family of late that 'our boy' was getting fonder
than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject
and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known
the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they
would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so."
But Jo hated 'philandering', and wouldn't allow it, always having a
joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month,
but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much
amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope,
despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly
conferences.  But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at
many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged
occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom.  Then he avoided the tender
subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
and gave out that he was going to 'dig', intending to graduate in a
blaze of glory.  This suited the young lady better than twilight
confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the
eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred
imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former
could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter
were less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo
watched Laurie that night as she had never done before.  If she had not
got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in
the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her.  But
having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at
a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
of romance writing, did not come to the rescue.  As usual Beth lay on
the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all
sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly 'spin', and he never
disappointed her.  But that evening Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested
on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that
she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting
cricket match, though the phrases, 'caught off a tice', 'stumped off
his ground', and 'the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her
as Sanskrit.  She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it,
that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that
he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a
little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an
assiduity that was really almost tender.

"Who knows?  Stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed
about the room.  "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make
life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love
each other.  I don't see how he can help it, and I do believe he would
if the rest of us were out of the way."

As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she
ought to dispose of herself with all speed.  But where should she go?
And burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she
sat down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa--long, broad,
well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the
girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back,
rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested
tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young
women.  They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner
had always been Jo's favorite lounging place.  Among the many pillows
that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with
prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end.
This repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon
of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep
aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when
romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he
most coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner.  If 'the sausage' as they
called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and
repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child
who dared disturb it!  That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner,
and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form
appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both
long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of
satisfaction...

"Now, this is filling at the price."

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow.  But it was too late,
there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared
in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny.  After studying himself to a skeleton all
the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you.  I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing,
unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it.  Have you? Do you hate
your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,
but Jo quenched 'her boy' by turning on him with a stern query, "How
many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word.  She's engaged.  Now then."

"I'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances, sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins,"
continued Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won't let me
send them 'flowers and things', so what can I do? My feelings need a
'vent'."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you'.  As I can't, I'll
merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if
all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've
tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else
is doing, but I don't seem to get on", said Jo, forgetting to play
mentor.

"Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far.  I
suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and
others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt.  It's really refreshing to see a sensible,
straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool
of herself.  Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do
go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm
sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward,
they'd mend their ways, I fancy."

"They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows
get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit.  If you
behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they
keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie in a superior tone. "We
don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.
The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,
among gentleman. Bless your innocent soul!  If you could be in my place
for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my
word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say
with our friend Cock Robin...

    "Out upon you, fie upon you,
     Bold-faced jig!"

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between
Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very
natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society
showed him many samples.  Jo knew that 'young Laurence' was regarded as
a most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their
daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb
of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be
spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still
believed in modest girls.  Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone,
she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a 'vent', Teddy, go and
devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do
respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of
anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the
whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime.  You're not half
good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl may be." and Jo looked a
little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite
new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo's apron tassel
round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo, adding aloud, "Go and
sing to me.  I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't, there isn't room.  Go and make yourself useful, since
you are too big to be ornamental.  I thought you hated to be tied to a
woman's apron string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of
his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious
tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well, "Up with the bonnets of
bonnie Dundee," she slipped away to return no more till the young
gentleman departed in high dudgeon.

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound
of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious
inquiry, "What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

"Is it the old pain, my precious?"

"No, it's a new one, but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her
tears.

"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."

"You can't, there is no cure."  There Beth's voice gave way, and
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.

"Where is it?  Shall I call Mother?"

"No, no, don't call her, don't tell her.  I shall be better soon.  Lie
down here and 'poor' my head.  I'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I
will."

Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot
forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to
speak.  But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,
cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she
believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her
tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"

"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not yet."

"Then I won't ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always
glad to hear and help you, if they can."

"I know it.  I'll tell you by-and-by."

"Is the pain better now?"

"Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo."

"Go to sleep, dear.  I'll stay with you."

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite
herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and
a loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for
some days, she confided it to her mother.

"You asked me the other day what my wishes were.  I'll tell you one of
them, Marmee," she began, as they sat along together.  "I want to go
away somewhere this winter for a change."

"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested
a double meaning.

With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, "I want something new.
I feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than
I am.  I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring
up, so as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and
try my wings."

"Where will you hop?"

"To New York.  I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it.  You know
Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her
children and sew.  It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think
I should suit if I tried."

"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!" and Mrs.
March looked surprised, but not displeased.

"It's not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your
friend--the kindest soul that ever lived--and would make things
pleasant for me, I know.  Her family is separate from the rest, and no
one knows me there.  Don't care if they do. It's honest work, and I'm
not ashamed of it."

"Nor I.  But your writing?"

"All the better for the change.  I shall see and hear new things, get
new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home
quantities of material for my rubbish."

"I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden
fancy?"

"No, Mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in
her cheeks.  "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm
afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me."

"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care
for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

"Mercy, no!  I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely
proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question."

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another.  As friends
you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I
fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much
alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong
wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite
patience and forbearance, as well as love."

"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad
you think he is only beginning to care for me.  It would trouble me
sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love with the dear
old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

"You are sure of his feeling for you?"

The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of
mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking
of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is so, Mother.  He hasn't said
anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away
before it comes to anything."

"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat
would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will
rejoice that Annie may still hope."

"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the
same in all--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I
am content with her success.  You I leave to enjoy your liberty till
you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something
sweeter.  Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her.
For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well.  By the way,
she seems brighter this last day or two.  Have you spoken to her?'

"Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by.
I said no more, for I think I know it," and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the
case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie's sake
Jo should go away for a time.

"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I'll
run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think
I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to
her.  But she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him
of this romantic notion.  He's been through so many little trials of
the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity."

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear
that this 'little trial' would be harder than the others, and that
Laurie would not get over his 'lovelornity' as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs.
Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.
The teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got
might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society
would be both useful and agreeable.  Jo liked the prospect and was
eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her
restless nature and adventurous spirit.  When all was settled, with
fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very
quietly.  He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and
when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly,
"So I am, and I mean this one shall stay turned."

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on
just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth
seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, the night before
she left.

"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

"No, my boy.  Be very good to him, won't you?"

"Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you
sadly."

"It won't hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague,
pet, and keep in order."

"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo
looked at her so queerly.

When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, "It won't do a
bit of good, Jo.  My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I'll come
and bring you home."

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

completion: Tender Troubles Marmee asks Jo to find out if something is troubling Beth, for Beth's spirits seem low. After thinking, Jo concludes that Beth might be in love with Laurie, but Jo is afraid that Laurie is in love Jo herself. Jo asks her mother if she might go away for a while in an attempt to broaden her horizons and to escape Laurie's growing love. She hopes that Laurie will fall in love with Beth while she is gone. Marmee agrees that Jo and Laurie are unsuited for each other because they are too similar, with their strong wills and frequent quarrels. Jo decides to go to New York to live with a woman named Mrs. Kirke and to teach her children. When Jo tells Laurie of her decision to leave, he responds by telling her, teasingly but seriously, that she will not get out of his grasp so easily


prompt:
Chapter: New York, November

Dear Marmee and Beth,

I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell,
though I'm not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I
lost sight of Father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might
have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small
children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind, for I
amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time
they opened their mouths to roar.

Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up
likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that
big house full of strangers.  She gave me a funny little sky
parlor--all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a
sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like.  A fine view
and a church tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a
fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew,
is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little
girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me
after telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I've no doubt I shall make a
model governess.

I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great
table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will
believe it.

"Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K.  in her motherly
way, "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with
such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the
children are safe with you.  My rooms are always open to you, and your
own shall be as comfortable as I can make it.  There are some pleasant
people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always
free.  Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can.
There's the tea bell, I must run and change my cap."  And off she
bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.

As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights
are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of
the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman
come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand,
carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away,
saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent, "It goes better so.  The
little back is too young to haf such heaviness."

Wasn't it good of him?  I like such things, for as Father says, trifles
show character.  When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she
laughed, and said, "That must have been Professor Bhaer, he's always
doing things of that sort."

Mrs. K.  told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as
a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little
orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of
his sister, who married an American.  Not a very romantic story, but it
interested me, and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K.  lends him her
parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and
the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he
looks.  He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.

After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the
big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend.  I
shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and
more tomorrow.

Tuesday Eve

Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted
like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all
round.  Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up
till they were glad to sit down and keep still.  After luncheon, the
girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little
Mabel 'with a willing mind'.  I was thanking my stars that I'd learned
to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and
someone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. It was
dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation, and
lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in.
Professor Bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a
good look at him.  A regular German--rather stout, with brown hair
tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I
ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our
sharp or slipshod American gabble.  His clothes were rusty, his hands
were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except
his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen
was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were
off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe.  He looked sober in
spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth
bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old
friend.  Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in
a loud, brisk tone, "Herein!"

I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child
carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on.

"Me wants me Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book and running
to meet him.

"Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer.  Come, then, and take a goot hug from him,
my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding
her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss
him.

"Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little thing.  So he
put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought,
and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf
now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if
finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh,
while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look
that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French
than German.

Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my
work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and
gabbling that went on next door.  One of the girls kept laughing
affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a coquettish tone, and the
other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard
for him to keep sober.

Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him
say emphatically, "No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I
say," and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his
book, followed by the despairing exclamation, "Prut!  It all goes bad
this day."

Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one
more peep to see if he survived it.  He seemed to have thrown himself
back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the
clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if
ready for another lesson, and taking little Tina who had fallen asleep
on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away.  I fancy he has a
hard life of it.  Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five
o'clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would,
just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me.  So I
made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as
she is short and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a
failure.  She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I
plucked up courage and looked about me.  The long table was full, and
every one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who
seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the
word, vanishing as soon as they were done.  There was the usual
assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed
in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in
politics.  I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of
them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had
something in her.

Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting
answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on
one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other.  If Amy
had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever because, sad
to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a
manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship'.  I didn't mind, for I
like 'to see folks eat with a relish', as Hannah says, and the poor man
must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling
their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the
other, "Who's the new party?"

"Governess, or something of that sort."

"What the deuce is she at our table for?"

"Friend of the old lady's."

"Handsome head, but no style."

"Not a bit of it.  Give us a light and come on."

I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as
good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more
than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings
who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys.  I hate ordinary people!

Thursday

Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my
little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire.  I picked up a
few bits of news and was introduced to the Professor.  It seems that
Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the
laundry here.  The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and
follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which
delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore'.
Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all
sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings,
and the splendid tales he tells.  The younger men quiz him, it seems,
call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of
jokes on his name.  But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and
takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his
foreign ways.

The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind.  She
spoke to me at dinner today (for I went to table again, it's such fun
to watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room.  She
has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems
friendly, so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into
good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.

I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some
newspapers for Mrs. Kirke.  She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a
little old woman, introduced me very prettily. "This is Mamma's friend,
Miss March."

"Yes, and she's jolly and we like her lots," added Kitty, who is an
'enfant terrible'.

We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the
blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.

"Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch.  If so
again, call at me and I come," he said, with a threatening frown that
delighted the little wretches.

I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to
see a good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out,
by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella.  It flew open, and
there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand
and a darning needle in the other.  He didn't seem at all ashamed of
it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and
all, saying in his loud, cheerful way...

"You haf a fine day to make your walk.  Bon voyage, Mademoiselle."

I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to
think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German
gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing and not
so pretty.

Saturday

Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who
has a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she
showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with
her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them.  She
put it as a favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and
she does it out of kindness to me.  I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such
favors from such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor
that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees,
with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie
feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in
cages built of chairs.

"We are playing nargerie," explained Kitty.

"Dis is mine effalunt!" added Tina, holding on by the Professor's hair.

"Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when
Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?" said Minnie.

The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and
said soberly to me, "I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a
noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly."

I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much
as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed.  They played
tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they
all piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming
fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little
'koblods', who ride the snowflakes as they fall.  I wish Americans were
as simple and natural as Germans, don't you?

I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of
economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin paper and written
fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need.
Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them.  My small news will
sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know.
Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his
friends?  Take good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the
babies, and give heaps of love to everyone.  From your faithful Jo.

P.S.  On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I
am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to
write about.  Bless you!

DECEMBER

My Precious Betsey,

As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it
may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though
quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful!  After what
Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral
agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend
as I could wish.  They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the
boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me.  Franz and
Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture
of German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of
effervescence.  Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in
the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a
seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such
fun!

We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons.  I really
couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must
tell you.  To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day
as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room where she was rummaging.

"Did you ever see such a den, my dear?  Just come and help me put these
books to rights, for I've turned everything upside down, trying to
discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not
long ago."

I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was 'a den' to
be sure.  Books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an old
flute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any
tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the
other.  Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the
manuscripts.  Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and
traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of
himself, were to be seen all over the room.  After a grand rummage
three of the missing articles were found, one over the bird cage, one
covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a
holder.

"Such a man!" laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in
the rag bag.  "I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage
cut fingers, or make kite tails.  It's dreadful, but I can't scold him.
He's so absent-minded and goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over him
roughshod.  I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to
give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a
sad pass sometimes."

"Let me mend them," said I.  "I don't mind it, and he needn't know.
I'd like to, he's so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending
books."

So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the
socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns.
Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it out, but one day last
week he caught me at it.  Hearing the lessons he gives to others has
interested and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn, for Tina
runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear.  I had been
sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to
understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am.
The girl had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I
was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer
looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray
him.

"So!" he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, "you peep at me, I
peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I
say, haf you a wish for German?"

"Yes, but you are too busy.  I am too stupid to learn," I blundered
out, as red as a peony.

"Prut!  We will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense.  At
efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you,
Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay."  And he pointed to my work 'Yes,'
they say to one another, these so kind ladies, 'he is a stupid old
fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe that his sock
heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new
when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.' "Ah!  But I
haf an eye, and I see much.  I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this.
Come, a little lesson then and now, or--no more good fairy works for me
and mine."

Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really is a
splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began.  I took four
lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog.  The Professor was
very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and
then he'd look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it
was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry.  I tried both ways, and
when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw
the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself
disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and
was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake
myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I'd covered
myself in glory.

"Now we shall try a new way.  You and I will read these pleasant little
_marchen_ together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the
corner for making us trouble."

He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson's fairy tales so
invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my
lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely.
I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express
it) with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according
to inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best.  When I finished
reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and
cried out in his hearty way, "Das ist gut! Now we go well!  My turn.  I
do him in German, gif me your ear."  And away he went, rumbling out the
words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well
as hear.  Fortunately the story was _The Constant Tin Soldier_, which
is droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn't
understand half he read, for I couldn't help it, he was so earnest, I
so excited, and the whole thing so comical.

After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for
this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets
tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly.  I like
it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it yet, which is very good
of him, isn't it?  I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I
dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.

I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking
and lets his hair grow.  You see Beth manages him better than I did.
I'm not jealous, dear, do your best, only don't make a saint of him.
I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice of human naughtiness.
Read him bits of my letters.  I haven't time to write much, and that
will do just as well.  Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.

JANUARY

A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course
includes Mr. L.  and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't tell you
how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't get it till
night and had given up hoping.  Your letter came in the morning, but
you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was
disappointed, for I'd had a 'kind of feeling' that you wouldn't forget
me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea,
and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I
just hugged it and pranced.  It was so homey and refreshing that I sat
down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in
my usual absurd way.  The things were just what I wanted, and all the
better for being made instead of bought.  Beth's new 'ink bib' was
capital, and Hannah's box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure.  I'll
be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully
the books Father has marked.  Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that line, for on
New Year's Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he
values much, and I've often admired it, set up in the place of honor
with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how
I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own
name in it, "from my friend Friedrich Bhaer".

"You say often you wish a library.  Here I gif you one, for between
these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one.  Read him well, and
he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will
help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen."

I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about 'my library', as
if I had a hundred books.  I never knew how much there was in
Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me.
Now don't laugh at his horrid name.  It isn't pronounced either Bear or
Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only
Germans can give it. I'm glad you both like what I tell you about him,
and hope you will know him some day.  Mother would admire his warm
heart, Father his wise head.  I admire both, and feel rich in my new
'friend Friedrich Bhaer'.

Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several little
things, and put them about the room, where he would find them
unexpectedly.  They were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on
his table, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of
green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his
blower, so that he needn't burn up what Amy calls 'mouchoirs'.  I made
it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black
and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy
immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so
it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn't forget a
servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the French
laundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him.  I was so glad of that.

They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve.  I didn't
mean to go down, having no dress.  But at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke
remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and
feathers.  So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask
on.  No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of
the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and
cool, most of them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and
dress, and burst out into a 'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an
allegory on the banks of the Nile'.  I enjoyed it very much, and when
we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me.  I heard one of the
young men tell another that he knew I'd been an actress, in fact, he
thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters.  Meg will
relish that joke.  Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a
perfect little fairy in his arms.  To see them dance was 'quite a
landscape', to use a Teddyism.

I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in
my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many
failures, for I'm cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take
more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory.
Bless you all!  Ever your loving...  Jo

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

completion: Jo's Journal  Jo sends letters from New York. She reports that the children are fine and that she is enjoying her little room in the big boarding house. She also writes about another boarder, a German professor named Frederick Bhaer. Professor Bhaer does not have much money, and tutors children in order to make a living. He is not particularly good-looking, and is around forty years old. Jo watches him doing good for everyone around him and is impressed by his kindness. They become friends when she mends some of his garments for him. Soon, he begins teaching her German. At Christmas, he gives her a beloved volume of Shakespeare from which he hopes she will learn. She gives him many trinkets in return. For New Year's Eve, the boarding house has a masquerade, and Jo goes as Mrs. Malaprop, a character from a Restoration comedy by Richard Sheridan called The Rivals. Bhaer goes as Nick Bottom, from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Jo thoroughly enjoys herself.