prompt:
Chapter: XLV. DAISY AND DEMI.

I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March
family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious
and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of
discretion; for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their
rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do.
If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoilt by
adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most
remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they
walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two
years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety
which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a "needler," and
actually made a bag with four stitches in it; she likewise set up
housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking-stove
with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi
learned his letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of
teaching the alphabet by forming the letters with his arms and legs,
thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy early developed a
mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother,
for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a
chaotic condition, with his "sewin-sheen,"--a mysterious structure of
string, chairs, clothes-pins, and spools, for wheels to go "wound and
wound;" also a basket hung over the back of a big chair, in which he
vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine
devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the
young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, marmar, dat's my lellywaiter,
and me's trying to pull her up."

Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well
together, and seldom quarrelled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi
tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other
aggressor; while Daisy made a galley-slave of herself, and adored her
brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny
little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and
nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be
kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and
produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small
virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few
small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all fair
weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window
in her little night-gown to look out, and say, no matter whether it
rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Every one was a friend,
and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most
inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful
worshippers.

                   [Illustration: Me loves evvybody]

"Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in
one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish
the whole world.

As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dove-cote would be blest
by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had
helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be spared
a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had
entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her "Beth,"
and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if
trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could
see.

Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know
everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get
satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"

He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his
grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which
the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised
satisfaction of the womenfolk.

             [Illustration: What makes my legs go, dranpa?]

"What makes my legs go, dranpa?" asked the young philosopher, surveying
those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting
after a go-to-bed frolic one night.

"It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow
head respectfully.

"What is a little mine?"

"It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the
wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."

"Open me; I want to see it go wound."

"I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you
up, and you go till He stops you."

"Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the
new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?"

"Yes; but I can't show you how; for it is done when we don't see."

Demi felt of his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the
watch, and then gravely remarked,--

"I dess Dod does it when I's asleep."

A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that
his anxious grandmother said,--

"My dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby?
He's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most
unanswerable questions."

"If he is old enough to ask the questions he is old enough to receive
true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping
him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are,
and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him.
Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind?"

If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I cannot
tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised; but when, after
standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he
answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old
gentleman could only join in grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in
metaphysics.

There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given
convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding
philosopher; for, often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to
prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world," he
would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with
which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their
parents' souls.

Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but what mother was
ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the
tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show
themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?

"No more raisins, Demi, they'll make you sick," says mamma to the young
person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity
on plum-pudding day.

"Me likes to be sick."

"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty-cakes."

He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit; and, by
and by, when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits mamma by a
shrewd bargain.

"Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you like," says
Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is
safely bouncing in the pot.

"Truly, marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered
head.

"Yes, truly; anything you say," replies the short-sighted parent,
preparing herself to sing "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen times
over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or
limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply,--

"Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."

Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and _confidante_ of both children, and the
trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a
name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but
Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which
compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo
neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their
little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost
her best customer and became bankrupt; Demi, with infantile penetration,
soon discovered that Dodo liked to play with "the bear-man" better than
she did with him; but, though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he
hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate-drops in
his waistcoat-pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case
and freely shaken by ardent admirers.

Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes;
but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the
"bear-man" with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small
affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her
throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures of surpassing worth.

Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the
young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard; but this
counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not
deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however
likewise effective,--for honesty is the best policy in love as in law;
he was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked
particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his
manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day,
but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see--well, he always asked
for Mr. March, so I suppose _he_ was the attraction. The excellent papa
labored under the delusion that he was, and revelled in long discussions
with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing
grandson suddenly enlightened him.

Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study,
astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay
Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him,
likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own
short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovellers so seriously absorbed
that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his
sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face,--

"Father, father, here's the Professor!"

Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor
said, with undisturbed dignity,--

"Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment; we are just finishing
our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name."

"I knows him!" and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took
the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly
shouted, "It's a We, dranpa, it's a We!"

                   [Illustration: Dranpa, it's a We]

"He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and
her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing
his satisfaction that school was over.

"What have you been at to-day, bübchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the
gymnast.

"Me went to see little Mary."

"And what did you there?"

"I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.

"Prut! thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?"
asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon
his knee, exploring the waistcoat-pocket.

"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. _Don't_ little
boys like little girls?" added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of
bland satisfaction.

"You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo, enjoying
the innocent revelations as much as the Professor.

"'Tisn't in mine head; it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi,
putting out his tongue, with a chocolate-drop on it, thinking she
alluded to confectionery, not ideas.

"Thou shouldst save some for the little friend: sweets to the sweet,
mannling;" and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her
wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw
the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessly inquired,--

"Do great boys like great girls, too, 'Fessor?"

Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer "couldn't tell a lie;" so he gave the
somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that
made Mr. March put down his clothes-brush, glance at Jo's retiring face,
and then sink into his chair, looking as if the "precocious chick" had
put an idea into _his_ head that was both sweet and sour.

Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china-closet half an hour
afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a
tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she
followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice
of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled
his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

       [Illustration: Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades]

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

completion: Daisy and Demi The narrator insists on describing Daisy and Demi. Both are quite precocious, with Daisy modeling housekeeping and Demi energetically modeling machine making. Daisy is a sweet creature, whose angelic nature reminds the family of Beth, though she is not shy. Demi loves to understand how things work, including his own body and mind, and reasons with his Mother about their rules. Both love Jo, or "Aunt Dodo," and are saddened when Mr. Bhaer's visits take her time and attention away from them, though they enjoy his company and chocolates. Seeing Mr. Bhaer give Jo a chocolate, Demi asks him if great boys like great girls, to the embarrassment of all. It is then that Mr. March realizes that Mr. Bhaer has not been visiting entirely to speak with him about philosophy, but also to woo Jo, though neither Jo nor Mr. Bhaer have spoken of it


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: Under the Umbrella During Mr. Bhaer's frequent visits from town, all realize the love that is growing between him and Jo, and see Jo's spirits rise, though no one says a word. Jo, though, is afraid that after years of denouncing love, Laurie especially will tease and laugh. After a fortnight of such visits, Mr. Bhaer stays away for a few days. Feeling cross, Jo goes into town on the pretense of doing errands, though she walks by the shops instead, hoping to see him. When it begins to rain, Jo chides herself, until she finds an umbrella above her, and Mr. Bhaer holding it. He asks if he may walk with her, and she agrees happily. In an effort to stay calm, Jo gives Mr. Bhaer the mistaken impression she does not have feelings for him, and he tells her that he has found a place teaching at a college in the West, and he will leave tomorrow. Jo hides her disappointment while Mr. Bhaer stops to buy treats for his last visit to the Marches. After shopping, Mr. Bhaer proposes to go to the house, for which Jo is grateful. The rain and long day, and the prospect of Mr. Bhaer's leaving make her quite sad, and she quietly begins to cry. Mr. Bhaer asks her why she is crying, and she confesses that it is because he is leaving. He is cheered by this, and says that he had come to see if she could care for him, and she says she will. They enjoy the long walk home, in their rainy and muddy state, hands and hearts full, and begin opening their hearts to each other. Friedrich, as Jo now calls him, asks if Jo ever loved Laurie, and Jo explains that she did not. Jo asks why Friedrich decided to visit, and he produces a poem that ran in a newspaper that he recognized as Jo's, and which gave him a glimmer of hope. He intends to go to the West and work, so he can return and provide a home for her, and Jo says she does not mind the wait, or his age, or their poverty, as long as he will help her contribute. Disregarding all social propriety, Jo kisses him on the spot


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: Harvest Time Jo and her Professor work and wait for a year, writing letters and cultivating their love. When Aunt March dies, she lives her large estate Plumfield to Jo, who has the idea of turning it into a school for boys. She long had the dream of having a school, particularly for orphan boys whom she would love to mother, and shared it with Friedrich, and they agreed to do it once they got rich. Now, with Plumfield, they have the space, Friedrich to teach and Jo to mother, with Father and Mother's advice. Everyone finds it a lovely idea, though Laurie advises that Jo will need rich pupils too, to fund the place. Jo agrees, noting that she already has success raising one such boy to be a successful and admirable man who is accomplished and philanthropic, and says she will make Laurie the model for all her students. Jo is thus married and settled at Plumfield, with a crop of boys rather quickly. Mr. Laurence finds a way to help despite Jo's pride by sending her the poor or orphan boys she wishes and paying their way. Jo has her fill of the boylike life she has always cherished, befriending them and inventing stories for their benefit alone. She and Mr. Bhaer have two sons of their own, Rob and Teddy. Five years later, the entire family gathers at Plumfield for picking apples and celebrating Mrs. March's sixtieth birthday. The evening ends with a great surprise, with all the pupils singing like angels in the trees a song Jo wrote and Laurie set to music. Afterwards, the sisters all sit together and remember their castles in the air, as well as how differently their lives have turned out. Meg's life is closest to her castle, though her simple home is not full of luxurious things. Jo's life is quite different her dream of being a genius author, though she thinks she may still write a great book yet, informed with all her life's experiences. Amy's castle is also different, but she is blessed by her life and her sweet daughter Beth, although Beth is fragile and weak. The thought of losing her has brought her and Laurie even closer. All agree that they are deeply happy, and Mrs. March is thankful for her happiness and theirs


prompt:
Chapter: I. PLAYING PILGRIMS.

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying
on the rug.

"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old
dress.

"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things,
and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured
sniff.

"We've got father and mother and each other," said Beth contentedly,
from her corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the
cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,--

"We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time." She
didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of
father far away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone,--

"You know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this
Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for every one; and
she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are
suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little
sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't;" and Meg
shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she
wanted.

"But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've
each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving
that. I agree not to expect anything from mother or you, but I do want
to buy Undine and Sintram for myself; I've wanted it _so_ long," said
Jo, who was a bookworm.

"I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh,
which no one heard but the hearth-brush and kettle-holder.

"I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing-pencils; I really need them,"
said Amy decidedly.

"Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to
give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun;
I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels
of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

"I know _I_ do,--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when
I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone
again.

"You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you
like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps
you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to
fly out of the window or cry?"

"It's naughty to fret; but I do think washing dishes and keeping things
tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross; and my hands get
so stiff, I can't practise well at all;" and Beth looked at her rough
hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.

"I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy; "for you don't
have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't
know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if
he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."

"If you mean _libel_, I'd say so, and not talk about _labels_, as if
papa was a pickle-bottle," advised Jo, laughing.

"I know what I mean, and you needn't be _statirical_ about it. It's
proper to use good words, and improve your _vocabilary_," returned Amy,
with dignity.

"Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money
papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! how happy and good we'd be,
if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times.

"You said the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the
King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in
spite of their money."

"So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are; for, though we do have to work,
we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say."

"Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at
the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her
hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.

"Don't, Jo; it's so boyish!"

"That's why I do it."

"I detest rude, unlady-like girls!"

"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"

"'Birds in their little nests agree,'" sang Beth, the peace-maker, with
such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the
"pecking" ended for that time.

"Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to
lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off
boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much
when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your
hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."

"I'm not! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two
tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down
a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss
March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China-aster! It's bad
enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys' games and work and
manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy; and it's
worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with papa, and I can
only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo shook the
blue army-sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball
bounded across the room.

"Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped; so you must try to be
contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us
girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that
all the dish-washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in
its touch.

"As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular and
prim. Your airs are funny now; but you'll grow up an affected little
goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways
of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant; but your absurd words are
as bad as Jo's slang."

"If Jo is a tom-boy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth,
ready to share the lecture.

"You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and no one
contradicted her, for the "Mouse" was the pet of the family.

As young readers like to know "how people look," we will take this
moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat
knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly
without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable
old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for
a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,
chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a
pleasant atmosphere of home-peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being
plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a sweet
mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old
Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt; for she
never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very
much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,
gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,
funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty; but it
was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders
had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the
uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a
woman, and didn't like it. Elizabeth--or Beth, as every one called
her--was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy
manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression, which was seldom
disturbed. Her father called her "Little Tranquillity," and the name
suited her excellently; for she seemed to live in a happy world of her
own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy,
though the youngest, was a most important person,--in her own opinion at
least. A regular snow-maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair, curling
on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a
young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four
sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six; and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair
of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good
effect upon the girls; for mother was coming, and every one brightened
to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out
of the easy-chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was
as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.

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

"They are quite worn out; Marmee must have a new pair."

"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.

"No, I shall!" cried Amy.

"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided--

"I'm the man of the family now papa is away, and _I_ shall provide the
slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he was
gone."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth; "let's each get her something
for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."

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

Every one thought soberly for a minute; then Meg announced, as if the
idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give
her a nice pair of gloves."

"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.

"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.

"I'll get a little bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won't cost
much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.

"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.

"Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.
Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo.

        [Illustration: I used to be so frightened when it was my
                     turn to sit in the big chair]

"I used to be _so_ frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big
chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the
presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was
dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said
Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea, at the same time.

"Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise
her. We must go shopping to-morrow afternoon, Meg; there is so much to
do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down,
with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air.

"I don't mean to act any more after this time; I'm getting too old for
such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about
"dressing-up" frolics.

"You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown
with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best
actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the
boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse to-night. Come here, Amy, and do
the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that."

"I can't help it; I never saw any one faint, and I don't choose to make
myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down
easily, I'll drop; if I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be
graceful; I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned
Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she
was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.

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

"Do it this way; clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,
crying frantically, 'Roderigo! save me! save me!'" and away went Jo,
with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked
herself along as if she went by machinery; and her "Ow!" was more
suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave
a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread
burn as she watched the fun, with interest.

"It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the
audience laugh, don't blame me. Come on, Meg."

Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of
two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful
incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect;
Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of
remorse and arsenic, with a wild "Ha! ha!"

"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and
rubbed his elbows.

"I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're
a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her
sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.

"Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think 'The Witch's Curse, an
Operatic Tragedy,' is rather a nice thing; but I'd like to try Macbeth,
if we only had a trap-door for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing
part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?'" muttered Jo, rolling her
eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.

"No, it's the toasting fork, with mother's shoe on it instead of the
bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a
general burst of laughter.

"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door,
and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady, with a
"can-I-help-you" look about her which was truly delightful. She was not
elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the
gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in
the world.

"Well, dearies, how have you got on to-day? There was so much to do,
getting the boxes ready to go to-morrow, that I didn't come home to
dinner. Has any one called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look
tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby."

While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off,
her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy-chair, drew Amy to
her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls
flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg
arranged the tea-table; Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping,
overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and
fro between parlor and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave
directions to every one, as she sat with her hands folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly
happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped
her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her
napkin, crying, "A letter! a letter! Three cheers for father!"

"Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through
the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving
wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs.
March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.

"Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger, and simper
over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking in her tea, and dropping her
bread, butter side down, on the carpet, in her haste to get at the
treat.

Beth ate no more, but crept away, to sit in her shadowy corner and brood
over the delight to come, till the others were ready.

"I think it was so splendid in father to go as a chaplain when he was
too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg
warmly.

"Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a _vivan_--what's its name? or a
nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan.

"It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of
bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy.

"When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver in
her voice.

"Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his
work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a
minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter."

They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair with Beth at her
feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on
the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter
should happen to be touching.

Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not
touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little
was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the
homesickness conquered; it was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of
lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news; and only
at the end did the writer's heart overflow with fatherly love and
longing for the little girls at home.

           [Illustration: It was a cheerful, hopeful letter]

"Give them all my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by
day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection
at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but
remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days
need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that
they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully,
fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so
beautifully, that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder
than ever of my little women."

Everybody sniffed when they came to that part; Jo wasn't ashamed of the
great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded
the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother's shoulder
and sobbed out, "I _am_ a selfish girl! but I'll truly try to be better,
so he mayn't be disappointed in me by and by."

"We all will!" cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks, and hate to
work, but won't any more, if I can help it."

"I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman,' and not be
rough and wild; but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere
else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much
harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army-sock, and
began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that
lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all
that father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy
coming home.

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

Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying in her
cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim's Progress
when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me
tie my piece-bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks
and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the
cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the house-top,
where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a
Celestial City."

"What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and
passing through the Valley where the hobgoblins were!" said Jo.

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

"My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our
flowers and arbors and pretty things were, and all stood and sung for
joy up there in the sunshine," said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant
moment had come back to her.

"I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar
and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the
top. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to play it
over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things
at the mature age of twelve.

"We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are
playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our
road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the
guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace
which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you
begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get
before father comes home."

"Really, mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very
literal young lady.

"Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth; I rather
think she hasn't got any," said her mother.

"Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice
pianos, and being afraid of people."

Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh; but
nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.

"Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name for
trying to be good, and the story may help us; for though we do want to
be good, it's hard work, and we forget, and don't do our best."

"We were in the Slough of Despond to-night, and mother came and pulled
us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions,
like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo, delighted with
the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her
duty.

"Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find your
guide-book," replied Mrs. March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table; then
out came the four little work-baskets, and the needles flew as the girls
made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but to-night no
one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long seams into
four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America,
and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the
different countries as they stitched their way through them.

   [Illustration: No one but Beth could get much music out of the old
                                 piano]

At nine they stopped work, and sung, as usual, before they went to bed.
No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a
way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant
accompaniment to the simple songs they sung. Meg had a voice like a
flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a
cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always
coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoilt the
most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could
lisp

        "Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar,"

and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.
The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went about the
house singing like a lark; and the last sound at night was the same
cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar
lullaby.

      [Illustration: At nine they stopped work and sung as usual]

                   [Illustration: A Merry Christmas]

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

completion: The four March sisters, Jo, Meg, Amy, and Beth, are sitting around the fire at home on Christmas eve. They're complaining about the fact that this year, the family is too poor for them to get presents. Beth reminds the girls that they may not have presents, but they have each other and their parents. The other girls object that they don't have their father right now - he's away fighting. Since this novel is from 1868, we realize that Mr. March must be a soldier in the Civil War . Meg reminds the girls why their mother asked them to give up presents this year - it's going to be a tough winter for everybody, and in wartime people need to make sacrifices at home to support the troops. Jo suggests that each of the girls should spend her dollar on something for herself. She wants a copy of a new romance novel called Undine and Sintram. Amy wants a box of drawing pencils. Meg and Jo talk about how hard they work to earn money for the family. Meg is the governess and tutor for some obnoxious rich children, and Jo is the companion of a fussy old lady. Beth reminds her sisters that she also works hard doing housework. Amy complains about going to school and being teased by the other girls. Amy confuses the words "label" and "libel" and Jo teases her about her vocabulary. Meg wishes that the family was still rich and reminisces about he fortune that her father lost when they were children. Beth reminds her that, even without money, they are happier than the rich people they know. Amy and Jo bicker; Amy complains about Jo's crass mannerisms and Jo complains that Amy is stuck-up. Meg intervenes and says they're both at fault, but especially reprimands Jo for being too boyish. Jo wishes that she were a boy so that she could go and fight in the war with her father; she hates the idea of growing up and being ladylike, and it frustrates her that she has to stay home knitting during the war. Beth soothes Jo. Meg lectures Amy about being too conceited. Beth asks Meg for some constructive criticism, but Meg has nothing critical to say about Beth. The narrator breaks in and describes the scene and the appearance of the girls. All four of them are knitting together in the twilight in a room that is comfortable, but plain and shabby. It's decorated with books and flowers. Meg, the oldest, is sixteen and very pretty, with soft white hands. Jo is fifteen, long-limbed and clumsy, but with beautiful long, thick, brown hair. Beth is thirteen, very shy, and calm. Amy, the youngest, is a pretty blonde girl with good manners. The clock strikes six. The girls start preparing for their mother to arrive home; Beth gets her slippers, Meg lights the lamp, and so on. As the girls think about their mother, whom they call Marmee, they decide to spend their money on gifts for her instead of for themselves. Meg decides to get her a pair of gloves, Jo a good pair of shoes, Beth some handkerchiefs, and Amy a bottle of cologne. They plan to go shopping early the next day. Jo reminds the girls that they are putting on an amateur play tomorrow night as part of their Christmas celebration. She makes Amy practice a scene in which she has to faint, criticizing Amy for being too stiff and unnatural. Amy doesn't make much progress learning to faint more naturally. Meg and Jo run through their lines. We learn that Jo herself wrote the play, which is called The Witch's Curse and seems to be extremely melodramatic. The girls' mother arrives home, greeting them all and asking each of them about their days. She settles herself in the easy chair and the girls arrange things around her for supper. As they begin their meal, Mrs. March tells the girls that she received a letter from their father recently and that she'll read it to them after dinner. Meg praises her father for joining the army as a chaplain, even though he wouldn't have been drafted and isn't very strong physically. After dinner, the girls gather around their mother in the easy chair and she reads the letter to them. At the end of the letter, he wishes the girls his love, asking his "little women" to work hard to do their duty and conquer their faults. The girls cry a little and resolve to be better people and uphold their father's high principles. Amy says she'll try to be less selfish; Meg says she will try to be less vain and work harder; Jo resolves to do her duty at home instead of wishing she was a man and a soldier. Beth just cries. Mrs. March reminds the girls that when they were little they made a game out of The Pilgrim's Progress, an allegory written by seventeenth-century preacher John Bunyan. In the story, a man named Christian goes on a pilgrimage through many hardships until he reaches the Celestial City. The girls reminisce about their Pilgrim's Progress game. They used to tie bundles on their backs to symbolize their burdens and sins, and they turned the house into an adventure landscape. The Celestial City was on the roof, where they had brought flowers and pretty things. In the course of the conversation, we learn that Amy is twelve. Mrs. March suggests that the girls play Pilgrim's Progress again, only in a more grown-up way. Their burdens are their character flaws, their road is the life ahead of them that they need to live, and the Celestial City is, well, Heaven. Basically, they're reversing the allegory - going back to the part about living a good Christian life in order to gain salvation, instead of focusing on the fantasy story about fighting monsters and going on an adventure. Everyone has already described their "burdens" except Beth; she says that hers is "dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people" . Jo suggests that the girls have already gone through one adventure this evening: their mother pulled them out of their melancholy, just the way that the Help pulls Christian out of the Slough of Despond in Pilgrim's Progress. Jo recalls that, in Pilgrim's Progress, the main character has a scroll of directions. Mrs. March says that, if the girls look under their pillows on Christmas morning, they will find "guidebooks" for their "adventure." The girls discuss their plan while their servant, Hannah, clears the table. After dinner, the girls work on sewing some sheets for their Aunt March. The sisters sew until 9:00. Before they go to bed, they gather around the piano, and Beth accompanies them while they sing. This is an old family custom, since they have lovely voices and their mother is a "born singer" .