prompt:
Chapter: II. A MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No
stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much
disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because
it was so crammed with goodies. Then she remembered her mother's
promise, and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little
crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful
old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true
guide-book for any pilgrim going the long journey. She woke Meg with a
"Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A
green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few
words written by their mother, which made their one present very
precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke, to rummage and find
their little books also,--one dove-colored, the other blue; and all sat
looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the
coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature,
which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her
very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given.

"Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to
the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "mother wants us to
read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used
to be faithful about it; but since father went away, and all this war
trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you
please; but _I_ shall keep my book on the table here, and read a little
every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good, and help
me through the day."

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round
her, and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression
so seldom seen on her restless face.

"How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the
hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,"
whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters'
example.

"I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy; and then the rooms were very still
while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to
touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

"Where is mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for
their gifts, half an hour later.

"Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter come a-beggin', and your ma went
straight off to see what was needed. There never _was_ such a woman for
givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who
had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them
all more as a friend than a servant.

"She will be back soon, I think; so fry your cakes, and have everything
ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a
basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time.
"Why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the little flask
did not appear.

"She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on
it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the
first stiffness off the new army-slippers.

"How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed
them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly
at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.

"Bless the child! she's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M.
March.' How funny!" cried Jo, taking up one.

"Isn't it right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's
initials are 'M. M.,' and I don't want any one to use these but Marmee,"
said Beth, looking troubled.

"It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea,--quite sensible, too, for
no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said
Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

"There's mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed,
and steps sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters
all waiting for her.

"Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg,
surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so
early.

"Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean any one should know till the time
came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave
_all_ my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any
more."

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap
one; and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget
herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her "a
trump," while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to
ornament the stately bottle.

"You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about
being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the
minute I was up: and I'm _so_ glad, for mine is the handsomest now."

Another bang of the street-door sent the basket under the sofa, and the
girls to the table, eager for breakfast.

"Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books; we read
some, and mean to every day," they cried, in chorus.

"Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope
you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far
away from here lies a poor woman with a little new-born baby. Six
children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have
no fire. There is nothing to eat over there; and the oldest boy came to
tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give
them your breakfast as a Christmas present?"

They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a
minute no one spoke; only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously,--

"I'm so glad you came before we began!"

"May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked
Beth, eagerly.

"_I_ shall take the cream and the muffins," added Amy, heroically giving
up the articles she most liked.

Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one
big plate.

"I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You
shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and
milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinner-time."

They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was
early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and
no one laughed at the queer party.

                 [Illustration: The procession set out]

A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,
ragged bed-clothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale,
hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.

How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in!

"Ach, mein Gott! it is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman,
crying for joy.

"Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them laughing.

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work
there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the
broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother
tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she
dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The
girls, meantime, spread the table, set the children round the fire, and
fed them like so many hungry birds,--laughing, talking, and trying to
understand the funny broken English.

"Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things, as they ate,
and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze.

The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it
very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a "Sancho" ever
since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't
get any of it; and when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think
there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry
little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves
with bread and milk on Christmas morning.

"That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said
Meg, as they set out their presents, while their mother was upstairs
collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.

Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in
the few little bundles; and the tall vase of red roses, white
chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave
quite an elegant air to the table.

"She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for
Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about, while Meg went to conduct mother to
the seat of honor.

Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted
escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched;
and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents, and read the
little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new
handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's
cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were
pronounced a "perfect fit."

There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the
simple, loving fashion which makes these home-festivals so pleasant at
the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to
work.

The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of
the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being
still too young to go often to the theatre, and not rich enough to
afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their
wits to work, and--necessity being the mother of invention,--made
whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their
productions,--pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned
butter-boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton,
glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered
with the same useful diamond-shaped bits, left in sheets when the lids
of tin preserve-pots were cut out. The furniture was used to being
turned topsy-turvy, and the big chamber was the scene of many innocent
revels.

No gentlemen were admitted; so Jo played male parts to her heart's
content, and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet-leather boots
given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots,
an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some
picture, were Jo's chief treasures, and appeared on all occasions. The
smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors
to take several parts apiece; and they certainly deserved some credit
for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,
whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides.
It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and
employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or
spent in less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled on to the bed which was the
dress-circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a
most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling
and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp-smoke, and an
occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the
excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew
apart, and the Operatic Tragedy began.

"A gloomy wood," according to the one play-bill, was represented by a
few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the
distance. This cave was made with a clothes-horse for a roof, bureaus
for walls; and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot
on it, and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark, and the
glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued
from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed
for the first thrill to subside; then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with
a clanking sword at his side, a slouched hat, black beard, mysterious
cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he
struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his
hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to
kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an
occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive,
and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with
the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern, and
ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding "What ho, minion! I need
thee!"

[Illustration: Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face]

Out came Meg, with gray horse-hair hanging about her face, a red and
black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded
a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in
a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the
spirit who would bring the love philter:--

        "Hither, hither, from thy home,
         Airy sprite, I bid thee come!
         Born of roses, fed on dew,
         Charms and potions canst thou brew?
         Bring me here, with elfin speed,
         The fragrant philter which I need;
         Make it sweet and swift and strong,
         Spirit, answer now my song!"

            [Illustration: A little figure in cloudy white]

A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave
appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden
hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang,--

         "Hither I come,
          From my airy home,
        Afar in the silver moon.
          Take the magic spell,
          And use it well,
        Or its power will vanish soon!"

And, dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit
vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition,--not a
lovely one; for, with a bang, an ugly black imp appeared, and, having
croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo, and disappeared with a
mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his
boots, Hugo departed; and Hagar informed the audience that, as he had
killed a few of her friends in times past, she has cursed him, and
intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain
fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits
of the play.

A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again; but when
it became evident what a masterpiece of stage-carpentering had been got
up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb! A tower rose to
the ceiling; half-way up appeared a window, with a lamp burning at it,
and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver
dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap,
red cloak, chestnut love-locks, a guitar, and the boots, of course.
Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones.
Zara replied, and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came
the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope-ladder, with five
steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she
crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was
about to leap gracefully down, when, "Alas! alas for Zara!" she forgot
her train,--it caught in the window; the tower tottered, leaned forward,
fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins!

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the
wreck, and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "I told you so! I told you
so!" With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed
in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside,--

"Don't laugh! Act as if it was all right!"--and, ordering Roderigo up,
banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly
shaken by the fall of the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old
gentleman, and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara: she
also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons
of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains, and led them
away, looking very much frightened, and evidently forgetting the speech
he ought to have made.

Act third was the castle hall; and here Hagar appeared, having come to
free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming, and hides; sees
him put the potions into two cups of wine, and bid the timid little
servant "Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall
come anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and
Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando,
the "minion," carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds
the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long
warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and, after a good deal of clutching
and stamping, falls flat and dies; while Hagar informs him what she has
done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought
that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long hair rather marred
the effect of the villain's death. He was called before the curtain, and
with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was
considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put
together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing
himself, because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as
the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window,
informing him that Zara is true, but in danger, and he can save her, if
he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of
rapture he tears off his chains, and rushes away to find and rescue his
lady-love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He
wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it; and, after a
touching appeal, is about to faint, when Roderigo dashes in and demands
her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and
gesticulate tremendously, but cannot agree, and Roderigo is about to
bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a
letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The
latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young
pair, and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The
bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the
stage, till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely
softens the "stern sire": he consents without a murmur, all join in a
joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive
Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

  [Illustration: The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing]

Tumultuous applause followed, but received an unexpected check; for the
cot-bed, on which the "dress-circle" was built, suddenly shut up, and
extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to
the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless
with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided, when Hannah appeared,
with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to
supper."

This was a surprise, even to the actors; and, when they saw the table,
they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to
get up a little treat for them; but anything so fine as this was
unheard-of since the departed days of plenty. There was
ice-cream,--actually two dishes of it, pink and white,--and cake and
fruit and distracting French bonbons, and, in the middle of the table,
four great bouquets of hot-house flowers!

It quite took their breath away; and they stared first at the table and
then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

"Is it fairies?" asked Amy,

"It's Santa Claus," said Beth.

"Mother did it"; and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard
and white eyebrows.

"Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a
sudden inspiration.

"All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.

"The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into
his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg.

"Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an
odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father, years ago;
and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would
allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending
them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse; and so you
have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk
breakfast."

"That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow,
and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us;
but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him when
we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt
out of sight, with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of satisfaction.

"You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?"
asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence; but says he's
very proud, and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his
grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and
makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn't
come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls."

"Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the
fence, and were getting on capitally,--all about cricket, and so
on,--when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some
day; for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly.

                [Illustration: We talked over the fence]

"I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman; so I've no
objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought
the flowers himself; and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure
what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away,
hearing the frolic, and evidently having none of his own."

"It's a mercy you didn't, mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots.
"But we'll have another play, some time, that he _can_ see. Perhaps
he'll help act; wouldn't that be jolly?"

"I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg
examined her flowers with great interest.

"They _are_ lovely! But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs.
March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my
bunch to father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we
are."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

  [Illustration: Eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe"]

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

completion: Jo wakes up first on Christmas morning, disappointed there are no presents. Then she remembers their talk with Marmee and looks under her pillow. She finds a little red book. The other sisters wake up one by one. Each of them has a copy of the same book under their pillow - Meg's is green, Amy's blue, and Beth's gray. The narrator doesn't specifically say what the books are, but it's strongly hinted that they are copies of the Bible. The girls resolve to read a little of their books each morning before doing anything else. They begin right away. After half an hour of reading, the girls go down to breakfast. They find their mother gone and their servant Hannah preparing the meal. Hannah explains that a poor woman came to the door begging and Mrs. March has gone to see what she needs. Meg prepares a basket containing the little presents the girls bought for Marmee the night before. Amy has disappeared, taking her present, a small bottle of cologne, with her. Amy returns with a larger bottle of cologne, explaining that she is trying to be unselfish and she went back and exchanged the little bottle. Now she has spent all her money on her mother's gift. The girls praise her and add her gift to the basket. Marmee comes in and tells her daughters that nearby there is a poor family, hungry and cold, in need of charity. She asks the girls to give their Christmas breakfast to this family. At first the girls hesitate, but almost immediately they agree and begin bundling the food into containers so they can carry it. Mrs. March, Hannah, and the girls make their way to the shack where the poor family live. The family consists of a mother with six children and a newborn baby. The mother and children are overjoyed to receive food and firewood. They speak broken English interspersed with German and their last name is Hummel, so they are apparently recent immigrants. After their charitable act, the girls go home to eat bread and milk. They are content, even though they don't get to eat any of their fancy Christmas breakfast. Marmee goes upstairs to collect old clothes for the Hummels. The girls organize their gifts for their mother and Beth plays the piano as Marmee comes back into the room. She is touched and wears or uses each of the gifts right away. For the rest of the day, the girls prepare for their evening entertainment - a performance of the play that Jo wrote. They have made all their own props out of household items and the girls play all the parts themselves, with Jo in the male roles. A dozen of the girls' friends come over that evening to watch the play. At the sound of a bell, the curtains open on the first act of The Witch's Curse: an Operatic Tragedy. Here's where the play-within-the-novel begins: In the first act, Hugo, the villain, played by Jo, sings to the audience about his love for the beautiful Zara, his hatred of the hero Roderigo, and his evil plans for them both. Hugo orders the witch, Hagar, played by Meg, to give him a love potion and a poison. She summons spirits that provide both potions, but after Hugo leaves she explains that she actually has a grudge against him and has cursed him! The curtain falls and there is a pause while the scenery on the stage is changed. When the curtain comes up again, the audience realizes that the girls have constructed a wooden tower. At the top of the tower is the heroine, Zara, played by Amy. Roderigo arrives and convinces Zara to run away with him. As she is climbing down, the train of her dress catches on the window and pulls the tower down with a crash! Amy drops her character and starts saying "I told you so!" The sister playing Zara's father Don Pedro rushes in and hushes Amy, forcing her to go on with the play. Don Pedro banishes Roderigo from the kingdom, but Roderigo and Zara defy him. He sends them to his dungeon, and they are led away by a shy servant, played by Beth, who forgets her lines. The third act is set in the castle hall. The witch Hagar sneaks in to foil Hugo's plans. She hides and watches Hugo bring two cups, one bearing each potion, but she manages to change them for harmless drinks before they are taken to Roderigo and Zara. She tricks Hugo into drinking the poison and he dies horribly, to the audience's glee. In the fourth act, Roderigo has been told that Zara has deserted him, and is about to commit suicide when he hears a song under his window explaining that she is in danger. The key to his cell is thrown to him and he tears off his chains and escapes. In the fifth and final act, Zara defies her father Don Pedro and refuses to go into a convent. Roderigo rushes in to rescue her. The lovers plead with Don Pedro, but he remains unmoved. Finally the servant enters with a sack of money and a note from Hagar, promising Don Pedro a fortune if he allows the marriage and a curse if he doesn't. He relents and the play ends happily. The audience applauds fanatically, and their excitement is only briefly squelched when the collapsible bed they're sitting on closes up under them. Hannah appears and asks the girls down to supper. Everyone is surprised because they didn't know about this part, and they discover a feast - cake, fruit, bonbons, fancy flowers, and even ice cream. The sisters all have different theories about where the feast came from. Their mother explains that their rich neighbor, Old Mr. Laurence, sent it as a Christmas gift to reward them for their charitable act in the morning. Jo wonders if the idea for the gift came from Mr. Laurence's grandson, Laurie, whom the girls have seen next door several times. The girls talk about the Laurences. One of the guests knows that Old Mr. Laurence makes his grandson study hard with a tutor. Jo says she wants to get to know him, but Meg has been too prim and proper to let her speak to the boy without an introduction. Mrs. March approves of Jo's plan to get to know young Mr. Laurence, saying that he is polite and gentlemanly. Jo decides that they'll ask the boy to help them next time they perform an amateur play. As the girls enjoy the feast and the flowers, Beth remembers her father, far away, having a different kind of Christmas, and wishes she could send her flowers to him.


prompt:
Chapter: III. THE LAURENCE BOY.

"Jo! Jo! where are you?" cried Meg, at the foot of the garret stairs.

"Here!" answered a husky voice from above; and, running up, Meg found
her sister eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe,"
wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny
window. This was Jo's favorite refuge; and here she loved to retire with
half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society
of a pet rat who lived near by, and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg
appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her
cheeks, and waited to hear the news.

"Such fun! only see! a regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for
to-morrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then
proceeding to read it, with girlish delight.

"'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a
little dance on New-Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go; now
what _shall_ we wear?"

"What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins,
because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo, with her mouth full.

"If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm
eighteen, perhaps; but two years is an everlasting time to wait."

"I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.
Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine.
Whatever shall I do? the burn shows badly, and I can't take any out."

"You must sit still all you can, and keep your back out of sight; the
front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee
will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and
my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like."

"Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall
have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about
dress.

"You _must_ have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves
are more important than anything else; you can't dance without them, and
if you don't I should be _so_ mortified."

"Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing; it's no
fun to go sailing round; I like to fly about and cut capers."

"You can't ask mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are
so careless. She said, when you spoilt the others, that she shouldn't
get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" asked Meg
anxiously.

"I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained
they are; that's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage--each
wear one good one and carry a bad one; don't you see?"

"Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.

"Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking
up her book.

"You may have it, you may! only don't stain it, and do behave nicely.
Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher
Columbus!' will you?"

"Don't worry about me; I'll be as prim as I can, and not get into any
scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me
finish this splendid story."

So Meg went away to "accept with thanks," look over her dress, and sing
blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished her
story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.

On New-Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls
played dressing-maids, and the two elder were absorbed in the
all-important business of "getting ready for the party." Simple as the
toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing
and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burnt hair pervaded the
house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch
the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.

        [Illustration: Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks]

"Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth, from her perch on the bed.

"It's the dampness drying," replied Jo.

"What a queer smell! it's like burnt feathers," observed Amy, smoothing
her own pretty curls with a superior air.

"There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little
ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the
hair came with the papers, and the horrified hair-dresser laid a row of
little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

"Oh, oh, oh! what _have_ you done? I'm spoilt! I can't go! My hair, oh,
my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her
forehead.

"Just my luck! you shouldn't have asked me to do it; I always spoil
everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a
mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of
regret.

"It isn't spoilt; just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come
on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've
seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly.

"Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone,"
cried Meg petulantly.

"So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again,"
said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the
united exertions of the family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on.
They looked very well in their simple suits,--Meg in silvery drab, with
a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with
a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for
her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one
soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine." Meg's
high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her, though she would not
own it, and Jo's nineteen hair-pins all seemed stuck straight into her
head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let us be elegant
or die!

"Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went
daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven,
when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice
cried from a window,--

"Girls, girls! _have_ you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?"

"Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding,
with a laugh, as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we
were all running away from an earthquake."

"It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady
is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg,
who had a good many little "aristocratic tastes" of her own.

"Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash
right? and does my hair look _very_ bad?" said Meg, as she turned from
the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing-room, after a prolonged prink.

"I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind
me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her
head a hasty brush.

"No, winking isn't lady-like; I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is
wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight,
and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to any
one: it isn't the thing."

"How _do_ you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music
gay?"

             [Illustration: Mrs. Gardiner greeted them]

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties,
and, informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them.
Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly, and handed them
over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie, and was at her
ease very soon; but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish
gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt
as much out of place as a colt in a flower-garden. Half a dozen jovial
lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she
longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life.
She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly
that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the
group near her dwindled away, till she was left alone. She could not
roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth would show, so she
stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked
at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would
have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big
red-headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage
her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy
herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the
same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face
to face with the "Laurence boy."

           [Illustration: Face to face with the Laurence boy]

"Dear me, I didn't know any one was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to
back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a little
startled,--

"Don't mind me; stay, if you like."

"Sha'n't I disturb you?"

"Not a bit; I only came here because I don't know many people, and felt
rather strange at first, you know."

"So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."

The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to
be polite and easy,--

"I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near us,
don't you?"

"Next door"; and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner
was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket
when he brought the cat home.

That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her
heartiest way,--

"We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present."

"Grandpa sent it."

"But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"

"How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober,
while his black eyes shone with fun.

"Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo,"
returned the young lady.

"I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie."

"Laurie Laurence,--what an odd name!"

"My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called
me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead."

"I hate my name, too--so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo,
instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?"

"I thrashed 'em."

"I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it"; and
Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

"Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he
thought the name suited her.

"I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and every one is
lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on
people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief, and
let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?"

"Sometimes; you see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been
into company enough yet to know how you do things here."

"Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people
describe their travels."

Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin; but Jo's eager questions soon
set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where
the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for
holiday fun went walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.

"Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?"

"We spent last winter there."

"Can you talk French?"

"We were not allowed to speak any thing else at Vevay."

"Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce."

"Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" said Laurie
good-naturedly.

"How nicely you do it! Let me see,--you said, 'Who is the young lady in
the pretty slippers,' didn't you?"

"Oui, mademoiselle."

"It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is
pretty?"

"Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and
quiet, and dances like a lady."

Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and
stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticised and chatted,
till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore
off; for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and
Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody
lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the "Laurence boy" better than
ever, and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him
to the girls; for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys
were almost unknown creatures to them.

"Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose; fine
teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite, for a boy,
and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?"

It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask; but she checked herself in
time, and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout way.

"I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your
books,--no, I mean studying hard"; and Jo blushed at the dreadful
"pegging" which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled, but didn't seem shocked, and answered, with a shrug,--

"Not for a year or two; I won't go before seventeen, anyway."

"Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she
had imagined seventeen already.

"Sixteen, next month."

"How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it."

"I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way
fellows do either, in this country."

"What do you like?"

"To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way."

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was; but his black brows
looked rather threatening as he knit them; so she changed the subject by
saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't you
go and try it?"

"If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow.

"I can't; for I told Meg I wouldn't, because--" There Jo stopped, and
looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

"Because what?" asked Laurie curiously.

"You won't tell?"

"Never!"

"Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my
frocks, and I scorched this one; and, though it's nicely mended, it
shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may
laugh, if you want to; it is funny, I know."

But Laurie didn't laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the
expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently,--

"Never mind that; I'll tell you how we can manage: there's a long hall
out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please
come?"

Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when
she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was
empty, and they had a grand polka; for Laurie danced well, and taught
her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring.
When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath;
and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students' festival at
Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and
Jo reluctantly followed her into a side-room, where she found her on a
sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

              [Illustration: They sat down on the stairs]

"I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a sad
wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever
going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain.

"I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I
don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all
night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

"I can't have a carriage, without its costing ever so much. I dare say I
can't get one at all; for most people come in their own, and it's a long
way to the stable, and no one to send."

"I'll go."

"No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here, for
the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll rest
till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can."

"I'll ask Laurie; he will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea
occurred to her.

"Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell any one. Get me my rubbers, and put these
slippers with our things. I can't dance any more; but as soon as supper
is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes."

"They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you; I'd rather."

"No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired, I can't
stir!"

So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away
to the dining-room, which she found after going into a china-closet, and
opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little
private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee,
which she immediately spilt, thereby making the front of her dress as
bad as the back.

"Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's glove
by scrubbing her gown with it.

"Can I help you?" said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie, with a
full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.

"I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and some one
shook me; and here I am, in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing
dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.

"Too bad! I was looking for some one to give this to. May I take it to
your sister?"

"Oh, thank you! I'll show you where she is. I don't offer to take it
myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did."

Jo led the way; and, as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a
little table, brought a second instalment of coffee and ice for Jo, and
was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a "nice boy."
They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the
midst of a quiet game of "Buzz," with two or three other young people
who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot, and rose
so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation
of pain.

"Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing.
I turned my foot a little, that's all"; and limped up-stairs to put her
things on.

Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she
decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down,
and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It
happened to be a hired waiter, who knew nothing about the neighborhood;
and Jo was looking round for help, when Laurie, who had heard what she
said, came up, and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just
come for him, he said.

"It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved,
but hesitating to accept the offer.

"I always go early,--I do, truly! Please let me take you home? It's all
on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."

That settled it; and, telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully
accepted, and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah
hated rain as much as a cat does; so she made no trouble, and they
rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and
elegant. Laurie went on the box; so Meg could keep her foot up, and the
girls talked over their party in freedom.

"I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and
making herself comfortable.

"Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to
me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her, when Sallie does.
She is going in the spring, when the opera comes; and it will be
perfectly splendid, if mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering
up at the thought.

"I saw you dancing with the red-headed man I ran away from. Was he
nice?"

"Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red; and he was very polite, and I
had a delicious redowa with him."

"He looked like a grasshopper in a fit, when he did the new step. Laurie
and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?"

"No; but it was very rude. What _were_ you about all that time, hidden
away there?"

Jo told her adventures, and, by the time she had finished, they were at
home. With many thanks, they said "Good night," and crept in, hoping to
disturb no one; but the instant their door creaked, two little
night-caps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out,--

"Tell about the party! tell about the party!"

With what Meg called "a great want of manners," Jo had saved some
bonbons for the little girls; and they soon subsided, after hearing the
most thrilling events of the evening.

"I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home
from the party in a carriage, and sit in my dressing-gown, with a maid
to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica, and
brushed her hair.

"I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we
do, in spite of our burnt hair, old gowns, one glove apiece, and tight
slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them."
And I think Jo was quite right.

                  [Illustration: Tell about the party]

     [Illustration: The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach]

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

completion: Meg goes looking for Jo, who is doing one of her favorite things - sitting in the attic garret, eating apples, and reading. Meg shows Jo their invitation to a New Year's Eve dance at Mrs. Gardiner's tomorrow evening. The girls talk about what they will wear. Because their family doesn't have much money, each of them only has one dress that's nice enough, and those aren't that nice - they're poplin, which is a kind of cotton, instead of silk. Meg has kept her clothes nice, but Jo has a burned patch in the back of her gown and she ruined her only pair of gloves with lemonade. This doesn't bother her, but Meg insists that Jo has to have nice gloves so that she can dance. Finally the girls agree that they will each wear one of Meg's good gloves and carry one of Jo's stained ones, because they can't afford to get Jo a new pair. Once all this is settled, Meg goes off to accept the invitation. The next evening, there's a bustle as the two older girls get ready for the party and their younger sisters help them. Meg wants some curls around her face, so they wrap her hair in papers and Jo uses a pair of hot tongs to pinch it. This is the nineteenth-century version of a curling iron. Unfortunately. Jo waits too long and burns the hair right off! Meg is upset, but the little girls comfort her and Amy arranges a ribbon in her hair to hide the burned patches. After a few last touches, both girls are dressed but uncomfortable. Meg's high heels pinch her feet and Jo's hairpins stick into her head. Mrs. March sees the girls off at the door and tells them to have a good time. The girls arrive at Mrs. Gardiner's house, primp just a little bit more in front of the mirror in her dressing room, and then they're ready. Meg, who is more proper than her sister, agrees to help Jo try to behave well by raising her eyebrows if her sister does anything wrong and nodding if she's doing OK. The girls head downstairs to the small party. They're greeted by Mrs. Gardiner and her six daughters. Meg is good friends with Sallie Gardiner and starts having a good time. Jo, who doesn't have many interests in common with most of the girls, hangs out against the wall, hiding the burned spot in her dress and feeling awkward. She wants to go talk about skating with some boys in the next room, but Meg won't let her. Eventually Jo is left alone while Meg dances. Meg's feet ache from the tight shoes. Jo ducks into a corner behind a curtain to hide and finds the Laurence boy there already. She's about to run away when he asks her to stay. At first Jo and the boy make awkward conversation, but then they remember the time they talked over the fence once before and they become more natural. The boy asks Jo to call him "Laurie," a nickname based on his last name. His first name is Theodore, but he doesn't like it. Jo finds out that Laurie has traveled abroad and asks him a lot of questions about Switzerland and France. She asks him to speak French for her, and he uses it as an opportunity to complement Meg, which pleases Jo. Jo studies Laurie so that she will be able to describe him to her sisters. His features are fine and his hands and feet are small, plus he's very polite, so he seems somewhat feminine. Jo fishes to find out how old Laurie is. She discovers that he's her own age, almost sixteen. She also discovers that he doesn't want to go to college. To change the subject, Jo suggests that Laurie go and dance. He asks her to be his partner, and she has to refuse because of the burned part in the back of her dress. Laurie suggests that he and Jo dance in the hall where nobody will see them. They do, and she has a lot of fun, especially because he teaches her a new dance move. Jo and Laurie sit on the stairs to catch their breath after the dance. Meg comes to find Jo, obviously upset about something. Jo follows Meg into a side room, where Meg collapses on the sofa and confesses that she has sprained her ankle because of the ridiculous high heels she was wearing. The girls aren't sure what to do; they can't walk home now, as they were planning, but they're not sure they can afford to hire a carriage, or that one will be available. Jo wants to ask Laurie's help, but Meg refuses, thinking it wouldn't be proper. While Meg waits on the sofa, Jo goes to get her a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, Jo blunders around, going into all the wrong rooms, spilling the coffee down the front of her dress, and staining the glove she borrowed from Meg. Laurie tactfully intervenes and fetches coffee and ice for both girls. While they are chatting, Hannah arrives to pick up Meg and Jo. When she discovers that Meg's ankle is sprained, she scolds the girl, and Meg starts to cry. Jo goes off on her own to try and hire a carriage, but can't seem to find the help she needs. Once again Laurie intervenes and offers to take them home in his carriage - it will be easy, since he lives next door to them! They set off in the carriage. Laurie rides on top with the coachman so that the girls and Hannah can have the inside to themselves. They talk about the dance; both girls say they had a good time until Meg's accident. After the girls arrive home and say goodbye to Laurie, their little sisters want to hear all about the dance. Jo has brought some candies and desserts home for them, which Meg thinks is rude. The night ends with Jo reflecting that they have just as much fun as "fine ladies" even though they don't have a lot of money.


prompt:
Chapter: IV. BURDENS.

"Oh dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on," sighed
Meg, the morning after the party; for, now the holidays were over, the
week of merry-making did not fit her for going on easily with the task
she never liked.

"I wish it was Christmas or New-Year all the time; wouldn't it be fun?"
answered Jo, yawning dismally.

"We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does
seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, and
drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It's like other people,
you know, and I always envy girls who do such things; I'm so fond of
luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the
least shabby.

"Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble, but shoulder our
bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt
March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've
learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so
light that I sha'n't mind her."

This idea tickled Jo's fancy, and put her in good spirits; but Meg
didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoilt children,
seemed heavier than ever. She hadn't heart enough even to make herself
pretty, as usual, by putting on a blue neck-ribbon, and dressing her
hair in the most becoming way.

"Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross
midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she muttered,
shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I shall have to toil and moil all my
days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly
and sour, because I'm poor, and can't enjoy my life as other girls do.
It's a shame!"

So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable
at breakfast-time. Every one seemed rather out of sorts, and inclined to
croak. Beth had a headache, and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort
herself with the cat and three kittens; Amy was fretting because her
lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers; Jo _would_
whistle and make a great racket getting ready; Mrs. March was very busy
trying to finish a letter, which must go at once; and Hannah had the
grumps, for being up late didn't suit her.

"There never _was_ such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper
when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot-lacings, and sat down
upon her hat.

"You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum,
that was all wrong, with the tears that had fallen on her slate.

"Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them
drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily, as she tried to get rid of the kitten,
which had scrambled up her back, and stuck like a burr just out of
reach.

Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed, because she
couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.

"Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I _must_ get this off by the
early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs.
March, crossing out the third spoilt sentence in her letter.

There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two
hot turn-overs on the table, and stalked out again. These turn-overs
were an institution; and the girls called them "muffs," for they had no
others, and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold
mornings. Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy
she might be, for the walk was long and bleak; the poor things got no
other lunch, and were seldom home before two.

"Cuddle your cats, and get over your headache, Bethy. Good-by, Marmee;
we are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular
angels. Now then, Meg!" and Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims
were not setting out as they ought to do.

They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was
always at the window, to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.
Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got through the day without
that; for, whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that
motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.

"If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would
serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never
seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and
bitter wind.

"Don't use such dreadful expressions," said Meg, from the depths of the
vail in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.

"I like good strong words, that mean something," replied Jo, catching
her hat as it took a leap off her head, preparatory to flying away
altogether.

"Call yourself any names you like; but _I_ am neither a rascal nor a
wretch, and I don't choose to be called so."

"You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross to-day because you can't
sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make
my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice-cream and
high-heeled slippers and posies and red-headed boys to dance with."

"How ridiculous you are, Jo!" but Meg laughed at the nonsense, and felt
better in spite of herself.

"Lucky for you I am; for if I put on crushed airs, and tried to be
dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can
always find something funny to keep me up. Don't croak any more, but
come home jolly, there's a dear."

Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for
the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm
turn-over, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,
hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.

When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate
friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something toward
their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin too
early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their parents
consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good-will which in
spite of all obstacles, is sure to succeed at last. Margaret found a
place as nursery governess, and felt rich with her small salary. As she
said, she _was_ "fond of luxury," and her chief trouble was poverty. She
found it harder to bear than the others, because she could remember a
time when home was beautiful, life full of ease and pleasure, and want
of any kind unknown. She tried not to be envious or discontented, but it
was very natural that the young girl should long for pretty things, gay
friends, accomplishments, and a happy life. At the Kings' she daily saw
all she wanted, for the children's older sisters were just out, and Meg
caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball-dresses and bouquets, heard
lively gossip about theatres, concerts, sleighing parties, and
merry-makings of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which
would have been so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a
sense of injustice made her feel bitter toward every one sometimes, for
she had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which
alone can make life happy.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame, and needed an active
person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt one
of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because her
offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had lost
all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady's will; but the
unworldly Marches only said,--

"We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will
keep together and be happy in one another."

The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but happening to meet Jo
at a friend's, something in her comical face and blunt manners struck
the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take her for a companion. This
did not suit Jo at all; but she accepted the place since nothing better
appeared, and, to every one's surprise, got on remarkably well with her
irascible relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo had
marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it any longer; but Aunt March
always cleared up quickly, and sent for her back again with such urgency
that she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery
old lady.

I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,
which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered
the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges
with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about the queer pictures in
his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her in
the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring down from the
tall book-cases, the cosy chairs, the globes, and, best of all, the
wilderness of books, in which she could wander where she liked, made the
library a region of bliss to her. The moment Aunt March took her nap, or
was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and, curling
herself up in the easy-chair, devoured poetry, romance, history,
travels, and pictures, like a regular book-worm. But, like all
happiness, it did not last long; for as sure as she had just reached the
heart of the story, the sweetest verse of the song, or the most perilous
adventure of her traveller, a shrill voice called, "Josy-phine!
Josy-phine!" and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the
poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour together.

          [Illustration: Curling herself up in the big chair]

Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid; what it was she had no
idea, as yet, but left it for time to tell her; and, meanwhile, found
her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn't read, run, and
ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless
spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series
of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training
she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed; and the thought
that she was doing something to support herself made her happy, in spite
of the perpetual "Josy-phine!"

Beth was too bashful to go to school; it had been tried, but she
suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home,
with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to
devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid Societies, Beth went
faithfully on by herself, and did the best she could. She was a
housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and
comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be
loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little
world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy
bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for
Beth was a child still, and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one
whole or handsome one among them; all were outcasts till Beth took them
in; for, when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her,
because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the
more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm
dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals; no harsh words
or blows were ever given them; no neglect ever saddened the heart of the
most repulsive: but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed, with
an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of _dollanity_ had
belonged to Jo; and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in
the rag-bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth, and
taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat
little cap, and, as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these
deficiencies by folding it in a blanket, and devoting her best bed to
this chronic invalid. If any one had known the care lavished on that
dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they
laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets; she read to it, took it out to
breathe the air, hidden under her coat; she sung it lullabys, and never
went to bed without kissing its dirty face, and whispering tenderly, "I
hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear."

Beth had her troubles as well as the others; and not being an angel, but
a very human little girl, she often "wept a little weep," as Jo said,
because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved
music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practised away so patiently
at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if some one (not to
hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw
Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune,
when she was all alone. She sang like a little lark about her work,
never was too tired to play for Marmee and the girls, and day after day
said hopefully to herself, "I know I'll get my music some time, if I'm
good."

There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners
till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the
sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the
sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she
would have answered at once, "My nose." When she was a baby, Jo had
accidentally dropped her into the coal-hod, and Amy insisted that the
fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big, nor red, like poor
"Petrea's"; it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world
could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself,
and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a
Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.

"Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for
drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing
fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her
teachers complained that, instead of doing her sums, she covered her
slate with animals; the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps
on; and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering
out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as
well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of
deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being
good-tempered, and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.
Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her
accomplishments; for beside her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,
crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two thirds of
the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When papa was rich we did
so-and-so," which was very touching; and her long words were considered
"perfectly elegant" by the girls.

Amy was in a fair way to be spoilt; for every one petted her, and her
small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,
however, rather quenched the vanities; she had to wear her cousin's
clothes. Now Florence's mamma hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy
suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,
unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was
good, well made, and little worn; but Amy's artistic eyes were much
afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull
purple, with yellow dots, and no trimming.

"My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is, that
mother don't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria
Parks' mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful; for sometimes she is
so bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When
I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my flat
nose and purple gown, with yellow sky-rockets on it."

Meg was Amy's confidant and monitor, and, by some strange attraction of
opposites, Jo was gentle Beth's. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her
thoughts; and over her big, harum-scarum sister, Beth unconsciously
exercised more influence than any one in the family. The two older girls
were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger into
her keeping, and watched over her in her own way; "playing mother" they
called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls, with
the maternal instinct of little women.

"Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm
really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat sewing together
that evening.

"I had a queer time with aunt to-day, and, as I got the best of it, I'll
tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. "I was
reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for
aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like
fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy; and, before she
began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by
opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.

            [Illustration: Reading that everlasting Belsham]

"'I wish I could, and be done with it,' said I, trying not to be saucy.

"Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and
think them over while she just 'lost' herself for a moment. She never
finds herself very soon; so the minute her cap began to bob, like a
top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the 'Vicar of Wakefield' out of my pocket,
and read away, with one eye on him, and one on aunt. I'd just got to
where they all tumbled into the water, when I forgot, and laughed out
loud. Aunt woke up; and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me
to read a bit, and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy
and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though
she only said,--

"'I don't understand what it's all about. Go back and begin it, child.'

"Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.
Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,
'I'm afraid it tires you, ma'am; sha'n't I stop now?'

"She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave me
a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way,--

"'Finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss.'"

"Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.

"Oh, bless you, no! but she let old Belsham rest; and, when I ran back
after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar that
she didn't hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall, because of the
good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have, if she only
chose. I don't envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich
people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think," added Jo.

"That reminds me," said Meg, "that I've got something to tell. It isn't
funny, like Jo's story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came
home. At the Kings to-day I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the
children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and
papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking
very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed
me, so I shouldn't see how red their eyes were. I didn't ask any
questions, of course; but I felt so sorry for them, and was rather glad
I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family."

"I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than
anything bad boys can do," said Amy, shaking her head, as if her
experience of life had been a deep one. "Susie Perkins came to school
to-day with a lovely red carnelian ring; I wanted it dreadfully, and
wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr.
Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, 'Young ladies,
my eye is upon you!' coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We were
laughing over it, when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he
ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was _parry_lized with fright,
but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the
ear, the ear! just fancy how horrid!--and led her to the recitation
platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding that slate so
every one could see."

          [Illustration: He took her by the ear! by the ear!]

"Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who relished the
scrape.

"Laugh? Not one! They sat as still as mice; and Susie cried quarts, I
know she did. I didn't envy her then; for I felt that millions of
carnelian rings wouldn't have made me happy, after that. I never, never
should have got over such a agonizing mortification." And Amy went on
with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue, and the successful
utterance of two long words in a breath.

"I saw something that I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at
dinner, but I forgot," said Beth, putting Jo's topsy-turvy basket in
order as she talked. "When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.
Laurence was in the fish-shop; but he didn't see me, for I kept behind a
barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter, the fish-man. A poor woman came
in, with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would let her do
some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn't any dinner for her
children, and had been disappointed of a day's work. Mr. Cutter was in a
hurry, and said 'No,' rather crossly; so she was going away, looking
hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish with the
crooked end of his cane, and held it out to her. She was so glad and
surprised, she took it right in her arms, and thanked him over and over.
He told her to 'go along and cook it,' and she hurried off, so happy!
Wasn't it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big,
slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence's bed in heaven would be 'aisy.'"

           [Illustration: Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish]

When they had laughed at Beth's story, they asked their mother for one;
and, after a moment's thought, she said soberly,--

"As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets to-day, at the rooms, I felt
very anxious about father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should
be, if anything happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do; but I
kept on worrying, till an old man came in, with an order for some
clothes. He sat down near me, and I began to talk to him; for he looked
poor and tired and anxious.

"'Have you sons in the army?' I asked; for the note he brought was not
to me.

"'Yes, ma'am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and
I'm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital,' he
answered quietly.

"'You have done a great deal for your country, sir,' I said, feeling
respect now, instead of pity.

"'Not a mite more than I ought, ma'am. I'd go myself, if I was any use;
as I ain't, I give my boys, and give 'em free.'

"He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give
his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I'd given one man, and thought it
too much, while he gave four, without grudging them. I had all my girls
to comfort me at home; and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say
'good by' to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy, thinking of my
blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and
thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me."

"Tell another story, mother,--one with a moral to it, like this. I like
to think about them afterwards, if they are real, and not too preachy,"
said Jo, after a minute's silence.

Mrs. March smiled, and began at once; for she had told stories to this
little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

"Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and
drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and
parents, who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here
the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew
diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good, and made many
excellent resolutions; but they did not keep them very well, and were
constantly saying, 'If we only had this,' or 'If we could only do that,'
quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many pleasant things
they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could
use to make them happy, and she said, 'When you feel discontented, think
over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as
if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not
done yet.)

"Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were
surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money
couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses; another
that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth,
health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady, who
couldn't enjoy her comforts; a third that, disagreeable as it was to
help get dinner, it was harder still to have to go begging for it; and
the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good
behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings
already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken
away entirely, instead of increased; and I believe they were never
disappointed, or sorry that they took the old woman's advice."

"Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories
against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg.

"I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort father used to tell us," said
Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's cushion.

"I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more
careful than ever now; for I've had warning from Susie's downfall," said
Amy morally.

"We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it. If we do, you just say
to us, as old Chloe did in 'Uncle Tom,' 'Tink ob yer marcies, chillen!
tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the life of her,
help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though she took
it to heart as much as any of them.

                     [Illustration: Tail-piece]

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

completion: The next morning, Meg is depressed. The holidays are over, the party is over, and now she has to go back to her daily grind. Jo tries to console her, but it's not easy. Meg and Jo go downstairs to breakfast, and it turns out that everyone is in a bad mood. Meg is feeling dissatisfied with being poor, Beth has a headache, Jo is making a racket, Amy's not ready for school, Mrs. March is trying to finish a letter, and Hannah is cranky from staying up late. Despite everyone's bad moods, Hannah has remembered to make a pair of turnovers for Meg and Jo to take with them as their lunch - and to keep their hands warm on the cold walk to the houses where they work. Meg and Jo walk to work. Their walk is together most of the way, and Jo is able to cheer Meg with silly claims about what she'll do for her sisters once she's rich. The narrator breaks in to explain what's going on. When Mr. March lost his fortune, Meg and Jo got jobs to help support the family. Meg is a governess for four children in a rich family, the Kings. Jo is a paid companion for her wealthy, cranky Aunt March. The narrator explains that Jo puts up with her job as Aunt March's companion because, as soon as the old lady falls asleep, Jo can read the books in her uncle's library. We learn more about the personalities of the girls. Jo is ambitious to do something amazing, but she isn't sure what. She has a hasty temper and tomboyish ways. Beth, the third oldest sister, is too shy to go to school, so her parents have home-schooled her. Now that her father is away and her mother is busy with the war effort, she tries to do her lessons on her own. She spends most of her time doing household chores with the servant, Hannah. Beth also plays with dolls a lot - she has a whole collection of the different dolls that her sisters have discarded over the years, and she takes care of them with love, almost as if they were pets. Beth does have one sorrow - she loves to play the piano, but her family only has a really old one that's out of tune. She tries to practice, but it's almost impossible. She doesn't make a big deal out of it, but waits patiently hoping she'll get a nicer one someday. Amy, the youngest, is vain. She worries a lot about the fact that her nose is flat instead of aristocratically pointed. She's also an artist; she spends a lot of time sketching, and she's pretty good at it. She has a lot of little aristocratic mannerisms, which are sometimes charming, but sometimes make her seem uppity. One thing keeps Amy from being too vain: she has to wear hand-me-down clothes from her cousin Florence, and Florence's mother has terrible taste, so they're all really ugly. The sisters tend to pair off - Meg and Amy have a special bond, and so do Jo and Beth. That evening, the girls sit together sewing and talk about their day. Jo says that Aunt March caught her reading a novel for fun, but then asked Jo to read some of it to her and got interested in the plot. Now Jo is excited because she's hoping she'll get to read some interesting stories to her aunt, instead of having to read aloud from boring moral essays all the time. She says that Aunt March could have a lot more fun in her life if she wanted to, with that wonderful library. Meg also tells a story about her day. When she got to the Kings' house, everyone was really upset because the oldest son had done something disgraceful and been disowned by the family! Amy describes something that happened in school. Another girl, Susie Perkins, came to school wearing a fancy carnelian ring that Amy envied. But then Susie drew a rude cartoon of the teacher and was punished in front of everyone. Even Beth has an interesting story about something that happened. She went to the fishmonger's and saw a woman beg the shop owner to let her work in exchange for food for her family. He refused, but Old Mr. Laurence was there and bought a huge fish for the woman. The girls ask their mother if she has a story to tell, and she does. She was helping sew coats for the troops and worrying about her husband when an old man came in. The man explained that he had four sons and all of them were in the Union army; two have been killed, one captured, and he's on his way to see the other, who is sick. Mrs. March feels blessed by comparison. Jo asks Marmee to tell them another true story with a moral. She re-tells them the stories about their own days, showing them the lessons in those: Meg has learned that being rich can't keep a family from experiencing shame and disgrace; Jo has learned that her youth, health, and good attitude make her happier than her cranky old rich aunt; Amy has learned that behaving well is better than having nice stuff; and Beth has learned that, even though she has to work hard, at least she doesn't have to beg. The girls are amused by their mother's "sermon" and promise to remember the lessons.