prompt:
Chapter: "I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those
children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one April day, as
she stood packing the 'go abroady' trunk in her room, surrounded by her
sisters.

"And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise.  A whole
fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo, looking like
a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.

"And such lovely weather, I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily
sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great
occasion.

"I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice
things," said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
replenished her sister's cushion.

"I wish you were all going, but as you can't, I shall keep my
adventures to tell you when I come back.  I'm sure it's the least I can
do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get
ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,
which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.

"What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?" asked Amy, who had
not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.
March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when
the proper time came.

"A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue
sash.  I wanted the violet silk, but there isn't time to make it over,
so I must be contented with my old tarlaton."

"It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it
off beautifully.  I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you
might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose
possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.

"There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but
Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,
and Laurie promised to send me all I want," replied Meg.  "Now, let me
see, there's my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my
hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks
heavy for spring, doesn't it?  The violet silk would be so nice.  Oh,
dear!"

"Never mind, you've got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always
look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the little store
of finery in which her soul delighted.

"It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to
do.  My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that
I feel as if I'd got a new one.  My silk sacque isn't a bit the
fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's.  I didn't like to
say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella.  I told
Mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one
with a yellowish handle.  It's strong and neat, so I ought not to
complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one
with a gold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great
disfavor.

"Change it," advised Jo.

"I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when she took so much
pains to get my things.  It's a nonsensical notion of mine, and I'm not
going to give up to it.  My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves
are my comfort.  You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo.  I feel so rich
and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up
for common."  And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.

"Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put
some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,
fresh from Hannah's hands.

"No, I wouldn't, for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns without
any trimming on them.  Poor folks shouldn't rig," said Jo decidedly.

"I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my
clothes and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.

"You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could only
go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth in her quiet way.

"So I did!  Well, I am happy, and I won't fret, but it does seem as if
the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it?  There now, the trays
are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for
Mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the
half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton,
which she called her 'ball dress' with an important air.

The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of
novelty and pleasure.  Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather
reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented
than she went.  But she begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take
good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a
winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went
to take her first taste of fashionable life.

The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,
at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its
occupants.  But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life
they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt,
without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated
or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite
conceal the ordinary material of which they were made.  It certainly
was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her
best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself.  It suited her
exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of
those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,
crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as
well as she could.  The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things,
the more she envied her and sighed to be rich.  Home now looked bare
and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she
felt that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of
the new gloves and silk stockings.

She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls
were busily employed in 'having a good time'.  They shopped, walked,
rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at
home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to
entertain them.  Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one
was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought.
Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and
Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as
her daughter had done.  Everyone petted her, and 'Daisey', as they
called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.

When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin
wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses
and making themselves very fine indeed.  So out came the tarlatan,
looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie's crisp new
one.  Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her
cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud.
No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and
Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white
arms.  But in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her
heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others
laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies.  The hard,
bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box
of flowers.  Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all
were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.

"It's for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are
altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff.

"They are for Miss March, the man said.  And here's a note," put in the
maid, holding it to Meg.

"What fun!  Who are they from?  Didn't know you had a lover," cried the
girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.

"The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said Meg
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.

"Oh, indeed!" said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note
into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false
pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers
cheered her up by their beauty.

Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for
herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the
breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that
Clara, the elder sister, told her she was 'the sweetest little thing
she ever saw', and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.
Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest
went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed
face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and
fastened the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so very
shabby now.

She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her
heart's content.  Everyone was very kind, and she had three
compliments.  Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a
remarkably fine voice.  Major Lincoln asked who 'the fresh little girl
with the beautiful eyes' was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with
her because she 'didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her', as he
gracefully expressed it.  So altogether she had a very nice time, till
she overheard a bit of conversation, which disturbed her extremely.
She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner
to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask on the other side of
the flowery wall...

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.

"It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it?  Sallie
says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them."

"Mrs. M.  has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,
early as it is.  The girl evidently doesn't think of it yet," said Mrs.
Moffat.

"She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up
when the flowers came quite prettily.  Poor thing! She'd be so nice if
she was only got up in style.  Do you think she'd be offended if we
offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?" asked another voice.

"She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy tarlaton
is all she has got.  She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good
excuse for offering a decent one."

Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and
rather agitated.  She was proud, and her pride was useful just then,
for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what
she had just heard.  For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she
could not help understanding the gossip of her friends.  She tried to
forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, "Mrs. M.  has
made her plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy tarlaton," till
she was ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for
advice.  As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and
being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an
effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over and she
was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till
her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears.
Those foolish, yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and
much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived
as happily as a child.  Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoiled
by the silly speeches she had overheard.  Her faith in her mother was a
little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat,
who judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be
contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter
was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby
dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven.

Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half
resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not
speaking out frankly and setting everything right.  Everybody dawdled
that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even
to take up their worsted work.  Something in the manner of her friends
struck Meg at once.  They treated her with more respect, she thought,
took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with
eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity.  All this surprised and flattered
her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from
her writing, and said, with a sentimental air...

"Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for
Thursday.  We should like to know him, and it's only a proper
compliment to you."

Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
demurely, "You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come."

"Why not, Cherie?" asked Miss Belle.

"He's too old."

"My child, what do you mean?  What is his age, I beg to know!" cried
Miss Clara.

"Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches to hide
the merriment in her eyes.

"You sly creature!  Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss
Belle, laughing.

"There isn't any, Laurie is only a little boy."  And Meg laughed also
at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her
supposed lover.

"About your age," Nan said.

"Nearer my sister Jo's; I am seventeen in August," returned Meg,
tossing her head.

"It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.

"Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are
so fond of them.  My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,
so it is quite natural that we children should play together," and Meg
hoped they would say no more.

"It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.

"Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss Belle
with a shrug.

"I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls.  Can I do
anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like
an elephant in silk and lace.

"No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie.  "I've got my new pink silk for
Thursday and don't want a thing."

"Nor I..." began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she
did want several things and could not have them.

"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.

"My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly
torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling
very uncomfortable.

"Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an
observing young lady.

"I haven't got any other."  It cost Meg an effort to say that, but
Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, "Only that?
How funny..."  She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head
at her and broke in, saying kindly...

"Not at all.  Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she
isn't out yet?  There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had
a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've outgrown,
and you shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?"

"You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress if you don't, it does
well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.

"Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to
do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with a touch here and
there.  I shan't let anyone see you till you are done, and then we'll
burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,"
said Belle in her persuasive tone.

Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if
she would be 'a little beauty' after touching up caused her to accept
and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.

On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and
between them they turned Meg into a fine lady.  They crimped and curled
her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,
touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense
would have added 'a soupcon of rouge', if Meg had not rebelled.  They
laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly
breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in
the mirror.  A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,
brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink
silk which did not show.  A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and
a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders,
and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her
heart.  A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder
holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the
satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.

"Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.

"Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room
where the others were waiting.

As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings
tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her
fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that
she was 'a little beauty'.  Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase
enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in
the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like
a party of magpies.

"While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt
and those French heels, or she will trip herself up.  Take your silver
butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,
Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,"
said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.

"You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere
beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I
assure you.  Let your flowers hang, don't be so careful of them, and be
sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was
prettier than herself.

Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs
and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early
guests were assembled.  She very soon discovered that there is a charm
about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures
their respect.  Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her
before, were very affectionate all of a sudden.  Several young
gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only
stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but
agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas,
and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air
of interest.  She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them...

"Daisy March--father a colonel in the army--one of our first families,
but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;
sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her."

"Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been
rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs. The 'queer feeling' did not pass
away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so
got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the
train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest
her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken.  She was flirting
her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried
to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused,
for just opposite, she saw Laurie.  He was staring at her with
undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he
bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and
wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle
nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to
see, looked unusually boyish and shy.

"Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head.  I won't care for
it, or let it change me a bit," thought Meg, and rustled across the
room to shake hands with her friend.

"I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't." she said, with her most
grown-up air.

"Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did," answered
Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her
maternal tone.

"What shall you tell her?" asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his
opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.

"I shall say I didn't know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike
yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at his glove
button.

"How absurd of you!  The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like
it.  Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw me?" said Meg, bent on making him say
whether he thought her improved or not.

"Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.

"Don't you like me so?" asked Meg.

"No, I don't," was the blunt reply.

"Why not?" in an anxious tone.

He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically
trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer,
which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.

"I don't like fuss and feathers."

That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg
walked away, saying petulantly, "You are the rudest boy I ever saw."

Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool
her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant
color.  As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after
she heard him saying to his mother...

"They are making a fool of that little girl.  I wanted you to see her,
but they have spoiled her entirely.  She's nothing but a doll tonight."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Meg.  "I wish I'd been sensible and worn my own
things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so
uncomfortable and ashamed of myself."

She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the
curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some
one touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he
said, with his very best bow and his hand out...

"Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."

"I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said Meg, trying to
look offended and failing entirely.

"Not a bit of it, I'm dying to do it.  Come, I'll be good. I don't like
your gown, but I do think you are just splendid." And he waved his
hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.

Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch
the time, "Take care my skirt doesn't trip you up.  It's the plague of
my life and I was a goose to wear it."

"Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said Laurie,
looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.

Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home,
they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant
sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more
friendly than ever after their small tiff.

"Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?" said Meg, as he stood
fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she
would not own why.

"Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity.

"Please don't tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won't
understand the joke, and it will worry Mother."

"Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly that Meg
hastily added...

"I shall tell them myself all about it, and 'fess' to Mother how silly
I've been.  But I'd rather do it myself.  So you'll not tell, will you?"

"I give you my word I won't, only what shall I say when they ask me?"

"Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time."

"I'll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other?  You
don't look as if you were having a good time.  Are you?" And Laurie
looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper...

"No, not just now.  Don't think I'm horrid.  I only wanted a little
fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm getting tired of it."

"Here comes Ned Moffat.  What does he want?" said Laurie, knitting his
black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a
pleasant addition to the party.

"He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he's coming for
them.  What a bore!" said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused
Laurie immensely.

He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking
champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving 'like a
pair of fools', as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort
of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a
defender was needed.

"You'll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that.
I wouldn't, Meg, your mother doesn't like it, you know," he whispered,
leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher
stooped to pick up her fan.

"I'm not Meg tonight, I'm 'a doll' who does all sorts of crazy things.
Tomorrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers' and be desperately
good again," she answered with an affected little laugh.

"Wish tomorrow was here, then," muttered Laurie, walking off,
ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.
After supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly
upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that
scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture.  But he got
no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say
good night.

"Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had
already begun.

"Silence a la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as
he went away.

This little bit of byplay excited Annie's curiosity, but Meg was too
tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a
masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected.  She was
sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with
her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had 'sat in the lap of luxury'
long enough.

"It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all
the time.  Home is a nice place, though it isn't splendid," said Meg,
looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother
and Jo on the Sunday evening.

"I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem
dull and poor to you after your fine quarters," replied her mother, who
had given her many anxious looks that day.  For motherly eyes are quick
to see any change in children's faces.

Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a
charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her
spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat
thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried.
As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her
chair and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee,
saying bravely...

"Marmee, I want to 'fess'."

"I thought so.  What is it, dear?"

"Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.

"Of course not.  Don't I always tell you everything?  I was ashamed to
speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the
dreadful things I did at the Moffats'."

"We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little
anxious.

"I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they
powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a
fashion-plate.  Laurie thought I wasn't proper.  I know he did, though
he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll'.  I knew it was silly,
but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of
nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me."

"Is that all?" asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast
face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to
blame her little follies.

"No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was
altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.

"There is something more, I think."  And Mrs. March smoothed the soft
cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly...

"Yes.  It's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have
people say and think such things about us and Laurie."

Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats',
and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill
pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent mind.

"Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried Jo
indignantly.  "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so on the spot?"

"I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me.  I couldn't help hearing at
first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't remember that I
ought to go away."

"Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to settle
such ridiculous stuff.  The idea of having 'plans' and being kind to
Laurie because he's rich and may marry us by-and-by!  Won't he shout
when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?"
And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good
joke.

"If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you!  She mustn't, must she,
Mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.

"No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you
can," said Mrs. March gravely.  "I was very unwise to let you go among
people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly,
ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people.  I am more
sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you,
Meg."

"Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me.  I'll forget all the bad and
remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you
very much for letting me go.  I'll not be sentimental or dissatisfied,
Mother.  I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay with you till
I'm fit to take care of myself.  But it is nice to be praised and
admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said Meg, looking half
ashamed of the confession.

"That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not
become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things.
Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite
the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty,
Meg."

Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind
her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new
thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and
things of that sort.  And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her
sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a
world where she could not follow.

"Mother, do you have 'plans', as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg bashfully.

"Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ
somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect.  I will tell you some of them,
for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and
heart of yours right, on a very serious subject.  You are young, Meg,
but not too young to understand me, and mothers' lips are the fittest
to speak of such things to girls like you.  Jo, your turn will come in
time, perhaps, so listen to my 'plans' and help me carry them out, if
they are good."

Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they
were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each,
and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her
serious yet cheery way...

"I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be
admired, loved, and respected.  To have a happy youth, to be well and
wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care
and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen
by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a
woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful
experience.  It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait
for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes,
you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy.  My dear
girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the
world, marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid
houses, which are not homes because love is wanting.  Money is a
needful and precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I
never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for.
I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved,
contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace."

"Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward," sighed Meg.

"Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.

"Right, Jo.  Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. March
decidedly.  "Don't be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere
lover.  Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls,
but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave
these things to time.  Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for
homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they
are not.  One thing remember, my girls.  Mother is always ready to be
your confidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust
that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and
comfort of our lives."

"We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts, as she
bade them good night.

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

completion: Meg spends a couple of weeks with the fashionable Moffats where she has an opportunity to party, dance and shop to her hearts content. The experience is not quite as much fun as she anticipated as the other girls exchange superior glances over Megs out-of-style, well-worn tarleton gown. A delivery of flowers from Laurie and a note from her mother enable her to shake off her embarrassment and almost enjoy an evening of dancing until she hears people talking about her on the other side of a thin divider wall. They speak of her "dowdy tarleton," the "fib about her mamma" , and the "plans" of Mrs. M. Meg allows the girls to loan her a very low cut blue gown for the next party. They adorn her with jewels, flowers, and makeup, making her look like something out of a fashion magazine more than herself. Although Meg doesnt feel quite right, she tries to act the part of a fashionable lady, flirting with her fan and laughing at feeble jokes told by young men. Her discomfort is complete when Laurie appears at the dance and is obviously displeased at her appearance. She is hurt and angry at Laurie until she overhears one of the guests say that "they have spoilt her entirely, shes nothing but a doll tonight." Laurie promises not to tell Marmee and the girls about Megs dress, but when Meg gets home she confesses, telling her mother that she "drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt and was, altogether, abominable." Marmee and the girls discuss the problems caused by putting too much emphasis on money and fine things rather than on love, happiness and self respect.


prompt:
Chapter: As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the
lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts.
The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the
little plot to do what she liked with.  Hannah used to say, "I'd know
which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny," and so
she might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters.
Meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.
Jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying
experiments.  This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the
seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt
Cockle-top and her family of chicks.  Beth had old-fashioned fragrant
flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks,
pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for
the pussies.  Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but
very pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging
their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall
white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants
as would consent to blossom there.

Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine
days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some
new, all more or less original.  One of these was the 'P.C.', for as
secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one,
and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the
Pickwick Club.  With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a
year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which
occasions the ceremonies were as follows:  Three chairs were arranged
in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges,
with a big 'P.C.' in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper
called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something,
while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven
o'clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges
round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity.  Meg, as
the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus
Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy,
who was always trying to do what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle.
Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original
tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which
they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short
comings.  On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles
without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared
hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he
arranged himself properly, began to read:

    _________________________________________________

    "THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO"

    MAY 20, 18--

    POET'S CORNER

    ANNIVERSARY ODE

    Again we meet to celebrate
    With badge and solemn rite,
    Our fifty-second anniversary,
    In Pickwick Hall, tonight.

    We all are here in perfect health,
    None gone from our small band:
    Again we see each well-known face,
    And press each friendly hand.

    Our Pickwick, always at his post,
    With reverence we greet,
    As, spectacles on nose, he reads
    Our well-filled weekly sheet.

    Although he suffers from a cold,
    We joy to hear him speak,
    For words of wisdom from him fall,
    In spite of croak or squeak.

    Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,
    With elephantine grace,
    And beams upon the company,
    With brown and jovial face.

    Poetic fire lights up his eye,
    He struggles 'gainst his lot.
    Behold ambition on his brow,
    And on his nose, a blot.

    Next our peaceful Tupman comes,
    So rosy, plump, and sweet,
    Who chokes with laughter at the puns,
    And tumbles off his seat.

    Prim little Winkle too is here,
    With every hair in place,
    A model of propriety,
    Though he hates to wash his face.

    The year is gone, we still unite
    To joke and laugh and read,
    And tread the path of literature
    That doth to glory lead.

    Long may our paper prosper well,
    Our club unbroken be,
    And coming years their blessings pour
    On the useful, gay 'P.  C.'.
    A.  SNODGRASS

    ________

    THE MASKED MARRIAGE
    (A Tale Of Venice)

    Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble
    steps, and left its lovely load to swell the
    brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of Count
    Adelon.  Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks
    and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance.
    Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so
    with mirth and music the masquerade went on.
    "Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?"
    asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who
    floated down the hall upon his arm.

    "Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad!  Her
    dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds
    Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates."

    "By my faith, I envy him.  Yonder he comes,
    arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask.
    When that is off we shall see how he regards the
    fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her
    stern father bestows her hand," returned the troubadour.

    "Tis whispered that she loves the young English
    artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the
    old Count," said the lady, as they joined the dance.
    The revel was at its height when a priest
    appeared, and withdrawing the young pair to an alcove,
    hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel.
    Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not a
    sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of
    orange groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the
    hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:

    "My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which
    I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of
    my daughter.  Father, we wait your services."
    All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a
    murmur of amazement went through the throng, for
    neither bride nor groom removed their masks.  Curiosity
    and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained
    all tongues till the holy rite was over.  Then the
    eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding
    an explanation.

    "Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only
    know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I
    yielded to it.  Now, my children, let the play end.
    Unmask and receive my blessing."

    But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom
    replied in a tone that startled all listeners
    as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand
    Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the
    breast where now flashed the star of an English earl
    was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.

    "My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your
    daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a
    fortune as the Count Antonio.  I can do more, for even
    your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux
    and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless
    wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady,
    now my wife."

    The count stood like one changed to stone, and
    turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with
    a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I
    can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has
    done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have
    by this masked marriage."
    S.  PICKWICK

    Why is the P.  C.  like the Tower of Babel?
    It is full of unruly members.

    _________

    THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH

    Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed
    in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and became
    a vine and bore many squashes.  One day in October,
    when they were ripe, he picked one and took it
    to market.  A grocerman bought and put it in his shop.
    That same morning, a little girl in a brown hat
    and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went
    and bought it for her mother.  She lugged it home, cut
    it up, and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it
    with salt and butter, for dinner.  And to the rest she added
    a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg,
    and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and baked it
    till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten
    by a family named March.
    T.  TUPMAN

    _________

    Mr. Pickwick, Sir:--
    I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner
    I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his
    club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in
    this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and
    let him send a French fable because he can't write out
    of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains
    in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and
    prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that
    means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school
    time.
    Yours respectably,
    N.  WINKLE

    [The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past
    misdemeanors.  If our young friend studied punctuation, it
    would be well.]

    _________

    A SAD ACCIDENT

    On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock
    in our basement, followed by cries of distress.
    On rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved
    President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and
    fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes.  A perfect
    scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick
    had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water,
    upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form,  and torn
    his garments badly.  On being removed from this perilous
    situation, it was discovered that he had suffered
    no injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add,
    is now doing well.
    ED.

    _________

    THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT

    It is our painful duty to record the sudden and
    mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs.
    Snowball Pat Paw.  This lovely and beloved cat was the
    pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for
    her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues
    endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt
    by the whole community.

    When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching
    the butcher's cart, and it is feared that some villain,
    tempted by her charms, basely stole her.  Weeks have passed,
    but no trace of her has been discovered, and we relinquish
    all hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her
    dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever.

    _________

    A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:

    A LAMENT
    (FOR S.  B.  PAT PAW)

    We mourn the loss of our little pet,
    And sigh o'er her hapless fate,
    For never more by the fire she'll sit,
    Nor play by the old green gate.

    The little grave where her infant sleeps
    Is 'neath the chestnut tree.
    But o'er her grave we may not weep,
    We know not where it may be.

    Her empty bed, her idle ball,
    Will never see her more;
    No gentle tap, no loving purr
    Is heard at the parlor door.

    Another cat comes after her mice,
    A cat with a dirty face,
    But she does not hunt as our darling did,
    Nor play with her airy grace.

    Her stealthy paws tread the very hall
    Where Snowball used to play,
    But she only spits at the dogs our pet
    So gallantly drove away.

    She is useful and mild, and does her best,
    But she is not fair to see,
    And we cannot give her your place dear,
    Nor worship her as we worship thee.
    A.S.

    _________

    ADVERTISEMENTS

    MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished
    strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her
    famous lecture on "WOMAN AND HER POSITION"
    at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening,
    after the usual performances.

    A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen
    Place, to teach young ladies how to cook.
    Hannah Brown will preside, and all are
    invited to attend.

    The DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday
    next, and parade in the upper story of the
    Club House.  All members to appear in uniform
    and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.

    Mrs. BETH BOUNCER will open her new
    assortment of Doll's Millinery next week.
    The latest Paris fashions have arrived,
    and orders are respectfully solicited.

    A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville
    Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which
    will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage.
    "The Greek Slave, or Constantine the Avenger," is the name
    of this thrilling drama!!!

    HINTS

    If S.P.  didn't use so much soap on his hands,
    he wouldn't always be late at breakfast.  A.S.
    is requested not to whistle in the street.  T.T.
    please don't forget Amy's napkin.  N.W.  must
    not fret because his dress has not nine tucks.

    WEEKLY REPORT

    Meg--Good.
    Jo--Bad.
    Beth--Very Good.
    Amy--Middling.

    _________________________________________________

As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to
assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls
once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass
rose to make a proposition.

"Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary
attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission of a new
member--one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for
it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary
value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice.  I propose Mr.
Theodore Laurence as an honorary member of the P.  C.  Come now, do
have him."

Jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather
anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat.

"We'll put it to a vote," said the President.  "All in favor of this
motion please to manifest it by saying, 'Aye'."

A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise, by a
timid one from Beth.

"Contrary-minded say, 'No'."

Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great
elegance, "We don't wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about.
This is a ladies' club, and we wish to be private and proper."

"I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,"
observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she
always did when doubtful.

Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest.  "Sir, I give you my word as a
gentleman, Laurie won't do anything of the sort.  He likes to write,
and he'll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being
sentimental, don't you see?  We can do so little for him, and he does
so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place
here, and make him welcome if he comes."

This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet,
looking as if he had quite made up his mind.

"Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid.  I say he may come, and
his grandpa, too, if he likes."

This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her
seat to shake hands approvingly.  "Now then, vote again. Everybody
remember it's our Laurie, and say, 'Aye!'" cried Snodgrass excitedly.

"Aye!  Aye!  Aye!" replied three voices at once.

"Good!  Bless you!  Now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by the
fetlock', as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present
the new member."  And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw
open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag,
flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.

"You rogue!  You traitor!  Jo, how could you?" cried the three girls,
as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a
chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.

"The coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pickwick,
trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an
amiable smile.  But the new member was equal to the occasion, and
rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in the most
engaging manner, "Mr. President and ladies--I beg pardon,
gentlemen--allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble
servant of the club."

"Good!  Good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming
pan on which she leaned.

"My faithful friend and noble patron," continued Laurie with a wave of
the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed
for the base stratagem of tonight.  I planned it, and she only gave in
after lots of teasing."

"Come now, don't lay it all on yourself.  You know I proposed the
cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.

"Never mind what she says.  I'm the wretch that did it, sir," said the
new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick.  "But on my honor,
I never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest
of this immortal club."

"Hear!  Hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a
cymbal.

"Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed
benignly.

"I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the
honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between
adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the
lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on
the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I
may be allowed the expression.  It's the old martin house, but I've
stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts
of things, and save our valuable time.  Letters, manuscripts, books,
and bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it
will be uncommonly nice, I fancy.  Allow me to present the club key,
and with many thanks for your favor, take my seat."

Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and
subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some
time before order could be restored.  A long discussion followed, and
everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best.  So it was an
unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it
broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member.

No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted,
well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did
add 'spirit' to the meetings, and 'a tone' to the paper, for his
orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent,
being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never
sentimental.  Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or
Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought.

The P.  O.  was a capital little institution, and flourished
wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as
through the real post office.  Tragedies and cravats, poetry and
pickles, garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers,
invitations, scoldings, and puppies.  The old gentleman liked the fun,
and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and
funny telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah's
charms, actually sent a love letter to Jo's care.  How they laughed
when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that
little post office would hold in the years to come.

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

completion: The Pickwick Club is one of the diversions the March girls have invented to occupy their time after gardening and other springtime chores. They contribute various written pieces to a weekly "Pickwick Portfolio" of which Jo is the editor. Each girl takes the identity of a different Dickens character with Meg taking that of the President, Mr. Pickwick. The little paper is a collection of poems, stories, and announcements of past and coming events of the March household and the community in general as it effects the March family. At this particular meeting, Jo, as Mr. Snodgrass, proposes the addition of a new member in the person of Laurie. At first the vote is split, 2 for and 2 against, but Jo reminds them of all Laurie has done for them. When they finally agree, they discover that Laurie is already present and has been waiting behind the door for their consent. Laurie introduces himself as "Sam Weller" and informs them that he has set up a post-office in a corner of the garden. It is actually the old martin-house, but he has fixed it up nicely to hold all sorts of packages or mail that they may wish to exchange on behalf of the paper. Later, even Mr. Laurence joins in the fun, sending bundles and mysterious messages through the little post office.


prompt:
Chapter: "The first of June!  The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and
I'm free.  Three months' vacation--how I shall enjoy it!" exclaimed
Meg, coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an
unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and
Amy made lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.

"Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!" said Jo. "I was
mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her.  If she had, I should have
felt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is about as gay as a
churchyard, you know, and I'd rather be excused. We had a flurry
getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she spoke to
me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly
helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it impossible to part from me.
I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright,
for as it drove of, she popped out her head, saying, 'Josyphine, won't
you--?' I didn't hear any more, for I basely turned and fled.  I did
actually run, and whisked round the corner where I felt safe."

"Poor old Jo!  She came in looking as if bears were after her," said
Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air.

"Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy, tasting
her mixture critically.

"She means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn't matter.  It's too warm
to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured Jo.

"What shall you do all your vacation?" asked Amy, changing the subject
with tact.

"I shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied Meg, from the depths
of the rocking chair.  "I've been routed up early all winter and had to
spend my days working for other people, so now I'm going to rest and
revel to my heart's content."

"No," said Jo, "that dozy way wouldn't suit me.  I've laid in a heap of
books, and I'm going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in
the old apple tree, when I'm not having l----"

"Don't say 'larks!'" implored Amy, as a return snub for the 'samphire'
correction.

"I'll say 'nightingales' then, with Laurie.  That's proper and
appropriate, since he's a warbler."

"Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time
and rest, as the girls mean to," proposed Amy.

"Well, I will, if Mother doesn't mind.  I want to learn some new songs,
and my children need fitting up for the summer.  They are dreadfully
out of order and really suffering for clothes."

"May we, Mother?" asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in
what they called 'Marmee's corner'.

"You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it.  I
think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as
bad as all work and no play."

"Oh, dear, no!  It will be delicious, I'm sure," said Meg complacently.

"I now propose a toast, as my 'friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp', says.
Fun forever, and no grubbing!" cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the
lemonade went round.

They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the
rest of the day.  Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten o'clock.
Her solitary breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed lonely
and untidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and
Amy's books lay scattered about.  Nothing was neat and pleasant but
'Marmee's corner', which looked as usual.  And there Meg sat, to 'rest
and read', which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses
she would get with her salary.  Jo spent the morning on the river with
Laurie and the afternoon reading and crying over _The Wide, Wide
World_, up in the apple tree.  Beth began by rummaging everything out
of the big closet where her family resided, but getting tired before
half done, she left her establishment topsy-turvy and went to her
music, rejoicing that she had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her
bower, put on her best white frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to
draw under the honeysuckle, hoping someone would see and inquire who
the young artist was.  As no one appeared but an inquisitive
daddy-longlegs, who examined her work with interest, she went to walk,
got caught in a shower, and came home dripping.

At teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a
delightful, though unusually long day.  Meg, who went shopping in the
afternoon and got a 'sweet blue muslin', had discovered, after she had
cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which mishap made her
slightly cross.  Jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a
raging headache by reading too long.  Beth was worried by the confusion
of her closet and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at
once, and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy
Brown's party was to be the next day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she
had 'nothing to wear'.  But these were mere trifles, and they assured
their mother that the experiment was working finely.  She smiled, said
nothing, and with Hannah's help did their neglected work, keeping home
pleasant and the domestic machinery running smoothly.  It was
astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was
produced by the 'resting and reveling' process.  The days kept getting
longer and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were
tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and Satan found
plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do.  As the height of luxury,
Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily,
that she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to
furbish them up a la Moffat.  Jo read till her eyes gave out and she
was sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie had a
quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished
she had gone with Aunt March.  Beth got on pretty well, for she was
constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell
back into her old ways now and then.  But something in the air affected
her, and more than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so
that on one occasion she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her
she was 'a fright'.  Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were
small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found
that accomplished and important little self a great burden.  She didn't
like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn't draw all the
time.  Tea parties didn't amount to much, neither did picnics, unless
very well conducted.  "If one could have a fine house, full of nice
girls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay at
home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try
the patience of a Boaz," complained Miss Malaprop, after several days
devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui.

No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday
night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was
nearly done.  Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who
had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an
appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and let the girls
enjoy the full effect of the play system.

When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen,
no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen.

"Mercy on us!  What has happened?" cried Jo, staring about her in
dismay.

Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather
bewildered, and a little ashamed.

"Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay
quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can.  It's a very
queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act a bit like herself.  But she
says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn't grumble but take
care of ourselves."

"That's easy enough, and I like the idea, I'm aching for something to
do, that is, some new amusement, you know," added Jo quickly.

In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and
they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah's
saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke."  There was plenty of food in the
larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast,
wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work.

"I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think
of her, for she'd take care of herself," said Meg, who presided and
felt quite matronly behind the teapot.

So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the
cook's compliments.  The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet
scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March
received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo
was gone.

"Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I'm afraid, but they
won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, producing the more
palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of
the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly
little deception for which they were grateful.

Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook
at her failures.  "Never mind, I'll get the dinner and be servant, you
be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders," said
Jo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs.

This obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired to the
parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the
sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble of dusting.  Jo, with
perfect faith in her own powers and a friendly desire to make up the
quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie to
dinner.

"You'd better see what you have got before you think of having
company," said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.

"Oh, there's corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get some
asparagus and a lobster, 'for a relish', as Hannah says. We'll have
lettuce and make a salad.  I don't know how, but the book tells.  I'll
have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you
want to be elegant."

"Don't try too many messes, Jo, for you can't make anything but
gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat.  I wash my hands of the
dinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own
responsibility, you may just take care of him."

"I don't want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the
pudding.  You'll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won't you?"
asked Jo, rather hurt.

"Yes, but I don't know much, except about bread and a few trifles.  You
had better ask Mother's leave before you order anything," returned Meg
prudently.

"Of course I shall.  I'm not a fool."  And Jo went off in a huff at the
doubts expressed of her powers.

"Get what you like, and don't disturb me.  I'm going out to dinner and
can't worry about things at home," said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to
her.  "I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I'm going to take a vacation
today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself."

The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and
reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural
phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic
eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.

"Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself, going
downstairs.  "There's Beth crying, that's a sure sign that something is
wrong in this family.  If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her."

Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to
find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with
his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for
want of which he had died.

"It's all my fault, I forgot him, there isn't a seed or a drop left.
Oh, Pip!  Oh, Pip!  How could I be so cruel to you?" cried Beth, taking
the poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him.

Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding
him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a
coffin.

"Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive," said Amy
hopefully.

"He's been starved, and he shan't be baked now he's dead.  I'll make
him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I'll never have
another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one," murmured
Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.

"The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go.  Now, don't
cry, Bethy.  It's a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has
had the worst of the experiment.  Make the shroud, and lay him in my
box, and after the dinner party, we'll have a nice little funeral,"
said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.

Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, which
was in a most discouraging state of confusion.  Putting on a big apron,
she fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when
she discovered that the fire was out.

"Here's a sweet prospect!" muttered Jo, slamming the stove door open,
and poking vigorously among the cinders.

Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the
water heated.  The walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself
that she had made good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a
very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid
strawberries.  By the time she got cleared up, the dinner arrived and
the stove was red-hot.  Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had
worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and
forgotten it.  Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor, when
the door flew open and a floury, crocky, flushed, and disheveled figure
appeared, demanding tartly...

"I say, isn't bread 'riz' enough when it runs over the pans?"

Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high
as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and put the
sour bread into the oven without further delay.  Mrs. March went out,
after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also saying a
word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet, while the dear
departed lay in state in the domino box.  A strange sense of
helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the
corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes later Miss Crocker
appeared, and said she'd come to dinner.  Now this lady was a thin,
yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw
everything and gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had
been taught to be kind to her, simply because she was old and poor and
had few friends.  So Meg gave her the easy chair and tried to entertain
her, while she asked questions, criticized everything, and told stories
of the people whom she knew.

Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions
which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a
standing joke.  Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,
and discovered that something more than energy and good will is
necessary to make a cook.  She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was
grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.
The bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that
she could not make it fit to eat.  The lobster was a scarlet mystery to
her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager
proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves.  The potatoes had
to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at
the last.  The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe
as they looked, having been skilfully 'deaconed'.

"Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only
it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,"
thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and
stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before
Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose
tattling tongue would report them far and wide.

Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after
another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed,
Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all
his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene.  Jo's one
strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a
pitcher of rich cream to eat with it.  Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle,
and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and
everyone looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea
of cream.  Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some
water hastily.  Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough,
for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but
he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his
mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his plate.  Amy, who was fond of
delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her
napkin, and left the table precipitately.

"Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling.

"Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg with a
tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had
given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes
on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the
refrigerator.  She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when
she met Laurie's eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic
efforts.  The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she
laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.  So did everyone else, even
'Croaker' as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner
ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.

"I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober
ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made
ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend's
dinner table.

They did sober themselves for Beth's sake.  Laurie dug a grave under
the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his
tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of
violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,
composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner.

    Here lies Pip March,
    Who died the 7th of June;
    Loved and lamented sore,
    And not forgotten soon.

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome
with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the
beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up
the pillows and putting things in order.  Meg helped Jo clear away the
remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so
tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.

Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour
cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper.  Mrs. March came
home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the
afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success
of one part of the experiment.

Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was
a scramble to get ready to see them.  Then tea must be got, errands
done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last
minute.  As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on
the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each
groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.

"What a dreadful day this has been!" began Jo, usually the first to
speak.

"It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable," said Meg.

"Not a bit like home," added Amy.

"It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth, glancing
with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.

"Here's Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you
want it."

As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as
if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.

"Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another
week of it?" she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned
toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.

"I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.

"Nor I," echoed the others.

"You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a
little for others, do you?"

"Lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her head. "I'm
tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off."

"Suppose you learn plain cooking.  That's a useful accomplishment,
which no woman should be without," said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly
at the recollection of Jo's dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker
and heard her account of it.

"Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we'd
get on?" cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.

"Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing
her share faithfully.  While Hannah and I did your work, you got on
pretty well, though I don't think you were very happy or amiable.  So I
thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when
everyone thinks only of herself.  Don't you feel that it is pleasanter
to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when
it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and
lovely to us all?"

"We do, Mother, we do!" cried the girls.

"Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for
though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as
we learn to carry them.  Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for
everyone.  It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and
spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than
money or fashion."

"We'll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don't," said Jo.
"I'll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner
party I have shall be a success."

"I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it,
Marmee.  I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing. That will be
better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as
they are." said Meg.

"I'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music
and dolls.  I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not
playing," was Beth's resolution, while Amy followed their example by
heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to
my parts of speech."

"Very good!  Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy
that we shall not have to repeat it, only don't go to the other extreme
and delve like slaves.  Have regular hours for work and play, make each
day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth
of time by employing it well.  Then youth will be delightful, old age
will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite
of poverty."

"We'll remember, Mother!" and they did.

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

completion: It is the first of June and all of the girls are looking forward to vacation. The Kings have gone to the seashore, Aunt March is gone to Plumfield to visit other family, and Beth and Amy think they should have some freedom from lessons. Each one plans to spend days in idleness, sleeping in, playing with dolls, practicing new songs and reading books-anything so long as they are entirely free from chores. Marmee allows the girls to have their workfree lives as an experiment that will last one week. The first day seems to be a success, but succeeding days become longer and more boring, and the girls are irritable with each other. On the last day of the experiment, Marmee adds to it by giving Hannah the day off and then going out herself. The situation goes from bad to worse as Beth finds her bird dead for want of food or water, and unexpected company in the person of the gossipy Mrs. Crocker shows up for a disastrous supper. Later in the evening several other callers visit the frantic little group. The girls decide that they do not wish to continue their experiment, and that life proceeds more smoothly when every member does a fair share of the work.