prompt:
Chapter: XXVI. ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS.

It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and
genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this
distinction through much tribulation; for, mistaking enthusiasm for
inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity.
For a long time there was a lull in the "mud-pie" business, and she
devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed
such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant
and profitable. But overstrained eyes soon caused pen and ink to be laid
aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted,
the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration; for the odor of
burning wood pervaded the house at all hours; smoke issued from attic
and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about
promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and
the dinner-bell at her door, in case of fire. Raphael's face was found
boldly executed on the under side of the moulding-board, and Bacchus on
the head of a beer-barrel; a chanting cherub adorned the cover of the
sugar-bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied
kindlings for some time.

From fire to oil was a natural transition for burnt fingers, and Amy
fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her
out with his cast-off palettes, brushes, and colors; and she daubed
away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on
land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken
prizes at an agricultural fair; and the perilous pitching of her vessels
would have produced sea-sickness in the most nautical observer, if the
utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not
convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys and
dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio,
suggested Murillo; oily-brown shadows of faces, with a lurid streak in
the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropsical infants,
Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange
lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash
in the middle, which might be the sun or a buoy, a sailor's shirt or a
king's robe, as the spectator pleased.

Charcoal portraits came next; and the entire family hung in a row,
looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal-bin. Softened
into crayon sketches, they did better; for the likenesses were good, and
Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were pronounced
"wonderfully fine." A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly
casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off
closet-shelves on to people's heads. Children were enticed in as models,
till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy
to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line,
however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which
quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook
to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an
unearthly bumping and screaming, and running to the rescue, found the
young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot held fast
in a pan-full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity.
With much difficulty and some danger she was dug out; for Jo was so
overcome with laughter while she excavated, that her knife went too far,
cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt,
at least.

       [Illustration: Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster]

After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her
to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing
for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to
book "a delicious bit," composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and
a broken mullein-stalk, or "a heavenly mass of clouds," that looked like
a choice display of feather-beds when done. She sacrificed her
complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun, to study light
and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose, trying after "points of
sight," or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called.

If "genius is eternal patience," as Michael Angelo affirms, Amy
certainly had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in
spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing
that in time she should do something worthy to be called "high art."

She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she
had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she
never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better; for she was one
of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends
everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate
souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star.
Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an
instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right
thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and
was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to
court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do."

One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in "our best society,"
without being quite sure what the _best_ really was. Money, position,
fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable
things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed
them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not
admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she
cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the
opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty
now excluded her.

"My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine
lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy
refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and
that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.

"I want to ask a favor of you, mamma," Amy said, coming in, with an
important air, one day.

"Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the
stately young lady still remained "the baby."

"Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate
for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to
see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things
they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and
I am grateful, for they are all rich, and know I am poor, yet they never
made any difference."

"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls
called her "Maria Theresa air."

"You know as well as I that it _does_ make a difference with nearly
every one, so don't ruffle up, like a dear, motherly hen, when your
chickens get pecked by smarter birds; the ugly duckling turned out a
swan, you know;" and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a
happy temper and hopeful spirit.

Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,--

"Well, my swan, what is your plan?"

"I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them a
drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and
make a little artistic _fête_ for them."

"That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches,
fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?"

"Oh dear, no! we must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and
ice-cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my
lunch to be proper and elegant, though I _do_ work for my living."

"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look
sober.

"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come."

"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them
about."

"Why, mother, how _can_ you think of such a thing? Not more than six or
eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach-wagon, and borrow Mr.
Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of _char-à-banc_.)

"All this will be expensive, Amy."

"Not very; I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."

"Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and
the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be
pleasanter to them, as a change, if nothing more, and much better for us
than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not
in keeping with our circumstances?"

"If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know
that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help
a little; and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it,"
said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into
obstinacy.

Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it
was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she
would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice
as much as they did salts and senna.

"Very well, Amy; if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way
through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll say
no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'll
do my best to help you."

"Thanks, mother; you are always _so_ kind;" and away went Amy to lay her
plan before her sisters.

Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she
possessed, from her little house itself to her very best salt-spoons.
But Jo frowned upon the whole project, and would have nothing to do with
it at first.

"Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and
turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a
sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle
to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a
_coupé_," said Jo, who, being called from the tragical climax of her
novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.

"I _don't_ truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!"
returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions
arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a great
deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you
call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to go
into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I
mean to make the most of every chance that comes. _You_ can go through
the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it
independence, if you like. That's not my way."

When Amy whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best
of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while Jo
carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an
unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an
argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a good
hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable
turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day
to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as "a
nonsensical business."

The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday
was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her
week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the washin' and
ironin' warn't done reg'lar nothin' would go well anywheres." This hitch
in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the
whole concern; but Amy's motto was "Nil desperandum," and having made up
her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles.
To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well: the chicken was
tough, the tongue too salt, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly.
Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon; and
various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up
rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got cold and took to her bed, Meg had
an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a
divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were
uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.

"If it hadn't been for mother I never should have got through," as Amy
declared afterward, and gratefully remembered when "the best joke of the
season" was entirely forgotten by everybody else.

If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on
Tuesday,--an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last
degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which
is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a
little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late
for any one else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people
out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be
got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby; but
without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skilfully made the
best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the
carpet, covering stains on the walls with pictures framed in ivy, and
filling up empty corners with home-made statuary, which gave an artistic
air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.

The lunch looked charmingly; and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped
it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver
would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and mother
were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help Hannah behind the
scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, an
aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything
would allow, and, as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with
anticipations of the happy moment, when, lunch safely over, she should
drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights; for
the "cherry-bounce" and the broken bridge were her strong points.

Then came two hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor
to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart
shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young
ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came; and at two the
exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the
perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.

"No doubt about the weather to-day; they will certainly come, so we must
fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next
morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had
said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake, was getting
a little stale.

"I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad to-day,"
said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of
placid despair.

"Use the chicken, then; the toughness won't matter in a salad," advised
his wife.

"Hannah left it on the kitchen-table a minute, and the kittens got at
it. I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats.

"Then I _must_ have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy
decidedly.

"Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the magnanimity
of a martyr.

"You'd come bringing it home under your arm, without any paper, just to
try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to
fail.

Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel travelling-basket, she
departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit, and
fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her
desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing, to prevent further
loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own
forethought.

As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady,
Amy pocketed her veil, and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to
find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card
full of refractory figures that she did not observe a new-comer, who
entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said,
"Good-morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's
most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out
before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and,
congratulating herself that she had on her new travelling dress,
returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.

They got on excellently; for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by
learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away
in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to
the door, she upset the basket, and--oh, horror!--the lobster, in all
its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a
Tudor.

"By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth,
poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing
to hand out the basket after the old lady.

"Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red
as her fish.

                [Illustration: Please don't, it's mine]

"Oh, really, I beg pardon; it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said
Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that
did credit to his breeding.

Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat,
and said, laughing,--

"Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's to make, and to
see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?"

Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind
were touched: the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing
reminiscences, and curiosity about "the charming young ladies" diverted
his mind from the comical mishap.

"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I sha'n't see
them; that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.

She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that,
thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of
dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the
preparations which now seemed more irksome than before; and at twelve
o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested
in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's
failure by a grand success to-day; so she ordered the "cherry-bounce,"
and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.

"There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go into the porch to meet
them; it looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time
after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word.
But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression,
for, looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady.

"Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table; it will
be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl," cried
Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a
laugh.

In came Amy, quite calm, and delightfully cordial to the one guest who
had kept her promise; the rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn,
played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most
hilarious set; for it was impossible to entirely control the merriment
which possessed them. The remodelled lunch being gayly partaken of, the
studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy
ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce!) and drove her
friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when "the party went
out."

As she came walking in, looking very tired, but as composed as ever, she
observed that every vestige of the unfortunate _fête_ had disappeared,
except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's mouth.

"You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother,
as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.

"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I
thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.

"Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so
much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg
soberly.

"Take it all; I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will
mould before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of
the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.

"It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat down
to ice-cream and salad for the second time in two days.

A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the
whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed,
"Salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn"--here
a general explosion of laughter cut short the "history of sallets," to
the great surprise of the learned gentleman.

"Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels: Germans
like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this; and there's no reason you
should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy, wiping
her eyes.

"I thought I _should_ have died when I saw you two girls rattling about
in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell,
and mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed Jo, quite
spent with laughter.

"I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to
satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.

"I _am_ satisfied; I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault
that it failed; I comfort myself with that," said Amy, with a little
quiver in her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and I'll
thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least."

No one did for several months; but the word "_fête_" always produced a
general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral
lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch-guard.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                    [Illustration: Literary Lessons]

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

completion: The narrator tells us that it takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, and Amy is learning it the hard way. Amy tries every kind of art, from clay sculpture to pen-and-ink drawing to woodburning, then oil painting, and then charcoal portraits, and finally sketching. Each art form ends in hilarity or disaster. Amy is patient and persevering, but it doesn't seem like she's really cut out to be a great artist. However, she's also becoming a graceful, accomplished woman; everyone likes her, and she always seems to say the right thing. Amy's biggest flaw is that she tries to be a social climber. She confuses money, power, and aristocracy with real values and principles. One day, Amy asks her mother if she can invite the girls from her drawing class over to her house for lunch and an opportunity to sketch the countryside. Mrs. March agrees and suggests a modest menu. Amy insists that the girls, who are mostly more wealthy than her family, have to have a really fancy meal. Mrs. March asks how many girls there are in the group, and Amy says around a dozen, but she thinks only half of them will come. Mrs. March thinks it will be too expensive, but Amy has everything planned out and has saved her own money so that she can pay for it. Mrs. March still thinks it's a mistake to throw a party beyond their means, but she decides to let Amy learn by experience. Meg agrees to help Amy. Jo refuses at first, but finally Amy convinces her that she's defying convention just for the sake of being different, and she agrees to help. They send out the invitations, and almost all the girls accept. Hannah is cranky because the preparations for the lunch interfere with her regular household routine. Everything seems to go wrong: Hannah's cooking turns out badly, things are more expensive than Amy thought they would be, Beth is sick, Meg is busy, and Jo keeps breaking things. Amy has told the girls to come on Monday, and if the weather is bad on Monday to come on Tuesday instead. On Monday, the weather is drizzly and nobody shows up. On Tuesday, the food is getting a little stale and Amy's also tired of the idea. Tuesday morning, Mr. March comes in and says he wasn't able to buy a lobster, so they'll have to go without salad. Amy goes into town herself to get one. Buying a lobster is a pretty low-class errand and Amy doesn't want to be seen doing it, so she carries a big basket with a lid and covers her face with a veil. Amy gets her lobster and takes the bus home. There is only one other passenger, an old lady, so Amy takes off her veil. At the next stop, one of Laurie's college friends, Tudor, gets on the bus. He recognizes Amy and sits by her to chat. Amy ignores the basket with the lobster while she talks to Tudor. Unfortunately, when the old lady gets off the bus, she knocks the basket over and the lobster falls out. Tudor thinks the lobster must belong to the old lady and starts to hand it back to her. Amy blushes and explains that it's hers. Tudor makes a polite comment about what a fine lobster it is, and Amy saves the day by joking that Tudor probably wants to see the girls who are going to eat it. Amy finally gets home, although her dress has been damaged by the lobster's dressing. She gets everything ready by noon. Finally, Amy orders Mr. Laurence's carriage and goes to meet her guests. But as Mrs. March watches at the window for them coming back, they discover that only one girl has come! Jo and Beth help Hannah clear some of the place settings, so that it won't look too ridiculous when there's only one guest. Amy entertains her only guest, Miss Elliot, calmly and politely, and her family helps her as best they can. Finally, the party is over. Amy comes home alone. Her family tries to be polite and don't mention any of the problems. The Marches sit down to eat - dinner, of course, is some of the leftovers from the party. Finally Amy gives up and decides not to make her family eat leftovers for days, and sends the food to the Hummel family. Amy starts to tear up, and Jo admits that it was pretty funny that only one girl came. Mrs. March tries to be comforting. Amy says that she is satisfied - she did what she meant to do. She asks her family not to mention the episode. Nobody brings it up for a few months, but Laurie gives Amy a coral lobster charm for her birthday!


prompt:
Chapter: XXVII. LITERARY LESSONS.

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good-luck penny in her
path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would
have given more real happiness than did the little sum that came to her
in this wise.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her
scribbling suit, and "fall into a vortex," as she expressed it, writing
away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was
finished she could find no peace. Her "scribbling suit" consisted of a
black woollen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a
cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which
she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap
was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these
periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads
semi-occasionally, to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They
did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an
observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive
article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that
hard work was going on; in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly
askew; and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and
cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew; and
not until the red bow was seen gayly erect upon the gifted brow, did any
one dare address Jo.

She did not think herself a genius by any means; but when the writing
fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a
blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat
safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and
dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood
untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which
blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even
if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually lasted a week
or two, and then she emerged from her "vortex," hungry, sleepy, cross,
or despondent.

She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed
upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue
was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the lecture on
the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for
such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil
would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories
of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price
of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder
riddles than that of the Sphinx.

They were early; and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo
amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the
seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads,
and bonnets to match, discussing Woman's Rights and making tatting.
Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the
hand, a sombre spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an
old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On
her right, her only neighbor was a studious-looking lad absorbed in a
newspaper.

It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her,
idly wondering what unfortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed
the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling
over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young
gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each
other close by, and a dishevelled female was flying away in the
background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw
her looking, and, with boyish good-nature, offered half his paper,
saying bluntly, "Want to read it? That's a first-rate story."

Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for
lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love,
mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light
literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's
invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the
_dramatis personæ_, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.

"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.

"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned Jo,
amused at his admiration of the trash.

"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good
living out of such stories, they say;" and he pointed to the name of
Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.

"No; but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the
office where this paper is printed."

"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and Jo
looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly-sprinkled
exclamation-points that adorned the page.

"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for
writing it."

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while Prof.
Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,
and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its
columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the
audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the
first founded upon paper), and was already deep in the concoction of her
story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the
elopement or after the murder.

She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to
the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when
"genius took to burning." Jo had never tried this style before,
contenting herself with very mild romances for the "Spread Eagle." Her
theatrical experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for
they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language,
and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her
limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to
make it, and, having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an
earthquake, as a striking and appropriate _dénouement_. The manuscript
was privately despatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if
the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she
would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to
keep a secret; but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all
hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which
almost took her breath away; for on opening it, a check for a hundred
dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had
been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable
gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense
happiness he was giving a fellow-creature, I think he would devote his
leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement; for Jo valued the
letter more than the money, because it was encouraging; and after years
of effort it was _so_ pleasant to find that she had learned to do
something, though it was only to write a sensation story.

            [Illustration: A check for one hundred dollars]

A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed
herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the
letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won
the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came
every one read and praised it; though after her father had told her that
the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy
quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way,--

"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the
money."

"_I_ think the money is the best part of it. What _will_ you do with
such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
reverential eye.

"Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo
promptly.

"Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear, it would be so selfish,"
cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands, and taken a long breath, as
if pining for fresh ocean-breezes; then stopped herself, and motioned
away the check which her sister waved before her.

"Ah, but you shall go, I've set my heart on it; that's what I tried for,
and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think of myself alone,
so it will help me to work for you, don't you see? Besides, Marmee needs
the change, and she won't leave you, so you _must_ go. Won't it be fun
to see you come home plump and rosy again? Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always
cures her patients!"

To the sea side they went, after much discussion; and though Beth didn't
come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better,
while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger; so Jo was
satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with
a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She
did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the
house; for by the magic of a pen, her "rubbish" turned into comforts for
them all. "The Duke's Daughter" paid the butcher's bill, "A Phantom
Hand" put down a new carpet, and the "Curse of the Coventrys" proved the
blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny
side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction
which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to the inspiration of
necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the
world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy
richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could
supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market; and,
encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and
fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her
confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three
publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut
it down one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly
admired.

"Now I must either bundle it back into my tin-kitchen to mould, pay for
printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers, and get what I can
for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more
convenient; so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important
subject," said Jo, calling a family council.

"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know,
and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her
father's advice; and he practised as he preached, having waited
patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no
haste to gather it, even now, when it was sweet and mellow.

"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by making the trial than by
waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of such work, for
it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do
better next time. We are too partial; but the praise and blame of
outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."

"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it; I've been fussing
over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or
indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons
take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."

"I wouldn't leave out a word of it; you'll spoil it if you do, for the
interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the
people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on,"
said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable
novel ever written.

"But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief and
dramatic, and let the characters tell the story,'" interrupted Jo,
turning to the publisher's note.

"Do as he tells you; he knows what will sell, and we don't. Make a good,
popular book, and get as much money as you can. By and by, when, you've
got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and
metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who took a strictly
practical view of the subject.

"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people _are_ 'philosophical and
metaphysical,' it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things,
except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise
ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth,
what do you say?"

"I should so like to see it printed _soon_," was all Beth said, and
smiled in saying it; but there was an unconscious emphasis on the last
word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike
candor, which chilled Jo's heart, for a minute, with a foreboding fear,
and decided her to make her little venture "soon."

So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on
her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of
pleasing every one, she took every one's advice; and, like the old man
and his donkey in the fable, suited nobody.

Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got
into it; so that was allowed to remain, though she had her doubts about
it. Her mother thought that there _was_ a trifle too much description;
out, therefore, it nearly all came, and with it many necessary links in
the story. Meg admired the tragedy; so Jo piled up the agony to suit
her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in
life, Jo quenched the sprightly scenes which relieved the sombre
character of the story. Then, to complete the ruin, she cut it down one
third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked
robin, out into the big, busy world, to try its fate.

Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it; likewise
plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that
she was thrown into a state of bewilderment, from which it took her some
time to recover.

"You said, mother, that criticism would help me; but how can it, when
it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising
book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a
heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one
minute, wrath and dire dismay the next. "This man says 'An exquisite
book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness; all is sweet, pure, and
healthy,'" continued the perplexed authoress. "The next, 'The theory of
the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and
unnatural characters.' Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't
believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I don't see
how this critic _can_ be right. Another says, 'It's one of the best
American novels which has appeared for years' (I know better than that);
and the next asserts that 'though it is original, and written with great
force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of
it, some over-praise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to
expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd
printed it whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."

Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally;
yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so
well, and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those
whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's
best education; and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at
her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the
wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.

"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly;
"and I've got the joke on my side, after all; for the parts that were
taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd,
and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced
'charmingly natural, tender, and true.' So I'll comfort myself with
that; and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                  [Illustration: Domestic Experiences]

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

completion: Jo is spending time working on her novel. Whenever she gets a writing fit, she shuts herself up in her room and writes, ignoring everything else going on around her. One day, Jo goes with a family friend, Miss Crocker, to attend a lecture on ancient Egypt. Jo and Miss Crocker arrive early for the lecture, and Jo spends her time people-watching. Beside her, a young boy is sitting reading a melodramatic-looking paper. The boy offers to let Jo read the story he has. She accepts, and finds that the story is a sensational romp involving love, mystery, and murder. Jo gives the boy back his paper. He thinks the story is wonderful, but she thinks that she could do just as well. The boy tells her that the author, whose pseudonym is "Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury," makes a good living writing stories like that. The lecture begins, but Jo can hardly pay attention to the speaker's description of ancient Egypt. She's busy writing down the address of the paper, which is offering a $100 prize for the best short story. The next day, Jo begins writing the most sensational story she can think of. Her mother is a little disturbed by her obsessive writing. Jo waits for six weeks, keeping her submission a secret. One day, she receives a letter saying that she has won the prize. A check for $100 is enclosed! Jo tells her family about the prize and shows them the check. Everyone is excited, except for her father, who tells her that she can do better. Jo's sisters ask what she is going to do with the money. She says she is going to send Beth and Marmee to the seaside for a month to help Beth get well. Beth and Marmee go on the holiday that Jo pays for. Both of them seem much healthier and happier when they return from their vacation. Jo keeps writing sensational stories and using her earnings to pay the family's bills and buy things they need. Jo feels proud of her hard work and satisfied by the knowledge that she can help provide for herself and her loved ones. One day, having finished her novel, Jo decides to try and get it published as well. After sending the manuscript to several publishers, one of them agrees to publish it - if Jo will cut it by one-third. Jo asks her family what they think. Her father advises her to wait, polish the novel herself, and perhaps publish it as a whole one day. Her mother advises her to publish, even if she has to abridge, so that she can get feedback from reviewers. Jo's sisters have equally divergent opinions. Meg thinks the novel is perfect and that Jo shouldn't change it at all. Amy thinks that Jo should do whatever the editor says, since he knows what will sell. Beth just wants to see it published soon. Jo decides to publish the novel. She cuts it down one-third, but since she tries to take everyone's advice about what to leave in and what to take out, the result is a mess. Jo is paid $300 for her novel. Her reviews are mixed, and she can't decide which of the criticisms are helpful and which are just silly. Now she wishes that she had published the novel whole or not at all; she thinks she's been misjudged. Jo's family comforts her, and she comes out of the episode ready to try another novel - someday.


prompt:
Chapter: XXVIII. DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES.

Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the
determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a
paradise; he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously
every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much
love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but
succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil
one; for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and
bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too
tired, sometimes, even to smile; John grew dyspeptic after a course of
dainty dishes, and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she
soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the
carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself,
and then see if _his_ work would stand impatient tugs and clumsy fingers
any better than hers.

They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't live
on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though she
beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee-pot; nor did Meg miss any
of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his
kiss with the tender inquiry, "Shall I send home veal or mutton for
dinner, darling?" The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but
it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change
for the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it
like children; then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of
the head of a family upon his shoulders; and Meg laid by her cambric
wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with
more energy than discretion.

While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's Receipt
Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems
with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to help eat
up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be privately
despatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all
eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little Hummels. An evening with
John over the account-books usually produced a temporary lull in the
culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor
man was put through a course of bread-pudding, hash, and warmed-over
coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy
fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg added to her
domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without,--a
family jar.

Fired with a housewifely wish to see her store-room stocked with
home-made preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John
was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots, and an extra
quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe, and were to be
attended to at once. As John firmly believed that "my wife" was equal to
anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she
should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most
pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little
pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for
her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the
elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the
bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her
success; for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array
of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and
the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg
resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling,
straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best; she asked
advice of Mrs. Cornelius; she racked her brain to remember what Hannah
did that she had left undone; she reboiled, resugared, and restrained,
but that dreadful stuff wouldn't "_jell_."

She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask mother to lend a hand, but
John and she had agreed that they would never annoy any one with their
private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that
last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one; but
they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without
help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the
plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats all that hot
summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvy kitchen,
wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.

Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said,--

"My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he
likes. I shall always be prepared; there shall be no flurry, no
scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good
dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please,
and be sure of a welcome from me."

How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear
her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior
wife. But, although they had had company from time to time, it never
happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to
distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this vale of
tears; there is an inevitability about such things which we can only
wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.

If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been
unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to
bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that
a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it
would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of
the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running
out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the
irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband.

It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the
Dove-cote. The front door usually stood hospitably open; now it was not
only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps. The
parlor-windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife
sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in her
hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her
guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared, but a
sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the currant-bushes.

"I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I
look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.

Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burnt sugar, and
Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused
discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared; but he could both see
and hear, and, being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.

In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair; one edition of jelly was
trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was
burning gayly on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly
eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly
liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat
sobbing dismally.

"My dearest girl, what is the matter?" cried John, rushing in, with
awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret
consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.

"O John, I _am_ so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at it
till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I _shall_ die!" and the
exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized
at the same time as the floor.

"What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened?" asked the
anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was
all askew.

"Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.

"Tell me quick, then. Don't cry, I can bear anything better than that.
Out with it, love."

"The--the jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"

John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward; and the
derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which
put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.

"Is that all? Fling it out of window, and don't bother any more about
it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it; but for heaven's sake don't have
hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and--"

John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a
tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled
indignation, reproach, and dismay,--

"A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how _could_ you
do such a thing?"

"Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't
be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.

"You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to
have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly; for even
turtle-doves will peck when ruffled.

"I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for
I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you have
always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if
I ever do again!" added John, with an aggrieved air.

"I should hope not! Take him away at once; I can't see him, and there
isn't any dinner."

"Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the
pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.

"I hadn't time to cook anything; I meant to dine at mother's. I'm sorry,
but I was _so_ busy;" and Meg's tears began again.

John was a mild man, but he was human; and after a long day's work, to
come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty
table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or
manner. He restrained himself, however, and the little squall would have
blown over, but for one unlucky word.

"It's a scrape, I acknowledge; but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull
through, and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just exert
yourself a bit, and knock us up something to eat. We're both as hungry
as hunters, so we sha'n't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and
bread and cheese; we won't ask for jelly."

He meant it for a good-natured joke; but that one word sealed his fate.
Meg thought it was _too_ cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the
last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.

"You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can; I'm too used up to
'exert' myself for any one. It's like a man to propose a bone and vulgar
bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort in my
house. Take that Scott up to mother's, and tell him I'm away, sick,
dead,--anything. I won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and my
jelly as much as you like: you won't have anything else here;" and
having delivered her defiance all in one breath, Meg cast away her
pinafore, and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own
room.

What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew; but Mr.
Scott was not taken "up to mother's," and when Meg descended, after they
had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch
which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten "a
much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the
sweet stuff, and hide the pots."

Meg longed to go and tell mother; but a sense of shame at her own
short-comings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but nobody
should know it," restrained her; and after a summary clearing up, she
dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be
forgiven.

Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light. He
had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as
well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend
enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again. But John was
angry, though he did not show it; he felt that Meg had got him into a
scrape, and then deserted him in his hour of need. "It wasn't fair to
tell a man to bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when
he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in
the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn't! and Meg
must know it." He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the
flurry was over, and he strolled home, after seeing Scott off, a milder
mood came over him. "Poor little thing! it was hard upon her when she
tried so heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she
was young. I must be patient and teach her." He hoped she had not gone
home--he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled
again at the mere thought of it; and then the fear that Meg would cry
herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace,
resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where
she had failed in her duty to her spouse.

Meg likewise resolved to be "calm and kind, but firm," and show _him_
his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed
and comforted, as she was sure of being; but, of course, she did nothing
of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally,
as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.

John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe; but, feeling
that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came
leisurely in, and laid himself upon the sofa, with the singularly
relevant remark,--

"We are going to have a new moon, my dear."

"I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark.

A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke,
and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went
to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it,
figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new
rosettes for her slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither
spoke; both looked quite "calm and firm," and both felt desperately
uncomfortable.

          [Illustration: Both felt desperately uncomfortable]

"Oh dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and does need
infinite patience, as well as love, as mother says." The word "mother"
suggested other maternal counsels, given long ago, and received with
unbelieving protests.

"John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see
and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never
will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is
very accurate, and particular about the truth--a good trait, though you
call him 'fussy.' Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will
give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a
temper, not like ours,--one flash, and then all over,--but the white,
still anger, that is seldom stirred, but once kindled, is hard to
quench. Be careful, very careful, not to wake this anger against
yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch
yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against
the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave
the way for bitter sorrow and regret."

These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement; her own
hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her
own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to
such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in
her eyes, but he did not see them; she put down her work and got up,
thinking, "I _will_ be the first to say, 'Forgive me,'" but he did not
seem to hear her; she went very slowly across the room, for pride was
hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a
minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it; then came the thought,
"This is the beginning, I'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach
myself with," and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the
forehead. Of course that settled it; the penitent kiss was better than a
world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying
tenderly,--

"It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly-pots. Forgive me,
dear, I never will again!"

But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both
declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made; for family
peace was preserved in that little family jar.

After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and
served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first
course; on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made
everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a happy
fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the
way home.

In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat
renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at
the little house, or inviting "that poor dear" to come in and spend the
day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often
felt lonely; all were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing
to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that
Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing
Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because
she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the
coveted trifles; but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't like
it; and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked
infinitely worse.

She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted
her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value
more,--his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she
liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny,
pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife.
Till now, she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little
account-books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But
that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her, like
many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to
be pitied and made to feel poor; it irritated her, but she was ashamed
to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying
something pretty, so that Sallie needn't think she had to economize. She
always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom
necessaries; but then they cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying
about; so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping
excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.

But the trifles cost more than one would imagine; and when she cast up
her accounts at the end of the month, the sum total rather scared her.
John was busy that month, and left the bills to her; the next month he
was absent; but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg
never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it
weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg
longed for a new one,--just a handsome light one for parties, her black
silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper
for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five
dollars apiece at New Year; that was only a month to wait, and here was
a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she
only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers; but would
he think it right to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but
another five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the
question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to loan the money,
and with the best intentions in life, had tempted Meg beyond her
strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering
folds, and said, "A bargain, I assure you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll
take it;" and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and
she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven
away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after
her.

             [Illustration: A bargain, I assure you, ma'am]

When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by
spreading forth the lovely silk; but it looked less silvery now, didn't
become her, after all, and the words "fifty dollars" seemed stamped like
a pattern down each breadth. She put it away; but it haunted her, not
delightfully, as a new dress should, but dreadfully, like the ghost of a
folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night,
Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was
afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be
stern; and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her
out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house-bills were all paid,
the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old
pocket-book which they called the "bank," when Meg, knowing that it was
quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously,--

"You haven't seen my private expense book yet."

John never asked to see it; but she always insisted on his doing so, and
used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted,
and made him guess what "piping" was, demand fiercely the meaning of a
"hug-me-tight," or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds,
a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and
cost five or six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the
fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her
extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent
wife.

The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him. Meg
got behind his chair under pretence of smoothing the wrinkles out of his
tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing
with every word,--

"John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been
dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things,
you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did; and my New-Year's
money will partly pay for it: but I was sorry after I'd done it, for I
knew you'd think it wrong in me."

John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly,
"Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you _have_ got a pair of killing
boots; I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does
pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones."

That had been one of her last "trifles," and John's eye had fallen on it
as he spoke. "Oh, what _will_ he say when he comes to that awful fifty
dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.

"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness
of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.

"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total,' as Mr. Mantalini says?"

That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with
the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and
answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at
the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough
without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a
minute the room was very still; then John said slowly,--but she could
feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure,--

"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the
furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."

"It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.

"Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman,
but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's when she
gets it on," said John dryly.

"I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste
your money, and I didn't think those little things would count up so. I
can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying me
because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I'm tired of
being poor."

The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but
he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many
pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the
minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away, and got up,
saying, with a little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid of this; I do
my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not
have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him
close, crying, with repentant tears, "O John, my dear, kind,
hard-working boy, I didn't mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and
ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!"

He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach;
but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be
forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had
promised to love him for better for worse; and then she, his wife, had
reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly.
It was dreadful; and the worst of it was John went on so quietly
afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in
town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to
sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick; and the discovery that
John had countermanded the order for his new great-coat reduced her to a
state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in
answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it,
my dear."

Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall, with
her face buried in the old great-coat, crying as if her heart would
break.

They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,
given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him
a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings
and failures of those he loved.

Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the
truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs.
Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present
of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the great-coat, and,
when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new
silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his
present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home
early, Meg gadded no more; and that great-coat was put on in the morning
by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little
wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new
experience,--the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.

Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dove-cote, one Saturday,
with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals; for
Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the
other.

"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me
before I came home?" began Laurie, in a loud whisper.

"Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a worshipin';
we didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the parlor, and I'll
send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved reply Hannah
vanished, chuckling ecstatically.

Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon
a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and
there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.

"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.

Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him
with an imploring gesture: "No, thank you, I'd rather not. I shall drop
it or smash it, as sure as fate."

"Then you sha'n't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if to
go.

"I will, I will! only you must be responsible for damages;" and, obeying
orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his
arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John
caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with
two babies instead of one.

[Illustration: Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put
                             into his arms]

No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough
to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious
innocents to the hilarious spectators, with such dismay that Jo sat down
on the floor and screamed.

"Twins, by Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute; then, turning to the
women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, "Take
'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop 'em."

John rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm,
as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending, while Laurie
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

"It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have you told,
for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I've done
it," said Jo, when she got her breath.

"I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys?
What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me up,
Jo; for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned Laurie,
regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.

"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming upon
the little, red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.

"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie bent
like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.

"Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one
brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.

"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity
in such matters.

"Of course they will; they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!"
commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.

Laurie screwed up his face, and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each
little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.

"There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy; see him kick; he
hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch
into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.

"He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and
grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have two Megs, and I
suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name," said
Amy, with aunt-like interest.

"Name him Demijohn, and call him 'Demi' for short," said Laurie.

"Daisy and Demi,--just the thing! I _knew_ Teddy would do it," cried Jo,
clapping her hands.

Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were "Daisy" and
"Demi" to the end of the chapter.

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

completion: At first, Meg tries to make her home with John Brooke a perfect domestic paradise. She's so anxious to please, however, that it's also very stressful. However, Meg and John are very happy, and they stay happy even after the honeymoon period, when their relationship has a more everyday quality. Meg goes through different cooking fits - sometimes she tries to make lots of fancy food; other times she feels economical and makes really inexpensive, frugal meals. Meg decides to try and save money by making her own jelly with the currants that grow on her bushes. She has John buy extra sugar and a bunch of little pots. One day while John is at work, Meg sets to work trying to make the currant jelly. She's never actually done it herself before - she's only watched Hannah. Somehow, she can't re-create the process. She makes a sticky fruit mess, but the jelly won't set - it remains liquid. Meg wishes she could run home and ask her mother for help, but she and John agreed a long time ago that they wouldn't bother other people with their domestic problems. At 5:00, she gives up on the jelly and sits down and cries at the kitchen table. At the beginning of their marriage, Meg told John that he should always feel free to bring friends home to dinner with him. He has taken her up on the offer today and brought his friend Mr. Scott - without giving Meg advance notice. When John and Mr. Scott arrive at the Dovecote, the house is dark and locked and looks completely inhospitable. John asks Mr. Scott to wait in the yard while he finds out what's wrong. John goes around back and finds Meg in the kitchen, surrounded by a sticky jelly mess, crying. The hired girl, Lotty, is calmly eating bread and drinking currant wine. John asks Meg what's going on, and she explains about the jelly disaster. He laughs it off and tells her to pull herself together so they can entertain their dinner guest. Meg is horrified by the presence of Mr. Scott and tells John there's no way she can entertain someone. She tells John to take Mr. Scott over to her mother's house for dinner instead. Meg retreats to her bedroom to lament her domestic disaster on her own. When she comes downstairs later, she's horrified to discover that John and Mr. Scott basically had a picnic in the house. Now they've strolled away - John is walking Mr. Scott home. Meg longs to go and tell her mother what happened, but she's ashamed of her failure, so she keeps it to herself. She dresses up and waits for John to come home. When John comes back, both he and Meg feel like the other person should apologize first. They are polite but cold to each other. As Meg sits sewing and John looks out the window, she remembers that her mother cautioned her against waking John's temper. The Marches tend to be hot-tempered and their anger blows over quickly, but John is different - once he's angry, he's angry for a long time. Meg goes over to John and kisses him on the forehead. This is enough to break the ice, and John apologizes for laughing at her problems with the jelly. Later, Meg and John have Mr. Scott over for a nice dinner - at which Meg serves a wonderful meal and there are no tears anywhere! In the fall, Meg develops a different domestic problem. She and Sallie Moffat start hanging out a lot again, and Meg envies Sallie's wealth and all her nice things. John has always trusted Meg with their money, and she's never abused that trust. But now she starts buying lots of things she doesn't need. John is busy and doesn't balance the household books for a few months. When he gets to the end of the fiscal quarter, though, he needs to go over everything. Meg's most extravagant purchase is a length of silvery silk for $50. The worst part is that the silk is just a length of material; it hasn't even been made into a dress yet! John is appalled to discover how much money Meg has frittered away. He doesn't yell at her or get angry, though; he's just quietly upset, which is almost worse. Meg tries to make excuses for her behavior, talking about how difficult it is to watch Sallie spend money while she is poor. John gets very quiet and Meg is ashamed that she reproached him for their poverty when he works so hard. Because Meg has spent so much money on the silk, John can't get a new winter coat this year. The next day, Meg goes to Sallie and tells her the whole story, and asks her to buy the silk as a favor. Sallie is only too happy to help. Meg uses the money to get a new coat made for John. When it arrives, she tries it on and asks how he likes her new silk dress! Things go on happily for a while. The next summer, Laurie comes into the Dovecote on a Saturday afternoon and is greeted by Hannah, who asks him to wait downstairs. Hmm, what could be going on here? Jo comes downstairs with a little bundle - Meg's newborn baby! She makes Laurie close his eyes while she hands him his "nephew." When Laurie opens his eyes, he finds himself holding two babies instead of one! The assembled family laugh at his surprise when he realizes Meg has had twins. Jo explains that the babies are a boy and a girl. She and Laurie discuss names - the boy is going to be called John Laurence, after his father and the Laurence family, and the girl is going to be called Margaret, after her mother and grandmother. They will call the girl Daisy so that there's no confusion. Laurie proposes calling the boy "Demijohn" so that the twins can go by "Daisy" and "Demi." Everyone thinks this is a great idea, and the little twin Brookes are known by those names from now on.