prompt:
Chapter: XXIV. GOSSIP.

In order that we may start afresh, and go to Meg's wedding with free
minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches.
And here let me premise, that if any of the elders think there is too
much "lovering" in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not afraid the
young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March,
"What _can_ you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a
dashing young neighbor over the way?"

The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the
quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with
his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature
as by grace,--a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better
than learning, the charity which calls all mankind "brother," the piety
that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.

These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which
shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many
admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as
naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard
experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men found the
gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled
women instinctively brought their doubts and sorrows to him, sure of
finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel; sinners told their
sins to the pure-hearted old man, and were both rebuked and saved;
gifted men found a companion in him; ambitious men caught glimpses of
nobler ambitions than their own; and even worldlings confessed that his
beliefs were beautiful and true, although "they wouldn't pay."

To outsiders, the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so
they did in many things; but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books,
was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and
comforter; for to him the busy, anxious women always turned in troublous
times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband
and father.

The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls
into their father's; and to both parents, who lived and labored so
faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth, and
bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and
outlives death.

Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we
saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the
hospitals and homes, still full of wounded "boys" and soldiers' widows,
decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.

John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent
home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he
deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had; and life and love
are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his
discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business,
and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence
that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence's more generous offers,
and accepted the place of book-keeper feeling better satisfied to begin
with an honestly-earned salary, than by running any risks with borrowed
money.

Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in
character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever; for love is
a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt
some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin.
Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg couldn't help
contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid
outfit, with her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But
somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the
patient love and labor John had put into the little home awaiting her;
and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small
plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot
Sallie's splendor, and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in
Christendom.

Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to
Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of
the best teachers going; and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would
have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her
afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo, meantime, devoted
herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the
fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again
the rosy, healthy creature she had been; yet always hopeful, happy, and
serene, busy with the quiet duties she loved, every one's friend, and an
angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to
know it.

As long as "The Spread Eagle" paid her a dollar a column for her
"rubbish," as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun
her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy
brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a
slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place
the name of March upon the roll of fame.

Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was
now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please
himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent,
and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to
get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being spoilt,
and probably would have been, like many another promising boy, if he had
not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the kind old man
who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who watched over
him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any means, the
knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him
with all their hearts.

Being only "a glorious human boy," of course he frolicked and flirted,
grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions
ordained; hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came
perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the
love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save
himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible
power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather
prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with
graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified
professors, and vanquished enemies. The "men of my class" were heroes in
the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits of "our
fellows," and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of these
great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him.

Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among
them; for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of
fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in her
private and particular John to care for any other lords of creation, and
Beth too shy to do more than peep at them, and wonder how Amy dared to
order them about so; but Jo felt quite in her element, and found it very
difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phrases,
and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums prescribed
for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, but never fell in love
with her, though very few escaped without paying the tribute of a
sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine. And speaking of sentiment
brings us very naturally to the "Dove-cote."

That was the name of the little brown house which Mr. Brooke had
prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was
highly appropriate to the gentle lovers, who "went on together like a
pair of turtle-doves, with first a bill and then a coo." It was a tiny
house, with a little garden behind, and a lawn about as big as a
pocket-handkerchief in front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers; though just at present,
the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a
dilapidated slop-bowl; the shrubbery consisted of several young larches,
undecided whether to live or die; and the profusion of flowers was
merely hinted by regiments of sticks, to show where seeds were planted.
But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault
from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow, it was
fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in
whole; the dining-room was so small that six people were a tight fit;
and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of
precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coal-bin. But
once get used to these slight blemishes, and nothing could be more
complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the
furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no
marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little
parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a
stand of flowers in the bay-window, and, scattered all about, the pretty
gifts which came from friendly hands, and were the fairer for the loving
messages they brought.

I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty
because John put up the bracket it stood upon; that any upholsterer
could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's
artistic hand; or that any store-room was ever better provided with good
wishes, merry words, and happy hopes, than that in which Jo and her
mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles; and I am morally
certain that the spandy-new kitchen never _could_ have looked so cosey
and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times
over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting, the minute "Mis. Brooke
came home." I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so
rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece-bags; for Beth made enough
to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three
different kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal
china.

People who hire all these things done for them never know what they
lose; for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them,
and Meg found so many proofs of this, that everything in her small nest,
from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was
eloquent of home love and tender forethought.

What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping
excursions; what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter
arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this
young gentleman, though nearly through college, was as much of a boy as
ever. His last whim had been to bring with him, on his weekly visits,
some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a
bag of remarkable clothes-pins; next, a wonderful nutmeg-grater, which
fell to pieces at the first trial; a knife-cleaner that spoilt all the
knives; or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet, and left
the dirt; labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands;
infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the
deluded buyer; and every kind of tin-ware, from a toy savings-bank for
odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own
steam, with every prospect of exploding in the process.

In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him
"Mr. Toodles." He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee
ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week
beheld some fresh absurdity.

Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different colored
soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting the table
for the first meal.

"Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you
should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went
through the new kingdom, arm-in-arm; for just then they seemed to cling
together more tenderly than ever.

"Yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and _so_ happy
that I can't talk about it," answered Meg, with a look that was better
than words.

"If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said Amy,
coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether
the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantle-piece.

"Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try
her way first. There will be so little to do, that, with Lotty to run my
errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to
keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg tranquilly.

"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.

"If Meg had four the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis
would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big
blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door-handles.

"Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her
fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling that
there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big
one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave themselves
nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was first
married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so
that I might have the pleasure of mending them; for I got heartily sick
of doing fancy work and tending my pocket handkerchief."

"Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she
does, to amuse herself, though they never turn out well, and the
servants laugh at her," said Meg.

"I did, after a while; not to 'mess,' but to learn of Hannah how things
should be done, that my servants need _not_ laugh at me. It was play
then; but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only
possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little
girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You
begin at the other end, Meg, dear; but the lessons you learn now will be
of use to you by and by, when John is a richer man, for the mistress of
a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she
wishes to be well and honestly served."

"Yes, mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to the
little lecture; for the best of women will hold forth upon the
all-absorbing subject of housekeeping. "Do you know I like this room
most of all in my baby-house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went
upstairs, and she looked into her well-stored linen-closet.

Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves, and
exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke; for that
linen-closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married "that
Brooke" she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was rather in
a quandary, when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her
vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to
get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy
herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma, was ordered to buy, have made,
and marked, a generous supply of house and table linen, and send it as
_her_ present, all of which was faithfully done; but the secret leaked
out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family; for Aunt March tried to look
utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the
old-fashioned pearls, long promised to the first bride.

"That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young friend
who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for
company, and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March, patting the damask
table-cloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness.

"I haven't a single finger-bowl, but this is a 'set out' that will last
me all my days, Hannah says;" and Meg looked quite contented, as well
she might.

"Toodles is coming," cried Jo from below; and they all went down to meet
Laurie, whose weekly visit was an important event in their quiet lives.

A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt-basin
of a hat, and a fly-away coat, came tramping down the road at a great
pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the gate,
straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out, and a hearty--

"Here I am, mother! Yes, it's all right."

The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him; a
kindly questioning look, which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the
little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.

"For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and compliments.
Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are
getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."

As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Beth's
hair-ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of
mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and every one began
to talk.

"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.

"Stopped to get the license for to-morrow, ma'am."

"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in
feeling an interest in manly sports, despite her nineteen years.

"Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."

"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy, with a significant smile.

"More cruel than ever; don't you see how I'm pining away?" and Laurie
gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.

"What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying
the knobby parcel with curiosity.

"It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves,"
observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of
the girls.

               [Illustration: A small watchman's rattle]

"Any time when John is away, and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just
swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood
in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a sample of its
powers that made them cover up their ears.

"There's gratitude for you! and speaking of gratitude reminds me to
mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding-cake from
destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she
hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked
like a remarkably plummy one."

"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg, in a matronly
tone.

"I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as six
feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded the
young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier.
"I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick and
span new bower, so, as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an
adjournment," he added presently.

"Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to
settle," said Meg, bustling away.

"Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for
to-morrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.

"Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I
can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron, whatever you do;
it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial
aversion in her capacious pocket, and offered him her arm to support his
feeble steps.

"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about to-morrow," began Jo,
as they strolled away together. "You _must_ promise to behave well, and
not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."

"Not a prank."

"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."

"I never do; you are the one for that."

"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony; I shall
certainly laugh if you do."

"You won't see me; you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you
will obscure the prospect."

"I never cry unless for some great affliction."

"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with a
suggestive laugh.

"Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company."

"Exactly. I say, Jo, how is grandpa this week; pretty amiable?"

"Very; why, have you got into a scrape, and want to know how he'll take
it?" asked Jo rather sharply.

"Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face, and say 'All
right,' if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air.

"No, I don't."

"Then don't go and be suspicious; I only want some money," said Laurie,
walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.

"You spend a great deal, Teddy."

"Bless you, _I_ don't spend it; it spends itself, somehow, and is gone
before I know it."

"You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and
can't say 'No' to any one. We heard about Henshaw, and all you did for
him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you,"
said Jo warmly.

"Oh, he made a mountain out of a mole-hill. You wouldn't have me let
that fine fellow work himself to death, just for the want of a little
help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"

"Of course not; but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I
thought you'd got over the dandy period; but every now and then it
breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be hideous,--to
make your head look like a scrubbing-brush, wear a strait-jacket,
orange gloves, and clumping, square-toed boots. If it was cheap
ugliness, I'd say nothing; but it costs as much as the other, and I
don't get any satisfaction out of it."

Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that
the felt-basin fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only afforded
him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a
rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed
it into his pocket.

"Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all through
the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get myself up
regardless of expense, to-morrow, and be a satisfaction to my friends."

"I'll leave you in peace if you'll _only_ let your hair grow. I'm not
aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks like
a young prize-fighter," observed Jo severely.

"This unassuming style promotes study; that's why we adopt it," returned
Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily
sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for
quarter-of-an-inch-long stubble.

"By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate
about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in
a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little passion in the bud,
hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential, elder-brotherly tone, after
a minute's silence.

"Of course he had; we don't want any more marrying in this family for
years to come. Mercy on us, what _are_ the children thinking of?" and Jo
looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in
their teens.

"It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You are
a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left lamenting,"
said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times.

"Don't be alarmed; I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want
me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a
family."

"You won't give any one a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance,
and a little more color than before in his sunburnt face. "You won't
show the soft side of your character; and if a fellow gets a peep at it
by accident, and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as
Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart,--throw cold water over him,--and get
so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."

"I don't like that sort of thing; I'm too busy to be worried with
nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't
say any more about it; Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we
talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to get
cross, so let's change the subject;" and Jo looked quite ready to fling
cold water on the slightest provocation.

Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in a
long low whistle, and the fearful prediction, as they parted at the
gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                   [Illustration: The First Wedding]

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

completion: Gossip The narrator begins Part II with some "gossip" about the March family. Three years later, the war has ended, and Mr. March is a minister and still quietly heads the household as its conscience and guide. John Brooke served in the army, was wounded and discharged, and is working as a bookkeeper to earn a home for Meg. Meg is preparing for married life, learning housekeeping, and she is greatly in love, although occasionally envious of the grand wedding and life had by her newlywed friends Sallie and Ned Moffat. Dovecote, Meg's new home, is modest but fitted out with great care and love from family and friends. Even Aunt March, who swore not to give a penny, found a way to give a full set of linens through another relative. Jo has devoted herself to writing and Beth, who was weakened permanently by the scarlet fever, and is forever struggling to get well. Amy works as a companion for Aunt March, who tempted Amy with drawing lessons. Laurie, at college to please his grandfather, spends a good deal of time frolicking and enjoying and helping friends, with the love of his grandfather and the Marches his best talisman against idle indulgence. Laurie often brings his college friends home, who enjoy Jo's boyish camaraderie and Amy's pretty and charming companionship. Laurie occasionally implies that he has feelings for Jo, but she spurns his overtures


prompt:
Chapter: XXV. THE FIRST WEDDING.

The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that
morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like
friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with excitement
were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one
another what they had seen; for some peeped in at the dining-room
windows, where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod and smile at
the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome to those
who came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and
all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest baby-bud, offered
their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had
loved and tended them so long.

Meg looked very like a rose herself; for all that was best and sweetest
in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair
and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace,
nor orange-flowers would she have. "I don't want to look strange or
fixed up to-day," she said. "I don't want a fashionable wedding, but
only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my
familiar self."

So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes
and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her
pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the
valley, which "her John" liked best of all the flowers that grew.

"You _do_ look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely
that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy,
surveying her with delight, when all was done.

"Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, every one, and don't
mind my dress; I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it
to-day;" and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her
with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed
the old.

"Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few
minutes with father quietly in the study;" and Meg ran down to perform
these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she
went, conscious that, in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there
was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first
bird from the nest.

As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their
simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which
three years have wrought in their appearance; for all are looking their
best just now.

Jo's angles are much softened; she has learned to carry herself with
ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil,
more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a
fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only
gentle words fall from her sharp tongue to-day.

Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever; the beautiful,
kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one,
although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches
the young face with such pathetic patience; but Beth seldom complains,
and always speaks hopefully of "being better soon."

Amy is with truth considered "the flower of the family;" for at sixteen
she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman--not beautiful, but
possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the
lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her
dress, the droop of her hair,--unconscious, yet harmonious, and as
attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still afflicted her, for
it never _would_ grow Grecian; so did her mouth, being too wide, and
having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her
whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her
wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls, more golden and
abundant than ever.

All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the
summer), with blush-roses in hair and bosom; and all three looked just
what they were,--fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in
their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the
romance of womanhood.

There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as
natural and homelike as possible; so when Aunt March arrived, she was
scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to
find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to
catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave
countenance, and a wine-bottle under each arm.

"Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking the
seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender
_moire_ with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the last
minute, child."

"I'm not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to
criticise my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to
care what any one says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little
wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer;" and away
went Meg to help "that man" in his highly improper employment.

Mr. Brooke didn't even say "Thank you," but as he stooped for the
unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding-door,
with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket-handkerchief, with
a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.

A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous
exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!" caused a
momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived,
and "the party came in," as Beth used to say when a child.

"Don't let that young giant come near me; he worries me worse than
mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled, and
Laurie's black head towered above the rest.

"He has promised to be very good to-day, and he _can_ be perfectly
elegant if he likes," returned Amy, gliding away to warn Hercules to
beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady
with a devotion that nearly distracted her.

There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room
as Mr. March and the young pair took their places under the green arch.
Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up; the
fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the
service more beautiful and solemn; the bridegroom's hand trembled
visibly, and no one heard his replies; but Meg looked straight up in her
husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in her own
face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced, and Aunt March sniffed
audibly.

Jo did _not_ cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved
from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring
fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his
wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder,
but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of
sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.

It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly
married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and, turning, gave it
with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked
more like a rose than ever, for every one availed themselves of their
privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who,
adorned with a head-dress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her
in the hall, crying, with a sob and a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a
hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely."

Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried
to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light.
There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little
house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of
cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March
shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and coffee were
found to be the only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes carried
round. No one said anything, however, till Laurie, who insisted on
serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand
and a puzzled expression on his face.

"Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I
merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this
morning?"

"No; your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March
actually sent some, but father put away a little for Beth, and
despatched the rest to the Soldiers' Home. You know he thinks that wine
should be used only in illness, and mother says that neither she nor her
daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her roof."

Meg spoke seriously, and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh; but he
did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous
way, "I like that! for I've seen enough harm done to wish other women
would think as you do."

"You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an anxious
accent in Meg's voice.

"No; I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me, either; this
is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common
as water, and almost as harmless, I don't care for it; but when a pretty
girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see."

"But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come,
Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest
day of my life."

A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment,
for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if
he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs; and, feeling her
power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She did not speak,
but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness,
and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything to-day." Laurie
certainly could not; and, with an answering smile, he gave her his hand,
saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!"

"I thank you, very, very much."

"And I drink 'long life to your resolution,' Teddy," cried Jo, baptizing
him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass, and beamed
approvingly upon him.

So the toast was drunk, the pledge made, and loyally kept, in spite of
many temptations; for, with instinctive wisdom, the girls had seized a
happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all
his life.

After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through house
and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John
happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass-plot, when
Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to
this unfashionable wedding.

"All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband
and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in
couples outside!" cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy, with
such infectious spirit and skill that every one else followed their
example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol,
began it; others rapidly joined in; even Sallie Moffat, after a moment's
hesitation, threw her train over her arm, and whisked Ned into the ring.
But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March; for when the
stately old gentleman _chasséed_ solemnly up to the old lady, she just
tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands
with the rest, and dance about the bridal pair, while the young folks
pervaded the garden, like butterflies on a midsummer day.

Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people
began to go.

"I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well; but I think you'll
be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as
he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure, young man, see that
you deserve it."

"That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I don't
see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed Mrs. Moffat
to her husband, as they drove away.

"Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get
one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly
satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy-chair to
rest, after the excitement of the morning.

"I'll do my best to gratify you, sir," was Laurie's unusually dutiful
reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his button-hole.

The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had
was the quiet walk with John, from the old home to the new. When she
came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and
straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say
"good-by," as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.

"Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love
you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging to her
mother, with full eyes, for a moment. "I shall come every day, father,
and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I _am_
married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls
will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank
you all for my happy wedding-day. Good-by, good-by!"

They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender
pride, as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her hands
full of flowers, and the June sunshine brightening her happy face,--and
so Meg's married life began.

                   [Illustration: Artistic Attempts]

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

completion: The First Wedding Meg's wedding is simple, as she wants everything plain, honest, and surrounded with love. She made her own wedding dress, with only flowers for accessories. Aunt March is scandalized when she arrives and is welcomed by the bride herself. During the ceremony, the vows are said with great earnestness and love, Meg gives the first kiss for Marmee and her sisters. In the three years passed, Jo's face and tongue have softened and her hair has grown long. Beth is pale and thin, still weak, but cheerful. Amy has truly blossomed, now sixteen, and full of poise. The luncheon is simple, with the wine sent by Mr. Laurence and Aunt March nowhere to be found, of which Mr. and Mrs. March disapprove. Meg tells Laurie this, and upon learning that he occasionally drinks, she uses the occasion to ask Laurie to avoid drinking in the future by making a temperance pledge, which he does. After the wedding, all exclaim what a beauty it was, despite the simplicity. Mr. Laurence tells Laurie that if he ever wants to marry, he hopes Laurie will choose a March girl, and Laurie says he will do his best. Meg's married life begins


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: Artistic Attempts Pursuing her ambition to become a great artist, Amy has tried various forms of art to the entertainment of her family, from poker sketching to painting to charcoal to sculpting, which ends in when an attempt to make a plaster mold of her foot goes awry. Meanwhile, she also strives to be an accomplished lady, which is easier for her, being naturally tactful and pleasing. In an effort to be aristocratic, Amy plans a small party for her classmates in drawing school and insists on offering the comforts to which her rich friends are accustomed, including an expensive lunch. Marmee tries to advise her to stay in keeping with their circumstances, but Amy refuses, saying she will pay for it herself, and Marmee allows experience to be the teacher. Unfortunately, the party does not go as planned. The first attempt is postponed to the next day due to rain after all the preparations have been made. The following Amy has to go buy a lobster, and is embarrassed when she runs into one of Laurie's college friends. After preparing for the party, she is dismayed when only one girl comes. Amy is an excellent host, and the girl is very kind, but after she leaves the family has a good laugh about Amy's misadventure


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: Literary Lessons Jo, wishing to be a writer, spends great time in the garret when she feels inspired, often foregoing meals and sleep to translate her imagination into stories. One day, while accompanying Miss Crocker to a lecture, she learns that sensational stories like those by Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury have quite an audience, and a newspaper is having a competition for such stories with a prize of $100. Jo secretly writes a story about an earthquake in Lisbon and submits it to the competition. Six long weeks later, Jo receives a note of encouragement and the grand prize, for $100. Her family celebrates, though her unworldly Father says that she can do better, and should aim higher, disregarding the money. Jo, however, continues to write, and takes great pride in assisting with the family's bills. Her $100 sends Beth and Marmee to the shore for relaxation and recovery, and several more stories pay for the butcher bill, groceries, and new carpet. Jo cherishes her independence and ability to help her family. Encouraged by her success, Jo writes her first novel. After much effort, she finds a publisher, but he insists that she remove 1/3 of the story. In her redrafting, she tries to please everyone, and thus pleases no one, least of all herself. It is published, and she receives $300 and heaps of criticism and praise, furthering her confusion, but she is glad for the trial