prompt:
Chapter: IX. MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Change it," advised Jo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How old is he?"

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

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

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

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

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

"We'll see. I shall ask young Laurence, as a compliment to her, and
we'll have fun about it afterward."

                 [Illustration: Meg's partner appeared]

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

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

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

Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
demurely,--

"You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come."

"Why not, _chérie_?" asked Miss Belle.

"He's too old."

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

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

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

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

"About your age," Nan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.

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

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

"I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie
did not see it, and exclaimed, in amiable surprise,--

"Only that? How funny--" She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook
her head at her, and broke in, saying kindly,--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm afraid to go down, I feel so queer and stiff and half-dressed,"
said Meg to Sallie, as the bell rang, and Mrs. Moffat sent to ask the
young ladies to appear at once.

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

                 [Illustration: Asked to be introduced]

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

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

"Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard, and been
rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?" in an anxious tone.

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

"I don't like fuss and feathers."

That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself; and Meg
walked away, saying petulantly,--

"You are the rudest boy I ever saw."

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

"They are making a fool of that little girl; I wanted you to see her,
but they have spoilt her entirely; she's nothing but a doll, to-night."

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

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

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

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

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

Meg smiled and relented, and whispered, as they stood waiting to catch
the time,--

"Take care my skirt don't trip you up; it's the plague of my life, and I
was a goose to wear it."

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

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

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

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

"Please don't tell them at home about my dress to-night. They won't
understand the joke, and it will worry mother."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    [Illustration: I wouldn't, Meg]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Marmee, I want to ''fess.'"

"I thought so; what is it, dear?"

"Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      [Illustration: Holding a hand of each, Mrs. March said, &c.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: Beth, Jo, and Amy are helping Meg pack her trunk. She's going to spend two weeks staying with the wealthy Moffat family to celebrate Belle Moffat's coming-out party. Meg is collecting together all of her nicest clothes and accessories. Each of her sisters has loaned her best things also, and Marmee has given Meg some family treasures. Even so, Meg's things aren't nearly as nice as the gowns and accessories of the rich girls she's going to be hanging out with. The next morning, Meg leaves for the Moffats' house. Mrs. March is worried about the excursion, but she lets Meg and her friend Sallie persuade her that it will be OK. At first, Meg is intimidated by Moffats, who are wealthy and fashionable. But they are also nice to her, and she adapts quickly to a life of leisure. Now living the life of an upper-class gentlewoman, Meg basically spends her time having fun...in a very, very proper way. As one of several guests - the Moffat girls are basically hosting a two-week, formal-feeling sleepover - she spends her time walking, riding, shopping, calling on people, and going to the theater and the opera. The evening of the first party arrives. Meg discovers that her second-best dress isn't good enough and has to wear her best one, which seems especially shabby next to the other girls' finery. A bouquet of wonderful flowers and ferns arrives. Everyone assumes it is for Belle, but it turns out that Laurie has sent flowers to Meg. They're not for putting in a vase - they're for wearing, as corsages and other accessories. Meg wears a few of the flowers herself and makes the others into bouquets and decorations for the other girls. They're very pleased with her kind desire to share. That evening, Meg really enjoys the party. Everyone seems to like her; she's asked to sing, and Mr. Moffat compliments her on her dancing. At the end of the evening, Meg overhears some of the older women talking about her and about the flowers she received from Laurie. The women suggest that Mrs. March must be scheming to marry Meg to Laurie so that the March family can have money again. Meg continues behaving gracefully at the party, but she feels terrible after what she overheard. That evening in bed, she cries a little bit and wonders if the women are right about her mother's plans. In the morning, the girls dawdle and have trouble getting going after the party of the night before. In the afternoon, as they are sewing , Belle Moffat tells Meg that she has invited Laurie to the second party. Meg discovers that the girls think she and Laurie are romantically involved. She tries to tell them that she thinks of Laurie, who is a year younger than her, as a little boy, but they don't believe her. Belle offers to lend Meg a nicer dress for the second, fancier dance. Meg tries to refuse politely, but Belle insists. On the evening of the party a few days later, Belle and her maid dress Meg up like a fashionable lady, do her hair, and cover her in makeup and jewelry. Meg hardly recognizes herself, but she's excited to look so fashionable. When they go down to the party, Meg discovers that people who ignored her at the previous party are falling all over themselves to be nice to her now, just because she's dressed up. Meg is flirting and trying to manage her dangly earrings, trailing skirt, and fancy fan. Suddenly she sees Laurie, who looks upset and disapproving. Meg blushes and her girlfriends nudge each other, thinking that she's in love with Laurie. Meg goes over to greet Laurie, but he is stiff and uncomfortable with her. He tells her that he doesn't like the way she looks, because he dislikes "fuss and feathers." Meg, insulted, walks away. She overhears someone say that her friends have made her look foolish by dressing her up like a doll. Meg feels terrible. Laurie comes over, apologizes to her and asks her to dance. Meg and Laurie dance for a little bit, and then they have to take a break - Meg's corset makes it difficult for her to breathe. Meg asks Laurie not to tell her family about her behavior this evening - she says she'll tell them herself. Ned Moffat comes to claim some of the dances that Meg has promised him. She says goodbye to Laurie for the meantime. At dinner, Laurie notices that Meg is drinking champagne. He cautions her not to drink too much, since it will give her a hangover the next day. Meg just laughs at Laurie and continues drinking, flirting, and generally letting herself go. Laurie wonders if he should intervene, but decides not to. The party ends. Meg goes to bed, already suffering from a headache, and feels sick all the next day. The day after that, she goes home, and is glad to be there. Meg tells her family that she's happiest in the family home, even though it's not as splendid as the Moffat's mansion. To her sisters, Meg tells the fun and exciting aspects of her visit. After the little girls go to bed, she asks her mother if she can confess. Jo, who is still in the room, asks if she should leave them alone, but Meg tells her to stay. To her mother and Jo, Meg confesses her flirtatious behavior, her drinking, and her other "dissipations." She says that Laurie disapproved of her. Mrs. March comforts Meg and says that she can tell there's something else going on. Meg says yes and tells her about the conversation she overheard in which some of the women suggested that her mother was plotting to marry her to Laurie. Jo wants to confront the Moffat girls about their gossip, but Meg and Marmee tell her not to repeat it. Meg asks Marmee if she has "plans" for her daughters. Mrs. March says that she does, but they're not the scheming, money-grubbing plans that the other women assumed. She wants her daughters to be good and happy and have their self-respect, whether or not they get married and whether or not they are rich.


prompt:
Chapter: X. THE P. C. AND P. O.

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

Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower-hunts employed the fine
days; and for rainy ones, they had house diversions,--some old, some
new,--all more or less original. One of these was the "P. C."; for, as
secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one;
and, as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the
Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a
year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which
occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in
a row before a table, on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with
a big "P. C." in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper,
called "The Pickwick Portfolio," to which all contributed something;
while Jo, who revelled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven
o'clock, the four members ascended to the club-room, tied their badges
round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as
the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick; Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus
Snodgrass; Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy,
who was always trying to do what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle.
Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original
tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which
they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and
short-comings.

                      [Illustration: Mr. Pickwick]

On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any
glasses, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and, having stared hard at Mr.
Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself
properly, began to read:--

                        The Pickwick Portfolio.

                              MAY 20, 18--

                             Poet's Corner.

                            ANNIVERSARY ODE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                               A. SNODGRASS.

                          THE MASKED MARRIAGE.

                           A TALE OF VENICE.

    Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its
    lovely load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the
    stately halls of Count de Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and
    pages, monks and flower-girls, all mingled gayly in the dance.
    Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air; and so with mirth
    and music the masquerade went on.

    "Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola to-night?" asked a
    gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall
    upon his arm.

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

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

    "'Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who
    haunts her steps, and is spurned by the old count," said the
    lady, as they joined the dance.

    The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and,
    withdrawing the young pair to an alcove hung with purple velvet,
    he motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell upon the gay
    throng; and not a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle
    of orange-groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as
    Count de Adelon spoke thus:--

    "My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered
    you here to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait
    your services."

    All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a low murmur of
    amazement went through the throng, for neither bride nor groom
    removed their masks. Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts,
    but respect restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over.
    Then the eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding an
    explanation.

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

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

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

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

                                                        S. PICKWICK.

                   *       *       *       *       *

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

                   *       *       *       *       *

                        THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH.

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

                   *       *       *       *       *

    MR. PICKWICK, _Sir_:--

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

    Yours respectably,                                    N. WINKLE.

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

                              A SAD ACCIDENT.

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

    ***************************************************************
    *                                                             *
    *                     THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT.                 *
    *                                                             *
    * It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious  *
    * disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat    *
    * Paw. This lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large     *
    * circle of warm and admiring friends; for her beauty         *
    * attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues endeared her to  *
    * all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the whole        *
    * community.                                                  *
    *                                                             *
    * When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the   *
    * butcher's cart; and it is feared that some villain, tempted *
    * by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no  *
    * trace of her has been discovered; and we relinquish all     *
    * hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her dish, *
    * and weep for her as one lost to us forever.                 *
    *                                                             *
    ***************************************************************

                   *       *       *       *       *

    A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:--

                                A LAMENT

                           FOR S. B. PAT PAW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            ADVERTISEMENTS.

    MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished Strong-Minded Lecturer,
    will deliver her famous Lecture on "WOMAN AND HER POSITION," at
    Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual
    performances.

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

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

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

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

                                 HINTS.

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

                             WEEKLY REPORT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Contrary minded say 'No.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ay! ay! ay!" replied three voices at once.

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

          [Illustration: Jo threw open the door of the closet]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           [Illustration: Jo spent the morning on the river]

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

completion: Spring comes and the girls each tend a corner of the family garden. Each sister plants things and takes care of her garden in a way that reflects her personality - Meg's is pretty and simple, Jo constantly experiments, Beth grows things for the birds, her pet cats, and other animals, and Amy makes hers beautiful and elegant. Symbolism! On rainy days, the girls hold meetings of their "Pickwick Club," which they call "the P.C." During the meetings of the P.C., each of the girls impersonates one of the characters in The Pickwick Papers. Meg is Samuel Pickwick, Jo is Augustus Snodgrass, Beth is Tracy Tupman, and Amy is Nathaniel Winkle. The P.C. produces a newsletter that they call The Pickwick Portfolio, in which each of the girls contributes articles. This is appropriate, since The Pickwick Papers is also about, well, papers. The clue's in the name! At their meetings, Meg, as Mr. Pickwick, reads the paper they've produced this time to her sisters. The edition of The Pickwick Portfolio that Meg reads in this chapter contains the following articles: A poem celebrating the anniversary of the club, written by Jo. A romantic tale about mistaken identity and marriage in Venice, written by Meg. A joke about the club. A recipe for baked squash, written by Beth. A letter explaining why she hasn't written anything for the newsletter, by Amy. A report of an accident that Meg had while getting firewood in the attic. A description of the family's missing cat, Snowball. A poem lamenting the lost cat, written by Jo. A variety of announcements about things that are going to happen soon, such as Hannah teaching the girls to cook and Beth displaying the new doll's clothes she has made. A comment on the behavior of each of the girls. Meg, in the character of Samuel Pickwick, finishes reading each of these items from the paper and the girls applaud. Jo gets up and, in the character of Augustus Snodgrass, proposes that they admit a new member to the club - Laurie. The girls vote on the proposal. Beth and Jo are in favor of letting Laurie join them. Meg and Amy are against it - Meg is worried Laurie will laugh at them, and Amy is still young enough that she doesn't want to play with a boy. Beth and Jo convince the girls to let Laurie join the club. They vote again, and everyone is in favor this time. Jo opens the closet door and reveals Laurie, who has been hiding there the whole time. Jo's sisters are a little irritated by the deception, but they're won over by Laurie, who immediately enters into the spirit of the club by announcing that he will play Sam Weller. . Laurie announces that, as a token of his gratitude for being allowed to join the club, he is going to give them a post-office box. The box looks like a large birdhouse, and he has put it in the middle of the hedge between the March and Laurence houses. This "post office," or "P.O." for short, will let them exchange letters - partly for the club newsletter, and partly just for fun. It has a lock and Laurie holds one key, while the girls hold the other. Laurie is an enthusiastic and wonderful member of the club, and the P.O. is a big hit.


prompt:
Chapter: XI. EXPERIMENTS.

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

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

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

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

"She means _vampire_, not sea-weed; but it doesn't matter; it's too warm
to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured Jo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  [Illustration: Amy sat down to draw]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                     [Illustration: O Pip! O Pip!]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              [Illustration: Miss Crocker made a wry face]

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome
with emotion and lobster; but there was no place of repose, for the beds
were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up
pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the
remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon, and left them so
tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.
Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour
cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came
home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the
afternoon; and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success of
one part of the experiment.

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

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

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

"Not a bit like home," added Amy.

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

"Here's mother, dear, and you shall have another bird to-morrow, if you
want it."

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

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

"I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.

"Nor I," echoed the others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  [Illustration: We'll work like bees]

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

completion: It is June 1, and all four sisters are ready for some summer vacation. The Kings, the family for whom Meg works as a governess, are going out of town, and so is Aunt March, so Jo and Meg are both free. Meg's plan for her vacation is to laze around and have some down time. Jo has a stack of books she wants to read. Beth and Amy are home-schooled, but they decide to take a break from their studies while Jo and Meg are on vacation. Beth wants to learn some new music and make clothes for her dolls. The girls ask their mother if it's OK for them to take a break from their daily duties and enjoy their summer vacation. Marmee tells them they can try it for a week as an experiment, but she thinks they'll get tired of all play and no work. The next day, the girls all do whatever they want instead of their chores and housework. Meg gets up late, reads and sits around, then goes shopping and wastes money. Beth plays with her doll collection and the clothes she makes for them, makes a big mess, and doesn't clean it up. Jo sits in a tree and reads and gives herself a headache. Amy goes for a walk to go sketching and gets soaked in the rain. In the evening, the girls agree that the day has been great, although it has felt really long. Nobody will admit to being bored or unhappy, and they tell their mother that the "experiment" is working well. Mrs. March smiles to herself and doesn't say anything. She and Hannah do the housework that the girls are neglecting, and she leaves the girls to learn their lesson on their own. The girls quickly get tired of doing "all play and no work." In fact, Beth keeps forgetting to be lazy and does some work, so she actually starts to feel better. But Jo reads until her eyes ache and fights with Laurie; Meg ends up ruining some of her best clothes by making little alterations to them and trying to make them fashionable; and Amy, left to herself, is bored and lonely. On Friday night, the girls are each secretly glad that the experiment is almost over. Mrs. March resolves to really give the girls a taste of their own medicine on the last day. She gives Hannah Saturday off. On Saturday morning, Mrs. March stays in her room and says that she is very tired. She leaves the girls to fend for themselves. The girls, who are used to relying on their mother for everything, are very surprised, but they're also relieved to have something to do. However, they quickly learn that the housekeeping is difficult and requires a lot of skills that they haven't mastered. The sisters make breakfast for their mother, but they're not very good cooks and they ruin almost everything. Mrs. March laughs to herself privately about their failure - she's already put aside a nicer breakfast for herself. Jo takes over the cooking from Meg. She decides to invite Laurie over for dinner to apologize for quarreling with him earlier in the week. Meg isn't sure that they're up to having company, but Jo is pretty confident that she can make the meal. She plans to have corned beef and potatoes, lobster and asparagus, salad, blancmange and strawberries, and coffee. It's not an ambitious menu or anything! Meg reminds Jo that the only things she knows how to make are gingerbread and molasses candy. Jo is hurt by Meg's lack of confidence. Jo asks for her mother's permission and input on the meal. Mrs. March tells her to do whatever she wants; she's planning to have dinner out with friends and to spend the day amusing herself, the way the girls have been doing. When Jo goes back downstairs, she finds Beth crying. Beth has forgotten to feed her pet canary, Pip, for several days, and the bird is dead! Jo tries to comfort Beth and says they'll have a funeral for Pip later. She leaves Meg and Amy to comfort Beth and goes back to the kitchen. Jo rekindles the fire in the oven, which has gone out. While the stove heats, she goes downtown and buys food. She's not very experienced at choosing it, so she gets things that aren't very good. When Jo gets home, she discovers that Meg has forgotten about some loaves of bread that were rising on the hearth. She storms into the parlor to ask Meg if the bread has risen enough, since it's running over the edges of the pans. Meg, who is entertaining her friend Sallie, is embarrassed when Jo comes in covered in flour. While Jo is doing the cooking, Mrs. March comes downstairs and checks on how everything is going. She comforts Beth a little bit, and then she leaves for the evening. The girls feel helpless without her. Just after Mrs. March leaves, Miss Crocker appears and says that she is coming to dinner. Miss Crocker is an old, unmarried friend of the family. They've been taught to be kind to her, but she's gossipy and rude. Meg entertains Miss Crocker while Jo tries to make the meal. Almost everything is ruined or spoiled in some way: the potatoes are underdone, the asparagus is overdone, the bread is burned, the blancmange is lumpy, and she doesn't know how to get the lobster meat out of the shell. Finally Jo serves the meal to her sisters, Laurie, and Miss Crocker. She feels embarrassed and disheartened and is worried about what they're going to think - and say! As each course goes around the table, the guests try it, and then leave it on their plates. Jo keeps blushing and feeling very embarrassed. Laurie tries to be very chatty and friendly to make everyone more comfortable. Finally, they reach the last part of the meal, which is strawberries and cream. Jo feels relieved because she thinks this at least will be OK, but then it turns out the cream is sour and she's sprinkled the fruit with salt instead of sugar! Jo is about to cry, but then she catches Laurie's eye, and they burst out laughing. Soon everyone is laughing, including sour Miss Crocker. The meal ends happily after all as they eat bread, butter, and olives. Miss Crocker goes home. The girls attend the "funeral" for Beth's canary, Pip. In the afternoon, the girls busy themselves by making the house nice. Beth feels calmer after making the beds; Meg and Jo clean up after the disastrous meal; and Laurie takes Amy out for a drive in his carriage to get her out of the way and cheer her up. When Mrs. March comes home, she finds that the girls have abandoned their "experiment" and decided to balance play with work after all. At the end of the day, the girls talk about what a bad day they've had and how much they missed their mother. Marmee comes in and talks to the girls about their day. They agree with her that it's better to have a few chores and tasks in order to contribute to a nice home for everyone, and that staying busy feels better anyway. Each of the girls resolves to focus on a specific task that is in front of her - Jo is going to learn basic cooking, Meg is going to make some new shirts for her father, Beth is going to work harder at her home-schooling lessons, and Amy says that she will learn the parts of speech and how to make buttonholes. Mrs. March says that she is satisfied now that the girls understand the value of work.