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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not a bit like home," added Amy.

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

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

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

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

"I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.

"Nor I," echoed the others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: The first of June rolled around, and the family Meg worked for took a holiday for a few months. Happy to be able to have some leisure time, the March sisters decided to have an experiment. They that they would all spend a week doing no work whatsoever. Mrs. March consented to the plan hoping to teach her daughters a lesson. The first two days according to the girls were fun, though very long. They began getting cross but no one would admit it. The third day, Mrs. March stayed in bed and left the girls on their own for a day. Hannah was not around also, so the girls had to do all of the cooking and cleaning. Jo invited Laurie to dinner, and she tried to cook for the family but her dinner party was a disaster. Beth's bird died because they forgot to feed it, and they held a funeral in the backyard. By the end of the day, with Marmee's guidance, they learned that all work and no play is tiring, although the days go quicker. But all play and no work makes life just as uncomfortable as well. They agreed thankful they learned their lesson


prompt:
Chapter: Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it
regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door
and distributing the mail.  One July day she came in with her hands
full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the
penny post.

"Here's your posy, Mother!  Laurie never forgets that," she said,
putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in 'Marmee's corner',
and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.

"Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove," continued Beth, delivering
the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching
wristbands.

"Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one," said Meg,
looking at the gray cotton glove.  "Didn't you drop the other in the
garden?"

"No, I'm sure I didn't, for there was only one in the office."

"I hate to have odd gloves!  Never mind, the other may be found.  My
letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted.  I think Mr.
Brooke did it, for this isn't Laurie's writing."

Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham
morning gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and
very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy
white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her mother's mind as she
sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied
with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt,
that Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied.

"Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered
the whole post office and stuck outside," said Beth, laughing as she
went into the study where Jo sat writing.

"What a sly fellow Laurie is!  I said I wished bigger hats were the
fashion, because I burn my face every hot day.  He said, 'Why mind the
fashion?  Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!' I said I would if I had
one, and he has sent me this, to try me.  I'll wear it for fun, and
show him I don't care for the fashion."  And hanging the antique
broad-brim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.

One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said
to her...

My Dear:

I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction I watch
your efforts to control your temper.  You say nothing about your
trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no one sees
them but the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust the
well-worn cover of your guidebook.  I, too, have seen them all, and
heartily believe in the sincerity of your resolution, since it begins
to bear fruit.  Go on, dear, patiently and bravely, and always believe
that no one sympathizes more tenderly with you than your loving...

Mother

"That does me good!  That's worth millions of money and pecks of
praise.  Oh, Marmee, I do try!  I will keep on trying, and not get
tired, since I have you to help me."

Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy
tears, for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts
to be good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging,
because unexpected and from the person whose commendation she most
valued.  Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon,
she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest
she be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite
ready for either good or bad news.  In a big, dashing hand, Laurie
wrote...

Dear Jo, What ho!

Some English girls and boys are coming to see me tomorrow and I want to
have a jolly time.  If it's fine, I'm going to pitch my tent in
Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet--have a
fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks.  They are
nice people, and like such things.  Brooke will go to keep us boys
steady, and Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls.  I want you
all to come, can't let Beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry
her.  Don't bother about rations, I'll see to that and everything else,
only do come, there's a good fellow!

In a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie.

"Here's richness!" cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.

"Of course we can go, Mother?  It will be such a help to Laurie, for I
can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some
way."

"I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people.  Do you know anything
about them, Jo?" asked Meg.

"Only that there are four of them.  Kate is older than you, Fred and
Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or
ten.  Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys.  I fancied, from the
way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn't admire
Kate much."

"I'm so glad my French print is clean, it's just the thing and so
becoming!" observed Meg complacently.  "Have you anything decent, Jo?"

"Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me.  I shall row and
tramp about, so I don't want any starch to think of.  You'll come,
Betty?"

"If you won't let any boys talk to me."

"Not a boy!"

"I like to please Laurie, and I'm not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so
kind.  But I don't want to play, or sing, or say anything. I'll work
hard and not trouble anyone, and you'll take care of me, Jo, so I'll
go."

"That's my good girl.  You do try to fight off your shyness, and I love
you for it.  Fighting faults isn't easy, as I know, and a cheery word
kind of gives a lift.  Thank you, Mother," And Jo gave the thin cheek a
grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back
the rosy roundness of her youth.

"I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy,"
said Amy, showing her mail.

"And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to
him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go," added Beth,
whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.

"Now let's fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play
tomorrow with free minds," said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a
broom.

When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning to promise
them a fine day, he saw a comical sight.  Each had made such
preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an
extra row of little curlpapers across her forehead, Jo had copiously
anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to
bed with her to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had
capped the climax by putting a clothespin on her nose to uplift the
offending feature.  It was one of the kind artists use to hold the
paper on their drawing boards, therefore quite appropriate and
effective for the purpose it was now being put.  This funny spectacle
appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo
woke up and roused her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy's ornament.

Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a
lively bustle began in both houses.  Beth, who was ready first, kept
reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters' toilets by
frequent telegrams from the window.

"There goes the man with the tent!  I see Mrs. Barker doing up the
lunch in a hamper and a great basket.  Now Mr. Laurence is looking up
at the sky and the weathercock.  I wish he would go too.  There's
Laurie, looking like a sailor, nice boy!  Oh, mercy me!  Here's a
carriage full of people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful
boys.  One is lame, poor thing, he's got a crutch. Laurie didn't tell
us that.  Be quick, girls!  It's getting late. Why, there is Ned
Moffat, I do declare.  Meg, isn't that the man who bowed to you one day
when we were shopping?"

"So it is.  How queer that he should come.  I thought he was at the
mountains.  There is Sallie.  I'm glad she got back in time. Am I all
right, Jo?" cried Meg in a flutter.

"A regular daisy.  Hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it
looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff.
Now then, come on!"

"Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat?  It's too absurd!
You shall not make a guy of yourself," remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied
down with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie
had sent for a joke.

"I just will, though, for it's capital, so shady, light, and big. It
will make fun, and I don't mind being a guy if I'm comfortable." With
that Jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a bright little
band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy
faces under the jaunty hatbrims.

Laurie ran to meet and present them to his friends in the most cordial
manner.  The lawn was the reception room, and for several minutes a
lively scene was enacted there.  Meg was grateful to see that Miss
Kate, though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls
would do well to imitate, and who was much flattered by Mr. Ned's
assurances that he came especially to see her.  Jo understood why
Laurie 'primmed up his mouth' when speaking of Kate, for that young
lady had a standoff-don't-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with
the free and easy demeanor of the other girls.  Beth took an
observation of the new boys and decided that the lame one was not
'dreadful', but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him on that
account.  Amy found Grace a well-mannered, merry, little person, and
after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly
became very good friends.

Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the
party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving
Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore.  Laurie and Jo rowed one
boat, Mr. Brooke and Ned the other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous
twin, did his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a
disturbed water bug.  Jo's funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it
was of general utility.  It broke the ice in the beginning by producing
a laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as
she rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if
a shower came up, she said.  Miss Kate decided that she was 'odd', but
rather clever, and smiled upon her from afar.

Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with
the rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered their oars with
uncommon 'skill and dexterity'.  Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young
man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice.  Meg liked his
quiet manners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful
knowledge.  He never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good
deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion.  Ned,
being in college, of course put on all the airs which freshmen think it
their bounden duty to assume.  He was not very wise, but very
good-natured, and altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic.
Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and
chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror
by his pranks.

It was not far to Longmeadow, but the tent was pitched and the wickets
down by the time they arrived.  A pleasant green field, with three
wide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for
croquet.

"Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young host, as they landed with
exclamations of delight.

"Brooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the other
fellows are staff officers, and you, ladies, are company. The tent is
for your especial benefit and that oak is your drawing room, this is
the messroom and the third is the camp kitchen.  Now, let's have a game
before it gets hot, and then we'll see about dinner."

Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the
other eight.  Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred. Laurie took Sallie,
Jo, and Ned.  The English played well, but the Americans played better,
and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of
'76 inspired them.  Jo and Fred had several skirmishes and once
narrowly escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket and had
missed the stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal.  Fred was
close behind her and his turn came before hers.  He gave a stroke, his
ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side.  No one was
very near, and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his
toe, which put it just an inch on the right side.

"I'm through!  Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you, and get in first," cried
the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.

"You pushed it.  I saw you.  It's my turn now," said Jo sharply.

"Upon my word, I didn't move it.  It rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is
allowed.  So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake."

"We don't cheat in America, but you can, if you choose," said Jo
angrily.

"Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows.  There you go!"
returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.

Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time,
colored up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket
with all her might, while Fred hit the stake and declared himself out
with much exultation.  She went off to get her ball, and was a long
time finding it among the bushes, but she came back, looking cool and
quiet, and waited her turn patiently.  It took several strokes to
regain the place she had lost, and when she got there, the other side
had nearly won, for Kate's ball was the last but one and lay near the
stake.

"By George, it's all up with us!  Goodbye, Kate.  Miss Jo owes me one,
so you are finished," cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to
see the finish.

"Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies," said Jo,
with a look that made the lad redden, "especially when they beat them,"
she added, as, leaving Kate's ball untouched, she won the game by a
clever stroke.

Laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn't do to exult
over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer
to whisper to his friend, "Good for you, Jo!  He did cheat, I saw him.
We can't tell him so, but he won't do it again, take my word for it."

Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and
said approvingly, "It was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your
temper, and I'm so glad, Jo."

"Don't praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should
certainly have boiled over if I hadn't stayed among the nettles till I
got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue. It's simmering now,
so I hope he'll keep out of my way," returned Jo, biting her lips as
she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.

"Time for lunch," said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. "Commissary
general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss March, Miss
Sallie, and I spread the table?  Who can make good coffee?"

"Jo can," said Meg, glad to recommend her sister.  So Jo, feeling that
her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over
the coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys
made a fire and got water from a spring near by.  Miss Kate sketched
and Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes
to serve as plates.

The commander in chief and his aides soon spread the tablecloth with an
inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with
green leaves.  Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and everyone
settled themselves to a hearty meal, for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and
exercise develops wholesome appetites. A very merry lunch it was, for
everything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter
startled a venerable horse who fed near by.  There was a pleasing
inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to cups and
plates, acorns dropped in the milk, little black ants partook of the
refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down
from the tree to see what was going on.  Three white-headed children
peeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the
other side of the river with all his might and main.

"There's salt here," said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries.

"Thank you, I prefer spiders," she replied, fishing up two unwary
little ones who had gone to a creamy death.  "How dare you remind me of
that horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?" added
Jo, as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run
short.

"I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven't got over it yet.
This is no credit to me, you know, I don't do anything.  It's you and
Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and I'm no end obliged to you.  What
shall we do when we can't eat anymore?" asked Laurie, feeling that his
trump card had been played when lunch was over.

"Have games till it's cooler.  I brought Authors, and I dare say Miss
Kate knows something new and nice.  Go and ask her.  She's company, and
you ought to stay with her more."

"Aren't you company too?  I thought she'd suit Brooke, but he keeps
talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous
glass of hers.  I'm going, so you needn't try to preach propriety, for
you can't do it, Jo."

Miss Kate did know several new games, and as the girls would not, and
the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing
room to play Rig-marole.

"One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long as
he pleases, only taking care to stop short at some exciting point, when
the next takes it up and does the same.  It's very funny when well
done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh
over.  Please start it, Mr. Brooke," said Kate, with a commanding air,
which surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as any
other gentleman.

Lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke
obediently began the story, with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed
upon the sunshiny river.

"Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his fortune,
for he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He traveled a long
while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of it, till
he came to the palace of a good old king, who had offered a reward to
anyone who could tame and train a fine but unbroken colt, of which he
was very fond.  The knight agreed to try, and got on slowly but surely,
for the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new
master, though he was freakish and wild.  Every day, when he gave his
lessons to this pet of the king's, the knight rode him through the
city, and as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain beautiful
face, which he had seen many times in his dreams, but never found.  One
day, as he went prancing down a quiet street, he saw at the window of a
ruinous castle the lovely face.  He was delighted, inquired who lived
in this old castle, and was told that several captive princesses were
kept there by a spell, and spun all day to lay up money to buy their
liberty.  The knight wished intensely that he could free them, but he
was poor and could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face and
longing to see it out in the sunshine.  At last he resolved to get into
the castle and ask how he could help them.  He went and knocked.  The
great door flew open, and he beheld..."

"A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture, 'At
last!  At last!'" continued Kate, who had read French novels, and
admired the style.  "'Tis she!' cried Count Gustave, and fell at her
feet in an ecstasy of joy.  'Oh, rise!' she said, extending a hand of
marble fairness.  'Never! Till you tell me how I may rescue you,' swore
the knight, still kneeling. 'Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain
here till my tyrant is destroyed.' 'Where is the villain?' 'In the
mauve salon.  Go, brave heart, and save me from despair.' 'I obey, and
return victorious or dead!' With these thrilling words he rushed away,
and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when
he received..."

"A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a
black gown fired at him," said Ned.  "Instantly, Sir What's-his-name
recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and turned to
join the lady, victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the door
locked, tore up the curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when
the ladder broke, and he went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet
below.  Could swim like a duck, paddled round the castle till he came
to a little door guarded by two stout fellows, knocked their heads
together till they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling
exertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, went up a
pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as
your fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics, Miss
March.  At the top of these steps he came plump upon a sight that took
his breath away and chilled his blood..."

"A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in
its wasted hand," went on Meg.  "It beckoned, gliding noiselessly
before him down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb.  Shadowy
effigies in armor stood on either side, a dead silence reigned, the
lamp burned blue, and the ghostly figure ever and anon turned its face
toward him, showing the glitter of awful eyes through its white veil.
They reached a curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music.  He
sprang forward to enter, but the specter plucked him back, and waved
threateningly before him a..."

"Snuffbox," said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the
audience.  "'Thankee,' said the knight politely, as he took a pinch and
sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off.  'Ha! Ha!'
laughed the ghost, and having peeped through the keyhole at the
princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up her
victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other
knights packed together without their heads, like sardines, who all
rose and began to..."

"Dance a hornpipe," cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath, "and, as they
danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail.
'Up with the jib, reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard alee, and man
the guns!' roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight,
with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast. 'Go in and win, my
hearties!' says the captain, and a tremendous fight began.  Of course
the British beat--they always do."

"No, they don't!" cried Jo, aside.

"Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the
schooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers
ran blood, for the order had been 'Cutlasses, and die hard!' 'Bosun's
mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if
he doesn't confess his sins double quick,' said the British captain.
The Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank,
while the jolly tars cheered like mad.  But the sly dog dived, came up
under the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail
set, 'To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea' where..."

"Oh, gracious!  What shall I say?" cried Sallie, as Fred ended his
rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases
and facts out of one of his favorite books. "Well, they went to the
bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved on
finding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine,
hoping to discover the mystery about them, for being a woman, she was
curious.  By-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said, 'I'll give
you a box of pearls if you can take it up,' for she wanted to restore
the poor things to life, and couldn't raise the heavy load herself.  So
the diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to
find no pearls.  He left it in a great lonely field, where it was found
by a..."

"Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field," said
Amy, when Sallie's invention gave out.  "The little girl was sorry for
them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them.  'Your
geese will tell you, they know everything.' said the old woman.  So she
asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost,
and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed..."

"'Cabbages!'" continued Laurie promptly.  "'Just the thing,' said the
girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them on,
the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way
rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many other
heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it.  The
knight in whom I'm interested went back to find the pretty face, and
learned that the princesses had spun themselves free and all gone and
married, but one.  He was in a great state of mind at that, and
mounting the colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to
the castle to see which was left.  Peeping over the hedge, he saw the
queen of his affections picking flowers in her garden.  'Will you give
me a rose?' said he.  'You must come and get it.  I can't come to you,
it isn't proper,' said she, as sweet as honey.  He tried to climb over
the hedge, but it seemed to grow higher and higher.  Then he tried to
push through, but it grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair.
So he patiently broke twig after twig till he had made a little hole
through which he peeped, saying imploringly, 'Let me in!  Let me in!'
But the pretty princess did not seem to understand, for she picked her
roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in.  Whether he did or
not, Frank will tell you."

"I can't.  I'm not playing, I never do," said Frank, dismayed at the
sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd
couple.  Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep.

"So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?" asked
Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in
his buttonhole.

"I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a
while," said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his
tutor.

"What a piece of nonsense we have made!  With practice we might do
something quite clever.  Do you know Truth?"

"I hope so," said Meg soberly.

"The game, I mean?"

"What is it?" said Fred.

"Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn,
and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question
put by the rest.  It's great fun."

"Let's try it," said Jo, who liked new experiments.

Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie, Jo,
and Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie.

"Who are your heroes?" asked Jo.

"Grandfather and Napoleon."

"Which lady here do you think prettiest?" said Sallie.

"Margaret."

"Which do you like best?" from Fred.

"Jo, of course."

"What silly questions you ask!"  And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the
rest laughed at Laurie's matter-of-fact tone.

"Try again.  Truth isn't a bad game," said Fred.

"It's a very good one for you," retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn
came next.

"What is your greatest fault?" asked Fred, by way of testing in her the
virtue he lacked himself.

"A quick temper."

"What do you most wish for?" said Laurie.

"A pair of boot lacings," returned Jo, guessing and defeating his
purpose.

"Not a true answer.  You must say what you really do want most."

"Genius.  Don't you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?" And she
slyly smiled in his disappointed face.

"What virtues do you most admire in a man?" asked Sallie.

"Courage and honesty."

"Now my turn," said Fred, as his hand came last.

"Let's give it to him," whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded and asked at
once...

"Didn't you cheat at croquet?"

"Well, yes, a little bit."

"Good!  Didn't you take your story out of _The Sea Lion?_" said Laurie.

"Rather."

"Don't you think the English nation perfect in every respect?" asked
Sallie.

"I should be ashamed of myself if I didn't."

"He's a true John Bull.  Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance
without waiting to draw.  I'll harrrow up your feelings first by asking
if you don't think you are something of a flirt," said Laurie, as Jo
nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared.

"You impertinent boy!  Of course I'm not," exclaimed Sallie, with an
air that proved the contrary.

"What do you hate most?" asked Fred.

"Spiders and rice pudding."

"What do you like best?" asked Jo.

"Dancing and French gloves."

"Well, I think Truth is a very silly play.  Let's have a sensible game
of Authors to refresh our minds," proposed Jo.

Ned, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and while it went on,
the three elders sat apart, talking.  Miss Kate took out her sketch
again, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay on the grass with
a book, which he did not read.

"How beautifully you do it!  I wish I could draw," said Meg, with
mingled admiration and regret in her voice.

"Why don't you learn?  I should think you had taste and talent for it,"
replied Miss Kate graciously.

"I haven't time."

"Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy.  So did mine, but I
proved to her that I had talent by taking a few lessons privately, and
then she was quite willing I should go on.  Can't you do the same with
your governess?"

"I have none."

"I forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with us.  Very
fine schools they are, too, Papa says.  You go to a private one, I
suppose?"

"I don't go at all.  I am a governess myself."

"Oh, indeed!" said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said, "Dear
me, how dreadful!" for her tone implied it, and something in her face
made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.

Mr. Brooke looked up and said quickly, "Young ladies in America love
independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and
respected for supporting themselves."

"Oh, yes, of course it's very nice and proper in them to do so.  We
have many most respectable and worthy young women who do the same and
are employed by the nobility, because, being the daughters of
gentlemen, they are both well bred and accomplished, you know," said
Miss Kate in a patronizing tone that hurt Meg's pride, and made her
work seem not only more distasteful, but degrading.

"Did the German song suit, Miss March?" inquired Mr. Brooke, breaking
an awkward pause.

"Oh, yes!  It was very sweet, and I'm much obliged to whoever
translated it for me." And Meg's downcast face brightened as she spoke.

"Don't you read German?" asked Miss Kate with a look of surprise.

"Not very well.  My father, who taught me, is away, and I don't get on
very fast alone, for I've no one to correct my pronunciation."

"Try a little now.  Here is Schiller's Mary Stuart and a tutor who
loves to teach."  And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an
inviting smile.

"It's so hard I'm afraid to try," said Meg, grateful, but bashful in
the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.

"I'll read a bit to encourage you." And Miss Kate read one of the most
beautiful passages in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless
manner.

Mr. Brooke made no comment as she returned the book to Meg, who said
innocently, "I thought it was poetry."

"Some of it is.  Try this passage."

There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke's mouth as he opened at poor
Mary's lament.

Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used
to point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of
the hard words by the soft intonation of her musical voice.  Down the
page went the green guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in
the beauty of the sad scene, Meg read as if alone, giving a little
touch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy queen.  If she had seen
the brown eyes then, she would have stopped short, but she never looked
up, and the lesson was not spoiled for her.

"Very well indeed!" said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her
many mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love to teach.

Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little
tableau before her, shut her sketch book, saying with condescension,
"You've a nice accent and in time will be a clever reader.  I advise
you to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment to teachers.  I
must look after Grace, she is romping." And Miss Kate strolled away,
adding to herself with a shrug, "I didn't come to chaperone a
governess, though she is young and pretty.  What odd people these
Yankees are.  I'm afraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them."

"I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at governesses
and don't treat them as we do," said Meg, looking after the retreating
figure with an annoyed expression.

"Tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to my
sorrow.  There's no place like America for us workers, Miss Margaret."
And Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that Meg was ashamed to
lament her hard lot.

"I'm glad I live in it then.  I don't like my work, but I get a good
deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won't complain. I only
wished I liked teaching as you do."

"I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil.  I shall be very
sorry to lose him next year," said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in
the turf.

"Going to college, I suppose?" Meg's lips asked the question, but her
eyes added, "And what becomes of you?"

"Yes, it's high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is
off, I shall turn soldier.  I am needed."

"I am glad of that!" exclaimed Meg.  "I should think every young man
would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who
stay at home," she added sorrowfully.

"I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live or die,"
said Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in the
hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave.

"Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all
be very sorry to have any harm happen to you," said Meg heartily.

"Thank you, that sounds pleasant," began Mr. Brooke, looking cheerful
again, but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old
horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill before the
young ladies, and there was no more quiet that day.

"Don't you love to ride?" asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting
after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.

"I dote upon it.  My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but
we don't keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree," added Amy, laughing.

"Tell me about Ellen Tree.  Is it a donkey?" asked Grace curiously.

"Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but we've only got
an old sidesaddle and no horse.  Out in our garden is an apple tree
that has a nice low branch, so Jo put the saddle on it, fixed some
reins on the part that turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree
whenever we like."

"How funny!" laughed Grace.  "I have a pony at home, and ride nearly
every day in the park with Fred and Kate.  It's very nice, for my
friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen."

"Dear, how charming!  I hope I shall go abroad some day, but I'd rather
go to Rome than the Row," said Amy, who had not the remotest idea what
the Row was and wouldn't have asked for the world.

Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were
saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient gesture
as he watched the active lads going through all sorts of comical
gymnastics.  Beth, who was collecting the scattered Author cards,
looked up and said, in her shy yet friendly way, "I'm afraid you are
tired.  Can I do anything for you?"

"Talk to me, please.  It's dull, sitting by myself," answered Frank,
who had evidently been used to being made much of at home.

If he asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have seemed a
more impossible task to bashful Beth, but there was no place to run to,
no Jo to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so wistfully at her
that she bravely resolved to try.

"What do you like to talk about?" she asked, fumbling over the cards
and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.

"Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting," said
Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength.

My heart!  What shall I do?  I don't know anything about them, thought
Beth, and forgetting the boy's misfortune in her flurry, she said,
hoping to make him talk, "I never saw any hunting, but I suppose you
know all about it."

"I did once, but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a
confounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and hounds for
me," said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her
innocent blunder.

"Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes," she said,
turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one
of the boys' books in which Jo delighted.

Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to
amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her
sisters' surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking
away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged
protection.

"Bless her heart!  She pities him, so she is good to him," said Jo,
beaming at her from the croquet ground.

"I always said she was a little saint," added Meg, as if there could be
no further doubt of it.

"I haven't heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long," said Grace to
Amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn
cups.

"My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be," said
Amy, well pleased at Beth's success.  She meant 'facinating', but as
Grace didn't know the exact meaning of either word, fastidious sounded
well and made a good impression.

An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet
finished the afternoon.  At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed,
wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the
river, singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental,
warbled a serenade with the pensive refrain...

    Alone, alone, ah! Woe, alone,

and at the lines...

    We each are young, we each have a heart,
    Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?

he looked at Meg with such a lackadiasical expression that she laughed
outright and spoiled his song.

"How can you be so cruel to me?" he whispered, under cover of a lively
chorus.  "You've kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all day,
and now you snub me."

"I didn't mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn't help it,"
replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for it was
quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and
the talk after it.

Ned was offended and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to her
rather pettishly, "There isn't a bit of flirt in that girl, is there?"

"Not a particle, but she's a dear," returned Sallie, defending her
friend even while confessing her shortcomings.

"She's not a stricken deer anyway," said Ned, trying to be witty, and
succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.

On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with
cordial good nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going to Canada.
As the four sisters went home through the garden, Miss Kate looked
after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her voice, "In
spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are very nice when
one knows them."

"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Brooke.

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

completion: Beth had the job of delivering the mail from the post office and one day she came in with the usual nosegay for Marmee from Laurie and a single gray glove for Meg along with a translation. Disappointed that the other glove could not be found, Meg was happy with the German song Laurie's tutor, Mr. Brooke sent. Jo received a letter from Laurie that was actually an invitation for all the girls to go on a picnic the next day with him and his friends from England who were coming. Every one was excited, and the next morning they were ready to depart. The party consisted of Laurie, the March sisters, Mr. Brooke, Ned Moffat, Sallie Gardiner, and Laurie's friends from England, Kate, Fred, Frank, and Grace. They set up "camp" and played croquet. Fred cheated and Jo got angry but held her temper. After the game, they ate lunch and played games. Kate made rude remarks about Meg being a governess and Mr. Brooke came to her rescue. He talked to her and had her read a passage of German as he watched mesmerized. The day was a success and everyone had a wonderful time. Even shy Beth opened up and talked to Frank who was injured


prompt:
Chapter: Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow
chilly, and the afternoons were short.  For two or three hours the sun
lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa,
writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her,
while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied
by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of
his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the
last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and
threw down her pen, exclaiming...

"There, I've done my best!  If this won't suit I shall have to wait
till I can do better."

Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through,
making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points,
which looked like little balloons.  Then she tied it up with a smart
red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful
expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been.  Jo's
desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall.  In it
she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble,
who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a
circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the
leaves.  From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and
putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her
friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.

She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to
the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung
herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road.
Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled
away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.

If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements
decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till
she reached a certain number in a certain busy street.  Having found
the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up
the dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly
dived into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came.  This
maneuver she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a
black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building
opposite.  On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake,
pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if
she were going to have all her teeth out.

There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance,
and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly
opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young
gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself
in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, "It's like
her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to
help her home."

In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the
general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying
ordeal of some sort.  When she saw the young gentleman she looked
anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod.  But he followed,
asking with an air of sympathy, "Did you have a bad time?"

"Not very."

"You got through quickly."

"Yes, thank goodness!"

"Why did you go alone?"

"Didn't want anyone to know."

"You're the oddest fellow I ever saw.  How many did you have out?"

Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to
laugh as if mightily amused at something.

"There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week."

"What are you laughing at?  You are up to some mischief, Jo," said
Laurie, looking mystified.

"So are you.  What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a
gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."

"I'm glad of that."

"Why?"

"You can teach me, and then when we play _Hamlet_, you can be Laertes,
and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene."

Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several
passers-by smile in spite of themselves.

"I'll teach you whether we play _Hamlet_ or not.  It's grand fun and
will straighten you up capitally.  But I don't believe that was your
only reason for saying 'I'm glad' in that decided way, was it now?"

"No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you
never go to such places.  Do you?"

"Not often."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"It's no harm, Jo.  I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless
you have good players, so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have
a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows."

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better,
and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys.  I
did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends,"
said Jo, shaking her head.

"Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without
losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.

"That depends upon how and where he takes it.  I don't like Ned and his
set, and wish you'd keep out of it.  Mother won't let us have him at
our house, though he wants to come.  And if you grow like him she won't
be willing to have us frolic together as we do now."

"Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.

"No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in
bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."

"Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet.  I'm not a fashionable
party and don't mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then,
don't you?"

"Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you?
Or there will be an end of all our good times."

"I'll be a double distilled saint."

"I can't bear saints.  Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and
we'll never desert you.  I don't know what I should do if you acted
like Mr. King's son.  He had plenty of money, but didn't know how to
spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his
father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid."

"You think I'm likely to do the same?  Much obliged."

"No, I don't--oh, dear, no!--but I hear people talking about money
being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I
shouldn't worry then."

"Do you worry about me, Jo?"

"A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do,
for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm
afraid it would be hard to stop you."

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she
had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled
as if at her warnings.

"Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked
presently.

"Of course not.  Why?"

"Because if you are, I'll take a bus.  If you're not, I'd like to walk
with you and tell you something very interesting."

"I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely."

"Very well, then, come on.  It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must
tell me yours."

"I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that
she had.

"You know you have--you can't hide anything, so up and 'fess, or I
won't tell," cried Laurie.

"Is your secret a nice one?"

"Oh, isn't it!  All about people you know, and such fun!  You ought to
hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you
begin."

"You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"

"Not a word."

"And you won't tease me in private?"

"I never tease."

"Yes, you do.  You get everything you want out of people.  I don't know
how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."

"Thank you.  Fire away."

"Well, I've left two stories with a newspaperman, and he's to give his
answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.

"Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried
Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight
of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children,
for they were out of the city now.

"Hush!  It won't come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn't rest till
I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn't want anyone
else to be disappointed."

"It won't fail.  Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare
compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be
fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud of our authoress?"

Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a
friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.

"Where's your secret?  Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you
again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed
up at a word of encouragement.

"I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn't promise not to, so I
will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy
bit of news I get.  I know where Meg's glove is."

"Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and
twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.

"It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you
where it is."

"Tell, then."

Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a
comical change.  She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both
surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you
know?"

"Saw it."

"Where?"

"Pocket."

"All this time?"

"Yes, isn't that romantic?"

"No, it's horrid."

"Don't you like it?"

"Of course I don't.  It's ridiculous, it won't be allowed.  My
patience!  What would Meg say?"

"You are not to tell anyone.  Mind that."

"I didn't promise."

"That was understood, and I trusted you."

"Well, I won't for the present, anyway, but I'm disgusted, and wish you
hadn't told me."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."

"You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away."

"I'd like to see anyone try it," cried Jo fiercely.

"So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea.

"I don't think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind
since you told me that," said Jo rather ungratefully.

"Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested
Laurie.

No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and
finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat
and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached
the goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his
treatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright
eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.

"I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air,
and not lose my breath.  It was capital, but see what a guy it's made
me.  Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are," said Jo,
dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with
crimson leaves.

Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled
up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again.
But someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking
particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been
making calls.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her
disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.

"Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had
just swept up.

"And hairpins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap.
"They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats."

"You have been running, Jo.  How could you?  When will you stop such
romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and
smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.

"Never till I'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch.  Don't try to
make me grow up before my time, Meg.  It's hard enough to have you
change all of a sudden.  Let me be a little girl as long as I can."

As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her
lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a
woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must
surely come some time and now seemed very near.  He saw the trouble in
her face and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where
have you been calling, all so fine?"

"At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle
Moffat's wedding.  It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend
the winter in Paris.  Just think how delightful that must be!"

"Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.

"I'm afraid I do."

"I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.

"Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.

"Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a
poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to
mind what she said.

"I shall never '_go_ and marry' anyone," observed Meg, walking on with
great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping
stones, and 'behaving like children', as Meg said to herself, though
she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best
dress on.

For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite
bewildered.  She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to
Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a
woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in
a very mysterious manner.  Laurie and she were always making signs to
one another, and talking about 'Spread Eagles' till the girls declared
they had both lost their wits.  On the second Saturday after Jo got out
of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by
the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally
capturing her in Amy's bower.  What went on there, Meg could not see,
but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices
and a great flapping of newspapers.

"What shall we do with that girl?  She never _will_ behave like a young
lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.

"I hope she won't.  She is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who
had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets
with anyone but her.

"It's very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_," added Amy,
who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a
very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually
elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected
to read.

"Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension.

"Nothing but a story, won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo,
carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.

"You'd better read it aloud.  That will amuse us and keep you out of
mischief," said Amy in her most grown-up tone.

"What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind
the sheet.

"The Rival Painters."

"That sounds well.  Read it," said Meg.

With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast.  The
girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat
pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like that about
the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused.

"I prefer the lovering part.  Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite
names, isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering
part was tragical.

"Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face.

The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed
countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement
replied in a loud voice, "Your sister."

"You?" cried Meg, dropping her work.

"It's very good," said Amy critically.

"I knew it!  I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!"  and Beth ran to hug
her sister and exult over this splendid success.

Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure!  How Meg wouldn't
believe it till she saw the words.  "Miss Josephine March," actually
printed in the paper.  How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts
of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately
couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead.  How Beth
got excited, and skipped and sang with joy.  How Hannah came in to
exclaim, "Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at 'that
Jo's doin's'.  How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it.  How Jo
laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a
peacock and done with it, and how the 'Spread Eagle' might be said to
flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper
passed from hand to hand.

"Tell us about it."  "When did it come?" "How much did you get for it?"
"What will Father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried the family, all in
one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate
people made a jubilee of every little household joy.

"Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo,
wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did
over her 'Rival Painters'.  Having told how she disposed of her tales,
Jo added, "And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them
both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and
noticed the stories.  It was good practice, he said, and when the
beginners improved, anyone would pay.  So I let him have the two
stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it
and insisted on seeing it, so I let him.  And he said it was good, and
I shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and I am
so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the
girls."

Jo's breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she
bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be
independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest
wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that
happy end.

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

completion: Jo is writing frantically at her writing table when she declares to herself that she has done her best and leaves the house. She walks down to the town newspaper office, and frets outside about whether or not to enter. Finally she summons the courage and goes in, not knowing that across the street Laurie was watching from the pool hall window. When she comes out, he corners her and asks her why she went. She made him swear not to tell anyone, and he agreed. She then told him that she had submitted two stories to the newspaper, and she would find out in a week whether or not they would be published. In return for her confidence, Laurie told her that his tutor, Mr. Brooke was the one who had Meg's missing gray glove and he kept it in his side pocket. Jo did not like that at all, and stopped liking Mr. Brooke. She wanted her sister to be with a rich man so she could have nice things, and Mr. Brooke would never be rich. Jo and Laurie raced down the road, and while she was recovering, Laurie gathered her hairpins that had fallen out. Meg came upon them and chastised Jo for racing because it was unladylike. A few weeks later, the girls were sitting in the parlor sewing when Jo offered to read them a story from the newspaper. Everyone liked and she declared that she was the one who wrote it. They all were excited, and she told them that she did not get any money for it, but it was publicity