prompt:
Chapter: XII. CAMP LAURENCE.

                 [Illustration: Beth was post-mistress]

Beth was post-mistress, 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 work-table, full of tidy white
rolls; so unconscious of the thought in her mother's mind as she sewed
and sung, 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, 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 guide-book. _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.
O 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 to-morrow 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,
Bethy?"

"If you won't let any of the 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 any one; 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 to-night, 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 to-day, so that we can play
to-morrow 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 fête as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of
little curl-papers 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 clothes-pin 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 to which it was now put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse
the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up, and
roused all her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy's ornament.

  [Illustration: Amy capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin on her
                                 nose]

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.
Look, 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 straight; it looks
sentimental tipped that way, and will fly off at the first puff. Now,
then, come on!"

"O 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 hat-brims.

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 she 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
stand-off-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. Kate looked rather amazed at Jo's proceedings,
especially as she exclaimed "Christopher Columbus!" when she lost her
oar; and Laurie said, "My dear fellow, did I hurt you?" when he tripped
over her feet in taking his place. But after putting up her glass to
examine the queer girl several times, Miss Kate decided that she was
"odd, but rather clever," and smiled upon her from afar.

              [Illustration: Mr. Laurence waving his hat]

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 encyclopædia 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 piqué 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 mess-room, 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 Englishers 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.

             [Illustration: Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you]

"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! Good-by, 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 a 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 pretence 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 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 coffee-pot, 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 aids soon spread the table-cloth with an
inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with green
leaves. Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and every one 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
into 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.

        [Illustration: "A very merry lunch it was."--Page 156.]

"There's salt here, if you prefer it," 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 go, and I'm no end obliged to you. What shall we
do when we can't eat any more?" 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 "Rigmarole."

"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 travelled 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 any
one who would 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--"

          [Illustration: He went prancing down a quiet street]

"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--"

                  [Illustration: "Oh, rise," she said]

"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 half-way down when
the ladder broke, and he went head first 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--"

       [Illustration: A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon]

"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 spectre plucked him back, and waved threateningly before him a--"

"Snuff-box," 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 key-hole 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--"

                       [Illustration: He sneezed]

"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 a lee, 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 begun. 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 with dead, and whose lee-scuppers ran
blood, for the order had been 'Cutlasses, and die hard!' 'Bosen's mate,
take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if he don'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--"

            [Illustration: The Portuguese walked the plank]

"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 this 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 to be
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."

                [Illustration: Will you give me a rose?]

"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 button-hole.

"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'?" asked Sallie, after they
had laughed over their story.

"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 questions 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 harrow 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,--

               [Illustration: Miss Kate put up her glass]

"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 spoilt 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 wish 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 that 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.

                       [Illustration: Ellen Tree]

"Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses, and so am I, but we've only got
an old side-saddle, 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 had 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 "fascinating," 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 lackadaisical expression that she laughed
outright and spoilt 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 short-comings.

"She's not a stricken deer, any way," 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.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

           [Illustration: Swinging to and fro in his hammock]

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

completion: On a day in July, Beth is delivering the "mail" from the little "Post Office" in the hedge between the March and Laurence houses. This batch of mail includes a small bunch of flowers for Mrs. March from Laurie, a translation of a German song by Mr. Brooke for Meg , and two letters, a hat, and a book for Jo. Jo unfolds and reads the first letter. It is from her mother and commends her for her efforts to keep her temper and learn to be a calmer person. The letter makes her tear up happily, because she thought that nobody had noticed. Jo unfolds and reads the second letter. It is from Laurie, telling her that some English boys and girls about their age, the Vaughns, are going to be visiting him. Laurie invites Jo and her sisters to come to a picnic with them tomorrow. The girls ask their mother if they can attend the picnic and she agrees. They talk about what it will be like. Jo tells Meg that there are four Vaughns, Kate, Fred, Frank, and Grace. Kate is a little older than Meg, Fred and Frank are twins of Jo's age, and Grace is a little girl around Amy's age. Jo and Meg talk about what they will wear to the picnic. Jo convinces Beth to come to the picnic despite her extreme shyness. Amy comes in and shows the mail that she received - a box of chocolates and a picture. Beth has received a letter from Mr. Laurence asking her to come over and play the piano for him. The girls spend the rest of the day doing extra chores so that they will be free to attend the picnic tomorrow. Overnight, each of the girls makes extra preparations for the picnic. Meg has the hair around her face in curling papers, Jo has slept wearing face cream , Beth slept with her favorite doll to apologize for leaving it behind all day, and Amy slept with a clothespin on her nose because she wants to reshape it. In the morning, the girls dress for the picnic and watch the preparations next door. The notice several other people they know, including Sallie Gardiner and Ned Moffat, arriving also. They also notice that one of the Vaughn boys is on crutches. The March girls are ready to go. Meg is distressed to learn that Jo is planning to wear the silly hat Laurie sent her. Laurie introduces the March girls to the Vaughns on the lawn in front of their houses. Everyone notices that Kate Vaughn is kind of stuck-up. Beth feels compassion for Frank, the sickly twin. Amy and Grace, the two little girls, hit it off well. The party sets off for the picnic site in several boats. Jo and Laurie row one boat, while Mr. Brooke and Ned row the other. Fred Vaughn paddles around in a little boat of his own making mischief. Soon they arrive at Longmeadow, where a tent has been pitched and a croquet ground prepared. They start by playing a game of croquet. Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace, who are too unwell, too shy, or too young to play, sit and watch. The others divide into two teams: Mr. Brooke, Meg, Kate, and Fred on one team, and Laurie, Sallie, Jo, and Ned on the other. The English play well, but the Americans play better. At one point, Jo is ahead of Fred, who is close behind her. He goes over to look at his croquet ball and cheats by pushing it through the wicket. Jo accuses Fred of cheating and he denies it. There's a lot of banter about Brits versus Yankees. Jo starts to get really angry, but takes some time by herself looking for her croquet ball to cool down. Jo manages to get ahead in the game again and, in the end, she wins for her team. Laurie and Meg both privately congratulate Jo on keeping her temper. Jo says that she is still pretty angry. Next, everyone lends a hand making preparations for lunch. The meal is jolly and fun, even though there are insects in the food and the table keeps wobbling and spilling things. Jo and Laurie sit together and share a plate. Laurie asks Jo what they should do next. Jo says they should play a quiet game until the afternoon sun cools off a little. She tells Laurie to ask Kate to suggest the game, out of politeness to the guests. Kate suggests a game that she calls "Rig-marole." One person starts telling a story and then breaks off at an exciting point. The next person continues the story and does the same thing. Kate orders Mr. Brooke to start. Mr. Brooke begins the story and describes a lonely knight on a quest who falls in love with a captive princess. Kate continues the story and makes it dramatic and sensational. Ned takes a turn telling the story, and his narration is action-packed and exciting. Next Meg tells part of the story, giving it a creepy, Gothic feel. Jo starts to take up the story and make it comical, but when she pauses to take a breath, Fred jumps in and turns it into a story about pirates. Sallie is next and doesn't know what to say. She adds some mermaids and a fairy-tale feel. Amy tells a little of the story, introducing a little goosegirl and making it more like a fable. Laurie jumps in and tries to tie up most of the loose ends in the story - he brings several murdered knights back to life and reunites the first knight with the princess. Then he turns to Frank to finish. Frank says that he's not playing. Beth is hiding behind Jo because she is too shy to take a turn, and Grace is asleep, so that's as far as the story goes. Next, they decide to play Truth. They draw lots, and whoever is chosen has to answer three questions put by the group truthfully. Laurie is first. In answer to his friends' questions, he says that his grandfather and Napoleon are his heroes, Meg is the prettiest girl there, and Jo is his favorite. Jo is next. She admits that a quick temper is her worst fault, that her greatest desire is to be a genius, and that the virtues she most admires in a man are courage and honesty. Fred is next. Jo and Laurie gang up on him; Jo makes him admit that he cheated at croquet, and Laurie makes him admit that he took his part of the story out of The Sea-Lion. He also says, in response to Sallie's question, that he thinks England is perfect. Sallie is next. She claims in a flirtatious way that she's not a flirt, says that she hates spiders and rice pudding, and that she loves dancing and French gloves. Next the group play Authors, which is a card game kind of like Go Fish, in which the cards have pictures of famous authors and you try to collect sets of them. While the others play, Meg watches Kate sketch and Mr. Brooke lies near them, sort of reading a book. Kate and Meg, who are the two oldest girls there, chat about their circumstances. Kate is patronizing and snobby when she discovers that Meg works as a governess. Mr. Brooke intervenes and defends the hard-working character of the American woman. Mr. Brooke tutors Meg in German. Even though Kate is a much more correct reader of German, Meg has more of a feel for the musical quality of the language and for the poetic form. Kate leaves Mr. Brooke and Meg alone, deciding that she doesn't need to chaperone a mere governess. Meg and Mr. Brooke talk about their respective jobs as teachers. Mr. Brooke says that there's no place like America for workers. Meg asks Mr. Brooke what he will do after Laurie goes to college next year. Mr. Brooke says that he will enlist as a solider. Meg says that she's glad Mr. Brooke is going to serve his country. Mr. Brooke says that he's alone in the world and nobody cares whether he lives or dies anyway. Meg says that the Laurences and Marches all care. Meanwhile, Amy and Grace are talking about riding. Grace, as an upper-class English girl, goes riding a lot and has her own pony. Amy rides "Ellen Tree," which is a low-hanging branch on the family's apple tree. Sometimes Jo puts a saddle on the tree branch and Amy pretends to ride it. Close by, Beth and Frank are talking. They don't have much in common, but Beth lets Frank talk about the differences in hunting between England and America, and they end up discussing buffaloes. They play some more games, and at sunset they take down the tent and row their boats back home. On the way back, Ned tries to flirt with Meg, who is too sweet and proper to flirt back. As the March girls return home, Kate says that American girls are quite nice when you get to know them, and Mr. Brooke agrees.


prompt:
Chapter: XIII. CASTLES IN THE AIR.

Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock, one warm
September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too
lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods; for the day had
been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could
live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had
shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost,
displeased his grandfather by practising half the afternoon, frightened
the maid-servants half out of their wits, by mischievously hinting that
one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stable-man
about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his
hammock, to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the
peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into
the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams
of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean, in a
voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a
flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches
coming out, as if bound on some expedition.

"What in the world are those girls about now?" thought Laurie, opening
his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather
peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large, flapping
hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long
staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio.
All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and
began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river.

"Well, that's cool!" said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and never
ask me. They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got the key.
Perhaps they forgot it; I'll take it to them, and see what's going on."

Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find
one; then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in
his pocket; so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the
fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boat-house, he
waited for them to appear: but no one came, and he went up the hill to
take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from
the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of
the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.

"Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and
looking wide-awake and good-natured already.

It _was_ rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat together in
the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic
wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little
wood-people going on with their affairs as if these were no strangers,
but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her
white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose, in her pink
dress, among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under
the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of them. Amy was
sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A
shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he
ought to go away, because uninvited; yet lingering, because home seemed
very lonely, and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his
restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its
harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and
skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the
wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.

          [Illustration: It was rather a pretty little picture]

"May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing
slowly.

Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly, and said, at
once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we
thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."

"I always liked your games; but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away."

"I've no objection, if you do something; it's against the rules to be
idle here," replied Meg, gravely but graciously.

"Much obliged; I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as
dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw,
or do all at once? Bring on your bears; I'm ready," and Laurie sat down,
with a submissive expression delightful to behold.

"Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book.

"Yes'm," was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his
gratitude for the favor of an admission into the "Busy Bee Society."

The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he ventured to
ask a few questions as a reward of merit.

"Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming
institution is a new one?"

"Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters.

"He'll laugh," said Amy warningly.

"Who cares?" said Jo.

"I guess he'll like it," added Beth.

"Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo, and
don't be afraid."

"The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play
'Pilgrim's Progress,' and we have been going on with it in earnest, all
winter and summer."

"Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely.

"Who told you?" demanded Jo.

"Spirits."

"No, I did; I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and
he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo," said Beth
meekly.

"You can't keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now."

"Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking
a trifle displeased.

"Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have
tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task, and worked at
it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done,
and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle."

"Yes, I should think so;" and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle
days.

"Mother likes to have us out of doors as much as possible; so we bring
our work here, and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our
things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill,
and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the
'Delectable Mountain,' for we can look far away and see the country
where we hope to live some time."

Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine; for through an opening in the
wood one could look across the wide, blue river, the meadows on the
other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills
that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens plowed with
the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the
hill-tops; and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white
peaks, that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.

"How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and
feel beauty of any kind.

"It's often so; and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but
always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.

"Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time,--the real
country, she means, with pigs and chickens, and haymaking. It would be
nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could
ever go to it," said Beth musingly.

"There is a lovelier country even than that, where we _shall_ go, by and
by, when we are good enough," answered Meg, with her sweet voice.

"It seems so long to wait, so hard to do; I want to fly away at once, as
those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate."

"You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later; no fear of that," said Jo;
"I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and
maybe never get in after all."

"You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do a
deal of travelling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I
arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, Beth?"

Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend; but she said
cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "If people
really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get
in; for I don't believe there are any locks on that door, or any guards
at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the
shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he
comes up from the river."

"Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could
come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after a little pause.

"I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd have,"
said Laurie, lying flat, and throwing cones at the squirrel who had
betrayed him.

"You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg.

"If I tell mine, will you tell yours?"

"Yes, if the girls will too."

"We will. Now, Laurie."

"After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in
Germany, and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous
musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me; and I'm never
to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself, and live
for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yours, Meg?"

Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake
before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said
slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious
things,--nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people,
and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like,
with plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy
it! for I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make every one love me
dearly."

             [Illustration: Waved a brake before her face]

"Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie
slyly.

"I said 'pleasant people,' you know;" and Meg carefully tied up her shoe
as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.

"Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband, and some
angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect
without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather
scorned romance, except in books.

"You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,"
answered Meg petulantly.

"Wouldn't I, though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms
piled with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my
works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something
splendid before I go into my castle,--something heroic or wonderful,
that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on
the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all, some day. I think I
shall write books, and get rich and famous: that would suit me, so that
is _my_ favorite dream."

"Mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and help take care
of the family," said Beth contentedly.

"Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie.

"Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we
may all keep well and be together; nothing else."

"I have ever so many wishes; but the pet one is to be an artist, and go
to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole
world," was Amy's modest desire.

"We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to
be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any of
us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie, chewing grass, like a
meditative calf.

"I've got the key to my castle in the air; but whether I can unlock the
door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously.

"I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang college!"
muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh.

"Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil.

"I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly.

"Yes, you have," said Laurie at once.

"Where?"

"In your face."

"Nonsense; that's of no use."

"Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having," replied
the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he
fancied he knew.

Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions, and looked across
the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn
when he told the story of the knight.

"If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us
have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said Jo,
always ready with a plan.

"Bless me! how old I shall be,--twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg who felt
grown up already, having just reached seventeen.

"You and I shall be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy
twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo.

"I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time; but I'm
such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall 'dawdle,' Jo."

"You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is sure you'll
work splendidly."

"Is she? By Jupiter I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie,
sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please
grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you see,
and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I'd
rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of
rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the
bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I
give him four years he ought to let me off from the business; but he's
set, and I 've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please
myself, as my father did. If there was any one left to stay with the old
gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow."

Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into
execution on the slightest provocation; for he was growing up very fast,
and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred of
subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself.

"I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home
again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination was
fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was
excited by what she called "Teddy's wrongs."

"That's not right, Jo; you mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't
take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes,
my dear boy," said Meg, in her most maternal tone. "Do your best at
college, and, when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he won't
be hard or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with
and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without
his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty; and you'll
get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved."

"What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good
advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation
from himself, after his unusual outbreak.

"Only what your grandpa told us about him,--how he took good care of his
own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice
person, because he wouldn't leave her; and how he provides now for an
old woman who nursed his mother; and never tells any one, but is just as
generous and patient and good as he can be."

"So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused,
looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like grandpa to find
out all about him, without letting him know, and to tell all his
goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't
understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me,
and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just
perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you
all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for
Brooke."

"Begin to do something now, by not plaguing his life out," said Meg
sharply.

"How do you know I do, miss?"

"I can always tell by his face, when he goes away. If you have been
good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly; if you have plagued him,
he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work
better."

"Well, I like that! So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in
Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window,
but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph."

                [Illustration: I see him bow and smile]

"We haven't; don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything! It
was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is
said in confidence, you know," cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought of
what might follow from her careless speech.

"_I_ don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his "high and mighty" air,
as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. "Only if
Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather
for him to report."

"Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be
silly; I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be
sorry for, by and by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were our
brother, and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly." And
Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.

Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand,
and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven; I'm cross, and have been
out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be
sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes; I thank you all the
same."

Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable
as possible,--wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook
down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a
fit person to belong to the "Busy Bee Society." In the midst of an
animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those
amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of
a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea "to draw," and they would
just have time to get home to supper.

"May I come again?" asked Laurie.

"Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are
told to do," said Meg smiling.

"I'll try."

"Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do;
there's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers, like a big
blue worsted banner, as they parted at the gate.

That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie,
standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David,
whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old
man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of
the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of the
afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the
sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old
gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                    [Illustration: Jo was very busy]

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

completion: Laurie is lying in his hammock being lazy when he sees the March girls leaving their house, carrying a variety of strange things. Laurie thinks they are having a picnic without him and feels left out. He goes after them to see what they're doing, and to give them the key of the boathouse if they want it. Coming over the hill, Laurie sees the four girls sitting under a tree and working busily. Meg is sewing, Amy is sketching, Jo is knitting and reading aloud, and Beth is sorting the pinecones that she uses to do crafts. Laurie isn't sure whether he should go away quietly and leave them alone. Jo and Beth want to let him join them, but Meg says that he has to do something - this is a "Busy Bee Society" and nobody is allowed to be idle. Laurie takes over reading aloud from Jo. When he finishes the story, he asks what they're doing. Meg and Amy are still worried that he'll make fun of them, but over their objections, Jo explains about the "Pilgrim's Progress" game. The girls have stayed busy all summer as part of "carrying their burdens" in the game, and sometimes they come and work on the hill and pretend it is the Delectable Mountain from the story. The girls talk about their hopes for the future and allude to their hopes of going to Heaven in the afterlife. Beth longs to see Heaven, and Jo and Laurie talk about how hard it is for them to be good. After a pause, Jo and Laurie begin talking about their earthly dreams and hopes - their "castles in the air." Each of them describes his or her own "castle in the air." Laurie's dream is to travel the world, then live in Germany and be a famous musician. Meg's dream is to be the mistress of a wealthy mansion. Laurie and Jo tease her about wanting a master for the mansion, too, and maybe children. Jo says that she would have a stable full of horses, a house full of books, and be a famous writer. She wants to do something amazing before she dies. Beth just wants to stay at home and take care of the family. Amy wants to go to Rome and be a famous artist. Laurie comments on the fact that they are all ambitious. Jo suggests that, in ten years, they should get together and see how their real lives compare to their dreams. Laurie talks about his grandfather's plans for him and how much he dislikes them. Mr. Laurence wants Laurie to go to college, then be a merchant importing tea, silks, and spices from India. Laurie is going to go to college, but hopes that after that his grandfather will let him do what he wants. Jo thinks Laurie should run off and have adventures. Meg rebukes her and tells Laurie he must do what his grandfather wants. Meg advises Laurie to be as good as Mr. Brooke. Laurie asks Meg what she knows about Mr. Brooke. Meg says that she knows he looked after his mother while she was dying, works hard, and is kind. Laurie says that Mr. Brooke really likes the March family and was flattered to be treated well by them. They treat him just like Laurie and don't make a big deal of the fact that the Laurences are wealthy and he's just their servant. Laurie says that one day he'll do something to help Mr. Brooke get along in life. Meg says that Laurie could help Mr. Brooke now - by being a more diligent student! She can always tell how Laurie behaved by watching Mr. Brooke's face when he leaves the Laurence house. Laurie is a little bit offended at Meg's nosiness and she apologizes to him. He apologizes also, saying that it's good to have the girls point out his flaws in a sisterly way. Laurie continues to help the girls with their tasks until they hear the tea bell ring at the March house. The girls pack up their stuff to go home for the evening meal. Laurie asks if he can join them again, and Meg says yes. Jo says she will teach him to knit socks. That evening, Mr. Laurence sits listening to Beth play the piano, and Laurie watches them. He realizes that he is all his grandfather has, and resolves to forget his castle in the air and be a dutiful grandson.


prompt:
Chapter: XIV. SECRETS.

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 down stairs, leaving her friends to nibble 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 any one 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 door-way, 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
manœuvre 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 door-way, saying, with a smile and a shiver,--

"It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need some
one to help her home."

In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs 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 any one 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 or 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 still
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 are 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 newspaper man, 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.

                 [Illustration: Hurrah for Miss March]

"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 any one
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 sha'n'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 any one; mind that."

"I didn't promise."

"That was understood, and I trusted you."

"Well, I won't for the present, any way; 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 any one 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 hair-pins as she ran. Laurie reached
the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the success of his
treatment; for his Atalanta came panting up, with flying hair, bright
eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.

                     [Illustration: Jo darted away]

"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
some one 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
dishevelled sister with well-bred surprise.

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

"And hair-pins," 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' any one," 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 to 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 any one 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, which made her feel unusually
elegant and ladylike.

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

    [Illustration: Jo 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! O 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 criticised 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 sung 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 all 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, any one would pay. So I let him have the two
stories, and to-day 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: It is October, and Jo spends her afternoons sitting in the attic and writing. Finally, one day, she's finished with her manuscript! Jo reads the manuscript all the way through one last time. Then she takes it and another manuscript from a box, pockets them, and leaves the house secretly. She takes the bus into town. Jo comes to a busy street, but she can't quite bring herself to go into the door of the building. She tries three times, and each time ends up turning around and walking away. Finally, she forces herself to enter. One of the signs above the door is for a dentist's office. What she doesn't know is that a young man has been watching her the whole time. The young man waits for Jo outside the office. She comes downstairs ten minutes later and he joins her as she walks away. Laurie - the young man is, of course, Laurie - asks Jo questions, assuming that she just visited the dentist's office. He asks if she had any out, and she says that she has two she wants to come out. Jo asks what Laurie has been doing downtown, and he says he was having a fencing lesson. She's glad that he wasn't playing billiards or drinking, which are considered improper for young men. She tells Laurie that her mother won't let Ned Moffat visit their house, even though he wants to, because he goes to saloons . Jo tells Laurie that she wants him to be honest and respectable and not gamble away money. Laurie starts to get tired of her lecture and tells her that he'll take the bus home instead of walking with her if she doesn't stop. Jo agrees to stop lecturing. Laurie says that he will tell her an exciting secret that he knows - if she will tell him her secret. She wants to know how he realized she had a secret, and he says that she's terrible at hiding it. Jo agrees and tells Laurie that she has just come from a newspaper office, where she left two stories to be considered for publication. Laurie's ready to celebrate, but Jo says that she hasn't heard back yet. Laurie tells his secret: Meg's lost glove is in Mr. Brooke's pocket, being cherished with romantic hopes. Jo is disgusted by this and says that she doesn't want anyone to come and take Meg away from her. Laurie says that Jo will feel different when someone takes her away someday. Jo says that she'd like to see anyone try it! To avoid an argument, Laurie suggests that they race down the hill. They take off running, and Jo's hairpins fly out everywhere. They reach the bottom of the hill. Jo is flushed and out of breath but having fun, and she sends Laurie back to pick up some things she dropped. Meg arrives on the scene and discovers her sister flushed, panting, and disheveled. She's horrified at Jo's lack of propriety. Meg and Jo argue about Jo's childish behavior. Jo says that she wants to stay a child as long as she can, and is about to say that Meg is becoming a woman all too soon. Laurie interrupts before she can start a fight. Laurie asks where Meg has been. Meg says that she has been at the Gardiners' house, visiting Sallie and talking about Belle Moffat's wedding. Meg is just a tiny bit jealous. For the next week, Jo behaves strangely - she's rude to Mr. Brooke and always excited to see the postman. Meg continues to be embarrassed by Jo's rambunctious, childish behavior. One day, Meg, Beth and Amy are sitting inside, and they see Laurie and Jo go running by outside, holding newspapers and laughing. Jo comes in and reads her sisters a story from the newspaper. Amy and Meg praise the story, and Beth asks who wrote it. Jo admits that she did! Meg, Amy, and Beth insist on seeing Jo's name in print as the author of the story in the paper. They're very excited for her, and so are Mrs. March and Hannah. Jo explains to her sisters that she didn't get paid for these stories, but they are good publicity for her. Soon she'll be able to earn money for the family by writing!