Chapter: II. A MERRY CHRISTMAS.


Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No
stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much
disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because
it was so crammed with goodies. Then she remembered her mother's
promise, and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little
crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful
old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true
guide-book for any pilgrim going the long journey. She woke Meg with a
"Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A
green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few
words written by their mother, which made their one present very
precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke, to rummage and find
their little books also,--one dove-colored, the other blue; and all sat
looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the
coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature,
which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her
very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given.

"Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to
the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "mother wants us to
read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used
to be faithful about it; but since father went away, and all this war
trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you
please; but _I_ shall keep my book on the table here, and read a little
every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good, and help
me through the day."

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round
her, and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression
so seldom seen on her restless face.

"How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the
hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,"
whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters'
example.

"I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy; and then the rooms were very still
while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to
touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

"Where is mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for
their gifts, half an hour later.

"Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter come a-beggin', and your ma went
straight off to see what was needed. There never _was_ such a woman for
givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who
had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them
all more as a friend than a servant.

"She will be back soon, I think; so fry your cakes, and have everything
ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a
basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time.
"Why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the little flask
did not appear.

"She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on
it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the
first stiffness off the new army-slippers.

"How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed
them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly
at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.

"Bless the child! she's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M.
March.' How funny!" cried Jo, taking up one.

"Isn't it right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's
initials are 'M. M.,' and I don't want any one to use these but Marmee,"
said Beth, looking troubled.

"It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea,--quite sensible, too, for
no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said
Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

"There's mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed,
and steps sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters
all waiting for her.

"Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg,
surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so
early.

"Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean any one should know till the time
came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave
_all_ my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any
more."

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap
one; and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget
herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her "a
trump," while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to
ornament the stately bottle.

"You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about
being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the
minute I was up: and I'm _so_ glad, for mine is the handsomest now."

Another bang of the street-door sent the basket under the sofa, and the
girls to the table, eager for breakfast.

"Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books; we read
some, and mean to every day," they cried, in chorus.

"Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope
you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far
away from here lies a poor woman with a little new-born baby. Six
children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have
no fire. There is nothing to eat over there; and the oldest boy came to
tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give
them your breakfast as a Christmas present?"

They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a
minute no one spoke; only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously,--

"I'm so glad you came before we began!"

"May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked
Beth, eagerly.

"_I_ shall take the cream and the muffins," added Amy, heroically giving
up the articles she most liked.

Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one
big plate.

"I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You
shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and
milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinner-time."

They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was
early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and
no one laughed at the queer party.

                 [Illustration: The procession set out]

A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,
ragged bed-clothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale,
hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.

How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in!

"Ach, mein Gott! it is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman,
crying for joy.

"Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them laughing.

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work
there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the
broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother
tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she
dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The
girls, meantime, spread the table, set the children round the fire, and
fed them like so many hungry birds,--laughing, talking, and trying to
understand the funny broken English.

"Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things, as they ate,
and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze.

The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it
very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a "Sancho" ever
since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't
get any of it; and when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think
there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry
little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves
with bread and milk on Christmas morning.

"That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said
Meg, as they set out their presents, while their mother was upstairs
collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.

Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in
the few little bundles; and the tall vase of red roses, white
chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave
quite an elegant air to the table.

"She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for
Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about, while Meg went to conduct mother to
the seat of honor.

Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted
escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched;
and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents, and read the
little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new
handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's
cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were
pronounced a "perfect fit."

There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the
simple, loving fashion which makes these home-festivals so pleasant at
the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to
work.

The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of
the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being
still too young to go often to the theatre, and not rich enough to
afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their
wits to work, and--necessity being the mother of invention,--made
whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their
productions,--pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned
butter-boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton,
glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered
with the same useful diamond-shaped bits, left in sheets when the lids
of tin preserve-pots were cut out. The furniture was used to being
turned topsy-turvy, and the big chamber was the scene of many innocent
revels.

No gentlemen were admitted; so Jo played male parts to her heart's
content, and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet-leather boots
given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots,
an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some
picture, were Jo's chief treasures, and appeared on all occasions. The
smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors
to take several parts apiece; and they certainly deserved some credit
for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,
whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides.
It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and
employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or
spent in less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled on to the bed which was the
dress-circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a
most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling
and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp-smoke, and an
occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the
excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew
apart, and the Operatic Tragedy began.

"A gloomy wood," according to the one play-bill, was represented by a
few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the
distance. This cave was made with a clothes-horse for a roof, bureaus
for walls; and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot
on it, and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark, and the
glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued
from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed
for the first thrill to subside; then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with
a clanking sword at his side, a slouched hat, black beard, mysterious
cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he
struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his
hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to
kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an
occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive,
and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with
the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern, and
ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding "What ho, minion! I need
thee!"

[Illustration: Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face]

Out came Meg, with gray horse-hair hanging about her face, a red and
black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded
a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in
a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the
spirit who would bring the love philter:--

        "Hither, hither, from thy home,
         Airy sprite, I bid thee come!
         Born of roses, fed on dew,
         Charms and potions canst thou brew?
         Bring me here, with elfin speed,
         The fragrant philter which I need;
         Make it sweet and swift and strong,
         Spirit, answer now my song!"

            [Illustration: A little figure in cloudy white]

A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave
appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden
hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang,--

         "Hither I come,
          From my airy home,
        Afar in the silver moon.
          Take the magic spell,
          And use it well,
        Or its power will vanish soon!"

And, dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit
vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition,--not a
lovely one; for, with a bang, an ugly black imp appeared, and, having
croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo, and disappeared with a
mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his
boots, Hugo departed; and Hagar informed the audience that, as he had
killed a few of her friends in times past, she has cursed him, and
intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain
fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits
of the play.

A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again; but when
it became evident what a masterpiece of stage-carpentering had been got
up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb! A tower rose to
the ceiling; half-way up appeared a window, with a lamp burning at it,
and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver
dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap,
red cloak, chestnut love-locks, a guitar, and the boots, of course.
Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones.
Zara replied, and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came
the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope-ladder, with five
steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she
crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was
about to leap gracefully down, when, "Alas! alas for Zara!" she forgot
her train,--it caught in the window; the tower tottered, leaned forward,
fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins!

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the
wreck, and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "I told you so! I told you
so!" With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed
in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside,--

"Don't laugh! Act as if it was all right!"--and, ordering Roderigo up,
banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly
shaken by the fall of the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old
gentleman, and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara: she
also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons
of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains, and led them
away, looking very much frightened, and evidently forgetting the speech
he ought to have made.

Act third was the castle hall; and here Hagar appeared, having come to
free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming, and hides; sees
him put the potions into two cups of wine, and bid the timid little
servant "Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall
come anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and
Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando,
the "minion," carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds
the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long
warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and, after a good deal of clutching
and stamping, falls flat and dies; while Hagar informs him what she has
done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought
that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long hair rather marred
the effect of the villain's death. He was called before the curtain, and
with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was
considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put
together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing
himself, because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as
the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window,
informing him that Zara is true, but in danger, and he can save her, if
he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of
rapture he tears off his chains, and rushes away to find and rescue his
lady-love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He
wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it; and, after a
touching appeal, is about to faint, when Roderigo dashes in and demands
her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and
gesticulate tremendously, but cannot agree, and Roderigo is about to
bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a
letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The
latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young
pair, and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The
bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the
stage, till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely
softens the "stern sire": he consents without a murmur, all join in a
joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive
Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

  [Illustration: The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing]

Tumultuous applause followed, but received an unexpected check; for the
cot-bed, on which the "dress-circle" was built, suddenly shut up, and
extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to
the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless
with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided, when Hannah appeared,
with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to
supper."

This was a surprise, even to the actors; and, when they saw the table,
they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to
get up a little treat for them; but anything so fine as this was
unheard-of since the departed days of plenty. There was
ice-cream,--actually two dishes of it, pink and white,--and cake and
fruit and distracting French bonbons, and, in the middle of the table,
four great bouquets of hot-house flowers!

It quite took their breath away; and they stared first at the table and
then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

"Is it fairies?" asked Amy,

"It's Santa Claus," said Beth.

"Mother did it"; and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard
and white eyebrows.

"Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a
sudden inspiration.

"All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.

"The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into
his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg.

"Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an
odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father, years ago;
and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would
allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending
them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse; and so you
have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk
breakfast."

"That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow,
and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us;
but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him when
we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt
out of sight, with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of satisfaction.

"You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?"
asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence; but says he's
very proud, and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his
grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and
makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn't
come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls."

"Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the
fence, and were getting on capitally,--all about cricket, and so
on,--when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some
day; for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly.

                [Illustration: We talked over the fence]

"I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman; so I've no
objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought
the flowers himself; and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure
what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away,
hearing the frolic, and evidently having none of his own."

"It's a mercy you didn't, mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots.
"But we'll have another play, some time, that he _can_ see. Perhaps
he'll help act; wouldn't that be jolly?"

"I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg
examined her flowers with great interest.

"They _are_ lovely! But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs.
March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my
bunch to father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we
are."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]




  [Illustration: Eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe"]

 Jo wakes up first on Christmas morning, disappointed there are no presents. Then she remembers their talk with Marmee and looks under her pillow. She finds a little red book. The other sisters wake up one by one. Each of them has a copy of the same book under their pillow - Meg's is green, Amy's blue, and Beth's gray. The narrator doesn't specifically say what the books are, but it's strongly hinted that they are copies of the Bible. The girls resolve to read a little of their books each morning before doing anything else. They begin right away. After half an hour of reading, the girls go down to breakfast. They find their mother gone and their servant Hannah preparing the meal. Hannah explains that a poor woman came to the door begging and Mrs. March has gone to see what she needs. Meg prepares a basket containing the little presents the girls bought for Marmee the night before. Amy has disappeared, taking her present, a small bottle of cologne, with her. Amy returns with a larger bottle of cologne, explaining that she is trying to be unselfish and she went back and exchanged the little bottle. Now she has spent all her money on her mother's gift. The girls praise her and add her gift to the basket. Marmee comes in and tells her daughters that nearby there is a poor family, hungry and cold, in need of charity. She asks the girls to give their Christmas breakfast to this family. At first the girls hesitate, but almost immediately they agree and begin bundling the food into containers so they can carry it. Mrs. March, Hannah, and the girls make their way to the shack where the poor family live. The family consists of a mother with six children and a newborn baby. The mother and children are overjoyed to receive food and firewood. They speak broken English interspersed with German and their last name is Hummel, so they are apparently recent immigrants. After their charitable act, the girls go home to eat bread and milk. They are content, even though they don't get to eat any of their fancy Christmas breakfast. Marmee goes upstairs to collect old clothes for the Hummels. The girls organize their gifts for their mother and Beth plays the piano as Marmee comes back into the room. She is touched and wears or uses each of the gifts right away. For the rest of the day, the girls prepare for their evening entertainment - a performance of the play that Jo wrote. They have made all their own props out of household items and the girls play all the parts themselves, with Jo in the male roles. A dozen of the girls' friends come over that evening to watch the play. At the sound of a bell, the curtains open on the first act of The Witch's Curse: an Operatic Tragedy. Here's where the play-within-the-novel begins: In the first act, Hugo, the villain, played by Jo, sings to the audience about his love for the beautiful Zara, his hatred of the hero Roderigo, and his evil plans for them both. Hugo orders the witch, Hagar, played by Meg, to give him a love potion and a poison. She summons spirits that provide both potions, but after Hugo leaves she explains that she actually has a grudge against him and has cursed him! The curtain falls and there is a pause while the scenery on the stage is changed. When the curtain comes up again, the audience realizes that the girls have constructed a wooden tower. At the top of the tower is the heroine, Zara, played by Amy. Roderigo arrives and convinces Zara to run away with him. As she is climbing down, the train of her dress catches on the window and pulls the tower down with a crash! Amy drops her character and starts saying "I told you so!" The sister playing Zara's father Don Pedro rushes in and hushes Amy, forcing her to go on with the play. Don Pedro banishes Roderigo from the kingdom, but Roderigo and Zara defy him. He sends them to his dungeon, and they are led away by a shy servant, played by Beth, who forgets her lines. The third act is set in the castle hall. The witch Hagar sneaks in to foil Hugo's plans. She hides and watches Hugo bring two cups, one bearing each potion, but she manages to change them for harmless drinks before they are taken to Roderigo and Zara. She tricks Hugo into drinking the poison and he dies horribly, to the audience's glee. In the fourth act, Roderigo has been told that Zara has deserted him, and is about to commit suicide when he hears a song under his window explaining that she is in danger. The key to his cell is thrown to him and he tears off his chains and escapes. In the fifth and final act, Zara defies her father Don Pedro and refuses to go into a convent. Roderigo rushes in to rescue her. The lovers plead with Don Pedro, but he remains unmoved. Finally the servant enters with a sack of money and a note from Hagar, promising Don Pedro a fortune if he allows the marriage and a curse if he doesn't. He relents and the play ends happily. The audience applauds fanatically, and their excitement is only briefly squelched when the collapsible bed they're sitting on closes up under them. Hannah appears and asks the girls down to supper. Everyone is surprised because they didn't know about this part, and they discover a feast - cake, fruit, bonbons, fancy flowers, and even ice cream. The sisters all have different theories about where the feast came from. Their mother explains that their rich neighbor, Old Mr. Laurence, sent it as a Christmas gift to reward them for their charitable act in the morning. Jo wonders if the idea for the gift came from Mr. Laurence's grandson, Laurie, whom the girls have seen next door several times. The girls talk about the Laurences. One of the guests knows that Old Mr. Laurence makes his grandson study hard with a tutor. Jo says she wants to get to know him, but Meg has been too prim and proper to let her speak to the boy without an introduction. Mrs. March approves of Jo's plan to get to know young Mr. Laurence, saying that he is polite and gentlemanly. Jo decides that they'll ask the boy to help them next time they perform an amateur play. As the girls enjoy the feast and the flowers, Beth remembers her father, far away, having a different kind of Christmas, and wishes she could send her flowers to him.

