Chapter: I. PLAYING PILGRIMS.


                          


"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying
on the rug.

"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old
dress.

"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things,
and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured
sniff.

"We've got father and mother and each other," said Beth contentedly,
from her corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the
cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,--

"We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time." She
didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of
father far away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone,--

"You know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this
Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for every one; and
she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are
suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little
sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't;" and Meg
shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she
wanted.

"But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've
each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving
that. I agree not to expect anything from mother or you, but I do want
to buy Undine and Sintram for myself; I've wanted it _so_ long," said
Jo, who was a bookworm.

"I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh,
which no one heard but the hearth-brush and kettle-holder.

"I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing-pencils; I really need them,"
said Amy decidedly.

"Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to
give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun;
I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels
of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

"I know _I_ do,--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when
I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone
again.

"You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you
like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps
you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to
fly out of the window or cry?"

"It's naughty to fret; but I do think washing dishes and keeping things
tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross; and my hands get
so stiff, I can't practise well at all;" and Beth looked at her rough
hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.

"I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy; "for you don't
have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't
know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if
he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."

"If you mean _libel_, I'd say so, and not talk about _labels_, as if
papa was a pickle-bottle," advised Jo, laughing.

"I know what I mean, and you needn't be _statirical_ about it. It's
proper to use good words, and improve your _vocabilary_," returned Amy,
with dignity.

"Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money
papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! how happy and good we'd be,
if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times.

"You said the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the
King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in
spite of their money."

"So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are; for, though we do have to work,
we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say."

"Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at
the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her
hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.

"Don't, Jo; it's so boyish!"

"That's why I do it."

"I detest rude, unlady-like girls!"

"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"

"'Birds in their little nests agree,'" sang Beth, the peace-maker, with
such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the
"pecking" ended for that time.

"Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to
lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off
boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much
when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your
hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."

"I'm not! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two
tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down
a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss
March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China-aster! It's bad
enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys' games and work and
manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy; and it's
worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with papa, and I can
only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo shook the
blue army-sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball
bounded across the room.

"Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped; so you must try to be
contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us
girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that
all the dish-washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in
its touch.

"As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular and
prim. Your airs are funny now; but you'll grow up an affected little
goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways
of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant; but your absurd words are
as bad as Jo's slang."

"If Jo is a tom-boy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth,
ready to share the lecture.

"You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and no one
contradicted her, for the "Mouse" was the pet of the family.

As young readers like to know "how people look," we will take this
moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat
knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly
without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable
old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for
a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,
chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a
pleasant atmosphere of home-peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being
plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a sweet
mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old
Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt; for she
never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very
much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,
gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,
funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty; but it
was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders
had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the
uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a
woman, and didn't like it. Elizabeth--or Beth, as every one called
her--was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy
manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression, which was seldom
disturbed. Her father called her "Little Tranquillity," and the name
suited her excellently; for she seemed to live in a happy world of her
own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy,
though the youngest, was a most important person,--in her own opinion at
least. A regular snow-maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair, curling
on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a
young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four
sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six; and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair
of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good
effect upon the girls; for mother was coming, and every one brightened
to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out
of the easy-chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was
as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.

        [Illustration: Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm]

"They are quite worn out; Marmee must have a new pair."

"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.

"No, I shall!" cried Amy.

"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided--

"I'm the man of the family now papa is away, and _I_ shall provide the
slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he was
gone."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth; "let's each get her something
for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."

"That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.

Every one thought soberly for a minute; then Meg announced, as if the
idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give
her a nice pair of gloves."

"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.

"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.

"I'll get a little bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won't cost
much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.

"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.

"Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.
Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo.

        [Illustration: I used to be so frightened when it was my
                     turn to sit in the big chair]

"I used to be _so_ frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big
chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the
presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was
dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said
Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea, at the same time.

"Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise
her. We must go shopping to-morrow afternoon, Meg; there is so much to
do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down,
with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air.

"I don't mean to act any more after this time; I'm getting too old for
such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about
"dressing-up" frolics.

"You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown
with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best
actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the
boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse to-night. Come here, Amy, and do
the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that."

"I can't help it; I never saw any one faint, and I don't choose to make
myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down
easily, I'll drop; if I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be
graceful; I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned
Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she
was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.

          [Illustration: Do it this way, clasp your hands so]

"Do it this way; clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,
crying frantically, 'Roderigo! save me! save me!'" and away went Jo,
with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked
herself along as if she went by machinery; and her "Ow!" was more
suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave
a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread
burn as she watched the fun, with interest.

"It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the
audience laugh, don't blame me. Come on, Meg."

Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of
two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful
incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect;
Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of
remorse and arsenic, with a wild "Ha! ha!"

"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and
rubbed his elbows.

"I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're
a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her
sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.

"Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think 'The Witch's Curse, an
Operatic Tragedy,' is rather a nice thing; but I'd like to try Macbeth,
if we only had a trap-door for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing
part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?'" muttered Jo, rolling her
eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.

"No, it's the toasting fork, with mother's shoe on it instead of the
bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a
general burst of laughter.

"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door,
and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady, with a
"can-I-help-you" look about her which was truly delightful. She was not
elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the
gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in
the world.

"Well, dearies, how have you got on to-day? There was so much to do,
getting the boxes ready to go to-morrow, that I didn't come home to
dinner. Has any one called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look
tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby."

While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off,
her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy-chair, drew Amy to
her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls
flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg
arranged the tea-table; Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping,
overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and
fro between parlor and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave
directions to every one, as she sat with her hands folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly
happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped
her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her
napkin, crying, "A letter! a letter! Three cheers for father!"

"Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through
the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving
wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs.
March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.

"Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger, and simper
over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking in her tea, and dropping her
bread, butter side down, on the carpet, in her haste to get at the
treat.

Beth ate no more, but crept away, to sit in her shadowy corner and brood
over the delight to come, till the others were ready.

"I think it was so splendid in father to go as a chaplain when he was
too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg
warmly.

"Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a _vivan_--what's its name? or a
nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan.

"It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of
bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy.

"When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver in
her voice.

"Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his
work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a
minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter."

They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair with Beth at her
feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on
the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter
should happen to be touching.

Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not
touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little
was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the
homesickness conquered; it was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of
lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news; and only
at the end did the writer's heart overflow with fatherly love and
longing for the little girls at home.

           [Illustration: It was a cheerful, hopeful letter]

"Give them all my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by
day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection
at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but
remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days
need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that
they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully,
fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so
beautifully, that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder
than ever of my little women."

Everybody sniffed when they came to that part; Jo wasn't ashamed of the
great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded
the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother's shoulder
and sobbed out, "I _am_ a selfish girl! but I'll truly try to be better,
so he mayn't be disappointed in me by and by."

"We all will!" cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks, and hate to
work, but won't any more, if I can help it."

"I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman,' and not be
rough and wild; but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere
else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much
harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army-sock, and
began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that
lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all
that father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy
coming home.

        [Illustration: How you used to play Pilgrim's Progress]

Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying in her
cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim's Progress
when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me
tie my piece-bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks
and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the
cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the house-top,
where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a
Celestial City."

"What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and
passing through the Valley where the hobgoblins were!" said Jo.

"I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled down stairs,"
said Meg.

"My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our
flowers and arbors and pretty things were, and all stood and sung for
joy up there in the sunshine," said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant
moment had come back to her.

"I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar
and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the
top. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to play it
over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things
at the mature age of twelve.

"We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are
playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our
road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the
guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace
which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you
begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get
before father comes home."

"Really, mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very
literal young lady.

"Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth; I rather
think she hasn't got any," said her mother.

"Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice
pianos, and being afraid of people."

Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh; but
nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.

"Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name for
trying to be good, and the story may help us; for though we do want to
be good, it's hard work, and we forget, and don't do our best."

"We were in the Slough of Despond to-night, and mother came and pulled
us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions,
like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo, delighted with
the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her
duty.

"Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find your
guide-book," replied Mrs. March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table; then
out came the four little work-baskets, and the needles flew as the girls
made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but to-night no
one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long seams into
four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America,
and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the
different countries as they stitched their way through them.

   [Illustration: No one but Beth could get much music out of the old
                                 piano]

At nine they stopped work, and sung, as usual, before they went to bed.
No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a
way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant
accompaniment to the simple songs they sung. Meg had a voice like a
flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a
cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always
coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoilt the
most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could
lisp

        "Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar,"

and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.
The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went about the
house singing like a lark; and the last sound at night was the same
cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar
lullaby.

      [Illustration: At nine they stopped work and sung as usual]




                   [Illustration: A Merry Christmas]

 The four March sisters, Jo, Meg, Amy, and Beth, are sitting around the fire at home on Christmas eve. They're complaining about the fact that this year, the family is too poor for them to get presents. Beth reminds the girls that they may not have presents, but they have each other and their parents. The other girls object that they don't have their father right now - he's away fighting. Since this novel is from 1868, we realize that Mr. March must be a soldier in the Civil War . Meg reminds the girls why their mother asked them to give up presents this year - it's going to be a tough winter for everybody, and in wartime people need to make sacrifices at home to support the troops. Jo suggests that each of the girls should spend her dollar on something for herself. She wants a copy of a new romance novel called Undine and Sintram. Amy wants a box of drawing pencils. Meg and Jo talk about how hard they work to earn money for the family. Meg is the governess and tutor for some obnoxious rich children, and Jo is the companion of a fussy old lady. Beth reminds her sisters that she also works hard doing housework. Amy complains about going to school and being teased by the other girls. Amy confuses the words "label" and "libel" and Jo teases her about her vocabulary. Meg wishes that the family was still rich and reminisces about he fortune that her father lost when they were children. Beth reminds her that, even without money, they are happier than the rich people they know. Amy and Jo bicker; Amy complains about Jo's crass mannerisms and Jo complains that Amy is stuck-up. Meg intervenes and says they're both at fault, but especially reprimands Jo for being too boyish. Jo wishes that she were a boy so that she could go and fight in the war with her father; she hates the idea of growing up and being ladylike, and it frustrates her that she has to stay home knitting during the war. Beth soothes Jo. Meg lectures Amy about being too conceited. Beth asks Meg for some constructive criticism, but Meg has nothing critical to say about Beth. The narrator breaks in and describes the scene and the appearance of the girls. All four of them are knitting together in the twilight in a room that is comfortable, but plain and shabby. It's decorated with books and flowers. Meg, the oldest, is sixteen and very pretty, with soft white hands. Jo is fifteen, long-limbed and clumsy, but with beautiful long, thick, brown hair. Beth is thirteen, very shy, and calm. Amy, the youngest, is a pretty blonde girl with good manners. The clock strikes six. The girls start preparing for their mother to arrive home; Beth gets her slippers, Meg lights the lamp, and so on. As the girls think about their mother, whom they call Marmee, they decide to spend their money on gifts for her instead of for themselves. Meg decides to get her a pair of gloves, Jo a good pair of shoes, Beth some handkerchiefs, and Amy a bottle of cologne. They plan to go shopping early the next day. Jo reminds the girls that they are putting on an amateur play tomorrow night as part of their Christmas celebration. She makes Amy practice a scene in which she has to faint, criticizing Amy for being too stiff and unnatural. Amy doesn't make much progress learning to faint more naturally. Meg and Jo run through their lines. We learn that Jo herself wrote the play, which is called The Witch's Curse and seems to be extremely melodramatic. The girls' mother arrives home, greeting them all and asking each of them about their days. She settles herself in the easy chair and the girls arrange things around her for supper. As they begin their meal, Mrs. March tells the girls that she received a letter from their father recently and that she'll read it to them after dinner. Meg praises her father for joining the army as a chaplain, even though he wouldn't have been drafted and isn't very strong physically. After dinner, the girls gather around their mother in the easy chair and she reads the letter to them. At the end of the letter, he wishes the girls his love, asking his "little women" to work hard to do their duty and conquer their faults. The girls cry a little and resolve to be better people and uphold their father's high principles. Amy says she'll try to be less selfish; Meg says she will try to be less vain and work harder; Jo resolves to do her duty at home instead of wishing she was a man and a soldier. Beth just cries. Mrs. March reminds the girls that when they were little they made a game out of The Pilgrim's Progress, an allegory written by seventeenth-century preacher John Bunyan. In the story, a man named Christian goes on a pilgrimage through many hardships until he reaches the Celestial City. The girls reminisce about their Pilgrim's Progress game. They used to tie bundles on their backs to symbolize their burdens and sins, and they turned the house into an adventure landscape. The Celestial City was on the roof, where they had brought flowers and pretty things. In the course of the conversation, we learn that Amy is twelve. Mrs. March suggests that the girls play Pilgrim's Progress again, only in a more grown-up way. Their burdens are their character flaws, their road is the life ahead of them that they need to live, and the Celestial City is, well, Heaven. Basically, they're reversing the allegory - going back to the part about living a good Christian life in order to gain salvation, instead of focusing on the fantasy story about fighting monsters and going on an adventure. Everyone has already described their "burdens" except Beth; she says that hers is "dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people" . Jo suggests that the girls have already gone through one adventure this evening: their mother pulled them out of their melancholy, just the way that the Help pulls Christian out of the Slough of Despond in Pilgrim's Progress. Jo recalls that, in Pilgrim's Progress, the main character has a scroll of directions. Mrs. March says that, if the girls look under their pillows on Christmas morning, they will find "guidebooks" for their "adventure." The girls discuss their plan while their servant, Hannah, clears the table. After dinner, the girls work on sewing some sheets for their Aunt March. The sisters sew until 9:00. Before they go to bed, they gather around the piano, and Beth accompanies them while they sing. This is an old family custom, since they have lovely voices and their mother is a "born singer" .

