Chapter: XLVII. HARVEST TIME.


                             


For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met
occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the
price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began
rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March
died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over,--for they loved the
old lady in spite of her sharp tongue,--they found they had cause for
rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of
joyful things possible.

"It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum; for of course you
intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter
over, some weeks later.

"No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle,
whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.

"You don't mean to live there?"

"Yes, I do."

"But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of
money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or
three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it."

"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."

"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds
paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."

"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one;" and Jo laughed.

"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"

"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads,--a good, happy, homelike
school, with me to take care of them, and Fritz to teach them."

"There's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried
Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.

"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.

"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for
trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.

"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her
one all-absorbing son.

"Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all
about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a
hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.

"I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes,
though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she
speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just understand
that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long-cherished plan. Before my
Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no one
needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn
little lads, who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make
life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin,
for want of help at the right minute; I love so to do anything for them;
I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and, oh,
I should _so_ like to be a mother to them!"

Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in
her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not
seen for a long while.

"I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would
like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he's
been doing it all his life,--helping poor boys, I mean, not getting
rich; that he'll never be; money doesn't stay in his pocket long enough
to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better
than I ever deserved, _I'm_ rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at
Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It's just the
place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain.
There's plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside.
They could help in the garden and orchard: such work is healthy, isn't
it, sir? Then Fritz can train and teach in his own way, and father will
help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them; and mother will
be my stand-by. I've always longed for lots of boys, and never had
enough; now I can fill the house full, and revel in the little dears to
my heart's content. Think what luxury,--Plumfield my own, and a
wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me!"

As Jo waved her hands, and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off
into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought
he'd have an apoplectic fit.

"I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard.
"Nothing could be more natural or proper than for my Professor to open a
school, and for me to prefer to reside on my own estate."

"She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in
the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to
support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I'm
afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer."

"Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils,
also,--perhaps begin with such altogether; then, when I've got a start,
I can take a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people's
children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've seen
unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed
forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagement
or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get
through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they need most
patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try
to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn, all at once, from
pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain much,--plucky
little souls,--but they feel it. I've been through something of it, and
I know all about it. I've a special interest in such young bears, and
like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys'
hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads.
I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride
and honor to his family?"

"I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie, with a grateful
look.

"And I've succeeded beyond my hopes; for here you are, a steady,
sensible business man, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying
up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely
a business man: you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself,
and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I _am_
proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and every one feels
it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock,
I'll just point to you, and say, 'There's your model, my lads.'"

Poor Laurie didn't know where to look; for, man though he was, something
of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all
faces turn approvingly upon him.

"I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish
way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for,
except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me
off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless; so, if I've
got on at all, you may thank these two for it;" and he laid one hand
gently on his grandfather's white head, the other on Amy's golden one,
for the three were never far apart.

"I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the
world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually uplifted frame of mind
just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the
three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it
would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more quietly. And
that night, when she went to her room, after a blissful evening of
family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness
that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near
her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.

It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen
in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew
where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a
family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished
surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich; for Mr. Laurence was
continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the
Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for
its support. In this way the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and
furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.

Of course it was up-hill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes; but
the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most
rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her
"wilderness of boys," and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented
had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered
Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of
poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror
of the boys for miles round; and now the exiles feasted freely on
forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and
played cricket in the big field where the irritable "cow with a crumpled
horn" used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort
of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be called the
"Bhaer-garten," as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its
inhabitants.

It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a
fortune; but it _was_ just what Jo intended it to be,--"a happy,
homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness."
Every room in the big house was soon full; every little plot in the
garden soon had its owner; a regular menagerie appeared in barn and
shed, for pet animals were allowed; and, three times a day, Jo smiled at
her Fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows
of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes,
confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for "Mother Bhaer."
She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not
angels, by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and
Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot
which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing
little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and, in time, success; for
no mortal boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as
benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times
seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads; their
penitent sniffs and whispers after wrong-doing; their droll or touching
little confidences; their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans; even
their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more.
There were slow boys and bashful boys; feeble boys and riotous boys;
boys that lisped and boys that stuttered; one or two lame ones; and a
merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was
welcome to the "Bhaer-garten," though some people predicted that his
admission would ruin the school.

Yes; Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much
anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily, and found the
applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world; for
now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers
and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to
increase her happiness,--Rob, named for grandpa, and Teddy, a
happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny
temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up
alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and
aunts; but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough
nurses loved and served them well.

There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most
delightful was the yearly apple-picking; for then the Marches,
Laurences, Brookes, and Bhaers turned out in full force, and made a day
of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals
occurred,--a mellow October day, when the air was full of an
exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise, and the blood dance
healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire;
golden-rod and asters fringed the mossy walls; grasshoppers skipped
briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a
feast; squirrels were busy with their small harvesting; birds twittered
their adieux from the alders in the lane; and every tree stood ready to
send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake.
Everybody was there; everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled
down; everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day or
such a jolly set to enjoy it; and every one gave themselves up to the
simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things
as care or sorrow in the world.

Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and Columella
to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying--

        "The gentle apple's winey juice."

The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic
knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook
and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of
ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones,
rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the
birds' nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs.
March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting
the contributions that kept pouring in; while Amy, with a beautiful
motherly expression in her face, sketched the various groups, and
watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch
beside him.

Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned
up, her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her arm,
ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore a
charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any
anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on
the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent
papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies could digest
anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small
shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in time, safe and
rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with a hearty
welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.

               [Illustration: Teddy bore a charmed life]

At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the
apple-pickers rested, and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg,
with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass,
for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land
literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads
were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment
as they liked,--freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul.
They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for
some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on
their heads, others lent a charm to leap-frog by eating pie in the
pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and
apple-turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The
little girls had a private tea-party, and Ted roved among the edibles at
his own sweet will.

When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular
toast, which was always drunk at such times,--"Aunt March, God bless
her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much
he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to
keep her memory green.

"Now, grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times
three!"

That was given with a will, as you may well believe; and the cheering
once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed,
from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the
astonished guinea-pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search
of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the
queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were
transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some
of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments
to grandma's,--for the children's gifts were all their own. Every stitch
Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed
was better than embroidery to Mrs. March; Demi's shoe-box was a miracle
of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut; Rob's footstool had
a wiggle in its uneven legs, that she declared was very soothing; and no
page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so fair as that on
which appeared, in tipsy capitals, the words,--"To dear Grandma, from
her little Beth."

During this ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared; and, when
Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy
wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing.
Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree
to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sung, with all
their hearts, the little song Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and
the Professor trained his lads to give with the best effect. This was
something altogether new, and it proved a grand success; for Mrs. March
couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every
one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and Emil to the little
quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.

After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and
her daughters under the festival tree.

[Illustration: "Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival
                           tree."--Page 583]

"I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'Unlucky Jo' again, when my
greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer,
taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk-pitcher, in which he was
rapturously churning.

"And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long
ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy, smiling as she
watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.

"Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business, and
frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all
mankind. "Yes, I remember; but the life I wanted then seems selfish,
lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope that I may write
a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will be all the better
for such experiences and illustrations as these;" and Jo pointed from
the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the
Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one
of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother,
sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap
and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which
never could grow old to them.

"My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid
things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I
had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've got
them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world;" and Meg
laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender and
devout content.

"My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter
it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or
confine myself to helping others fulfil their dreams of beauty. I've
begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing
I've ever done. I think so myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that,
whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little angel."

As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping
child in her arms; for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little
creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy's sunshine.
This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and
sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature was growing sweeter,
deeper, and more tender; Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and
firm; and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love
itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blest;
for--

        "Into each life some rain must fall,
         Some days must be dark and sad and dreary."

"She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but
hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tender-hearted Daisy stooped
from her knee, to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale
one.

"I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie
to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly. "He never
lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted
to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always, that I can't love him
enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, 'Thank God,
I'm a happy woman.'"

"There's no need for me to say it, for every one can see that I'm far
happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good husband to her
chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. "Fritz is getting
gray and stout; I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty; we never
shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that
incorrigible Tommy Bangs _will_ smoke sweet-fern cigars under the
bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three times already. But in
spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and
never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among boys,
I can't help using their expressions now and then."

"Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began Mrs. March,
frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of
countenance.

"Not half so good as yours, mother. Here it is, and we never can thank
you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried Jo,
with the loving impetuosity which she never could outgrow.

"I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy
softly.

"A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee
dear," added Meg's tender voice.

Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if
to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and
voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility,--

"O, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater
happiness than this!"

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                             [Illustration]

 Jo and Mr. Bhaer spend a year apart, working and waiting to have enough money to get married. In their second year apart, Aunt March dies and leaves her mansion, Plumfield, to Jo. Laurie assumes Jo will sell the mansion, but Jo explains that she is planning to use the building to open a boarding school for boys. The whole family likes Jo's plan: Mr. Bhaer can teach the subjects he knows, Mr. March can experiment with progressive education techniques, and old Mr. Laurence can sponsor the school. Jo explains that she has been considering this plan for a long time - it combines her love for tomboyish sport with her mothering instinct. She's planning to care for abandoned or lost boys who might otherwise be corrupted. Laurie wonders how Jo will pay for the school if all the boys are charity cases. She says that she'll have rich pupils at first, and then use the proceeds from their tuition to grant scholarships to needy boys. After all, rich boys need a good moral education, too. Jo says she's already "brought up" one boy pretty well - Laurie himself! She tells him that he can be a model for the other boys. Jo is overwhelmed by the love and enthusiasm of her family. She only misses one thing - Mr. Bhaer, who is still away in the West earning money as a teacher. Now that Jo has Plumfield, Mr. Bhaer returns and they get married. Their school at Plumfield takes off right away; they have six or seven boys, many of them sponsored by Mr. Laurence. The narrator tells us that the school is "poetic justice" - Aunt March used to terrorize the local boys, and now her estate is a home for them. The school isn't fashionable and they don't make a fortune, but it is happy and they care for their boys well. And now Jo is called - wait for a terrible pun - Mother Bhaer. Say it out loud and...yes, we know, it's a terrible pun. Blame Louisa May Alcott, not Shmoop. Jo does make mistakes and there are a lot of funny incidents at the school, but her love and hard work win out and even the most hard-hearted boy relents and becomes better under her care. After a few years, Jo has two boys of her own: Rob, named for her father, and Teddy, named for Laurie. One day in October, five years after Jo's wedding, the whole extended family - Marches, Laurences, Brookes, and Bhaers - gathers together to pick apples and have a picnic. Everyone eats and talks and has a great time. As they pick apples, the boys play, the men discuss philosophy, Amy sketches and Mrs. March and Meg sort the apples. At 4:00 everyone takes a break and has a meal. Professor Bhaer makes a toast to Aunt March, and then another to Grandma's sixtieth birthday. Grandma, of course, is Marmee. Everyone gives presents to Marmee. Most of the children give handmade gifts. Finally, the Professor leads the boys in singing a song that Jo wrote for the occasion. After the singing, the boys play. The adults sit together and the March girls reminisce about the old days. Amy comments on how different Jo's life is from what she originally thought it would be. Jo says that she's very happy, but she still hopes to write a great book someday. Meg says that she came very close to achieving the "castle in the air" that she built for herself - remember that bit in Chapter 13? She's happy and content with the home that she has. Amy says that her life is also different from what she expected, but like Jo she hasn't given up on her art. She is making a marble statue of her infant daughter, who is sickly and likely to die young. Everyone agrees that they are extremely happy, and the novel ends with Marmee saying that she could never wish them greater happiness than they already have. Aww, isn't that sweet.

