Little_Women3.txt

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Mr. Pickwick, Sir:--
I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner
I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his
club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in
this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and
let him send a French fable because he can't write out
of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains
in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and
prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that
means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school
time.
Yours respectably,
N.  WINKLE

[The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past
misdemeanors.  If our young friend studied punctuation, it
would be well.]

_________

A SAD ACCIDENT

On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock
in our basement, followed by cries of distress.
On rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved
President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and
fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes.  A perfect
scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick
had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water,
upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form,  and torn
his garments badly.  On being removed from this perilous
situation, it was discovered that he had suffered
no injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add,
is now doing well.
ED.

_________

THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT

It is our painful duty to record the sudden and
mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs.
Snowball Pat Paw.  This lovely and beloved cat was the
pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for
her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues
endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt
by the whole community.

When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching
the butcher's cart, and it is feared that some villain,
tempted by her charms, basely stole her.  Weeks have passed,
but no trace of her has been discovered, and we relinquish
all hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her
dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever.

_________

A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:


A LAMENT
(FOR S.  B.  PAT PAW)

We mourn the loss of our little pet,
And sigh o'er her hapless fate,
For never more by the fire she'll sit,
Nor play by the old green gate.

The little grave where her infant sleeps
Is 'neath the chestnut tree.
But o'er her grave we may not weep,
We know not where it may be.

Her empty bed, her idle ball,
Will never see her more;
No gentle tap, no loving purr
Is heard at the parlor door.

Another cat comes after her mice,
A cat with a dirty face,
But she does not hunt as our darling did,
Nor play with her airy grace.

Her stealthy paws tread the very hall
Where Snowball used to play,
But she only spits at the dogs our pet
So gallantly drove away.

She is useful and mild, and does her best,
But she is not fair to see,
And we cannot give her your place dear,
Nor worship her as we worship thee.
A.S.

_________

ADVERTISEMENTS

MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished
strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her
famous lecture on "WOMAN AND HER POSITION"
at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening,
after the usual performances.


A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen
Place, to teach young ladies how to cook.
Hannah Brown will preside, and all are
invited to attend.

The DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday
next, and parade in the upper story of the
Club House.  All members to appear in uniform
and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.

Mrs. BETH BOUNCER will open her new
assortment of Doll's Millinery next week.
The latest Paris fashions have arrived,
and orders are respectfully solicited.

A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville
Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which
will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage.
"The Greek Slave, or Constantine the Avenger," is the name
of this thrilling drama!!!



HINTS

If S.P.  didn't use so much soap on his hands,
he wouldn't always be late at breakfast.  A.S.
is requested not to whistle in the street.  T.T.
please don't forget Amy's napkin.  N.W.  must
not fret because his dress has not nine tucks.



WEEKLY REPORT

Meg--Good.
Jo--Bad.
Beth--Very Good.
Amy--Middling.

_________________________________________________

As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to
assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls
once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass
rose to make a proposition.

“Mr. President and gentlemen,” he began, assuming a parliamentary
attitude and tone, “I wish to propose the admission of a new
member–one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for
it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary
value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr.
Theodore Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do
have him.”

Jo’s sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather
anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat.

“We’ll put it to a vote,” said the President. “All in favor of this
motion please to manifest it by saying, ‘Aye’.”

A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody’s surprise, by a
timid one from Beth.

“Contrary-minded say, ‘No’.”

Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great
elegance, “We don’t wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about.
This is a ladies’ club, and we wish to be private and proper.”

“I’m afraid he’ll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,”
observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she
always did when doubtful.

Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. “Sir, I give you my word as a
gentleman, Laurie won’t do anything of the sort. He likes to write,
and he’ll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being
sentimental, don’t you see? We can do so little for him, and he does
so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place
here, and make him welcome if he comes.”

This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet,
looking as if he had quite made up his mind.

“Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and
his grandpa, too, if he likes.”

This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her
seat to shake hands approvingly. “Now then, vote again. Everybody
remember it’s our Laurie, and say, ‘Aye!’” cried Snodgrass excitedly.

“Aye! Aye! Aye!” replied three voices at once.

“Good! Bless you! Now, as there’s nothing like ‘taking time by the
fetlock’, as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present
the new member.” And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw
open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag,
flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.

“You rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?” cried the three girls,
as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a
chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.

“The coolness of you two rascals is amazing,” began Mr. Pickwick,
trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an
amiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion, and
rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in the most
engaging manner, “Mr. President and ladies–I beg pardon,
gentlemen–allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble
servant of the club.”

“Good! Good!” cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming
pan on which she leaned.

“My faithful friend and noble patron,” continued Laurie with a wave of
the hand, “who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed
for the base stratagem of tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in
after lots of teasing.”

“Come now, don’t lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the
cupboard,” broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.

“Never mind what she says. I’m the wretch that did it, sir,” said the
new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. “But on my honor,
I never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest
of this immortal club.”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a
cymbal.

“Go on, go on!” added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed
benignly.

“I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the
honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between
adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the
lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on
the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I
may be allowed the expression. It’s the old martin house, but I’ve
stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts
of things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books,
and bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it
will be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key,
and with many thanks for your favor, take my seat.”

Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and
subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some
time before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and
everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best. So it was an
unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it
broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member.

No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted,
well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did
add ‘spirit’ to the meetings, and ‘a tone’ to the paper, for his
orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent,
being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never
sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or
Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought.

The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished
wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as
through the real post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and
pickles, garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers,
invitations, scoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun,
and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and
funny telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah’s
charms, actually sent a love letter to Jo’s care. How they laughed
when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that
little post office would hold in the years to come.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EXPERIMENTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t say ‘larks!’” implored Amy, as a return snub for the ‘samphire’
correction.

“I’ll say ‘nightingales’ then, with Laurie. That’s proper and
appropriate, since he’s a warbler.”

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

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

“May we, Mother?” asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in
what they called ‘Marmee’s corner’.

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

“Oh, dear, no! It will be delicious, I’m sure,” said Meg complacently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I say, isn’t bread ‘riz’ enough when it runs over the pans?”

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

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

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

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