Chapter Chapter 11 · EXPERIMENTS

. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the

seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top

and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in

her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and

southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies.

Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to

look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored

horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies,

delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would

consent to blossom there.

Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine

days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some

new, all more or less original. One of these was the ‘P.C.’, for as

secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one,

and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the

Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a

year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which

occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in

a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with

a big ‘P.C.’ in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper

called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something,

while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven

o’clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges

round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as

the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus

Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy,

who was always trying to do what she couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle.

Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original

tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which

they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short

comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles

without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared

hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he

arranged himself properly, began to read:

“THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO”

MAY 20, 18—

POET’S CORNER

ANNIVERSARY ODE

Again we meet to celebrate

With badge and solemn rite,

Our fifty-second anniversary,

In Pickwick Hall, tonight.

We all are here in perfect health,

None gone from our small band:

Again we see each well-known face,

And press each friendly hand.

Our Pickwick, always at his post,

With reverence we greet,

As, spectacles on nose, he reads

Our well-filled weekly sheet.

Although he suffers from a cold,

We joy to hear him speak,

For words of wisdom from him fall,

In spite of croak or squeak.

Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,

With elephantine grace,

And beams upon the company,

With brown and jovial face.

Poetic fire lights up his eye,

He struggles ’gainst his lot.

Behold ambition on his brow,

And on his nose, a blot.

Next our peaceful Tupman comes,

So rosy, plump, and sweet,

Who chokes with laughter at the puns,

And tumbles off his seat.

Prim little Winkle too is here,

With every hair in place,

A model of propriety,

Though he hates to wash his face.

The year is gone, we still unite

To joke and laugh and read,

And tread the path of literature

That doth to glory lead.

Long may our paper prosper well,

Our club unbroken be,

And coming years their blessings pour

On the useful, gay ‘P. C.’.

A. SNODGRASS

THE MASKED MARRIAGE

(A Tale Of Venice)

Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely

load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of

Count Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower

girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody

filled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on.

“Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?” asked a gallant

troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm.

“Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too,

for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates.”

“By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom,

except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the

fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows

her hand,” returned the troubadour.

“Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her

steps, and is spurned by the old Count,” said the lady, as they joined

the dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and

withdrawing the young pair to an alcove, hung with purple velvet, he

motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not

a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves

sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke

thus:

“My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here

to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services.”

All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went

through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks.

Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all

tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered

round the count, demanding an explanation.

“Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the

whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the

play end. Unmask and receive my blessing.”

But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone

that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face

of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast

where now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola,

radiant with joy and beauty.

“My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast

as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more,

for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De

Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for

the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.”

The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the

bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, “To

you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper

as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by

this masked marriage.”

S. PICKWICK

Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?

It is full of unruly members.

THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH

Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and

after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One

day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to

market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a

little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub

nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up,

and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it with salt and butter,

for dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four

spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and

baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a

family named March.

T. TUPMAN

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 11. 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 napkin, and

left the table precipitately.

“Oh, what is it?” exclaimed Jo, trembling.

“Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,” replied Meg with a

tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had

given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes

on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the

refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when

she met Laurie’s eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic

efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she

laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even

‘Croaker’ as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner

ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.

“I haven’t strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober

ourselves with a funeral,” said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made

ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend’s

dinner table.

They did sober themselves for Beth’s sake. Laurie dug a grave under the

ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his

tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of

violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,

composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner.

Here lies Pip March,

Who died the 7th of June;

Loved and lamented sore,

And not forgotten soon.

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome

with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the

beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up

the pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the

remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so

tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.

Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour

cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came

home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the

afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success

of one part of the experiment.

Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was

a scramble to get ready to see them. Then tea must be got, errands

done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last

minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on

the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each

groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.

“What a dreadful day this has been!” began Jo, usually the first to

speak.

“It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable,” said Meg.

“Not a bit like home,” added Amy.

“It can’t seem so without Marmee and little Pip,” sighed Beth, glancing

with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.

“Here’s Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you

want it.”

As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as

if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.

“Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another

week of it?” she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned

toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.

“I don’t!” cried Jo decidedly.

“Nor I,” echoed the others.

“You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a

little for others, do you?”

“Lounging and larking doesn’t pay,” observed Jo, shaking her head. “I’m

tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off.”

“Suppose you learn plain cooking. That’s a useful accomplishment, which

no woman should be without,” said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the

recollection of Jo’s dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and

heard her account of it.

“Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we’d

get on?” cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.

“Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing

her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on

pretty well, though I don’t think you were very happy or amiable. So I

thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when

everyone thinks only of herself. Don’t you feel that it is pleasanter

to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when

it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and

lovely to us all?”

“We do, Mother, we do!” cried the girls.

“Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for

though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as

we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for

everyone. It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and

spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than

money or fashion.”

“We’ll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don’t,” said Jo.

“I’ll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner

party I have shall be a success.”

“I’ll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it,

Marmee. I can and I will, though I’m not fond of sewing. That will be

better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as

they are.” said Meg.

“I’ll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music

and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing,”

was Beth’s resolution, while Amy followed their example by heroically

declaring, “I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts

of speech.”

“Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy

that we shall not have to repeat it, only don’t go to the other extreme

and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each

day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth

of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age

will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite

of poverty.”

“We’ll remember, Mother!” and they did.