第 四十七 章 · HARVEST TIME

. 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.”

“That’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 could 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 and proper than for my Professor

to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in 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 in 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 mismanagment

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 businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying

up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not

merely a businessman, 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 everyone

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 head, and 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 up-lifted 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 uphill 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 around, 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 wrongdoing, 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.

Goldenrod 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 everyone 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 bird’s 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, and 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.

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 leapfrog 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 miracle of

mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn’t shut, Rob’s footstool had a

wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was 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 the 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

sang with all their hearts the little song that 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.

“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 fulfill 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 blessed 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 tenderhearted 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 everyone 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 would 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...

“Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a

greater happiness than this!”