CHAPTER I
PLAYING PILGRIMS
âChristmas wonât be Christmas without any presents,â grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
âItâs so dreadful to be poor!â sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
âI donât think itâs fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,â added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
âWeâve got Father and Mother, and each other,â said Beth contentedly from her corner.
The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, âWe havenât got Father, and shall not have him for a long time.â She didnât say âperhaps neverâ, but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was.
Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, âYou know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We canât do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I donât,â and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.
âBut I donât think the little we should spend would do any good. Weâve each got a dollar, and the army wouldnât be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintran for myself. Iâve wanted it so long,â said Jo, who was a bookworm.
âI planned to spend mine on new music,â said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.
âI shall get a nice box of Faberâs drawing pencils; I really need them,â said Amy decidedly.
âMother didnât say anything about our money, and she wonât wish us to give up everything. Letâs each buy what we want, and have a little fun; Iâm sure we work hard enough to earn it,â cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.
âI know I do â teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when Iâm longing to enjoy myself at home,â began Meg, in the complaining tone again.
âYou donât have half such a hard time as I do,â said Jo. âHow would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till youâre ready to fly out the window or cry?â
âItâs naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I canât practice well at all.â And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that anyone could hear that time.
âI donât believe any of you suffer as I do,â cried Amy, âfor you donât have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you donât know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isnât rich, and insult you when your nose isnât nice.â
âIf you mean libel, Iâd say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa was a pickle bottle,â advised Jo, laughing.
âI know what I mean, and you neednât be statirical about it. Itâs proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,â returned Amy, with dignity.
âDonât peck at one another, children. Donât you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good weâd be, if we had no worries!â said Meg, who could remember better times.
âYou said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money.â
âSo I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work, we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.â
âJo does use such slang words!â observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug.
Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.
âDonât, Jo. Itâs so boyish!â
âThatâs why I do it.â
âI detest rude, unladylike girls!â
âI hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!â
âBirds in their little nests agree,â sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the âpeckingâ ended for that time.
âReally, girls, you are both to be blamed,â said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. âYou are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didnât matter so much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady.â
âIâm not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, Iâll wear it in two tails till Iâm twenty,â cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. âI hate to think Iâve got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! Itâs bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boysâ games and work and manners! I canât get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And itâs worse than ever now, for Iâm dying to go and fight with Papa. And I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!â
And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.
âPoor Jo! Itâs too bad, but it canât be helped. So you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls,â said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch.
âAs for you, Amy,â continued Meg, âyou are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but youâll grow up an affected little goose, if you donât take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you donât try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Joâs slang.â
âIf Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?â asked Beth, ready to share the lecture.
âYouâre a dear, and nothing else,â answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her, for the âMouseâ was the pet of the family.
As young readers like to know âhow people lookâ, we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.
Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didnât like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her âLittle Miss Tranquilityâ, and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.
The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.
âThey are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair.â
âI thought Iâd get her some with my dollar,â said Beth.
âNo, I shall!â cried Amy.
âIâm the oldest,â began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, âIâm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone.â
âIâll tell you what weâll do,â said Beth, âletâs each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.â
âThatâs like you, dear! What will we get?â exclaimed Jo.
Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, âI shall give her a nice pair of gloves.â
âArmy shoes, best to be had,â cried Jo.
âSome handkerchiefs, all hemmed,â said Beth.
âIâll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it wonât cost much, so Iâll have some left to buy my pencils,â added Amy.
âHow will we give the things?â asked Meg.
âPut them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Donât you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?â answered Jo.
âI used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,â said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same time.
âLet Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night,â said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.
âI donât mean to act anymore after this time. Iâm getting too old for such things,â observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about âdressing-upâ frolics.
âYou wonât stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress weâve got, and thereâll be an end of everything if you quit the boards,â said Jo. âWe ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.â
âI canât help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I donât choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, Iâll drop. If I canât, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful. I donât care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,â returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.
âDo it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, âRoderigo! Save me! Save me!ââ and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.
Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her âOw!â was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. âItâs no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, donât blame me. Come on, Meg.â
Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect. Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild, âHa! Ha!â
âItâs the best weâve had yet,â said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows.
âI donât see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. Youâre a regular Shakespeare!â exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
âNot quite,â replied Jo modestly. âI do think The Witchâs Curse, an Operatic Tragedy is rather a nice thing, but Iâd like to try Macbeth, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. âIs that a dagger that I see before me?ââ muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.
âNo, itâs the toasting fork, with Motherâs shoe on it instead of the bread. Bethâs stage-struck!â cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter.
âGlad to find you so merry, my girls,â said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a âcan I help youâ look about her which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world.
âWell, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didnât come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby.â
While making these maternal inquiries Mrs March got her wet things...