Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (e books free to read TXT) 📕

got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy’s bower. What went on there, Meg could not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.

“What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young lady,” sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.

“I hope she won’t; she is so funny and dear as she is,” said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo’s having secrets with anyone but her.

“It’s very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo,” added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way⁠—two agreeable things, which made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read.

“Have you anything interesting there?” asked Meg, with condescension.

“Nothing but a story; won’t amount to much, I guess,” returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.

“You’d better read it aloud; that will amuse us and keep you out of mischief,” said Amy, in her most grown-up tone.

“What’s the name?” asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet.

“The Rival Painters.”

“That sounds well; read it,” said Meg.

With a loud “Hem!” and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end.

“I like that about the splendid picture,” was Amy’s approving remark, as Jo paused.

“I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names; isn’t that queer?” said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the “lovering part” was tragical.

“Who wrote it?” asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo’s face.

The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and, with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement, replied in a loud voice, “Your sister.”

“You?” cried Meg, dropping her work.

“It’s very good,” said Amy critically.

“I knew it! I knew it! O my Jo, I am so proud!” and Beth ran to hug her sister, and exult over this splendid success.

Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! how Meg wouldn’t believe it till she saw the words, “Miss Josephine March,” actually printed in the paper; how graciously Amy criticised the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn’t be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead; how Beth got excited, and skipped and sung with joy; how Hannah came in to exclaim “Sakes alive, well I never!” in great astonishment at “that Jo’s doin’s;” how proud Mrs. March was when she knew it; how Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it; and how the Spread Eagle might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand.

“Tell us all about it.” “When did it come?” “How much did you get for it?” “What will father say?” “Won’t Laurie laugh?” cried the family, all in one breath, as they clustered about Jo; for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little household joy.

“Stop jabbering, girls, and I’ll tell you everything,” said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her “Evelina” than she did over her “Rival Painters.” Having told how she disposed of her tales, Jo added, “And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn’t pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said; and when the beginners improved, any one would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it, and insisted on seeing it, so I let him; and he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he’s going to get the next paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls.”

Jo’s breath gave out here; and, wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears; for to be independent, and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end.

XV A Telegram

“November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year,” said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frostbitten garden.

“That’s the reason I was born in it,” observed Jo pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.

“If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a delightful month,” said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, even November.

“I dare say; but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,” said Meg, who was out of sorts. “We go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a treadmill.”

“My patience, how blue we are!” cried Jo. “I don’t much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don’t I wish I could manage things for you as I do for my heroines! You’re pretty enough and good enough already, so I’d have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly; then you’d dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something, in a blaze of splendor and elegance.”

“People don’t have fortunes left them in that style nowadays;