Chapter 1
In America, the civil war had broken out in 1812. Mr. March as a chaplain (a priest who is responsible for the religious needs of people in a prison, hospital or in the armed forces) in the army had gone to Washington. He had four daughters and a beautiful wife. His daughters’ names were Margaret or Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy.
The four March sisters sat beside the fireplace knitting their respective sweaters. In fact, they had been waiting for their mother who had gone out and had not yet come back. Mrs. March was a down-to-earth activist and social worker. She was extremely devoted to the service of the poor, the needy and the downtrodden. It was the eve of Christmas.
“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg.
“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
“We’ve got father and mother, and each other anyhow,” said Beth and so 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, “We haven’t got father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say, “Perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of father away where the fighting was.
Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, “You know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it’s 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 can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices,” and Meg thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.
“I don’t think the little we should spend would do any good. We’ve each got a dollar, and the army wouldn’t 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 Sintrum for myself,” said Jo, who was a bookworm.
“I planned to spend mine in new music,” said Beth with a little sigh.
“I shall get a nice box of drawing pencils; I really need them,” said Amy decidedly.
“Mother won’t wish us to give up everything. Let each buy what we want, and have a little fun; we work hard to earn it,” cried Jo.
“I know I do—teaching those dreadful children nearly all day, when I’m longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg.
“You don’t have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo, “How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting?”
“It’s naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. My hands get so stiff; I can’t practise good a bit.” And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh.
“I don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy, “for you don’t have to go school with impertinent girls, who laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn’t rich.”
“If you mean label, I’d say so, and not talk about labels, as if pa was a pickle-bottle,” advised Jo.
“I know what I mean, and you needn’t be ‘satirical’ about it. It’s proper to use good words, and improve your vocabulary,” returned Amy with dignity.
“Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had the money papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me, how happy and good we’d be if we had no worries,” said Meg.
“You 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.”
“So I did, Beth. Well, I guess we are; for though we do have to work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.”
“Jo does use such slang words,” observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo sat up, put her hands in her apron pockets, and began to whistle.
“Don’t, Jo; it’s so boyish.”
“That’s why I do it.”
“I detest rude, unlady-like girls.”
“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits.”
“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker.
“As for you Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you’ll grow up an affected little goose if you don’t take care.”
“If Jo is a tomboy, and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth.
“You’re a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly; and no one contradicted her, for the ‘Mouse’ was the pet of the family.
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, She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp grey eyes. Her long, thick hair was her only beauty; but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn’t 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. 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. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners.
The clock struck six; and Beth put a pair of slipper down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for mother was coming. Meg stopped lecturing, and lit 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.
“Glad to fine you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a stout, motherly lady.
“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby.”
While making these maternal inquiries, Mrs. March got her wet things off, her hot slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy to her lap. The girls flew about trying to make things comfortable. Meg arranged the tea-able; Jo brought wood, dropping, overturning, and clattering everthing she touched; Beth trotted and fro between parlour and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave directions, as she sat with her hands folded.
As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said with a happy face, “I’ve got a treat for you after supper.”
A bright smile went round like streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of her hot biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, “A letter! Three cheers for father!”
“Yes, a nice long letter. He lends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and a special message to you girls,” said Mrs. March.
“I think it was so splendid in father to go as a chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,” said Meg.
“Don’t I wish I could go as drummer or a nurse,” exclaimed Jo, with a grom.
“When will he come home, mother?” asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice.
“Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick.”
They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back. It was a cheerful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news; and only at the end did the writer’s heart overflow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.
“Give them all my dear love and a kiss. Remind them that while we wait we may all work so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will be loving children to you, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so beautifully, that when I come back to them I may be prouder than ever of my little women.”
