Louisa May Alcott : Her Life, Letters, and Journals. Alcott Louisa May

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СКАЧАТЬ hat the limited sum of ten dollars can procure. She says so sweetly in one of her letters: "It is hard sometimes to see other people have so many nice things and I so few; but I try not to be envious, but contented with my poor clothes, and cheerful about it." I hope the little dear will like the bonnet and the frills I made her and some bows I fixed over from bright ribbons L. W. threw away. I get half my rarities from her rag-bag, and she doesn't know her own rags when fixed over. I hope I shall live to see the dear child in silk and lace, with plenty of pictures and "bottles of cream," Europe, and all she longs for.

      For our good little Betty, who is wearing all the old gowns we left, I shall soon be able to buy a new one, and send it with my blessing to the cheerful saint. She writes me the funniest notes, and tries to keep the old folks warm and make the lonely house in the snowbanks cosey and bright.

      To Father I shall send new neckties and some paper; then he will be happy, and can keep on with the beloved diaries though the heavens fall.

      Don't laugh at my plans; I'll carry them out, if I go to service to do it. Seeing so much money flying about, I long to honestly get a little and make my dear family more comfortable. I feel weak-minded when I think of all they need and the little I can do.

      Now about you: Keep the money you have earned by so many tears and sacrifices, and clothe yourself; for it makes me mad to know that my good little lass is going round in shabby things, and being looked down upon by people who are not worthy to touch her patched shoes or the hem of her ragged old gowns. Make yourself tidy, and if any is left over send it to Mother; for there are always many things needed at home, though they won't tell us. I only wish I too by any amount of weeping and homesickness could earn as much. But my mite won't come amiss; and if tears can add to its value, I've shed my quart,–first, over the book not coming out; for that was a sad blow, and I waited so long it was dreadful when my castle in the air came tumbling about my ears. Pride made me laugh in public; but I wailed in private, and no one knew it. The folks at home think I rather enjoyed it, for I wrote a jolly letter. But my visit was spoiled; and now I'm digging away for dear life, that I may not have come entirely in vain. I didn't mean to groan about it; but my lass and I must tell some one our trials, and so it becomes easy to confide in one another. I never let Mother know how unhappy you were in S. till Uncle wrote.

      My doings are not much this week. I sent a little tale to the "Gazette," and Clapp asked H. W. if five dollars would be enough. Cousin H. said yes, and gave it to me, with kind words and a nice parcel of paper, saying in his funny way, "Now, Lu, the door is open, go in and win." So I shall try to do it. Then cousin L. W. said Mr. B. had got my play, and told her that if Mrs. B. liked it as well, it must be clever, and if it didn't cost too much, he would bring it out by and by. Say nothing about it yet. Dr. W. tells me Mr. F. is very sick; so the farce cannot be acted yet. But the Doctor is set on its coming out, and we have fun about it. H. W. takes me often to the theatre when L. is done with me. I read to her all the p. m. often, as she is poorly, and in that way I pay my debt to them.

      I'm writing another story for Clapp. I want more fives, and mean to have them too.

      Uncle wrote that you were Dr. W.'s pet teacher, and every one loved you dearly. But if you are not well, don't stay. Come home, and be cuddled by your old

Lu.

      CHAPTER V

      AUTHORSHIP

OUR ANGEL IN THE HOUSE

      Sitting patient in the shadow

      Till the blessed light shall come,

      A serene and saintly presence

      Sanctifies our troubled home.

      Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows

      Break like ripples on the strand

      Of the deep and solemn river,

      Where her willing feet now stand.

      O my sister, passing from me

      Out of human care and strife,

      Leave me as a gift those virtues

      Which have beautified your life.

      Dear, bequeath me that great patience

      Which has power to sustain

      A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit

      In its prison-house of pain.

      Give me–for I need it sorely–

      Of that courage, wise and sweet,

      Which has made the path of duty

      Green beneath your willing feet.

      Give me that unselfish nature

      That with charity divine

      Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake,–

      Meek heart, forgive me mine!

      Thus our parting daily loseth

      Something of its bitter pain,

      And while learning this hard lesson

      My great loss becomes my gain;

      For the touch of grief will render

      My wild nature more serene,

      Give to life new aspirations,

      A new trust in the unseen.

      Henceforth safe across the river

      I shall see forevermore

      A beloved household spirit

      Waiting for me on the shore;

      Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,

      Guardian angels shall become;

      And the sister gone before me

      By their hands shall lead me home.

      WHEN only twenty-two years old Miss Alcott began her career of authorship by launching a little flower bark, which floated gaily on the stream. She had always written poems, plays, and stories for her own and her friends' pleasure, and now she gathered up some tales she had written for Mr. Emerson's daughter, and published them under the name of "Flower Fables." She received the small amount of thirty-two dollars for the book; but it gave her the great satisfaction of having earned it by work that she loved, and which she could do well. She began to have applications for stories from the papers; but as yet sewing and teaching paid better than writing. While she sewed her brain was busy with plans of poems, plays, and tales, which she made use of at a later period.

      The following letter to her mother shows how closely she associated her with this early success:–

20 Pinckney Street, Boston, Dec. 25, 1854.(With "Flower Fables,")

      Dear Mother, – Into your Christmas stocking I have put my "first-born," knowing that you will accept it with all its faults (for grandmothers are always kind), and look upon it merely as an earnest of what I may yet do; for, with so much to cheer me on, I hope to pass in time from fairies and fables to men and realities.

      Whatever beauty or poetry is to be found in my little book is owing to your interest in and encouragement of all my efforts from the first to the last; and if ever I do anything to be proud of, my greatest happiness will be that I can thank you for that, as I may do for all the good there is in me; and I shall be content to write if it gives you pleasure.

      Jo is fussing about;

      My lamp is going out.

      To dear mother, with many kind wishes for a happy New Year and merry Christmas.

      I am ever your loving daughter

Louy.

      This letter shows that she had already begun to see that she must study not only fairies and fancies, but men and realities; and she now began to observe life, СКАЧАТЬ