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                    CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

     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 pros-
pects 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 or 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 lux-
ury--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, Mr. 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 hobble-
dehoy 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 some-
thing 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 disapoint 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 set-
tled 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 un-
reproved, 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 sug-
gested that it should be called the `Bhaer-garten', as a compli-
ment 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 mena-
gerie 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 pre-
dicted 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 chir-
ped 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. Every-
body 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 adventur-
ous 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 express-
ion 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 boy-
ish soul.  They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the
fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drink-
ing mild 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, form 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 handker-
chiefs 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 some-
thing 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 bus-
iness 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 illustra-
tions 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 en-
throned 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 chil-
dren 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 shad-
ow 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 tender-
hearted 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!"

                    END OF LITTLE WOMEN