12. “another bird to-morrow, if you want it.” Although she has sworn never to have another bird, Beth evidently accepts her mother’s offer, for she has another in Chapter XVIII.
CHAPTER XII.
Camp Laurence.
BETH was post-mistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels, like the penny post.1
“Here’s your posy, mother! Laurie never forgets that,” she said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in “Marmee’s corner,” and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.
“Miss Meg March, one letter, and a glove,” continued Beth, delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands.
“Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,” said Meg, looking at the gray cotton glove.
“Didn’t you drop the other in the garden?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t; for there was only one in the office.”
“I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted; I guess Mr. Brooke did it, for this isn’t Laurie’s writing.”
Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham morning-gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little work-table, full of tidy white rolls; so, unconscious of the thought in her mother’s mind, she sewed and sung while her fingers flew, and her mind was busied with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled, and was satisfied.
“Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered the whole post-office, stuck outside,” said Beth, laughing, as she went into the study, where Jo sat writing.
“What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, ‘Why mind the fashion? wear a big hat, and be comfortable!’ I said I would, if I had one, and he has sent me this, to try me; I’ll wear it, for fun, and show him I don’t care for the fashion;” and, hanging the antique broad-brim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.
One from her mother made her cheeks glow, and her eyes fill, for it said to her,—
“MY DEAR:
“I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction I watch your efforts to control your temper. You say nothing about your trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no one sees them but the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust the well-worn cover of your guide-book. I, too, have seen them all, and heartily believe in the sincerity of your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go on, dear, patiently and bravely, and always believe that no one sympathizes more tenderly with you than your loving
MOTHER.”
“That does me good! that’s worth millions of money, and pecks of praise. Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I have you to help me.”
Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy tears, for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts to be good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging, because unexpected, and from the person whose commendation she most valued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready for either good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote,—
“DEAR JO,
What ho!
Some English girls and boys are coming to see me to-morrow, and I want to have a jolly time. If it’s fine, I’m going to pitch my tent in Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet;—have a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are nice people, and like such things. Brooke will go, to keep us boys steady, and Kate Vaughn will play propriety2 for the girls. I want you all to come; can’t let Beth off, at any price, and nobody shall worry her. Don’t bother about rations,—I’ll see to that, and everything else,—only do come, there’s a good fellow!
“In a tearing hurry,
Yours ever, LAURIE.”
“Here’s richness!” cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg. “Of course we can go, mother! it will be such a help to Laurie, for I can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful some way.”
“I hope the Vaughn’s are not fine, grown-up people. Do you know anything about them, Jo?” asked Meg.
“Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys; I fancied, from the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn’t admire Kate much.”
“I’m so glad my French print is clean, it’s just the thing, and so becoming!” observed Meg, complacently. “Have you anything decent, Jo?”
“Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me; I shall row and tramp about, so I don’t want any starch to think of. You’ll come, Betty?”
“If you won’t let any of the boys talk to me.”
“Not a boy!”
“I like to please Laurie; and I’m not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so kind; but I don’t want to play, or sing, or say anything. I’ll work hard, and not trouble any one; and you’ll take care of me, Jo, so I’ll go.”
“That’s my good girl; you do try to fight off your shyness, and I love you for it; fighting faults isn’t easy, as I know; and a cheery word kind of gives a lift. Thank you, mother,” and Jo gave the thin cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given her back the rosy roundness of her youth.
“I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy,” said Amy, showing her mail.
“And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to him to-night, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go,” added Beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.
“Now let’s fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play to-morrow with free minds,” said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a broom.
When the sun peeped into the girls’ room early next morning, to promise them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation for the fête as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of little curl papers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin on her nose,3 to uplift the offending feature. It was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing-boards; therefore, quite appropriate and effective for the purpose to which it was now put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up, and roused all her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy’s ornament.
Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters’ toilets by frequent telegrams from the window.
“There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch, in a hamper, and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the sky, and the weathercock; I wish he would go, too! There’s Laurie looking like a sailor,—nice boy! Oh, mercy me! here’s a carriage full of people—a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is lame; poor thing, he’s got a crutch! Laurie didn’t tell us that. Be quick, girls! it’s getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do declare. Look, Meg! isn’t that the man who bowed to you one day, when we were shopping?”
Amy (Elizabeth Taylor) attempts a cosmetic alteration in the 1949 film. (Photofest)
“So it is; how queer that he should come! I thought he was at the Mountains. There is Sall
ie; I’m glad she got back in time. Am I all right, Jo?” cried Meg, in a flutter.
“A regular daisy; hold up your dress, and put your hat straight; it looks sentimental tipped that way, and will fly off at the first puff. Now, then, come on!”
“Oh, oh, Jo! you ain’t going to wear that awful hat? It’s too absurd! You shall not make a guy of yourself,” remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down, with a red ribbon, the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned Leghorn4 Laurie had sent for a joke.
“I just will, though! it’s capital; so shady, light, and big. It will make fun; and I don’t mind being a guy, if I’m comfortable.” With that Jo marched straight away, and the rest followed; a bright little band of sisters, all looking their best, in summer suits, with happy faces, under the jaunty hat-brims.
Laurie ran to meet, and present them to his friends, in the most cordial manner. The lawn was the reception room, and for several minutes a lively scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss Kate, though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls would do well to imitate; and she was much flattered by Mr. Ned’s assurances that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie “primmed up his mouth” when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a stand-off-don’t-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an observation of the new boys, and decided that the lame one was not “dreadful,” but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him, on that account. Amy found Grace a well-mannered, merry little person; and, after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good friends.
Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat; Mr. Brooke and Ned the other; while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to upset both, by paddling about in a wherry,5 like a disturbed water-bug. Jo’s funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of general utility; it broke the ice in the beginning, by producing a laugh; it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro, as she rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a shower came up, she said. Kate looked rather amazed at Jo’s proceedings, especially as she exclaimed “Christopher Columbus!” when she lost her oar; and Laurie said, “My dear fellow, did I hurt you?” when he tripped over her feet in taking his place. But after putting up her glass to examine the queer girl several times, Miss Kate decided that she was “odd, but rather clever,” and smiled upon her from afar.
Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with the rowers, who both admired the prospect, and feathered their oars with uncommon “skill and dexterity.” Mr. Brooke6 was a grave, silent young man, with handsome brown eyes, and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet manners, and considered him a walking encyclopædia of useful knowledge. He never talked to her much; but he looked at her a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned being in college, of course put on all the airs which Freshmen think it their bounden duty to assume; he was not very wise, but very good-natured and merry, and, altogether, an excellent person to carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white piquè dress clean, and chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror by his pranks.
It was not far to Longmeadow; but the tent was pitched, and the wickets down, by the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with three wide-spreading oaks in the middle, and a smooth strip of turf for croquet.7
“Welcome to Camp Laurence!” said the young host, as they landed, with exclamations of delight. “Brooke is commander-in-chief; I am commissary-general; the other fellows are staff-officers; and you, ladies, are company. The tent is for your especial benefit, and that oak is your drawing-room; this is the mess-room, and the third is the camp kitchen. Now let’s have a game before it gets hot, and then we’ll see about dinner.”
Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace, sat down to watch the game played by the other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred; Laurie took Sallie, Jo, and Ned. The Englishers played well; but the Americans played better, and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of ’76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes, and once narrowly escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket, and had missed the stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close behind her, and his turn came before hers; he gave a stroke, his ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No one was very near; and, running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his toe, which put it just an inch on the right side.
“I’m through! now, Miss Jo, I’ll settle you, and get in first,” cried the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.
“You pushed it; I saw you; it’s my turn now,” said Jo, sharply.
“Upon my word I didn’t move it! it rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is allowed; so stand off, please, and let me have a go at the stake.”
“We don’t cheat in America; but you can, if you choose,”8 said Jo, angrily.
“Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go,” returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.
Jo opened her lips to say something rude; but checked herself in time, colored up to her forehead, and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket with all her might, while Fred hit the stake, and declared himself out, with much exultation. She went off to get her ball, and was a long time finding it, among the bushes; but she came back, looking cool and quiet, and waited her turn patiently. It took several strokes to regain the place she had lost; and, when she got there, the other side had nearly won, for Kate’s ball was the last but one, and lay near the stake.
“By George, it’s all up with us! Good-by, Kate; Miss Jo owes me one, so you are finished,” cried Fred, excitedly, as they all drew near to see the finish.
“Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies,” said Jo, with a look that made the lad redden, “especially when they beat them,” she added, as, leaving Kate’s ball untouched, she won the game by a clever stroke.
Laurie threw up his hat; then remembered that it wouldn’t do to exult over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of a cheer to whisper to his friend,—
“Good for you, Jo! he did cheat, I saw him; we can’t tell him so, but he won’t do it again, take my word for it.”
Meg drew her aside, under pretence of pinning up a loose braid, and said, approvingly,—
“It was dreadfully provoking; but you kept your temper, and I’m so glad, Jo.”
“Don’t praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should certainly have boiled over, if I hadn’t stayed among the nettles till I got my rage under enough to hold my tongue. It’s simmering now, so I hope he’ll keep out of my way,” returned Jo, biting her lips, as she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.
“Time for lunch,” said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. “Commissary-general, will you make the fire, and get water, while Miss March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table. Who can make good coffee?”
“Jo can,” said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling that her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over the coffee-pot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys made a fire, and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched, and Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes, to serve as plates.
The commander-in-chief and his aids soon spread the table-cloth with an inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with green leaves. Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and every one settled themselves to a hearty meal; for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and exercise develops wholesome appetites. A very merry lunch it was; for everything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter startled a venerable horse, who fed near by. There was a pleasing inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to cups and plates; acorns drop
ped into the milk, little black ants partook of the refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down from the tree, to see what was going on. Three white-headed children peeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the other side of the river, with all his might and main.
“There’s salt, here, if you prefer it,” said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries.
“Thank you; I prefer spiders,” she replied, fishing up two unwary little ones, who had gone to a creamy death. “How dare you remind me of that horrid dinner-party, when yours is so nice in every way?” added Jo, as they both laughed, and ate out of one plate, the china having run short.
“I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven’t got over it yet. This is no credit to me, you know; I don’t do anything; it’s you, and Meg, and Brooke, who make it go, and I’m no end obliged to you. What shall we do when we can’t eat any more?” asked Laurie, feeling that his trump card had been played when lunch was over.
“Have games, till it’s cooler. I brought ‘Authors,’9 and I dare say Miss Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her; she’s company, and you ought to stay with her more.”
“Aren’t you company, too? I thought she’d suit Brooke; but he keeps talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous glass of hers. I’m going, so you needn’t try to preach propriety, for you can’t do it, Jo.”
Miss Kate did know several new games; and as the girls would not, and the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing-room, to play “Rigmarole.”
“One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long as they please, only taking care to stop short at some exciting point, when the next takes it up, and does the same. It’s very funny, when well done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh over. Please start it, Mr. Brooke,” said Kate, with a commanding gesture, which surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other gentleman.
The Annotated Little Women Page 25
