Part 1 — Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI.

EXPERIMENTS.

THE first of June; the Kings are off to the sea-shore to-morrow, and I'm free! Three months' vacation! how I shall enjoy it!" exclaimed Meg, coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy made lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.

"Aunt March went to-day, for which, oh be joyful!" said Jo. "I was mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her; if she had, I should have felt as if I ought to do it; but Plumfield is about as festive as a church-yard, you know, and I'd rather be excused. We had a flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a scare every time she spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it impossible to part from me. I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright, for, as it drove off, she popped out her head, saying, 'Josy-phine, won't you—?' I didn't hear any more, for I basely turned and fled; I did actually run, and whisked round the corner, where I felt safe."

"Poor old Jo! she came in looking as if bears were

after her," said Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet

with a motherly air.

"Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?"

observed Amy, tasting her mixture critically.

"She means vampire, not sea-weed; but it don't

matter; it's too warm to be particular about one's

parts of speech," murmured Jo.

"What shall you do all your vacation?" asked

Amy, changing the subject, with tact.

"I shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied

Meg, from the depths of the rocking-chair. "I've been

routed up early all winter, and had to spend my days

working for other people; so now I'm going to rest

and revel to my heart's content."

"Hum!" said Jo; "that dozy way wouldn't suit

me. I've laid in a heap of books, and I'm going to

improve my shining hours reading on my perch in the

old apple-tree, when I'm not having l—"

"Don't say 'larks!'" implored Amy, as a return

snub for the "samphire" correction.

"I'll say 'nightingales,' then, with Laurie; that's

proper and appropriate, since he's a warbler."

"Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but

play all the time, and rest, as the girls mean to,"

proposed Amy.

"Well, I will, if mother don't mind. I want to

learn some new songs, and my children need fixing

up for the summer; they are dreadfully out of order,

and really suffering for clothes."

"May we, mother?" asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing, in what they called

"Marmee's corner."

"You may try your experiment for a week, and see

how you like it. I think by Saturday night you will

find that all play, and no work, is as bad as all work,

and no play."

"Oh, dear, no! it will be delicious, I'm sure," said

Meg, complacently.

"I now propose a toast, as my 'friend and pardner,

Sairy Gamp,' says. Fun forever, and no grubbage,"

cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the lemonade went

round.

They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment

by lounging for the rest of the day. Next morning,

Meg did not appear till ten o'clock; her solitary

breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed

lonely and untidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth

had not dusted, and Amy's books lay scattered about.

Nothing was neat and pleasant but "Marmee's corner,"

which looked as usual; and there she sat, to "rest and

read," which meant yawn, and imagine what pretty

summer dresses she would get with her salary. Jo

spent the morning on the river, with Laurie, and the

afternoon reading and crying over "The Wide, Wide World," up in the apple-tree. Beth began by

rummaging everything out of the big closet, where her family

resided; but, getting tired before half done, she left

her establishment topsy-turvy, and went to her music,

rejoicing that she had no dishes to wash. Amy

arranged her bower, put on her best white frock,

smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw, under the

honeysuckles, hoping some one would see and inquire who the young artist was. As no one appeared

but an inquisitive daddy-long-legs, who examined her

work with interest, she went to walk, got caught in a

shower, and came home dripping.

At tea-time they compared notes, and all agreed

that it had been a delightful, though unusually long

day. Meg, who went shopping in the afternoon, and

got a "sweet blue muslin," had discovered, after she

had cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which

mishap made her slightly cross. Jo had burnt the

skin off her nose boating, and got a raging headache

by reading too long. Beth was worried by the

confusion of her closet, and the difficulty of learning three

or four songs at once; and Amy deeply regretted the

damage done her frock, for Katy Brown's party was

to be the next day; and now, like Flora McFlimsy, she

had "nothing to wear." But these were mere trifles;

and they assured their mother that the experiment

was working finely. She smiled, said nothing, and,

with Hannah's help, did their neglected work, keeping

home pleasant, and the domestic machinery running

smoothly. It was astonishing what a peculiar and

uncomfortable state of things was produced by the

"resting and revelling" process. The days kept

getting longer and longer; the weather was unusually

variable, and so were tempers; an unsettled feeling

possessed every one, and Satan found plenty of

mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height of luxury,

Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time

hang so heavily, that she fell to snipping and spoiling

her clothes, in her attempts to furbish them up, à la

Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out, and she was sick of books; got so fidgety that even good-natured

Laurie had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in

spirits that she desperately wished she had gone with

Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was

constantly forgetting that it was to be all play, and

no work and fell back into her old ways, now and

then; but something in the air affected her, and, more

than once, her tranquillity was much disturbed; so

much so, that, on one occasion, she actually shook

poor dear Joanna, and told her she was "a fright."

Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small;

and, when her sisters left her to amuse and care for

herself, she soon found that accomplished and

important little self a great burden. She didn't like dolls;

fairy tales were childish, and one couldn't draw all

the time. Tea-parties didn't amount to much, neither did

picnics, unless very well conducted. "If one could

have a fine house, full of nice girls, or go travelling,

the summer would be delightful; but to stay at home

with three selfish sisters, and a grown-up boy, was

enough to try the patience of a Boaz," complained

Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure,

fretting, and ennui.

No one would own that they were tired of the

experiment; but, by Friday night, each acknowledged to

herself that they were glad the week was nearly

done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply,

Mrs. March, who had a good deal of humor, resolved

to finish off the trial in an appropriate manner; so she

gave Hannah a holiday, and let the girls enjoy the full

effect of the play system.

When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining-room,

and no mother anywhere to be seen.

"Mercy on us! what has happened?" cried Jo,

staring about her in dismay.

Meg ran up stairs, and soon came back again,

looking relieved; but rather bewildered, and a little

ashamed.

"Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she

is going to stay quietly in her room all day, and let us

do the best we can. It's a very queer thing for her to

do, she don't act a bit like herself; but she says it has

been a hard week for her, so we mustn't grumble, but

take care of ourselves."

"That's easy enough, and I like the idea; I'm

aching for something to do—that is, some new

amusement, you know," added Jo, quickly.

In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have

a little work, and they took hold with a will, but soon

realized the truth of Hannah's saying,

"Housekeeping ain't no joke." There was plenty of food in the

larder, and, while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg

and Jo got breakfast; wondering, as they did so, why

servants ever talked about hard work.

"I shall take some up to mother, though she said

we were not to think of her, for she'd take care of

herself," said Meg, who presided, and felt quite matronly

behind the teapot.

So a tray was fitted out before any one began, and

taken up, with the cook's compliments. The boiled

tea was very bitter, the omelette scorched, and the

biscuits speckled with saleratus; but Mrs. March received her repast with thanks, and laughed heartily

over it after Jo was gone.

"Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I'm

afraid; but they won't suffer, and it will do them

good," she said, producing the more palatable viands

with which she had provided herself, and disposing of

the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be

hurt;—a motherly little deception, for which they were

grateful.

Many were the complaints below, and great the

chagrin of the head cook, at her failures. "Never

mind, I'll get the dinner, and be servant; you be

missis, keep your hands nice, see company, and give

orders," said Jo, who knew still less than Meg about

culinary affairs.

This obliging offer was gladly accepted; and

Margaret retired to the parlor, which she hastily put in

order by whisking the litter under the sofa, and

shutting the blinds, to save the trouble of dusting. Jo,

with perfect faith in her own powers, and a friendly

desire to make up the quarrel, immediately put a note

in the office, inviting Laurie to dinner.

"You'd better see what you have got before you

think of having company," said Meg, when informed

of the hospitable, but rash act.

"Oh, there's corned beef, and plenty of potatoes;

and I shall get some asparagus, and a lobster, 'for a

relish,' as Hannah says. We'll have lettuce, and

make a salad; I don't know how, but the book tells.

I'll have blanc-mange and strawberries for dessert;

and coffee, too, if you want to be elegant."

"Don't try too many messes, Jo, for you can't make anything but gingerbread and molasses candy, fit to

eat. I wash my hands of the dinner-party; and, since

you have asked Laurie on your own responsibility,

you may just take care of him."

"I don't want you to do anything but be clever to

him, and help to the pudding. You'll give me your

advice if I get stuck, won't you?" asked Jo, rather

hurt.

"Yes; but I don't know much, except about bread,

and a few trifles. You had better ask mother's leave,

before you order anything," returned Meg, prudently.

"Of course I shall; I ain't a fool," and Jo went off

in a huff at the doubts expressed of her powers.

"Get what you like, and don't disturb me; I'm

going out to dinner, and can't worry about things at

home," said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to her. "I

never enjoyed housekeeping, and I'm going to take a

vacation today, and read, write, go visiting and amuse

myself."

The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking

comfortably, and reading early in the morning, made

Jo feel as if some natural phenomenon had occurred;

for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption

would hardly have seemed stranger.

"Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to

herself, going down stairs. "There's Beth crying;

that's a sure sign that something is wrong with this

family. If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her."

Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried

into the parlor to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the

canary, who lay dead in the cage, with his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food, for

want of which he had died.

"It's all my fault—I forgot him—there isn't a

seed or drop left—oh, Pip! oh, Pip! how could I be

so cruel to you?" cried Beth, taking the poor thing in

her hands, and trying to restore him.

Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart,

and finding him stiff and cold, shook her head, and

offered her domino-box for a coffin.

"Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm,

and revive," said Amy, hopefully.

"He's been starved, and he shan't be baked, now

he's dead. I'll make him a shroud, and he shall be

buried in the grave; and I'll never have another bird,

never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one,"

murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in

her hands.

"The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will

all go. Now, don't cry, Bethy; it's a pity, but

nothing goes right this week, and Pip has had the worst

of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in

my box; and, after the dinner-party, we'll have a nice

little funeral," said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had

undertaken a good deal.

Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to

the kitchen, which was in a most discouraging state

of confusion. Putting on a big apron, she fell to

work, and got the dishes piled up ready for washing,

when she discovered that the fire was out.

"Here's a sweet prospect!" muttered Jo, slamming

the stove door open, and poking vigorously among the

cinders.

Having rekindled it, she thought she would go to

market while the water heated. The walk revived

her spirits; and, flattering herself that she had made

good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying

a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and

two boxes of acid strawberries. By the time she got

cleared up, the dinner arrived, and the stove was

red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had

worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second

rising, and forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie

Gardiner, in the parlor, when the door flew open, and

a floury, crocky, flushed and dishevelled figure

appeared, demanding, tartly,—

"I say, isn't bread 'riz' enough when it runs over

the pans?"

Sallie began to laugh; but Meg nodded, and lifted

her eyebrows as high as they would go, which caused

the apparition to vanish, and put the sour bread into

the oven without further delay. Mrs. March went out,

after peeping here and there to see how matters went,

also saying a word of comfort to Beth, who sat making

a winding-sheet, while the dear departed lay in state

in the domino-box. A strange sense of helplessness

fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round

the corner; and despair seized them, when, a few

minutes later, Miss Crocker appeared, and said she'd come

to dinner. Now this lady was a thin, yellow spinster,

with a sharp nose, and inquisitive eyes, who saw

everything, and gossiped about all she saw. They

disliked her, but had been taught to be kind to her,

simply because she was old and poor, and had few

friends. So Meg gave her the easy-chair, and tried to entertain her, while she asked questions, criticised

everything, and told stories of the people whom she

knew.

Language cannot describe the anxieties,

experiences, and exertions which Jo underwent that

morning; and the dinner she served up became a standing

joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her

best alone, and discovered that something more than

energy and good-will is necessary to make a cook.

She boiled the asparagus hard for an hour, and was

grieved to find the heads cooked off, and the stalks

harder than ever. The bread burnt black; for the

salad dressing so aggravated her, that she let

everything else go, till she had convinced herself that she

could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a

scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered and poked,

till it was unshelled, and its meagre proportions

concealed in a grove of lettuce-leaves. The potatoes had

to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and

were not done at last. The blanc-mange was lumpy,

and the strawberries not as ripe as they looked,

having been skilfully "deaconed."

"Well, they can eat beef, and bread and butter, if

they are hungry; only it's mortifying to have to spend

your whole morning for nothing," thought Jo, as she

rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and stood

hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread

for Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and

Miss Crocker, whose curious eyes would mark all

failures, and whose tattling tongue would report them

far and wide.

Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after another was tasted and left; while

Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed, Miss Crocker

pursed up her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed

with all his might, to give a cheerful tone to the

festive scene. Jo's one strong point was the fruit, for

she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich

cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle,

and she drew a long breath, as the pretty glass plates

went round, and every one looked graciously at the

little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream. Miss

Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some

water hastily. Jo, who had refused, thinking there

might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after

the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was

eating away manfully, though there was a slight

pucker about his mouth, and he kept his eye fixed on

his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took

a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her

napkin, and left the table precipitately.

"Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling.

"Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,"

replied Meg, with a tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan, and fell back in her chair;

remembering that she had given a last hasty

powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes on the

kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in

the refrigerator. She turned scarlet, and was on the

verge of crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which

would look merry in spite of his heroic efforts; the

comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and

she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So

did every one else, even "Croaker," as the girls called the old lady; and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily,

with bread and butter, olives and fun.

"I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up

now, so we will sober ourselves with a funeral," said

Jo, as they rose; and Miss Crocker made ready to go,

being eager to tell the new story at another friend's

dinner-table.

They did sober themselves, for Beth's sake; Laurie

dug a grave under the ferns in the grove, little Pip

was laid in, with many tears, by his tender-hearted

mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of

violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which

bore his epitaph, composed by Jo, while she struggled

with the dinner:—

"Here lies Pip March,

Who died the 7th of June;

Loved and lamented sore,

And not forgotten soon."

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired

to her room, overcome with emotion and lobster;

but there was no place of repose, for the beds were

not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by

beating up pillows and putting things in order. Meg

helped Jo clear away the remains of the feast, which

took half the afternoon, and left them so tired that

they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for

supper. Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a

deed of charity, for the sour cream seemed to have

had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came

home to find the three older girls hard at work in the

middle of the afternoon; and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success of one part of the

experiment.

Before the housewives could rest, several people

called, and there was a scramble to get ready to see

them; then tea must be got, errands done; and one or

two bits of sewing were necessary, but neglected till

the last minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one

by one they gathered in the porch where the June

roses were budding beautifully, and each groaned or

sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.

"What a dreadful day this has been!" begun Jo,

usually the first to speak.

"It has seemed shorter than usual, but so

uncomfortable," said Meg.

"Not a bit like home," added Amy.

"It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip,"

sighed Beth, glancing, with full eyes, at the empty

cage above her head.

"Here's mother, dear, and you shall have another

bird to-morrow, if you want it."

As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place

among them, looking as if her holiday had not been

much pleasanter than theirs.

"Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or

do you want another week of it?" she asked, as Beth

nestled up to her, and the rest turned toward her with

brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.

"I don't!" cried Jo, decidedly.

"Nor I," echoed the others.

"You think, then, that it is better to have a few

duties, and live a little for others, do you?"

"Lounging and larking don't pay," observed Jo, shaking her head. "I'm tired of it, and mean to go

to work at something right off."

"Suppose you learn plain cooking; that's a useful

accomplishment, which no woman should be

without," said Mrs. March, laughing audibly at the

recollection of Jo's dinner-party; for she had met Miss

Crocker, and heard her account of it.

"Mother! did you go away and let everything be,

just to see how we'd get on?" cried Meg, who had

had suspicions all day.

"Yes; I wanted you to see how the comfort of all

depends on each doing their share faithfully. While

Hannah and I did your work, you got on pretty well,

though I don't think you were very happy or amiable;

so I thought, as a little lesson, I would show you

what happens when every one thinks only of herself.

Don't you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another,

to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when it

comes, and to bear or forbear, that home may be

comfortable and lovely to us all?"

"We do, mother, we do!" cried the girls.

"Then let me advise you to take up your little

burdens again; for though they seem heavy sometimes, they

are good for us, and lighten as we learn to carry them.

Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for every one;

it keeps us from ennui and mischief; is good for health

and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and

independence better than money or fashion."

"We'll work like bees, and love it too; see if we

don't!" said Jo. "I'll learn plain cooking for my

holiday task; and the next dinner-party I have shall

be a success."

"I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it, Marmee. I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing; that will be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as they are," said Meg.

"I'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing," was Beth's resolution; while Amy followed their example, by heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make button-holes, and attend to my parts of speech."

"Very good! then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy that we shall not have to repeat it; only don't go to the other extreme, and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play; make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty."

"We'll remember, mother!" and they did.