THE COMPLETE WORKS OF LOUISA MAY ALCOTT: Novels, Short Stories, Plays & Poems (Illustrated Edition). Louisa May Alcott

sensible plans. A lively time enjoying the cheerful element she always brings into the house. Piles of pictures, merry adventures, and interesting tales of the fine London lovers.

      Kept my thirty-ninth and Father's seventy-second birthday in the old way.

      Thanksgiving dinner at Pratt Farm. All well and all together. Much to give thanks for.

      December.–Enjoyed my quiet, sunny room very much; and this lazy life seems to suit me, for I am better, mind and body. All goes well at home, with May to run the machine in her cheery, energetic style, and amuse Marmee and Nan with gay histories. Had a furnace put in, and all enjoyed the new climate. No more rheumatic fevers and colds, with picturesque open fires. Mother is to be cosey if money can do it. She seems to be now, and my long-cherished dream has come true; for she sits in a pleasant room, with no work, no care, no poverty to worry, but peace and comfort all about her, and children glad and able to stand between trouble and her. Thank the Lord! I like to stop and "remember my mercies." Working and waiting for them makes them very welcome.

      Went to the ball for the Grand Duke Alexis. A fine sight, and the big blonde boy the best of all. Would dance with the pretty girls, and leave the Boston dowagers and their diamonds in the lurch.

      To the Radical Club, where the philosophers mount their hobbies and prance away into time and space, while we gaze after them and try to look wise.

      A merry Christmas at home. Tree for the boys, family dinner, and frolic in the evening.

      A varied, but on the whole a good year, in spite of pain. Last Christmas we were in Rome, mourning for John. What will next Christmas bring forth? I have no ambition now but to keep the family comfortable and not ache any more. Pain has taught me patience, I hope, if nothing more.

      January, 1872.–Roberts Brothers paid $4,400 as six months' receipts for the books. A fine New Year's gift. S. E. S. invested $3,000, and the rest I put in the bank for family needs. Paid for the furnace and all the bills. What bliss it is to be able to do that and ask no help!

      Mysterious bouquets came from some unknown admirer or friend. Enjoyed them very much, and felt quite grateful and romantic as day after day the lovely great nosegays were handed in by the servant of the unknown.

      February and March.–At Mrs. Stowe's desire, wrote for the "Christian Union" an account of our journey through France, and called it "Shawl Straps."... Many calls and letters and invitations, but I kept quiet, health being too precious to risk, and sleep still hard to get for the brain that would work instead of rest.

      Heard lectures,–Higginson, Bartol, Frothingham, and Rabbi Lilienthal. Much talk about religion. I'd like to see a little more really lived.

      April and May.–Wrote another sketch for the "Independent,"–"A French Wedding;" and the events of my travels paid my winter's expenses. All is fish that comes to the literary net. Goethe puts his joys and sorrows into poems; I turn my adventures into bread and butter.

      June, 1872.–Home, and begin a new task. Twenty years ago I resolved to make the family independent if I could. At forty that is done. Debts all paid, even the outlawed ones, and we have enough to be comfortable. It has cost me my health, perhaps; but as I still live, there is more for me to do, I suppose.

      CHAPTER X.

       FAMILY CHANGES.

       Table of Contents

      TRANSFIGURATION.

      IN MEMORIAM.

      Lines written by Louisa M. Alcott on the death of her mother.

      Mysterious death! who in a single hour

       Life's gold can so refine,

       And by thy art divine

       Change mortal weakness to immortal power!

      Bending beneath the weight of eighty years,

       Spent with the noble strife

       Of a victorious life,

       We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.

      But ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung,

       A miracle was wrought;

       And swift as happy thought

       She lived again,–brave, beautiful, and young.

      Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they wore

       And showed the tender eyes

       Of angels in disguise,

       Whose discipline so patiently she bore.

      The past years brought their harvest rich and fair;

       While memory and love,

       Together, fondly wove

       A golden garland for the silver hair.

      How could we mourn like those who are bereft,

       When every pang of grief

       Found balm for its relief

       In counting up the treasures she had left?–

      Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time;

       Hope that defied despair;

       Patience that conquered care;

       And loyalty, whose courage was sublime;

      The great deep heart that was a home for all,–

       Just, eloquent, and strong

       In protest against wrong;

       Wide charity, that knew no sin, no fall;

      The spartan spirit that made life so grand,

       Mating poor daily needs

       With high, heroic deeds,

       That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.

      We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead,

       Full of the grateful peace

       That follows her release;

       For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.

      Oh, noble woman! never more a queen

       Than in the laying down

       Of sceptre and of crown

       To win a greater kingdom, yet unseen;

      Teaching us how to seek the highest goal,

       To earn the true success,–

       To live, to love, to bless,–

       And make death proud to take a royal soul.

      THE history of the next six years offers little variety of incident in Miss Alcott's busy life. She could not work at home in Concord as well as in some quiet lodging in Boston, where she was more free from interruption from visitors; but she spent her summers with her mother, often taking charge of the housekeeping. In 1872 she wrote "Work," one of her most successful books. She had begun it some time before, and originally called it "Success." It represents her own personal experience more than any other book. She says to a friend: "Christie's adventures are many of them my own; Mr. Power is Mr. Parker; Mrs. Wilkins is imaginary, and all the rest. This was begun at eighteen, and never finished till H. W. Beecher wrote to me for a serial for the 'Christian Union' in 1872, and paid $3,000 for it."

      Miss Alcott again sent May to Europe in 1873 to finish her studies, and herself continued writing stories to pay the expenses of the family. The mother's serious illness weighed heavily on Louisa's heart, and through the summer of 1873 she was devoted to the invalid, rejoicing in her partial recovery, though sadly feeling that she would never be her bright energetic self again. Mrs. Alcott was able, however, to keep her birthday (October 8) pleasantly, and out of this experience came a story called "A Happy Birthday." This little tale paid for carriages for the invalid. It is included in "Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag."

      Louisa