Louisa May Alcott: 16 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Луиза Мэй Олкотт

all good wishes,

      Yours affectionately,

      L. M. A.

      To Mrs. Bond.

      February 7 [1888].

      Dear Auntie,–My blessed Anna is so busy, and I can do so little to help her, I feel as if I might take upon me the pleasant duty of writing to you.

      Father is better, and we are all so grateful, for just now we want all to be bright for our boy.

      The end is not far off, but Father rallies wonderfully from each feeble spell, and keeps serene and happy through everything.

      I don't ask to keep him now that life is a burden, and am glad to have him go before it becomes a pain. We shall miss the dear old white head and the feeble saint so long our care; but as Anna says, "He will be with Mother." So we shall be happy in the hope of that meeting.

      Sunday he seemed very low, and I was allowed to drive in and say "good-by." He knew me and smiled, and kissed "Weedy," as he calls me, and I thought the drowsiness and difficulty of breathing could not last long. But he revived, got up, and seemed so much as usual, I may be able to see him again. It is a great grief that I am not there as I was with Lizzie and Mother, but though much better, the shattered nerves won't bear much yet, and quiet is my only cure.

      I sit alone and bless the little pair like a fond old grandmother. You show me how to do it. With love to all,

      Yours ever,

      Lu.

      Her last note. To Mrs. Bond.

      February 8, 1888.

      Air,–"Haste to the Wedding."

      Dear Auntie,–I little knew what a sweet surprise was in store for me when I wrote to you yesterday.

      As I awoke this morning my good Doctor L. came in with the lovely azalea, her round face beaming through the leaves like a full moon.

      It was very dear of you to remember me, and cheer up my lonely day with such a beautiful guest.

      It stands beside me on Marmee's work-table, and reminds me tenderly of her favorite flowers; and among those used at her funeral was a spray of this, which lasted for two weeks afterward, opening bud after bud in the glass on her table, where lay the dear old "Jos. May" hymn book, and her diary with the pen shut in as she left it when she last wrote there, three days before the end, "The twilight is closing about me, and I am going to rest in the arms of my children."

      So you see I love the delicate flower, and enjoy it very much.

      I can write now, and soon hope to come out and see you for a few minutes, as I drive out every fine day, and go to kiss my people once a week for fifteen minutes.

      Slow climbing, but I don't slip back; so think up my mercies, and sing cheerfully, as dear Marmee used to do, "Thus far the Lord has led me on!"

      Your loving

      Lu.

      CHAPTER XII.

       CONCLUSION.

       Table of Contents

      TO MY FATHER,

      ON HIS EIGHTY-SIXTH BIRTHDAY.

      Dear Pilgrim, waiting patiently,

       The long, long journey nearly done,

       Beside the sacred stream that flows

       Clear shining in the western sun;

       Look backward on the varied road

       Your steadfast feet have trod,

       From youth to age, through weal and woe,

       Climbing forever nearer God.

      Mountain and valley lie behind;

       The slough is crossed, the wicket passed;

       Doubt and despair, sorrow and sin,

       Giant and fiend, conquered at last.

       Neglect is changed to honor now;

       The heavy cross may be laid down;

       The white head wins and wears at length

       The prophet's, not the martyr's, crown.

      Greatheart and Faithful gone before,

       Brave Christiana, Mercy sweet,

       Are Shining Ones who stand and wait

       The weary wanderer to greet.

       Patience and Love his handmaids are,

       And till time brings release,

       Christian may rest in that bright room

       Whose windows open to the east.

      The staff set by, the sandals off,

       Still pondering the precious scroll,

       Serene and strong, he waits the call

       That frees and wings a happy soul.

       Then, beautiful as when it lured

       The boy's aspiring eyes,

       Before the pilgrim's longing sight

       Shall the Celestial City rise.

      November 29, 1885.L. M. A.

      MISS ALCOTT'S appearance was striking and impressive rather than beautiful. Her figure was tall and well-proportioned, indicating strength and activity, and she walked with freedom and majesty. Her head was large, and her rich brown hair was long and luxuriant, giving a sense of fulness and richness of life to her massive features. While thoroughly unconventional, and even free and easy in her manner, she had a dignity of deportment which prevented undue liberties, and made intruders stand in awe of her. Generous in the extreme in serving others, she knew her own rights, and did not allow them to be trampled on. She repelled "the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes," and had much of the Burns spirit that sings "A man's a man for a' that" in the presence of insolent grandeur.

      Miss Alcott always took her stand not for herself, but for her family, her class, her sex. The humblest writer should not be imposed upon in her person; every woman should be braver and stronger from her attitude. She was careless of outward distinctions; but she enjoyed the attentions which her fame brought her with simple pleasure, and was delighted to meet bright, intelligent, distinguished people, who added to her stores of observation and thought. She had the rare good fortune, which an heir of millions might envy, of living all her life in the society of the noblest men and women. The Emersons, the Thoreaus, the Hawthornes, and Miss Elizabeth Peabody were the constant companions of her childhood and youth. It was from them that her standard of character was formed, and she could never enter any circle higher than that in which she had breathed freely from a child. She was quite capable of hero-worship, but her heroes were few.

      With all her imagination and romance, Miss Alcott was a tremendous destroyer of illusions; she remorselessly tore them away from herself, persisting in holding a lens before every fault and folly of her own, and she did the same for those she loved best. Only what was intrinsically noble and true could stand the searching test of her intellectual scrutiny and keen perception of the incongruous and ridiculous.

      This disposition was apparent in Louisa's relation to her father, whom she did not always fully understand. Perhaps he had a perception of this when he wrote–

      "I press thee to my heart, as Duty's faithful child."

      She had little sympathy with his speculative fancy, and saw plainly the impracticability of his schemes, and did not hesitate to touch with light and kindly satire his little peculiarities; yet in her deepest heart she gave him not only affection, but deep reverence. She felt the nobility and grandeur of his mind and heart. In "Little Women" the portrait of the father is less vivid and less literal than that of any other member of the family, and is scarcely recognizable; but it was impossible to make