THE COLLECTED WORKS OF LOUISA MAY ALCOTT (Illustrated Edition). Louisa May Alcott

in the autumn give us new plans to talk over. I must be well enough to go to her then.

      April.–Very poorly and cross; so tired of being a prisoner to pain. Long for the old strength when I could do what I liked, and never knew I had a body. Life not worth living in this way; but having over-worked the wonderful machine, I must pay for it, and should not growl, I suppose, as it is just.

      To B. to see Dr. S. Told me I was better than she ever dreamed I could be, and need not worry. So took heart, and tried to be cheerful, in spite of aches and nerves. Warm weather comforted me, and green grass did me good.

      Put a fence round A.'s garden. Bought a phaeton, so I might drive, as I cannot walk much, and Father loves to take his guests about.

      May and June.–Go to B. for a week, but don't enjoy seeing people. Do errands, and go home again. Saw "Pinafore;" a pretty play.

      Much company.

      E.'s looked at the Orchard House and liked it; will hire it, probably. Hope so, as it is forlorn standing empty. I never go by without looking up at Marmee's window, where the dear face used to be, and May's, with the picturesque vines round it. No golden-haired, blue-gowned Diana ever appears now; she sits happily sewing baby-clothes in Paris. Enjoyed fitting out a box of dainty things to send her. Even lonely old spinsters take an interest in babies.

      June.–A poor month. Try to forget my own worries, and enjoy the fine weather, my little carriage, and good friends. Souls are such slaves to bodies it is hard to keep up out of the slough of despond when nerves jangle and flesh aches.

      Went with Father on Sunday to the prison, and told the men a story. Thought I could not face four hundred at first; but after looking at them during the sermon, I felt that I could at least amuse them, and they evidently needed something new. So I told a hospital story with a little moral to it, and was so interested in watching the faces of some young men near me, who drank in every word, that I forgot myself, and talked away "like a mother." One put his head down, and another winked hard, so I felt that I had caught them; for even one tear in that dry, hard place would do them good. Miss McC. and Father said it was well done, and I felt quite proud of my first speech. [Sequel later.]

      July.–Wrote a little tale called "Jimmy's Cruise in the Pinafore," for "St. Nicholas;" $100.

      14th.–The philosophers begin to swarm, and the buzz starts to-morrow. How much honey will be made is still doubtful, but the hive is ready and drones also.

      On the 15th, the School of Philosophy began in the study at Orchard House,–thirty students; Father, the dean. He has his dream realized at last, and is in glory, with plenty of talk to swim in. People laugh, but will enjoy something new in this dull old town; and the fresh Westerners will show them that all the culture of the world is not in Concord. I had a private laugh when Mrs. –– asked one of the new-comers, with her superior air, if she had ever looked into Plato. And the modest lady from Jacksonville answered, with a twinkle at me, "We have been reading Plato in Greek for the past six years." Mrs. –– subsided after that.

      [Oh, wicked L. M. A., who hates sham and loves a joke.–L. M. A.]

      Was the first woman to register my name as a voter.

      August.–To B. with a new "Scrap Bag." "Jimmy" to the fore. Wrote a little tale.

      The town swarms with budding philosophers, and they roost on our steps like hens waiting for corn. Father revels in it, so we keep the hotel going, and try to look as if we liked it. If they were philanthropists, I should enjoy it; but speculation seems a waste of time when there is so much real work crying to be done. Why discuss the "unknowable" till our poor are fed and the wicked saved?

      A young poet from New York came; nice boy.

      Sixteen callers to-day. Trying to stir up the women about suffrage; so timid and slow.

      Happy letters from May. Sophie N. is with her now. All well in the Paris nest.

      Passed a week in Magnolia with Mrs. H. School ended for this year. Hallelujah!

      September.–Home from the seaside refreshed, and go to work on a new serial for "St. Nicholas,"–"Jack and Jill." Have no plan yet but a boy, a girl, and a sled, with an upset to start with. Vague idea of working in Concord young folks and their doings. After two years of rest, I am going to try again; it is so easy to make money now, and so pleasant to have it to give. A chapter a day is my task, and not that if I feel tired. No more fourteen hours a day; make haste slowly now.

      Drove about and drummed up women to my suffrage meeting. So hard to move people out of the old ruts. I haven't patience enough; if they won't see and work, I let 'em alone, and steam along my own way.

      May sent some nice little letters of an "Artist's Holiday," and I had them printed; also a book for artists abroad,–very useful, and well done.

      Eight chapters done. Too much company for work.

      October 8th.–Dear Marmee's birthday. Never forgotten. Lovely day. Go to Sleepy Hollow with flowers. Her grave is green; blackberry vines with red leaves trail over it. A little white stone with her initials is at the head, and among the tall grass over her breast a little bird had made a nest; empty now, but a pretty symbol of the refuge that tender bosom always was for all feeble and sweet things. Her favorite asters bloomed all about, and the pines sang overhead. So she and dear Beth are quietly asleep in God's acre, and we remember them more tenderly with each year that brings us nearer them and home.

      Went with Dr. W. to the Woman's Prison, at Sherburne. A lovely drive, and very remarkable day and night. Read a story to the four hundred women, and heard many interesting tales. A much better place than Concord Prison, with its armed wardens, and "knock down and drag out" methods. Only women here, and they work wonders by patience, love, common-sense, and the belief in salvation for all.

      First proof from Scribner of "Jack and Jill." Mrs. D. likes the story, so I peg away very slowly. Put in Elly D. as one of my boys. The nearer I keep to nature, the better the work is. Young people much interested in the story, and all want to "go in." I shall have a hornet's nest about me if all are not angels.

      Father goes West.

      I mourn much because all say I must not go to May; not safe; and I cannot add to Mamma Nieriker's cares at this time by another invalid, as the voyage would upset me, I am so sea-sick.

      Give up my hope and long-cherished plan with grief. May sadly disappointed. I know I shall wish I had gone; it is my luck.

      November.–Went to Boston for a month, as some solace for my great disappointment. Take my room at the Bellevue, and go about a little. Write on "J. and J." Anxious about May.

      8th.–Little Louisa May Nieriker arrived in Paris at 9 p. m., after a short journey. All doing well. Much rejoicing. Nice little lass, and May very happy. Ah, if I had only been there! Too much happiness for me.

      25th.–Two years since Marmee went. How she would have enjoyed the little granddaughter, and all May's romance! Perhaps she does.

      Went home on my birthday (forty-seven). Tried to have a little party for Nan and the boys, but it was rather hard work.

      Not well enough to write much, so give up my room. Can lie round at home, and it's cheaper.

      December.–May not doing well. The weight on my heart is not all imagination. She was too happy to have it last, and I fear the end is coming. Hope it is my nerves; but this peculiar feeling has never misled me before.

      Invited to the breakfast to O. W. H. No heart to go.

      8th.–Little Lu one month old. Small, but lively. Oh, if I could only be there to see,–to help! This is a penance for all my sins. Such a tugging at my heart to be by poor May, alone, so far away. The N.'s are devoted, and all is done that can be; but not one of her "very own" is there.

      Father came home.

      29th.–May died at 8 a. m., after three weeks of fever and stupor. Happy and painless