CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
HARVEST TIME
For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met
occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the price of
paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began rather soberly,
for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March died suddenly. But
when their first sorrow was over—for they loved the old lady in spite of her
sharp tongue—they found they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left
Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible.
“It’s a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course you
intend to sell it,” said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter over some
weeks later.
“No, I don’t,” was Jo’s decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle,
whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.
“You don’t mean to live there?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But, my dear girl, it’s an immense house, and will take a power of
money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or three
men, and farming isn’t in Bhaer’s line, I take it.”
“He’ll try his hand at it there, if I propose it.”
“And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds
paradisiacal, but you’ll find it desperate hard work.”
“The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one,” and Jo laughed.
“Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma’am?”
“Boys. I want to open a school for little lads—a good, happy, homelike
school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them.”
“That’s a truly Joian plan for you! Isn’t that just like her?” cried Laurie,
appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.
“I like it,” said Mrs. March decidedly.
“So do I,” added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for
trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.
“It will be an immense care for Jo,” said Meg, stroking the head of her
one all-absorbing son.
“Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It’s a splendid idea. Tell us all about it,”
cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a hand, but
knew that they would refuse his help.
“I knew you’d stand by me, sir. Amy does too—I see it in her eyes,
though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks.
Now, my dear people,” continued Jo earnestly, “just understand that this
isn’t a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before my Fritz came, I
used to think how, when I’d made my fortune, and no one needed me at
home, I’d hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads who
hadn’t any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them
before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin for want of help at the
right minute, I love so to do anything for them, I seem to feel their wants,
and sympathize with their troubles, and oh, I should so like to be a mother
to them!”
Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in
her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not seen
for a long while.
“I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would like,
and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he’s been doing
it all his life—helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich, that he’ll never
be. Money doesn’t stay in his pocket long enough to lay up any. But now,
thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better than I ever deserved, I’m
rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at Plumfield perfectly well, if we
have a flourishing school. It’s just the place for boys, the house is big, and
the furniture strong and plain. There’s plenty of room for dozens inside, and
splendid grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard. Such
work is healthy, isn’t it, sir? Then Fritz could train and teach in his own
way, and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them,
and Mother will be my stand-by. I’ve always longed for lots of boys, and
never had enough, now I can fill the house full and revel in the little dears
to my heart’s content. Think what luxury— Plumfield my own, and a
wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me.”
As Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off
into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought he’d
have an apoplectic fit.
“I don’t see anything funny,” she said gravely, when she could be heard.
“Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my Professor to open a
school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate.”
“She is putting on airs already,” said Laurie, who regarded the idea in the
light of a capital joke. “But may I inquire how you intend to support the
establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I’m afraid your crop
won’t be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer.”
“Now don’t be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils,
also—perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I’ve got a start, I can
take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people’s children often
need care and comfort, as well as poor. I’ve seen unfortunate little creatures
left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it’s real cruelty.
Some are naughty through mismanagment or neglect, and some lose their
mothers. Besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and
that’s the very time they need most patience and kindness. People laugh at
them, and hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them
to turn all at once from pretty children into fine young men. They don’t
complain much—plucky little souls—but they feel it. I’ve been through
something of it, and I know all about it. I’ve a special interest in such young
bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning
boys’ hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads.
I’ve had experience, too, for haven’t I brought up one boy to be a pride and
honor to his family?”
“I’ll testify that you tried to do it,” said Laurie with a grateful look.
“And I’ve succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady,
sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up
the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely a
businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and
let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I am proud of you,
Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone feels it, though you
won’t let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I’ll just point to you,
and say ‘There’s your model, my lads’.”
Poor Laurie didn’t know where to look, for, man though he was,
something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made
all faces turn approvingly upon him.
“I say, Jo, that’s rather too much,” he began, just in his old boyish way.
“You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for, except by
doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me off lately, Jo,
but I’ve had the best of help, nevertheless. So, if I’ve got on at all, you may
thank these two for it,” and he laid one hand gently on his grandfather’s
head, and the other on Amy’s golden one, for the three were never far apart.
“I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world!”
burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind just then.
“When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the three I know
and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it would be quite a
little heaven on earth,” she added more quietly. And that night when she
went to her room after a blissful evening of family counsels, hopes, and
plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only calm it by
kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and thinking tender
thoughts of Beth.
It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen in
an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew where
she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a family of
six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly,
poor boys as well as rich, for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some
touching case of destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the
child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way, the sly
old gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished her with the style of boy in
which she most delighted.
Of course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but the
wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most rampant
ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her ‘wilderness of
boys’, and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented had she been
there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun
with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice about it,
after all, for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles around,
and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel
with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field where the
irritable ‘cow with a crumpled horn’ used to invite rash youths to come and
be tossed. It became a sort of boys’ paradise, and Laurie suggested that it
should be called the ‘Bhaer-garten’, as a compliment to its master and
appropriate to its inhabitants.
It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a
fortune, but it was just what Jo intended it to be—‘a happy, homelike place
for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness’. Every room in the big
house was soon full. Every little plot in the garden soon had its owner. A
regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet animals were allowed.
And three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz from the head of a long table
lined on either side with rows of happy young faces, which all turned to her
with affectionate eyes, confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for
‘Mother Bhaer’. She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though
they were not angels, by any means, and some of them caused both
Professor and Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the
good spot which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most
tantalizing little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for
no mortal boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as
benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times
seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads, their penitent
sniffs and whispers after wrongdoing, their droll or touching little
confidences, their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even their
misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more. There were
slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys and riotous boys, boys that lisped
and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a merry little quadroon,
who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was welcome to the ‘Bhaer-
garten’, though some people predicted that his admission would ruin the
school.
Yes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much
anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the
applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for now
she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers and
admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to increase
her happiness—Rob, named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a happy-go-lucky
baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa’s sunshiny temper as well as
his mother’s lively spirit. How they ever grew up alive in that whirlpool of
boys was a mystery to their grandma and aunts, but they flourished like
dandelions in spring, and their rough nurses loved and served them well.
There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most
delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches, Laurences,
Brookes and Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day of it. Five years
after Jo’s wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred, a mellow
October day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made
the spirits rise and the blood dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard
wore its holiday attire. Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls.
Grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like
fairy pipers at a feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds
twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree stood ready
to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake.
Everybody was there. Everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and
tumbled down. Everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect
day or such a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave themselves up to the
simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things as care
or sorrow in the world.
Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and
Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying…
The gentle apple’s winey juice.
The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic
knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook and
ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of
ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones, rode
his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the bird’s nests,
and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. March and Meg sat
among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting the contributions that
kept pouring in, while Amy with a beautiful motherly expression in her face
sketched the various groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat
adoring her with his little crutch beside him.
Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned
up, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her
arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore
a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any
anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on the
back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent papa, who
labored under the Germanic delusion that babies could digest anything,
from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small shoes. She
knew that little Ted would turn up again in time, safe and rosy, dirty and
serene, and she always received him back with a hearty welcome, for Jo
loved her babies tenderly.
At four o’clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the
apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg, with
a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass, for an
out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land literally
flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not
required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as they liked
—freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed
themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the
pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on their heads, others
lent a charm to leapfrog by eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies
were sown broadcast over the field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees
like a new style of bird. The little girls had a private tea party, and Ted
roved among the edibles at his own sweet will.
When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular
toast, which was always drunk at such times—“Aunt March, God bless
her!” A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much
he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep
her memory green.
“Now, Grandma’s sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times
three!”
That was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering
once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody’s health was proposed, from
Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the astonished
guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search of its young
master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day
with various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to the festive
scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would
have been defects to other eyes were ornaments to Grandma’s—for the
children’s gifts were all their own. Every stitch Daisy’s patient little fingers
had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to
Mrs. March. Demi’s miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn’t
shut, Rob’s footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was
soothing, and no page of the costly book Amy’s child gave her was so fair
as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the words—“To dear Grandma,
from her little Beth.”
During the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared, and when
Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy
wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing. Then,
from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree to tree
echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sang with all their hearts
the little song that Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor
trained his lads to give with the best effect. This was something altogether
new, and it proved a grand success, for Mrs. March couldn’t get over her
surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every one of the featherless
birds, from tall Franz and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest
voice of all.
After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and her
daughters under the festival tree.
“I don’t think I ever ought to call myself ‘unlucky Jo’ again, when my
greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified,” said Mrs. Bhaer, taking
Teddy’s little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was rapturously
churning.
“And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long
ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?” asked Amy, smiling as she
watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.
“Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business and
frolic for a day,” answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all
mankind. “Yes, I remember, but the life I wanted then seems selfish, lonely,
and cold to me now. I haven’t given up the hope that I may write a good
book yet, but I can wait, and I’m sure it will be all the better for such
experiences and illustrations as these,” and Jo pointed from the lively lads
in the distance to her father, leaning on the Professor’s arm, as they walked
to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one of the conversations which both
enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitting enthroned among her
daughters, with their children in her lap and at her feet, as if all found help
and happiness in the face which never could grow old to them.
“My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid
things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I had a
little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I’ve got them all,
thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world,” and Meg laid her
hand on her tall boy’s head, with a face full of tender and devout content.
“My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter it,
though, like Jo, I don’t relinquish all my artistic hopes, or confine myself to
helping others fulfill their dreams of beauty. I’ve begun to model a figure of
baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing I’ve ever done. I think so, myself,
and mean to do it in marble, so that, whatever happens, I may at least keep
the image of my little angel.”
As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping
child in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little
creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy’s sunshine.
This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and
sorrow bound them closely together. Amy’s nature was growing sweeter,
deeper, and more tender. Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and
firm, and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love
itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blessed for
…
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and sad and dreary.
“She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don’t despond, but hope
and keep happy,” said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted Daisy stooped from her
knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin’s pale one.
“I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie
to take more than half of every burden,” replied Amy warmly. “He never
lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted to
Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can’t love him
enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, ‘Thank God, I’m
a happy woman.’”
“There’s no need for me to say it, for everyone can see that I’m far
happier than I deserve,” added Jo, glancing from her good husband to her
chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. “Fritz is getting gray and
stout. I’m growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty. We never shall be
rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that incorrigible Tommy
Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the bed-clothes, though he’s set
himself afire three times already. But in spite of these unromantic facts, I
have nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the
remark, but living among boys, I can’t help using their expressions now and
then.”
“Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one,” began Mrs. March,
frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of
countenance.
“Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank
you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done,” cried Jo,
with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.
“I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year,” said Amy
softly.
“A large sheaf, but I know there’s room in your heart for it, Marmee
dear,” added Meg’s tender voice.
Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if to
gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and voice
full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility…
“Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater
happiness than this!”
