Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said, “You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering at war.”

“But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar. The army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintran for myself. I've wanted it so long,” said Jo, who was a bookworm.

“I planned to spend mine on new music,” said Beth, with a little sigh.

“I shall get a nice box of drawing pencils; I really need them,” said Amy decidedly.

“Mother didn't say anything about our money. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it,” cried Jo.

“I know I do – teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg, in the complaining tone again.

“You don't have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo. “How would you like to be shut up^[1] for hours with a nervous old lady, who is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to cry?”

“I think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all.” Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh.

“I don't believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy. “You don't have to go to school with girls, who laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice.”

“Don't peck at one another, children. Even though we do have to work, we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.”

“Jo does use such slang words!” observed Amy.

Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.

“Don't, Jo. It's so boyish!”

“That's why I do it.”

“I detest rude, unladylike girls!”

“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!”

“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the “pecking” ended for that time.

“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to behave better, Josephine. You should remember that you are a young lady.”

“I'm not! I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns! It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manners! I'm dying to go and fight with Papa, but I can only stay home and knit, like an old woman!”

Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too prim. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang.”

“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth.

“You're a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her.

We will take this moment to give the reader a little sketch of the four sisters. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, with large eyes and soft brown hair. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown. She had sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything. Her long, thick hair was usually bundled into a net. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner and a timid voice. Her father called her ‘Little Miss Tranquility'. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. Pale and slender, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, she was carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners.

The clock struck six and Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. The sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls – it reminded them that Mother was coming.

“They are quite worn out. Marmee^[2] must have a new pair.”

“I thought I'd get her a pair with my dollar,” said Beth.

“No, I shall!” cried Amy.

“I'm the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, “I'm the man of the family^[3] now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers.”

“I'll tell you what we'll do,” said Beth, “let's each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.”

“What will we get?” exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought for a minute, then Meg announced, “I shall give her a nice pair of gloves.”

“Army shoes, best to be had,” cried Jo.

“Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth.

“I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils,” added Amy.

“How will we give the things?” asked Meg.

“Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open them.” answered Jo.

“Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door, and the girls turned to welcome their Mother. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman.

“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me.”

Mrs. March got her wet things off and put her warm slippers on. She sit down in the easy chair^[4], and drew Amy to her lap.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, “I've got a treat for you after supper.”

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands. Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, “A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!”

“Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and a special message to you girls,” said Mrs. March.

“Hurry, Amy!” cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat.

“When will he come home, Marmee?” asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice.

“Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can. Now come and hear the letter.”

Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. This one was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news.

“Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them every day, and pray for them every night. A year seems very long, but while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days are not wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, and when I come back I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women.”

Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Amy hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, “I am a selfish girl! But I'll truly try to be better.”

“We all will,” cried Meg. “I think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it.”

“I'll try and be what he loves to call me, ‘a little woman' and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else,” said Jo.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears and began to knit.

Chapter two
A Merry Christmas

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. She remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She woke Meg with a “Merry Christmas,” and made her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared. Beth and Amy woke up and found their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue.

“Girls,” said Meg seriously, “Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once.”

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also.

“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,” whispered Beth.

And then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned.

“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, half an hour later.

“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed,” replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.

“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket

“There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall.

“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus.

Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.

The rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and made whatever they needed to put on a play.

This Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the operatic tragedy about love and magic began.

When the performance was finished, applause followed. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with “Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.”

This was a surprise, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. There was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers.

It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

“Is it fairies?” asked Amy.

“Santa Claus,” said Beth.

“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest.

“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.

“All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March. “He is an odd old gentleman. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse.”

“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted,” said Jo, as the plates went round. “Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence. Then he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he does,” said Jo decidedly.

“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman. He brought the flowers himself.”

“We'll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?”

Chapter three
The Laurence boy

“Jo! Jo! Where are you?” cried Meg at the foot of the stairs.

“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on a sofa.

“A note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight.

“‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?”

“What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?” answered Jo with her mouth full.

“If I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. “Mother says I may when I'm eighteen perhaps.”

“I'm sure our pops look like silk. Yours is as good as new.”

“I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like.”

“Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.

“You must have gloves, or I won't go,” cried Meg decidedly. “Gloves are more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified.”

“Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing.”

“You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive. Can't you make them do?”

“I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. I'll go without. I don't care what people say!” cried Jo, taking up her book. “Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this story.”

So Meg went away to look over her dress.

On New Year's Eve the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party'. After various lesser mishaps, they were finished. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect “quite easy and fine”. Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it^[5], and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die.

“Have a good time, dearies!” said Mrs. March. “Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you.”

“If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?” asked Jo, once they were out of the gates.

“No, winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right.”

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties.

Mrs. Gardiner greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Then the dancing began. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess. Unfortunately, another person had chosen the same refuge, and she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy'.

“Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!” stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled, “Don't mind me, stay if you like.”

“Shan't I disturb you?”

“Not a bit. I only came here because I don't know many people and felt rather strange at first, you know.”

“So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather.”

The boy sat down again. Trying to be polite and easy, Jo said, “I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, don't you?”

“Next door.” And he looked up and laughed.

That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, “We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.”

“Grandpa sent it.”

“But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?”

“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy.

“Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo,” returned the young lady.

“I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie.”

“Laurie Laurence, what an odd name.”

“My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.”

“I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish everyone would say Jo instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?”

“I thrashed ‘em.”

“I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it.” And Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

“Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her.

“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something. Don't you dance?”

“Sometimes. You see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.”

“Abroad!” cried Jo. “Oh, tell me about it!”

Laurie told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.

“Don't I wish I'd been there!” cried Jo. “Did you go to Paris?

“We spent last winter there.”

“Can you talk French?”

“We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.”

“Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce.”

“Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?”

“How nicely you do it! Let me see… you said, ‘Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers', didn't you?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

“It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?”

“Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.”

“Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?”

It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself^[6] in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.

“I suppose you are going to college soon?”

Laurie smiled. “I won't go before seventeen, anyway.”

“Aren't you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.

“Sixteen, next month.”

“How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it.”

“I hate it! And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country.”

“What do you like?”

“To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.”

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but changed the subject by saying, “That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?”

“If you will come too,” he answered.

“I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because…”

“Because, what?”

“You won't tell?”

“Never!”

“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know.”

But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, “Never mind that. I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.”

Jo thanked him and gladly went. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath. That's when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

“I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned. I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home,” she said, rocking to and fro^[7] in pain.

“I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

“I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send.”

“I'll ask Laurie. He will go,” said Jo.

“Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell anyone. I can't dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes. “

Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said.

“It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?” began Jo, looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer.

“I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.”

They settled in the carriage. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party. By the time Jo had finished telling Meg about her adventures, they were at home.

1. to be shut up – быть запертой

2. Marmee – мамочка

3. the man of the family – глава семьи

4. the easy chair – кресло

5. she would not own it – она не признавалась себе в этом

6. checked herself – остановила себя

7. to and fro – туда и обратно