Books: Little Men: Life at Plumfield With Jo\'s Boys

L >> Louisa May Alcott >> Little Men: Life at Plumfield With Jo\'s Boys

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"If you want to turn the laugh, I'll tell you how, but you must give
up the melons."

"Well, I will; for I can't thrash all the boys, but I'd like to give them
something to remember, the mean sneaks," growled Stuff, still in a
fume.

Now Mrs. Jo was pretty sure who had done the trick, for she had
seen three heads suspiciously near to one another in the
sofa-corner the evening before; and when these heads had nodded
with chuckles and whispers, this experienced woman knew
mischief was afoot. A moonlight night, a rustling in the old
cherry-tree near Emil's window, a cut on Tommy's finger, all
helped to confirm her suspicions; and having cooled Stuffy's wrath
a little, she bade him bring his maltreated melons to her room, and
say not a word to any one of what had happened. He did so, and
the three wags were amazed to find their joke so quietly taken. It
spoilt the fun, and the entire disappearance of the melons made
them uneasy. So did Stuffy's good-nature, for he looked more
placid and plump than ever, and surveyed them with an air of calm
pity that perplexed them very much.

At dinner-time they discovered why; for then Stuffy's vengeance
fell upon them, and the laugh was turned against them. When the
pudding was eaten, and the fruit was put on, Mary Ann
re-appeared in a high state of giggle, bearing a large watermelon;
Silas followed with another; and Dan brought up the rear with a
third. One was placed before each of the three guilty lads; and they
read on the smooth green skins this addition to their own work,
"With the compliments of the PIG." Every one else read it also,
and the whole table was in a roar, for the trick had been whispered
about; so every one understood the sequel. Emil, Ned, and Tommy
did not know where to look, and had not a word to say for
themselves; so they wisely joined in the laugh, cut up the melons,
and handed them round, saying, what all the rest agreed to, that
Stuffy had taken a wise and merry way to return good for evil.

Dan had no garden, for he was away or lame the greater part of the
summer; so he had helped Silas wherever he could, chopped wood
for Asia, and taken care of the lawn so well, that Mrs. Jo always
had smooth paths and nicely shaven turf before her door.

When the others got in their crops, he looked sorry that he had so
little to show; but as autumn went on, he bethought himself of a
woodland harvest which no one would dispute with him, and
which was peculiarly his own. Every Saturday he was away alone
to the forests, fields, and hills, and always came back loaded with
spoils; for he seemed to know the meadows where the best
flag-root grew, the thicket where the sassafras was spiciest, the
haunts where the squirrels went for nuts, the white oak whose bark
was most valuable, and the little gold-thread vine that Nursey liked
to cure the canker with. All sorts of splendid red and yellow leaves
did Dan bring home for Mrs. Jo to dress her parlor with,
graceful-seeded grasses, clematis tassels, downy, soft, yellow
wax-work berries, and mosses, red-brimmed, white, or emerald
green.

"I need not sigh for the woods now, because Dan brings the woods
to me," Mrs. Jo used to say, as she glorified the walls with yellow
maple boughs and scarlet woodbine wreaths, or filled her vases
with russet ferns, hemlock sprays full of delicate cones, and hardy
autumn flowers; for Dan's crop suited her well.

The great garret was full of the children's little stores and for a
time was one of the sights of the house. Daisy's flower seeds in
neat little paper bags, all labelled, lay in a drawer of a three-legged
table. Nan's herbs hung in bunches against the wall, filling the air
with their aromatic breath. Tommy had a basket of thistle-down
with the tiny seeds attached, for he meant to plant them next year,
if they did not all fly away before that time. Emil had bunches of
pop-corn hanging there to dry, and Demi laid up acorns and
different sorts of grain for the pets. But Dan's crop made the best
show, for fully one half of the floor was covered with the nuts he
brought. All kinds were there, for he ranged the woods for miles
round, climbed the tallest trees, and forced his way into the
thickest hedges for his plunder. Walnuts, chestnuts, hazelnuts, and
beechnuts lay in separate compartments, getting brown, and dry,
and sweet, ready for winter revels.

There was one butternut-tree on the place, and Rob and Teddy
called it theirs. It bore well this year, and the great dingy nuts came
dropping down to hide among the dead leaves, where the busy
squirrels found them better than the lazy Bhaers. Their father had
told them (the boys, not the squirrels) they should have the nuts if
they would pick them up, but no one was to help. It was easy work,
and Teddy liked it, only he soon got tired, and left his little basket
half full for another day. But the other day was slow to arrive, and,
meantime, the sly squirrels were hard at work, scampering up and
down the old elm-trees stowing the nuts away till their holes were
full, then all about the crotches of the boughs, to be removed at
their leisure. Their funny little ways amused the boys, till one day
Silas said,

"Hev you sold them nuts to the squirrels?"

"No," answered Rob, wondering what Silas meant.

"Wal, then, you'd better fly round, or them spry little fellers won't
leave you none."

"Oh, we can beat them when we begin. There are such lots of nuts
we shall have a plenty."

"There ain't many more to come down, and they have cleared the
ground pretty well, see if they hain't."

Robby ran to look, and was alarmed to find how few remained. He
called Teddy, and they worked hard all one afternoon, while the
squirrels sat on the fence and scolded.

"Now, Ted, we must keep watch, and pick up just as fast as they
fall, or we shan't have more than a bushel, and every one will
laugh at us if we don't."

"The naughty quillies tarn't have 'em. I'll pick fast and run and put
'em in the barn twick," said Teddy, frowning at little Frisky, who
chattered and whisked his tail indignantly.

That night a high wind blew down hundreds of nuts, and when
Mrs. Jo came to wake her little sons, she said, briskly,

"Come, my laddies, the squirrels are hard at it, and you will have
to work well to-day, or they will have every nut on the ground."

"No, they won't," and Robby tumbled up in a great hurry, gobbled
his breakfast, and rushed out to save his property.

Teddy went too, and worked like a little beaver, trotting to and fro
with full and empty baskets. Another bushel was soon put away in
the corn-barn, and they were scrambling among the leaves for
more nuts when the bell rang for school.

"O father! let me stay out and pick. Those horrid squirrels will
have my nuts if you don't. I'll do my lessons by and by," cried Rob,
running into the school-room, flushed and tousled by the fresh cold
wind and his eager work.

"If you had been up early and done a little every morning there
would be no hurry now. I told you that, Rob, and you never
minded. I cannot have the lessons neglected as the work has been.
The squirrels will get more than their share this year, and they
deserve it, for they have worked best. You may go an hour earlier,
but that is all," and Mr. Bhaer led Rob to his place where the little
man dashed at his books as if bent on making sure of the precious
hour promised him.

It was almost maddening to sit still and see the wind shaking down
the last nuts, and the lively thieves flying about, pausing now and
then to eat one in his face, and flirt their tails, as if they said,
saucily, "We'll have them in spite of you, lazy Rob." The only
thing that sustained the poor child in this trying moment was the
sight of Teddy working away all alone. It was really splendid the
pluck and perseverance of the little lad. He picked and picked till
his back ached; he trudged to and fro till his small legs were tired;
and he defied wind, weariness, and wicked "quillies," till his
mother left her work and did the carrying for him, full of
admiration for the kind little fellow who tried to help his brother.
When Rob was dismissed, he found Teddy reposing in the
bushel-basket quite used up, but unwilling to quit the field; for he
flapped his hat at the thieves with one grubby little hand, while he
refreshed himself with the big apple held in the other.

Rob fell to work and the ground was cleared before two o'clock,
the nuts safely in the corn-barn loft, and the weary workers exulted
in their success. But Frisky and his wife were not to be vanquished
so easily; and when Rob went up to look at his nuts a few days
later he was amazed to see how many had vanished. None of the
boys could have stolen them, because the door had been locked;
the doves could not have eaten them, and there were no rats about.
There was great lamentation among the young Bhaers till Dick
said

"I saw Frisky on the roof of the corn-barn, may be he took them."

"I know he did! I'll have a trap, and kill him dead," cried Rob,
disgusted with Frisky's grasping nature.

"Perhaps if you watch, you can find out where he puts them, and I
may be able to get them back for you," said Dan, who was much
amused by the fight between the boys and squirrels.

So Rob watched and saw Mr. and Mrs. Frisky drop from the
drooping elm boughs on to the roof of the corn-barn, dodge in at
one of the little doors, much to the disturbance of the doves, and
come out with a nut in each mouth. So laden they could not get
back the way they came, but ran down the low roof, along the wall,
and leaping off at a corner they vanished a minute and re-appeared
without their plunder. Rob ran to the place, and in a hollow under
the leaves he found a heap of the stolen property hidden away to
be carried off to the holes by and by.

"Oh, you little villains! I'll cheat you now, and not leave one," said
Rob. So he cleared the corner and the corn-barn, and put the
contested nuts in the garret, making sure that no broken
window-pane could anywhere let in the unprincipled squirrels.
They seemed to feel that the contest was over, and retired to their
hole, but now and then could not resist throwing down nut-shells
on Rob's head, and scolding violently as if they could not forgive
him nor forget that he had the best of the battle.

Father and Mother Bhaer's crop was of a different sort, and not so
easily described; but they were satisfied with it, felt that their
summer work had prospered well, and by and by had a harvest that
made them very happy.

CHAPTER XIX JOHN BROOKE

"Wake up, Demi, dear! I want you."

"Why, I've just gone to bed; it can't be morning yet;" and Demi
blinked like a little owl as he waked from his first sound sleep.

"It's only ten, but your father is ill, and we must go to him. O my
little John! my poor little John!" and Aunt Jo laid her head down
on the pillow with a sob that scared sleep from Demi's eyes and
filled his heart with fear and wonder; for he dimly felt why Aunt
Jo called him "John," and wept over him as if some loss had come
that left him poor. He clung to her without a word, and in a minute
she was quite steady again, and said, with a tender kiss as she saw
his troubled face,

"We are going to say good-by to him, my darling, and there is no
time to lose; so dress quickly and come to me in my room. I must
go to Daisy."

"Yes, I will;" and when Aunt Jo was gone, little Demi got up
quietly, dressed as if in a dream, and leaving Tommy fast asleep
went away through the silent house, feeling that something new
and sorrowful was going to happen something that set him apart
from the other boys for a time, and made the world seem as dark
and still and strange as those familiar rooms did in the night. A
carriage sent by Mr. Laurie stood before the door. Daisy was soon
ready, and the brother and sister held each other by the hand all the
way into town, as they drove swiftly and silently with aunt and
uncle through the shadowy roads to say good-by to father.

None of the boys but Franz and Emil knew what had happened,
and when they came down next morning, great was their
wonderment and discomfort, for the house seemed forlorn without
its master and mistress. Breakfast was a dismal meal with no
cheery Mrs. Jo behind the teapots; and when school-time came,
Father Bhaer's place was empty. They wandered about in a
disconsolate kind of way for an hour, waiting for news and hoping
it would be all right with Demi's father, for good John Brooke was
much beloved by the boys. Ten o'clock came, and no one arrived
to relieve their anxiety. They did not feel like playing, yet the time
dragged heavily, and they sat about listless and sober. All at once,
Franz got up, and said, in his persuasive way,

"Look here, boys! let's go into school and do our lessons just as if
Uncle was here. It will make the day go faster, and will please
him, I know."

"But who will hear us say them?" asked Jack.

"I will; I don't know much more than you do, but I'm the oldest
here, and I'll try to fill Uncle's place till he comes, if you don't
mind."

Something in the modest, serious way Franz said this impressed
the boys, for, though the poor lad's eyes were red with quiet crying
for Uncle John in that long sad night, there was a new manliness
about him, as if he had already begun to feel the cares and troubles
of life, and tried to take them bravely.

"I will, for one," and Emil went to his seat, remembering that
obedience to his superior officer is a seaman's first duty.

The others followed; Franz took his uncle's seat, and for an hour
order reigned. Lessons were learned and said, and Franz made a
patient, pleasant teacher, wisely omitting such lessons as he was
not equal to, and keeping order more by the unconscious dignity
that sorrow gave him than by any words of his own. The little boys
were reading when a step was heard in the hall, and every one
looked up to read the news in Mr. Bhaer's face as he came in. The
kind face told them instantly that Demi had no father now, for it
was worn and pale, and full of tender grief, which left him no
words with which to answer Rob, as he ran to him, saying,
reproachfully,

"What made you go and leave me in the night, papa?"

The memory of the other father who had left his children in the
night, never to return, made Mr. Bhaer hold his own boy close,
and, for a minute, hide his face in Robby's curly hair. Emil laid his
head down on his arms, Franz, went to put his hand on his uncle's
shoulder, his boyish face pale with sympathy and sorrow, and the
others sat so still that the soft rustle of the falling leaves outside
was distinctly heard.

Rob did not clearly understand what had happened, but he hated to
see papa unhappy, so he lifted up the bent head, and said, in his
chirpy little voice,

"Don't cry, mein Vater! we were all so good, we did our lessons,
without you, and Franz was the master."

Mr. Bhaer looked up then, tried to smile, and said in a grateful
tone that made the lads feel like saints, "I thank you very much, my
boys. It was a beautiful way to help and comfort me. I shall not
forget it, I assure you."

"Franz proposed it, and was a first-rate master, too," said Nat; and
the others gave a murmur of assent most gratifying to the young
dominie.

Mr. Bhaer put Rob down, and, standing up, put his arm round his
tall nephew's shoulder, as he said, with a look of genuine pleasure,

"This makes my hard day easier, and gives me confidence in you
all. I am needed there in town, and must leave you for some hours.
I thought to give you a holiday, or send some of you home, but if
you like to stay and go on as you have begun, I shall be glad and
proud of my good boys."

"We'll stay;" "We'd rather;" "Franz can see to us;" cried several,
delighted with the confidence shown in them.

"Isn't Marmar coming home?" asked Rob, wistfully; for home
without "Marmar" was the world without the sun to him.

"We shall both come to-night; but dear Aunt Meg needs Mother
more than you do now, and I know you like to lend her for a little
while."

"Well, I will; but Teddy's been crying for her, and he slapped
Nursey, and was dreadful naughty," answered Rob, as if the news
might bring mother home.

"Where is my little man?" asked Mr. Bhaer.

"Dan took him out, to keep him quiet. He's all right now," said
Franz, pointing to the window, through which they could see Dan
drawing baby in his little wagon, with the dogs frolicking about
him.

"I won't see him, it would only upset him again; but tell Dan I
leave Teddy in his care. You older boys I trust to manage
yourselves for a day. Franz will direct you, and Silas is here to over
see matters. So good-by till to-night."

"Just tell me a word about Uncle John," said Emil, detaining Mr.
Bhaer, as he was about hurrying away again.

"He was only ill a few hours, and died as he has lived, so
cheerfully, so peacefully, that it seems a sin to mar the beauty of it
with any violent or selfish grief. We were in time to say good-by:
and Daisy and Demi were in his arms as he fell asleep on Aunt
Meg's breast. No more now, I cannot bear it," and Mr. Bhaer went
hastily away quite bowed with grief, for in John Brooke he had lost
both friend and brother, and there was no one left to take his place.

All that day the house was very still; the small boys played quietly
in the nursery; the others, feeling as if Sunday had come in the
middle of the week, spent it in walking, sitting in the willow, or
among their pets, all talking much of "Uncle John," and feeling
that something gentle, just, and strong, had gone out of their little
world, leaving a sense of loss that deepened every hour. At dusk,
Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer came home alone, for Demi and Daisy were
their mother's best comfort now, and could not leave her. Poor
Mrs. Jo seemed quite spent, and evidently needed the same sort of
comfort, for her first words, as she came up the stairs, were,
"Where is my baby?"

"Here I is," answered a little voice, as Dan put Teddy into her
arms, adding, as she hugged him close, "My Danny tooked tare of
me all day, and I was dood."

Mrs. Jo turned to thank the faithful nurse, but Dan was waving off
the boys, who had gathered in the hall to meet her, and was saying,
in a low voice, "Keep back; she don't want to be bothered with us
now."

"No, don't keep back. I want you all. Come in and see me, my
boys. I've neglected you all day," and Mrs. Jo held out her hands to
them as they gathered round and escorted her into her own room,
saying little, but expressing much by affectionate looks and clumsy
little efforts to show their sorrow and sympathy.

"I am so tired, I will lie here and cuddle Teddy, and you shall bring
me in some tea," she said, trying to speak cheerfully for their
sakes.

A general stampede into the dining-room followed, and the
supper-table would have been ravaged if Mr. Bhaer had not
interfered. It was agreed that one squad should carry in the
mother's tea, and another bring it out. The four nearest and dearest
claimed the first honor, so Franz bore the teapot, Emil the bread,
Rob the milk, and Teddy insisted on carrying the sugar basin,
which was lighter by several lumps when it arrived than when it
started. Some women might have found it annoying at such a time
to have boys creaking in and out, upsetting cups and rattling
spoons in violent efforts to be quiet and helpful; but it suited Mrs.
Jo, because just then her heart was very tender; and remembering
that many of her boys were fatherless or motherless, she yearned
over them, and found comfort in their blundering affection. It was
the sort of food that did her more good than the very thick
bread-and-butter that they gave her, and the rough Commodore's
broken whisper,

"Bear up, Aunty, it's a hard blow; but we'll weather it somehow;"
cheered her more than the sloppy cup he brought her, full of tea as
bitter as if some salt tear of his own had dropped into it on the
way. When supper was over, a second deputation removed the
tray; and Dan said, holding out his arms for sleepy little Teddy,

"Let me put him to bed, you're so tired, Mother."

"Will you go with him, lovey?" asked Mrs. Jo of her small lord and
master, who lay on her arm among the sofa-pillows.

"Torse I will;" and he was proudly carried off by his faithful
bearer.

"I wish I could do something," said Nat, with a sigh, as Franz
leaned over the sofa, and softly stroked Aunt Jo's hot forehead.

"You can, dear. Go and get your violin, and play me the sweet
little airs Uncle Teddy sent you last. Music will comfort me better
than any thing else to-night."

Nat flew for his fiddle, and, sitting just outside her door, played as
he had never done before, for now his heart was in it, and seemed
to magnetize his fingers. The other lads sat quietly upon the steps,
keeping watch that no new-comer should disturb the house; Franz
lingered at his post; and so, soothed, served, and guarded by her
boys, poor Mrs. Jo slept at last, and forgot her sorrow for an hour.

Two quiet days, and on the third Mr. Bhaer came in just after
school, with a note in his hand, looking both moved and pleased.

"I want to read you something, boys," he said; and as they stood
round him he read this:

"DEAR BROTHER FRITZ, I hear that you do not mean to bring
your flock today, thinking that I may not like it. Please do. The
sight of his friends will help Demi through the hard hour, and I
want the boys to hear what father says of my John. It will do them
good, I know. If they would sing one of the sweet old hymns you
have taught them so well, I should like it better than any other
music, and feel that it was beautifully suited to the occasion.
Please ask them, with my love.

MEG."

"Will you go?" and Mr. Bhaer looked at the lads, who were greatly
touched by Mrs. Brooke's kind words and wishes.

"Yes," they answered, like one boy; and an hour later they went
away with Franz to bear their part in John Brooke's simple funeral.

The little house looked as quiet, sunny, and home-like as when
Meg entered it as a bride, ten years ago, only then it was early
summer, and rose blossomed everywhere; now it was early
autumn, and dead leaves rustled softly down, leaving the branches
bare. The bride was a widow now; but the same beautiful serenity
shone in her face, and the sweet resignation of a truly pious soul
made her presence a consolation to those who came to comfort
her.

"O Meg! how can you bear it so?" whispered Jo, as she met them
at the door with a smile of welcome, and no change in her gentle
manner, except more gentleness.

"Dear Jo, the love that has blest me for ten happy years supports
me still. It could not die, and John is more my own than ever,"
whispered Meg; and in her eyes the tender trust was so beautiful
and bright, that Jo believed her, and thanked God for the
immortality of love like hers.

They were all there father and mother, Uncle Teddy, and Aunt
Amy, old Mr. Laurence, white-haired and feeble now, Mr. and
Mrs. Bhaer, with their flock, and many friends, come to do honor
to the dead. One would have said that modest John Brooke, in his
busy, quiet, humble life, had had little time to make friends; but
now they seemed to start up everywhere, old and young, rich and
poor, high and low; for all unconsciously his influence had made
itself widely felt, his virtues were remembered, and his hidden
charities rose up to bless him. The group about his coffin was a far
more eloquent eulogy than any Mr. March could utter. There were
the rich men whom he had served faithfully for years; the poor old
women whom he cherished with his little store, in memory of his
mother; the wife to whom he had given such happiness that death
could not mar it utterly; the brothers and sisters in whose hearts he
had made a place for ever; the little son and daughter, who already
felt the loss of his strong arm and tender voice; the young children,
sobbing for their kindest playmate, and the tall lads, watching with
softened faces a scene which they never could forget. A very
simple service, and very short; for the fatherly voice that had
faltered in the marriage-sacrament now failed entirely as Mr.
March endeavored to pay his tribute of reverence and love to the
son whom he most honored. Nothing but the soft coo of Baby
Josy's voice up-stairs broke the long hush that followed the last
Amen, till, at a sign from Mr. Bhaer, the well-trained boyish
voices broke out in a hymn, so full of lofty cheer, that one by one
all joined in it, singing with full hearts, and finding their troubled
spirits lifted into peace on the wings of that brave, sweet psalm.

As Meg listened, she felt that she had done well; for not only did
the moment comfort her with the assurance that John's last lullaby
was sung by the young voices he loved so well, but in the faces of
the boys she saw that they had caught a glimpse of the beauty of
virtue in its most impressive form, and that the memory of the
good man lying dead before them would live long and helpfully in
their remembrance. Daisy's head lay in her lap, and Demi held her
hand, looking often at her, with eyes so like his father's, and a little
gesture that seemed to say, "Don't be troubled, mother; I am here;"
and all about her were friends to lean upon and love; so patient,
pious Meg put by her heavy grief, feeling that her best help would
be to live for others, as her John had done.

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