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“Here’s a lady in England with seven girls, and she wishes to know your views upon education. Also what careers they shall follow—the oldest being twelve. Don’t wonder she’s worried,” laughed Rob.
“I’ll try to answer it. But as I have no girls, my opinion isn’t worth much and will probably shock her, as I shall tell her to let them run and play and build up good, stout bodies before she talks about careers. They will soon show what they want, if they are let alone, and not all run in the same mould.”
“Here’s a fellow who wants to know what sort of a girl he shall marry, and if you know of any like those in your stories.”
“Give him Nan’s address, and see what he’ll get,” proposed Ted, privately resolving to do it himself if possible.
“This is from a lady who wants you to adopt her child and lend her money to study art abroad for a few years. Better take it, and try your hand at a girl, mother.”
“No, thank you, I will keep to my own line of business. What is that blotted one? It looks rather awful, to judge by the ink,” asked Mrs Jo, who beguiled her daily task by trying to guess from the outside what was inside her many letters. This proved to be a poem from an insane admirer, to judge by its incoherent style.
“TO J.M.B.
“Oh, were I a heliotrope,
I would play poet,
And blow a breeze of fragrance
To you; and none should know it.
“Your form like the stately elm
When Phoebus gilds the morning ray;
Your cheeks like the ocean bed
That blooms a rose in May.
“Your words are wise and bright,
I bequeath them to you a legacy given;
And when your spirit takes its flight,
May it bloom a flower in heaven.
“My tongue in flattering language spoke,
And sweeter silence never broke
In busiest street or loneliest glen.
I take you with the flashes of my pen.
“Consider the lilies, how they grow;
They toil not, yet are fair,
Gems and flowers and Solomon’s seal.
The geranium of the world is J.M. Bhaer.
“James”
While the boys shouted over this effusion—which is a true one—their mother read several liberal offers from budding magazines for her to edit them gratis; one long letter from a young girl inconsolable because her favourite hero died, and “would dear Mrs Bhaer rewrite the tale, and make it end good?” another from an irate boy denied an autograph, who darkly foretold financial ruin and loss of favour if she did not send him and all other fellows who asked autographs, photographs, and autobiographical sketches; a minister wished to know her religion; and an undecided maiden asked which of her two lovers she should marry. These samples will suffice to show a few of the claims made on a busy woman’s time, and make my readers pardon Mrs Jo if she did not carefully reply to all.
“That job is done. Now I will dust a bit, and then go to my work. I’m all behind-hand, and serials can’t wait; so deny me to everybody, Mary. I won’t see Queen Victoria if she comes today.” And Mrs Bhaer threw down her napkin as if defying all creation.
“I hope the day will go well with thee, my dearest,” answered her husband, who had been busy with his own voluminous correspondence. “I will dine at college with Professor Plock, who is to visit us today. The Jünglings can lunch on Parnassus; so thou shalt have a quiet time.” And smoothing th
e worried lines out of her forehead with his good-bye kiss, the excellent man marched away, both pockets full of books, an old umbrella in one hand, and a bag of stones for the geology class in the other.
“If all literary women had such thoughtful angels for husbands, they would live longer and write more. Perhaps that wouldn’t be a blessing to the world though, as most of us write too much now,” said Mrs Jo, waving her feather duster to her spouse, who responded with flourishes of the umbrella as he went down the avenue.
Rob started for school at the same time, looking so much like him with his books and bag and square shoulders and steady air that his mother laughed as she turned away, saying heartily: “Bless both my dear professors, for better creatures never lived!”
Emil was already gone to his ship in the city; but Ted lingered to steal the address he wanted, ravage the sugar-bowl, and talk with “Mum” for the two had great larks together.
Mrs Jo always arranged her own parlour, refilled her vases, and gave the little touches that left it cool and neat for the day. Going to draw down the curtain, she beheld an artist sketching on the lawn, and groaned as she hastily retired to the back window to shake her duster.
At that moment the bell rang and the sound of wheels was heard in the road.
“I’ll go; Mary lets ’em in” and Ted smoothed his hair as he made for the hall.
“Can’t see anyone. Give me a chance to fly upstairs,” whispered Mrs Jo, preparing to escape. But before she could do so, a man appeared at the door with a card in his hand. Ted met him with a stern air, and his mother dodged behind the window-curtains to bide her time for escape.
