#for them peeps on the American continent

[whileiamdying]

‘I’m Still Here’ Review: The Legacy of Rubens Paiva Is Further Fortified by Walter Salles’ Loving Biopic

Venice: A touching tribute to a family left adrift. BY LEILA LATIF SEPTEMBER 1, 2024 1:00 PM

'I'm Still Here' Venice Film Festival

Grief is said to have five stages — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But in the nightmare endured by the Paiva family there is no hope to accept what has happened to them as the government who tortured and executed the beloved head of their family deny he was ever even arrested. The latest film from Brazilian director Water Salles, best know for “The Motorcycle Diaries,” uncovers the Kafkaesque cruelty at the center of the military dictatorship that ruled its country from 1968-1985. Where a family is irreparably traumatized by their father’s fate and, as its matriarch Eunice (Fernanda Torres) puts it, “you leave everyone behind in a state of irreparable torture.” That torture was captured in the memoirs of the youngest Paiva family member, Marcello, whose book on what happened to his father Rubens (Selton Mello) is the basis for Salles’ film. 

When “I’m Still Here” (Ainda Estou Aqui) introduces the large, rambunctious family, they are living in a well-appointed but warm home by the beach in Rio De Janeiro, the sort of idyllic existence that is the envy of their neighbors. Her signature souffle never fails to rise, everyone is always stylishly turned out, and the door is always open to a parade of friends, colleagues, and sweet puppies ripe for adoption. This is the world that almost half of Salles’ film engulfs us in. Of parties, fine whiskey on ice and warm familial bonds they lovingly capture on old super-8 cameras but Salles has the violence slowly creep in, with trucks filled with soldiers tearing down street in the background the whirring of helicopters interrupting their conversations. Their happiness and political standing (Rubens is a well-connected former congressman) given them an agonizing delusion of safety, and even when they have seen that they are targets it doesn’t fully sink in. A desperate Eunice admits to her son’s teacher, “My husband is in danger!,” and its down to her to plainly inform the quasi-widow that, “We’re all in danger.”

Still, even knowing what is to come, given the infamy of Rubens’ fate is still well known as a symbol of the regime’s cruelty, the act of his arrest is unbearably rendered with his naïve youngest children blissfully unaware of what the five men that enter their home with pistols tucked in their belts mean for their beloved father. The interrogation scenes are just as brutal, with the authority figures adopting a less typical Bad Cop-Bad Cop style and near breaking people’s psyche by keeping them untethered from time in dark cells where they only emerge for torture or to be asked the same exact set of questions. 

The second half of his film focusses on Eunice and her quest simply for answers, the idea of them getting justice never feels on the table, but the film instead is a path out of the madness of system where to simply have what happened to their father admitted would fill some of the void he has left behind.

Fernanda Torres’ performance as Eunice is every bit as spectacular as her filmography would suggest, having marked herself out as one of the South American continent’s greatest actors in roles in “Foreign Land” (also directed by Salles) and won a Palme d’Or for Best Actress in “Love Me Forever of Never.” Her Eunice possesses phenomenal strength and stoicism which make each moment of pain that peep through the chinks of her armor all the more moving. Its also, thanks to both her and Mello’s formidable talents, a family whose affection feels lived-in and intimate. Even if this stasis of mourning cannot be fully escaped, the reasons they are able to endure are clear from the many small kindnesses that fill so many of their scenes, a reassuring grip on the shoulder, a borrowed shirt, and space made in the bed beside you for those too afraid to sleep. 

While the impact of what the military family did to this once-happy family is a vital part of Brazil’s historical record, there are pacing issues as it draws to a close. The film’s final half hour is a series of false endings, feeling unsure of just what moment would give the audience the satisfaction that would forever elude the family. Where it’s impossible to truly move on, the march of time only goes in one direction and life without Rubens ends with a kiss and a promise that he’d be back in time to have a slice of his wife’s famous souffle. 

Yet there is still a sense of optimism as the film, in classic biopic style, shows a series of photographs of the real figures before its end credits which solidifies that this is a work about unspeakable cruelty but also a legacy of love. Rubens Paiva was a man who was deeply, profoundly loved by those he left behind and no matter what sadistic dictatorship, brutal soliders or cold-hearted bureaucrats did to erase him, they never accomplished it. 

Grade: B

“I’m Still Here” premiered at the 2024 Venice Film Festival. It is currently seeking U.S. distribution.

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Chapter 33-34

"New York, November.

"Dear Marmee and Beth,—

"I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travelling on the continent. When I lost sight of father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind; for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar.

"Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

"Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky-parlor—all 404 she had; but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church-tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children,—rather spoilt, I fancy, but they took to me after telling them 'The Seven Bad Pigs;' and I've no doubt I shall make a model governess.

"I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it.

"'Now, my dear, make yourself at home,' said Mrs. K. in her motherly way; 'I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family; but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the tea-bell; I must run and change my cap;' and off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.

"As I went downstairs, soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent,—

"'It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such heaviness.'

"Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for, as father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed, and said,—

"'That must have been Professor Bhaer; he's always doing things of that sort.'

"Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin; very learned and good, but poor as a church-mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two 405 little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me; and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.

"After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week; so good-night, and more to-morrow."

"Tuesday Eve.

"Had a lively time in my seminary, this morning, for the children acted like Sancho; and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needle-work, like little Mabel, 'with a willing mind.' I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice button-holes, when the parlor-door opened and shut, and some one began to hum,—

'Kennst du das land,'

like a big bumble-bee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation; and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there; and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German,—rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth; yet I liked him, for he had a fine head; his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat, and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled; and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone,—

406 "'Herein!'

"I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on.

"'Me wants my Bhaer,' said the mite, slamming down her book, and running to meet him.

"'Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer; come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina,' said the Professor, catching her up, with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him.

"'Now me mus tuddy my lessin,' went on the funny little thing; so he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair, with a fatherly look, that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German.

"Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying 'Now Professor,' in a 407 coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

"Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I heard him say emphatically, 'No, no, it is not so; you haf not attend to what I say;' and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, 'Prut! it all goes bad this day.'

"Poor man, I pitied him; and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep, to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and, taking little Tina, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of it.

"Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock dinner; and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself respectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke; but as she is short, and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage, and looked about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on getting their dinner,—the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves; young couples absorbed in each other; married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her.

"Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shovelled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship.' I didn't mind, for I like 'to see folks eat with a relish,' as Hannah 408 says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

"As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall-mirror, and I heard one say low to the other, 'Who's the new party?'

"'Governess, or something of that sort.'

"'What the deuce is she at our table for?'

"'Friend of the old lady's.'

"'Handsome head, but no style.'

"'Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.'

"I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!"

"Oh dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and does need infinite patience, as well as love, as mother says." The word "mother" suggested other maternal counsels, given long ago, and received with unbelieving protests.

341 "John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular about the truth—a good trait, though you call him 'fussy.' Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper, not like ours,—one flash, and then all over,—but the white, still anger, that is seldom stirred, but once kindled, is hard to quench. Be careful, very careful, not to wake this anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret."

These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset, especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement; her own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming 342 home to such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them; she put down her work and got up, thinking, "I will be the first to say, 'Forgive me,'" but he did not seem to hear her; she went very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it; then came the thought, "This is the beginning, I'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach myself with," and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it; the penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly,—

"It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly-pots. Forgive me, dear, I never will again!"

But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made; for family peace was preserved in that little family jar.

After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course; on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a happy fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the way home.

In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at the little house, or inviting "that poor dear" to come in and spend the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely; all were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles; but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't like it; and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked infinitely worse.

She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to 343 value more,—his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife. Till now, she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account-books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her, like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor; it irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie needn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom necessaries; but then they cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying about; so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.

But the trifles cost more than one would imagine; and when she cast up her accounts at the end of the month, the sum total rather scared her. John was busy that month, and left the bills to her; the next month he was absent; but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one,—just a handsome light one for parties, her black silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year; that was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers; but would he think it right to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to loan the money, and with the best intentions in life, had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said, "A bargain, I assure you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll take it;" and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven away, 344 feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after her.

When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk; but it looked less silvery now, didn't become her, after all, and the words "fifty dollars" seemed stamped like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away; but it haunted her, not delightfully, as a new dress should, but dreadfully, like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be stern; and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house-bills were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocket-book which they called the "bank," when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously,—

"You haven't seen my private expense book yet."

John never asked to see it; but she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women 345 wanted, and made him guess what "piping" was, demand fiercely the meaning of a "hug-me-tight," or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and cost five or six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife.

The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair under pretence of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing with every word,—

"John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things, you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did; and my New-Year's money will partly pay for it: but I was sorry after I'd done it, for I knew you'd think it wrong in me."

John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly, "Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you have got a pair of killing boots; I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones."

That had been one of her last "trifles," and John's eye had fallen on it as he spoke. "Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.

"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.

"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total,' as Mr. Mantalini says?"

That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very still; then John said slowly,—but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure,—

"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."

346 "It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.

"Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's when she gets it on," said John dryly.

"I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would count up so. I can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I'm tired of being poor."

The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away, and got up, saying, with a little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid of this; I do my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears, "O John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy, I didn't mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!"

He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach; but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had promised to love him for better for worse; and then she, his wife, had reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly. It was dreadful; and the worst of it was John went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick; and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new great-coat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it, my dear."

Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall, with her face buried in the old great-coat, crying as if her heart would break.

347 They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and failures of those he loved.

Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the great-coat, and, when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home early, Meg gadded no more; and that great-coat was put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience,—the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.

Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dove-cote, one Saturday, with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals; for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the other.

"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me before I came home?" began Laurie, in a loud whisper.

"Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a worshipin'; we didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the parlor, and I'll send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.

Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.

"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.

Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him with an imploring gesture: "No, thank you, I'd rather not. I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate."

"Then you sha'n't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if to go.

348 "I will, I will! only you must be responsible for damages;" and, obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with two babies instead of one.

No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators, with such dismay that Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.

"Twins, by Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute; then, turning to the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, "Take 'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop 'em."

John rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending, while Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

349 "It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have you told, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I've done it," said Jo, when she got her breath.

"I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me up, Jo; for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland looking at a pair of infantile kittens.

"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming upon the little, red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.

"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.

"Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.

"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity in such matters.

"Of course they will; they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!" commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.

Laurie screwed up his face, and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.

"There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy; see him kick; he hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.

"He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have two Megs, and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name," said Amy, with aunt-like interest.

"Name him Demijohn, and call him 'Demi' for short," said Laurie.

"Daisy and Demi,—just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it," cried Jo, clapping her hands.

Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were "Daisy" and "Demi" to the end of the chapter.

350

XXIX.

CALLS.

"Come, Jo, it's time."

"For what?"

"You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me to-day?"

"I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a single one upsets me for a week."

"Yes, you did; it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our neighbors' visits."

"If it was fair—that was in the bond; and I stand to the letter of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east; it's not fair, and I don't go."

"Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises; so be honorable; come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months."

351 At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking; for she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make calls in her best array, on a warm July day. She hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present instance, there was no escape; and having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she smelt thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.

"Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying her with amazement.

"Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable; quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant as you please: it pays for you to be fine; it doesn't for me, and furbelows only worry me."

"Oh dear!" sighed Amy; "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go to-day, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo, if you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone; do come and take care of me."

"You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly; will that satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamb-like submission.

"You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a 352 good impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd only try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet; it's becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one."

While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them; not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings; and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly,—

"I'm perfectly miserable; but if you consider me presentable, I die happy."

"You are highly satisfactory; turn slowly round, and let me get a careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes, you'll do; your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl—I can't; but it's very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one; it's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn't."

"You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the gold hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am?"

"Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house; the sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. 353 You haven't half buttoned one cuff; do it at once. You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing whole."

Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up her cuff; but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as "pretty as picters," Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them.

"Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet,—that's safe and ladylike; and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.

"Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet,'—yes, I think I can promise that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see; so be easy in your mind, my child."

Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word; for, during the first call, she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snow-bank, and as silent as a sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her "charming novel," and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions; each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure "Yes" or "No," with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word "Talk," tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, "icily regular, splendidly null."

"What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo.

"How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect 354 stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs', gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything."

"I'll be agreeable; I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll imitate what is called 'a charming girl;' I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!'"

Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the old lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on; for broken sentences filled her with alarm, round eyes and uplifted hands tormented her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation:—

"She rides splendidly,—who taught her?"

"No one; she used to practise mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stable-man lets her have horses cheap, because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails she can be a horse-breaker, and get her living so."

At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? for the 355 old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done Jo was off again, making more droll revelations, and committing still more fearful blunders.

"Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?"

"Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject.

"None of them; she heard of a young horse at the farmhouse over the river, and, though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic; there was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!"

"Did she ride the horse?"

356 "Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party."

"Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable.

She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic; and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer, with unnecessary frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it; you can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister."

"Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun.

"That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky-blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her card-case at her.

"We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed.

Any mention of her "works" always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter?"

As Miss Lamb had "enjoyed" the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake; but, fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths.

357 "Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear; do come and see us; we are pining for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb; but if you should come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away."

Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Didn't I do that well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air, as they walked away.

"Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?"

"Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do."

"You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak," said Amy despairingly.

Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.

"How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third mansion.

"Just as you please; I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer.

"Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failures to suit.

An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings; and, leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks, and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick," regardless of the improper form of praise; and 358 when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle-tank, she went with an alacrity which caused mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bear-like but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.

Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect; for, in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us,—that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in a ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time; and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March.

It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad; for Jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves. But all were enjoying themselves; and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, "it was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks."

"Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that," said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.

"Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.

359 "Don't like him; he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance; so I let him alone."

"You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod; and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly.

"No, it wouldn't," returned perverse Jo; "I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever; I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown-paper parcels."

"It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.

"Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo; "so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply grateful."

The family card-case having done its duty, the girls walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged.

360 "Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March to-day. We can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."

"Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call; it's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet."

"What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. "I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them; so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip; but they tell best in the end, I fancy."

Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air,—

"Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones; for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you'd remember that, and practise it, you'd be better liked than I am, because there is more of you."

"I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own that you are right; only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"

"It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do; but I'm not called upon to tell him so; neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is."

"But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men; and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddy to manage; but there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others if we can."

"Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would 361 have convulsed the "remarkable boy," if he had heard it. "If we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps; but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical."

"So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort of morality."

"I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of the world; and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you will never try to be one."

"I do like them, and I shall be one if I can; for in spite of the laughing, the world would never get on without them. We can't agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new: you will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think."

"Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new ideas."

"I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her; it's my doom, and I can't help it."

They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject; but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned; but Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper, and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both the aunts "my deared" her affectionately, looking what they afterwards said emphatically,—"That child improves every day."

"Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in the young.

"Yes, aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give."

362 "I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "I hate to be patronized, and the Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy: they only want you to work."

"I am willing to work: it's for the freedmen as well as the Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."

"Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear; it's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts: some do not, and that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.

If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dovelike in a minute; but, unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends; better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue.

363 "I don't like favors; they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent."

"Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.

"I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.

Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.

"Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying her hand on Amy's.

"Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably.

"How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.

"Don't know a word; I'm very stupid about studying anything; can't bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the brusque reply.

Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, "You are quite strong and well, now, dear, I believe? Eyes don't trouble you any more, do they?"

"Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that joyful time arrives."

"Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball for her.

"Cross-patch, draw the latch,

Sit by the fire and spin,"

squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing.

"Most observing bird," said the old lady.

"Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the china-closet, with a look suggestive of lump-sugar.

"Thank you, I will. Come, Amy;" and Jo brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect 364 upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine; which impression caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished,—

"You'd better do it, Mary; I'll supply the money," and Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and mother consent."

365

XXX.

CONSEQUENCES.

Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be invited to take a table, and every one was much interested in the matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on easily. The "haughty, uninteresting creature" was let severely alone; but Amy's talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the art-table, and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it.

Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened; then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost impossible 366 to avoid, when some five and twenty women, old and young, with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.

May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater favorite than herself, and, just at this time, several trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases,—that was one thorn; then the all-conquering Tudor had danced four times with Amy, at a late party, and only once with May,—that was thorn number two; but the chief grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave her an excuse for her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the Lambs'. All the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection, and the frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and Amy's dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look,—

"I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about my giving this table to any one but my girls. As this is the most prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have another table if you like."

Mrs. Chester had fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver this little speech; but when the time came, she found it rather difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes looking straight at her, full of surprise and trouble.

Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did,—

"Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"

"Now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, I beg; it's merely a matter of expediency, you see; my girls will naturally take the lead, and this table is considered their proper place. I think it very appropriate 367 to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty; but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the flower-table? The little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a charming thing of it, and the flower-table is always attractive, you know."

"Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which enlightened Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered, with unexpected amiability,—

"It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."

"You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer," began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly,—

"Oh, certainly, if they are in your way;" and sweeping her contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.

"Now she's mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak, mamma," said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.

"Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.

The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically. But everything seemed against her: it was late, and she was tired; every one was too busy with their own affairs to help her; and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled; her best tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid's 368 cheek; she bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draught, which last affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl-reader who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy, and wish her well through with her task.

There was great indignation at home when she told her story that evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done right; Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all; and Jo demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those mean people to get on without her.

"Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such things, and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend to show it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won't they, Marmee?"

"That's the right spirit, my dear; a kiss for a blow is always best, though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and practising.

In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were in an ante-room filling the baskets, she took up her pet production,—a little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which, on leaves of vellum, she had beautifully illuminated different texts. As she turned the pages, rich in dainty devices, with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think. Framed in a brilliant scroll-work of scarlet, blue, and gold, with little spirits of good-will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers, were the words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."

"I ought, but I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for all heart-burnings and uncharitableness of spirit. 369 Many wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street, school, office, or home; even a fair-table may become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season. Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon from that text, then and there; and she did what many of us do not always do,—took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it in practice.

A group of girls were standing about May's table, admiring the pretty things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the story, and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit had come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving it. She heard May say sorrowfully,—

"It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don't want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete then: now it's spoilt."

"I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested some one.

"How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not finish, for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly,—

"You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I was just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they belong to your table rather than mine. Here they are; please take them, and forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night."

As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile, and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.

"Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.

May's answer was inaudible; but another young lady, whose temper was evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable laugh, "Very lovely; for she knew she wouldn't sell them at her own table."

Now, that was hard; when we make little sacrifices we like to have them appreciated, at least; and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is,—as she presently discovered; for her spirits began to rise, and 370 her table to blossom under her skilful hands; the girls were very kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.

It was a very long day, and a hard one to Amy, as she sat behind her table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon: few cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long before night.

The art-table was the most attractive in the room; there was a crowd about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro with important faces and rattling money-boxes. Amy often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no hardship to some of us; but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not only tedious, but very trying; and the thought of being found there in the evening by her family, and Laurie and his friends, made it a real martyrdom.

She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea, Beth helped her dress, and made a charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the tables were about to be turned.

"Don't do anything rude, pray, Jo. I won't have any fuss made, so let it all pass, and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little table.

"I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and his boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet," returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.

"Is that my boy?"

"As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm, with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.

371 "O Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.

"A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by and by, and I'll be hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and camp down before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her cause with warmth.

"The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn't wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo, in a disgusted tone.

"Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."

"I didn't know that; he forgot, I suppose; and, as your grandpa was poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want some."

"Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking! They are just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in everything?" began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.

"Gracious, I hope not! half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at all. But we mustn't stand philandering here; I've got to help Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid; and if you'll be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll bless you forever."

"Couldn't you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars, "Go away, Teddy; I'm busy."

Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night; for Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket, arranged in his best manner, for a centre-piece; then the March family turned out en masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy's taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest 372 spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and, out of gratitude, if nothing more, was as sprightly and gracious as possible,—coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all.

Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety; and when Amy was happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the ill-feeling, and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible; she also discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art-table, she glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no signs of them. "Tucked away out of sight, I dare say," thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered to her family.

"Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May, with a conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be generous.

373 "She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is enjoying herself. The flower-table is always attractive, you know, 'especially to gentlemen.'"

Jo couldn't resist giving that little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great vases, which still remained unsold.

"Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work.

"Everything of Amy's sold long ago; I took care that the right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us," returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy, that day.

Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news; and Amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of May's words and manner.

"Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables as generously as you have by mine—especially the art-table," she said, ordering out "Teddy's Own," as the girls called the college friends.

"'Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table; but do your duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art in every sense of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx prepared to take the field.

"To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said, "Very well, my son, for a small boy!" and walked him off, with a paternal pat on the head.

"Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals of fire on her enemy's head.

To May's great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases.

374 Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later.

The fair was pronounced a success; and when May bade Amy good night, she did not "gush" as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look which said, "Forgive and forget." That satisfied Amy; and when she got home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney-piece, with a great bouquet in each. "The reward of merit for a magnanimous March," as Laurie announced with a flourish.

"You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart," said Jo warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.

"Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long, and setting your heart on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow.

"Why, girls, you needn't praise me so; I only did as I'd be done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what mother is."

Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug,—

"I understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again. You are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take lessons of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary; you'll get your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall."

A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March's face was illuminated to such a degree, when she read it, that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.

375 "Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants—"

"Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture.

"No, dear, not you; it's Amy."

"O mother! she's too young; it's my turn first. I've wanted it so long—it would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid—I must go."

"I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."

"It's always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately.

"I'm afraid it is partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit; and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said,—'I planned at first to ask Jo; but as "favors burden her," and she "hates French," I think I won't venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give her.'"

"Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! why can't I learn to keep it quiet?" groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully,—

"I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time; so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure by reproaches or regrets."

"I'll try," said Jo, winking hard, as she knelt down to pick up the basket she had joyfully upset. "I'll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness; but it won't be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment;" and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held with several very bitter tears.

"Jo, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm glad you are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face, that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.

376 By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family jubilation; not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without repinings at Amy's good fortune. The young lady herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions of art than herself.

"It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career; for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove it."

"Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.

"Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living," replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure; but she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.

"No, you won't; you hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days," said Jo.

"Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't believe that one will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be an artist myself, I should like to be able to help those who are," said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor drawing-teacher.

"Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh; "if you wish it you'll have it, for your wishes are always granted—mine never."

"Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with her knife.

"Rather!"

"Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so many times."

"Thank you; I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.

377 There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed; then, just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last lingerer, saying with a sob,—

"Oh, take care of them for me; and if anything should happen—"

"I will, dear, I will; and if anything happens, I'll come and comfort you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to keep his word.

So Amy sailed away to find the old world, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.

378

XXXI.

OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT.

"London.

"Dearest People,—

"Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here years ago, and won't go anywhere else; however, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my note-book, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.

"I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen really are very 379 necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one; and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid.

"Every one was very kind, especially the officers."—Page 378. "Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good; as for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the main-top jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking-trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture.

"It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's country-seats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.

"At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us,—Mr. Lennox,—and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed and sung, with a look at me,—

'Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?

She lives on the banks of Killarney;

From the glance of her eye,

Shun danger and fly,

For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.'

Wasn't that nonsensical?

"We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dog-skin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved à la mutton-chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton; but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a grin, 'There yer har, sir. I've give 'em 380 the latest Yankee shine.' It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with 'Robert Lennox's compliments,' on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling.

"I never shall get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture-gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight; with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous, like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw,—the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark,—I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo; and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but uncle read his guide-book, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on: Amy, flying up,—'Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!' Flo, darting to my window,—'How sweet! We must go there some time, won't we, papa?' Uncle, calmly admiring his boots,—'No, my dear, not unless you want beer; that's a brewery.'

"A pause,—then Flo cried out, 'Bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up.' 'Where, where?' shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a cross-beam and some dangling chains. 'A colliery,' remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. 'Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down,' says Amy. 'See, papa, aren't they pretty!' added Flo sentimentally. 'Geese, young ladies,' returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy 'The Flirtations of Capt. Cavendish,' and I have the scenery all to myself.

"Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid; 381 things seem so cheap—nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?

"Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt and uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! for when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him. But he was up outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a break-neck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,—

"'Now then, mum?'

"I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with an 'Aye, aye, mum,' the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again, and said, 'A little faster;' then off he went, helter-skelter, as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.

"To-day was fair and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate; and the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw; handsome girls, looking half asleep; dandies, in queer English hats and lavender kids, lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them.

"Rotten Row means 'Route de Roi,' or the king's way; but now it's more like a riding-school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well; but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women 382 in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one rides,—old men, stout ladies, little children,—and the young folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw a pair exchange rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea.

"In the p.m. to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible—so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life.

"Midnight.

"It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows, with whiskers; Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house; but uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to the theatre with us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat.' Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?

"Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say 'Ah!' and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving

Amy."

"Paris"

"Dear Girls,—

"In my last I told you about our London visit,—how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum 383 more than anything else,—for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and, at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy; also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did' London to our hearts' content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away; for, though English people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows,—especially Fred.

"Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word; and now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if that would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the 'parley vooing,' as uncle calls it.

"Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafés, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art; but I have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush; also Marie Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I come, but haven't time to write.

"The Palais Royale is a heavenly place,—so full of bijouterie and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them. 384 Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the Bois and the Champs Elysées are très magnifique. I've seen the imperial family several times,—the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought,—purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap. is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets, and a mounted guard before and behind.

"We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Père la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and, looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.

"Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and, sitting in the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there, when too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether 385 the most agreeable young man I ever knew,—except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men; however, the Vaughns are very rich, and come of an excellent family, so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.

"Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland; and, as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and admire,' as father advised. It is good practice for me, and, with my sketch-book, will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

"Adieu; I embrace you tenderly.

Votre Amie."

"Heidelberg.

"My dear Mamma,—

"Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see.

"The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read about it; I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw,—the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone.

"When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away,—to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest-pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it.

386 "The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask, as every one knew it, or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it; I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and it mortifies me.

"Now comes the serious part,—for it happened here, and Fred is just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him; I never thought of anything but a travelling friendship, till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother will shake her head, and the girls say, 'Oh, the mercenary little wretch!' but I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich,—ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! and I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us must marry well; 387 Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosey all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and, in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it; he never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at any one else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us, and then said something to his friend,—a rakish-looking baron,—about 'ein wonderschönes Blöndchen,' Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

"Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset,—at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector, long ago, for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine; so, while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and waiting for my lover, like a 388 real story-book girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool, and only a little excited.

"By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill; so he was going at once, in the night train, and only had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he said, as he shook hands,—and said it in a way that I could not mistake,—'I shall soon come back; you won't forget me, Amy?'

"I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say 'Yes, thank you,' when he says 'Will you, please?'

"Of course this is all very private, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your 'prudent Amy,' and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.

"Ever your

Amy."

389

XXXII.

TENDER TROUBLES.

"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions, or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and, after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,—

"I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able to explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."

"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother, with a sigh and a smile.

" 390 Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon; but when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad; but if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind, and don't let her think any one watches or talks about her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman! I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not very wearing, so they'll keep;" and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the present at least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth; and, after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were alone together; yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out,—

"All serene! Coming in to-night."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the 391 passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,—

"How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off, and glanced apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a tremendous rate, apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant Beth turned, Jo began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to her eyes more than once, and, in her half-averted face, read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper.

392 "Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What will mother say? I wonder if he—" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a sudden thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall. "Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for a minute, with her eyes fixed on the picture; then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead, and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, "No, thank you, sir; you're very charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock; so you needn't write touching notes, and smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had prevailed in the family, of late, that "our boy" was getting fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject, and scolded violently if any one dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages of the past year, or rather attempts at tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated "philandering," and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month; but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in 393 their weekly conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious, and gave out that he was going to "dig," intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the eye; for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because, when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly "spin," and he never disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught off a tice," "stumped off his ground," and "the leg hit for three," were as intelligible to her as Sanscrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender.

"Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out of the way."

As every one was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that 394 she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,—long, broad, well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end; this repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days, when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from taking the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If "the sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to the man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both arms spread over the sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction,—

"Now, this is filling at the price."

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late, there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it disappeared in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you; I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

395 Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern query,—

"How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."

"I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,—sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't let me send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings must have a went."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't, I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as everybody else is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo, forgetting to play Mentor.

396 "Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure; but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I fancy."

"They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully, among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin,—

"'Out upon you, fie upon you,

Bold-faced jig!'"

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as a most eligible parti by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoilt, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a 'went,' Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

397 "You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half good enough for—well, whoever the modest girl may be," and Jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's apron-tassel round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the young gentleman had departed in high dudgeon.

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious inquiry, "What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

"Is it the old pain, my precious?"

"No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her tears.

"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."

"You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and, clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was frightened.

"Where is it? Shall I call mother?"

398 Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand went involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the other she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll be quiet, and go to sleep; indeed I will."

Jo obeyed; but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so, though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"

399 "Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not yet."

"Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can."

"I know it. I'll tell you by and by."

"Is the pain better now?"

"Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!"

"Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you."

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself again; for at eighteen, neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother.

"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alone together. "I want to go away somewhere this winter for a change."

"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a double meaning.

With her eyes on her work, Jo answered soberly, "I want something new; I feel restless, and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so, as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way, and try my wings."

"Where will you hop?"

"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried."

"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding-house!" and Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.

"It's not exactly going out to service; for Mrs. Kirke is your friend,—the kindest soul that ever lived,—and would make things pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do; it's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it."

400 "Nor I; but your writing?"

"All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and, even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish."

"I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?"

"No, mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks, "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but—I'm afraid—Laurie is getting too fond of me."

"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him; but as for anything more, it's out of the question."

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over; but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love."

"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy; for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

"You are sure of his feeling for you?"

The color deepened in Jo's cheeks, as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers,—

"I'm afraid it is so, mother; he hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."

401 "I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

Jo looked relieved, and, after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew; and how she will rejoice that Annie still may hope."

"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all,—the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it; for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?"

"Yes; she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and by. I said no more, for I think I know it;" and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that, for Laurie's sake, Jo should go away for a time.

"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled; then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragical. Beth must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to her; but she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his love-lornity."

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this "little trial" would be harder than the others, and that Laurie would not get over his "love-lornity" as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council, and agreed upon; for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her. The teaching would render her independent; and such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home-nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie; but to her surprise 402 he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant; and, when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am; and I mean this one shall stay turned."

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart,—for Beth seemed more cheerful,—and hoped she was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave to your especial care," she said, the night before she left.

"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"

"Of course I will; but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly."

"It won't hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order."

"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly.

When Laurie said "Good-by," he whispered significantly, "It won't do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you; so mind what you do, or I'll come and bring you home."

403

XXXIII.

JO'S JOURNAL.

"New York, November.

"Dear Marmee and Beth,—

"I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travelling on the continent. When I lost sight of father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind; for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar.

"Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

"Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky-parlor—all 404 she had; but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church-tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children,—rather spoilt, I fancy, but they took to me after telling them 'The Seven Bad Pigs;' and I've no doubt I shall make a model governess.

"I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it.

"'Now, my dear, make yourself at home,' said Mrs. K. in her motherly way; 'I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family; but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the tea-bell; I must run and change my cap;' and off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.

"As I went downstairs, soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent,—

"'It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such heaviness.'

"Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for, as father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed, and said,—

"'That must have been Professor Bhaer; he's always doing things of that sort.'

"Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin; very learned and good, but poor as a church-mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two 405 little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me; and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.

"After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week; so good-night, and more to-morrow."

"Tuesday Eve.

"Had a lively time in my seminary, this morning, for the children acted like Sancho; and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needle-work, like little Mabel, 'with a willing mind.' I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice button-holes, when the parlor-door opened and shut, and some one began to hum,—

'Kennst du das land,'

like a big bumble-bee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation; and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there; and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German,—rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth; yet I liked him, for he had a fine head; his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat, and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled; and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone,—

406 "'Herein!'

"I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on.

"'Me wants my Bhaer,' said the mite, slamming down her book, and running to meet him.

"'Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer; come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina,' said the Professor, catching her up, with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him.

"'Now me mus tuddy my lessin,' went on the funny little thing; so he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair, with a fatherly look, that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German.

"Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying 'Now Professor,' in a 407 coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

"Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I heard him say emphatically, 'No, no, it is not so; you haf not attend to what I say;' and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, 'Prut! it all goes bad this day.'

"Poor man, I pitied him; and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep, to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and, taking little Tina, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of it.

"Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock dinner; and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself respectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke; but as she is short, and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage, and looked about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on getting their dinner,—the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves; young couples absorbed in each other; married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her.

"Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shovelled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship.' I didn't mind, for I like 'to see folks eat with a relish,' as Hannah 408 says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

"As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall-mirror, and I heard one say low to the other, 'Who's the new party?'

"'Governess, or something of that sort.'

"'What the deuce is she at our table for?'

"'Friend of the old lady's.'

"'Handsome head, but no style.'

"'Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.'

"I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!"

"Thursday.

"Yesterday was a quiet day, spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cosey, with a light and fire. I picked up a few bits of news, and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore.' Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and the splendid tales he tells. The young men quiz him, it seems, call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. K. says, and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him, in spite of his foreign ways.

"The maiden lady is a Miss Norton,—rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke to me at dinner to-day (for I went to table again, it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly; so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.

409 "I was in our parlor last evening, when Mr. Bhaer came in with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily: 'This is mamma's friend, Miss March.'

"'Yes; and she's jolly and we like her lots,' added Kitty, who is an enfant terrible.

"We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.

"'Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so again, call at me and I come,' he said, with a threatening frown that delighted the little wretches.

"I promised I would, and he departed; but it seems as if I was doomed to see a good deal of him, for to-day, as I passed his door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand, and a darning-needle in the other; he didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his loud, cheerful way,—

"'You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, mademoiselle.'

"I laughed all the way downstairs; but it was a little pathetic, also, to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The 410 German gentlemen embroider, I know; but darning hose is another thing, and not so pretty."

"Saturday.

"Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who has a room full of lovely things, and who was very charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her escort,—if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

"When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that I looked in; and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump-rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with seed-cakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs.

"'We are playing nargerie,' explained Kitty.

"'Dis is mine effalunt!' added Tina, holding on by the Professor's hair.

"'Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?' said Minnie.

411 "The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and said soberly to me,—

"'I gif you my wort it is so. If we make too large a noise you shall say "Hush!" to us, and we go more softly.'

"I promised to do so, but left the door open, and enjoyed the fun as much as they did,—for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sung, and when it began to grow dark they all piled on to the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney-tops, and the little 'kobolds,' who ride the snow-flakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple and natural as Germans, don't you?

"I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to every one.

"From your faithful

Jo.

"P. S. On reading over my letter it strikes me as rather Bhaery; but I am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to write about. Bless you!"

"December.

"My Precious Betsey,—

"As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on; for, though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart; for the mixture of German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in the house or out; for on pleasant days they all go to walk, 412 like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order; and then such fun!

"We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me, one day, as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room, where she was rummaging.

"'Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these books to rights, for I've turned everything upside down, trying to discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago.'

"I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was 'a den,' to be sure. Books and papers everywhere; a broken meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantel-piece as if done with; a ragged bird, without any tail, chirped on one window-seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other; half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the manuscripts; dirty little boots stood drying before the fire; and traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three of the missing articles were found,—one over the bird-cage, one covered with ink, and a third burnt brown, having been used as a holder.

"'Such a man!' laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in the rag-bag. 'I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite-tails. It's dreadful, but I can't scold him: he's so absent-minded and good-natured, he lets those boys ride over him rough-shod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes.'

"'Let me mend them,' said I. 'I don't mind it, and he needn't know. I'd like to,—he's so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending books.'

"So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the socks,—for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it out, but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others 413 has interested and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn; for Tina runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him.

"'So!' he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, 'you peep at me, I peep at you, and that is not bad; but see, I am not pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?'

"'Yes; but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,' I blundered out, as red as a peony.

"'Prut! we will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness; for, look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay,' and he pointed to my work. 'Yes, they say to one another, these so kind ladies, "he is a stupid old fellow; he will see not what we do; he will never opserve that his sock-heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves." Ah! but I haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel the thanks for this. Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy works for me and mine.'

"Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways; and when it came to a sniff of utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to the floor, and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I'd covered myself with glory.

414 "'Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little Märchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the corner for making us trouble.'

"He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersen's fairy tales so invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to the inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried out, in his hearty way, 'Das ist gute! Now we go well! My turn. I do him in German; gif me your ear.' And away he went, rumbling out the words with his strong voice, and a relish which was good to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the 'Constant Tin Soldier,' which is droll, you know, so I could laugh,—and I did,—though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so comical.

"After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well; for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it yet,—which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.

"I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking, and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did. I'm not jealous, dear; do your best, only don't make a saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven't time to write much, and that will do just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable."

"January.

"A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't get it till night, and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, 415 but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise; so I was disappointed, for I'd had a 'kind of a feeling' that you wouldn't forget me. I felt a little low in my mind, as I sat up in my room, after tea; and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I just hugged it, and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing, that I sat down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought. Beth's new 'ink-bib' was capital; and Hannah's box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

"Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that line for, on New Year's Day, Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he values much, and I've often admired it, set up in the place of honor, with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton; so you may imagine how I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my name in it, 'from my friend Friedrich Bhaer.'

416 "'You say often you wish a library: here I gif you one; for between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and he will help you much; for the study of character in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen.'

"I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about 'my library,' as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in Shakespeare before; but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me. Now don't laugh at his horrid name; it isn't pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only Germans can give it. I'm glad you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new 'friend Friedrich Bhaer.'

"Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several little things, and put them about the room, where he would find them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny,—a new standish on his table, a little vase for his flower,—he always has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says,—and a holder for his blower, so that he needn't burn up what Amy calls 'mouchoirs.' I made it like those Beth invented,—a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantel-piece as an article of vertu; so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn't forget a servant or a child in the house; and not a soul here, from the French laundry-woman to Miss Norton, forgot him. I was so glad of that.

"They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I didn't mean to go down, having no dress; but at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and feathers; so I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool, most of them; and so I am to whipper-snappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a 'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of the Nile.' I enjoyed it 417 very much; and when we unmasked, it was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell another that he knew I'd been an actress; in fact, he thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor theatres. Meg will relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania,—a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance was 'quite a landscape,' to use a Teddyism.

"I had a very happy New Year, after all; and when I thought it over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many failures; for I'm cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your loving

Jo."

XXXIV. A Friend.

418

XXXIV.

A FRIEND.

Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with the daily work that earned her bread, and made it sweeter for the effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl; but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that money conferred power: money and power, therefore, she resolved to have; not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than self.

The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom; going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so that she 419 might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's most cherished castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after long travelling and much up-hill work lead to this delightful château en Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger bean-stalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble, and the least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the "up again and take another" spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack; so she scrambled up, on the shady side this time, and got more booty, but nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the money-bags.

She took to writing sensation stories; for in those dark ages, even all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a "thrilling tale," and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor of the "Weekly Volcano." She had never read "Sartor Resartus," but she had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she dressed herself in her best, and, trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar-smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment,—

"Excuse me, I was looking for the 'Weekly Volcano' office; I wished to see Mr. Dashwood."

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and, carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced, with a nod, and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.

420 "A friend of mine desired me to offer—a story—just as an experiment—would like your opinion—be glad to write more if this suits."

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon,—sure sign of a novice.

"No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the 'Blarneystone Banner.'"

"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present; but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."

Now, Jo did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at all; but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both; for it was perfectly evident, from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen, that her little fiction of "my friend" was considered a good joke; and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously; and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene, and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced; Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable; and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners: so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.

"We'll take this" (editors never say I), "if you don't object to a few alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will make it just the right length," he said, in a business-like tone.

421 Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs; but, feeling as a tender parent might on being asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages, and was surprised to find that all the moral reflections—which she had carefully put in as ballast for much romance—had been stricken out.

"But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent."

Mr. Dashwood's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had forgotten her "friend," and spoken as only an author could.

"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't sell nowadays;" which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"

"Yes; it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up—language good, and so on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.

"What do you—that is, what compensation—" began Jo, not exactly knowing how to express herself.

"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had escaped him; such trifles often do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

"Very well; you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story, with a satisfied air; for, after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five seemed good pay.

"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and emboldened by her success.

"Well, we'll look at it; can't promise to take it. Tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend like to put to it?" in a careless tone.

"None at all, if you please; she doesn't wish her name to appear, and has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week; will you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

422 "I'll call. Good morning, sir."

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."

Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature; but, thanks to the life-preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again, not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery; and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at home. She had a feeling that father and mother would not approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories; Mr. Dashwood had, of course, found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb; and, for a wonder, kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing of which she should be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales; and, as thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world which underlies society; so, regarding it in a business light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic 423 energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes; she excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons; she studied faces in the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her; she delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering finely; but, unconsciously, she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character. She was living in bad society; and, imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating about her own,—a morbid amusement, in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrong-doing always brings its own punishment; and, when Jo most needed hers, she got it.

I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest, brave, and strong; but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him,—a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome; in no respect what is called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant; and yet he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving 424 something away; a stranger, yet every one was his friend; no longer young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and, at last, decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow, "it sat with its head under its wing," and he turned only his sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly words and cheery laughs; his eyes were never cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him comfortable; his capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart underneath; his rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full; his very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like other people's.

"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that genuine good-will towards one's fellow-men could beautify and dignify even a stout German teacher, who shovelled in his dinner, darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came to see him, and, in a conversation with Miss Norton, divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in America; and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.

Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entrée into literary society, 425 which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with her, one night, to a select symposium, held in honor of several celebrities.

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had worshipped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on "spirit, fire, and dew," to behold him devouring his supper with an ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly with one of the Madame de Staëls of the age, who looked daggers at another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing 426 her, after out-manœuvring her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of the party.

Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely désillusionée, that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversation was miles beyond Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms; and the only thing "evolved from her inner consciousness," was a bad headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new, and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before; that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful, came over her, as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.

She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear. He shook his head, and beckoned her to come away; but she was fascinated, just then, by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat, trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs.

Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man, and slow to offer his own opinions, not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people, attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his brows, and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable 427 young soul would be led astray by the rockets, to find, when the display was over, that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.

He bore it as long as he could; but when he was appealed to for an opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation, and defended religion with all the eloquence of truth,—an eloquence which made his broken English musical, and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for the wise men argued well; but he didn't know when he was beaten, and stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got right again to Jo; the old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed better than the new; God was not a blind force, and immortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid ground under her feet again; and when Mr. Bhaer paused, out-talked, but not one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither; but she remembered this scene, and gave the Professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty; and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined it to be, "truth, reverence, and good-will," then her friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship; and, just when the wish was sincerest, she came near losing everything. It all grew out of a cocked hat; for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson, with a paper soldier-cap on his head, which Tina had put there, and he had forgotten to take off.

"It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his head-gear, for he was going to read her the "Death of Wallenstein."

[steveskafte]

LACK OF WHAT WAS I've been thinking on this a whole lot lately – what makes you a native, not a foreigner? Some say it all comes down to blood, an undefined amount of generations raised in one place. If that's the case, I'm far too much of a mutt for that. My family is new to Nova Scotia, I'm one of the first bunch born here. Before that, we were outsiders in Ontario. If belonging is only a long-term proposition, you'll have to take my Turksma line to The Netherlands, or my Skafte line back to Denmark. When they came here, the former in the 1950s and the latter in the 1920s – they snapped themselves off family trees so old in each country as to render previous residence forgotten. Is that what it means to be native, to have no written or remembered record of living elsewhere? When who'd become the natives of North American arrived from Asia thousands of years ago, they were the original humans on this continent. Are you only native if you're the first? Does being native mean a guiltless claim, a hope that your DNA history holds no blame for stealing land from others? But small-scale theft and territorial dispute is always present, even in the tribal circle – nothing in our cultures is free from wanting what's not ours. We've all been passed those human instincts down the line. Maybe it's a question of how well you know your homeland. Does walking have a way of connecting me here? Streams I've followed, coastline tracked, trees climbed and forest wandered. I've got no cultural connection, more an animal awareness, a love for what is but a lack of what was. I don't crave deep roots, have no intention of moving back where my ancestors left them. I've visited Europe, and it gave me no more desire to live there than they had. If I returned now, I'd just be a foreigner all over again. Most of my life, I've felt like I just woke with no history, crawled from the mud and got dressed as if the earth made me. That's an indigenous fable in several different cultures, so I can't claim it as my own. I've long been obsessed with what I just missed. When I was a kid, I spent hours pouring over family photos – showing stories leading up to my birth in 1987. All the factors that came together to ensure my existence, informing the elements of my early days. I feel a curious draw to movies made in the decade earlier, between then and '77. They're like looking in on secret skeletons, x-rays of misplaced memories. This is why I'm so often haunting last century's history, a peeping Steve into that more immediate antiquity. There's no way to close the greater gap, between me and ancient history. My neighbours, the eternal natives – and me, the eternal foreigner. December 16, 2022 South Farmington, Nova Scotia Year 16, Day 5514 of my daily journal.

[thewritershelpers]

Any tips to write a wild west story? I'm working on a cowboy/western AU and I have no idea on where to start to make it historically accurate. Thanks in advance and keep on being awesome!

This turned into a fairly long reply, so to quickly summarize: ignore pretty much anything Hollywood has told you about the “Wild West,” except maybe the number of women (except we don’t really know if there were significantly fewer women or if they were just that underreported/underrepresented). 

Anyway!

I’m so glad you asked! Historical accuracy can get kind of tricky with any story you come up with, but especially the Wild West. There has been so much about the West that has been sensationalized thanks to media, that most people don’t actually have an accurate conception of what life looked like. Before getting into actual writing tips, here’s a basic rundown of US history that will help (and more facts/sources under the cut).

1600s Colonial/Pilgram peeps pop over to the continent, begin pushing the native and indigenous people out of their homes/lands, seeking religious/political freedom, yada yada

1776, Declaration of Independence, Revolutionary War, etc etc etc, continued bad treatment of the people who here first

1803, Louisiana Purchase happens, when the USA gov’t buys land that was France/Spain stuff (at this time, Mexico/New Spain is still including California, Texas, Utah, Florida and more) Lewis & Clark are “exploring” at this time too, and settlers are rushing to get away from what is slowly starting to become the “urbanized” East (remember, still pre-Civil War) [BIG FACT HERE: people settling in the west, built cities. Like legit urban cities, just not the metroplexes that Boston and Philadelphia and Washington D.C. had/were becoming)

1830, by now Florida has become part of the USA, *ndrew J*ckson is now president (and about to really be a bad man when it comes to the NATIVE and INDIGENOUS people)

Following that, you have the build-up to the Civil War, which not only includes the government forced removal of Native people but also includes the abolitionist movement in the northern USA. 

What we think of when we picture the “Wild West” is probably 99.999% Hollywood. The real Wild West was made up of a wide variety of ethnicities. There were the already-present Native Americans, the Mexicans who were there before the Americans. There were the pioneers who headed west for a variety of reasons (think gold-seekers, treasure hunters, anti-government settlers, Mormons, and so many more) as well as former slaves and other groups of people who were either forced from their homes or wanted a new life. Some of them were veterans from the Civil War, Union and Confederate soldiers alike, as well as “restless white men”. 

A source I really like for this time period says that “The untamed territories were noted for their lawlessness, which gave rise to wild, rowdy, unrestrained, disorderly, and unruly behavior—which is what made for such great stories in print and on-screen. But while much of the culture that is attributed to the Wild West was just normal colonial culture in many parts of America at different times, it became ingrained in people’s imaginations.” As in–the same culture that has become indicative of the Old West had been around for a while, just in different places at different times.

Now, when it comes to cowboys, think of it literally. Cowboy = cattle wrangler. Cowboys, as we know them, were actually first vaqueros, legend/tradition of cattle wranglers from Northern Mexico. 

Cowboy culture developed from the combination of the lawlessness of the West and the Victorian influence of English/Eastern European settlers who were skipping right over the OG 13 states to go where the land was “empty” and “free” (a decent amount of the media even then liked to ignore the existence and presence of our Native siblings, and trivialize them to savage and dangerous). This led to a different brand of chivalry, but not one completely dissimilar to what existed in prior times.

Some other important facts of the Old West/Cowboy culture: gay. While cowgirls did exist, and people did move west with their families, it was a predominantly male scene for a long time, and due to the relatively isolated lifestyle, gay men were present. That being said, the cowboy culture was still deeply homophobic (think of it this way: legally no gay, but cops weren’t really around so most people just minded their own business).

I’ve mentioned Native Americans a ton. Conflicts between any group of native people and Americans were almost always between the USA Army and whatever group they decided to fight with that month. That didn’t mean cowboys were buddy-buddy or even particularly friendly with them, but they weren’t actively hostile in the same organized & armed way.

I hope that all helps in terms of historical accuracy. Just to summarize important points: ignore what Hollywood has said it looked like. If you’re planning on drawing inspiration from a specific facet of this time period, or from a specific place (like the Alamo), just do some quick research to get a more stable foundation. There won’t necessarily be as much information as you might think, because 1) cowboys were low on the social ladder and thus not really documented, and because 2) so much of what you’ll find on the internet will be in contrast to or originate from, in some way, Hollywood.

Good luck and happy writing!

-S

[kingofthewilderwest]

Tagged by @writingstellar! Good to hear how life’s going and holy crap I was just thinking about how it’s coming up 10 years since we met.

Rules: answer 30 questions and tag blogs you are contractually obligated to know better.

name/nickname: Haddock. King. Against my will, every other variation of fish-like things you can think of. King Fishy, Fishy, Fishface, Fishyface, Fish, etc.

gender: enby

star sign: 🖕

height: 5′ 2″

time: 12:27 AM

birthday: October 19

favourite bands: Flatt & Scruggs and the Foggy Mountain Boys, The Dead South, Old Man Markley

favourite solo artists: uhhhhhhhhmmmmmmm... get back to me on that. Can... can Beethoven count? C’mon I fucking have Beethoven music TATTOOED ON ME, we gonna make Beethoven count.

song stuck in my head: a combination of like six Flatt & Scruggs songs and covers rn, most prominently Colors. I have no idea why. I don’t listen to their late 1960s stuff as often, but I woke up and that song came to me with tenacity and wouldn’t let go.

last movie: What was the last movie I watched in my Bad Movie Night group? Was it Leo the Lion????? Oh gosh. That nightmare is the last movie I saw??? Dudes holy shit that movie was a special kind of awful, it was a horrible experience and it’s scarred me forever and [spoilers] why did you make the elephant canonically fuck the emaciated lion?!?!?!

last show: Flatt & Scruggs TV Show. Shut up. I like them. A lot. Hyperfixation gonna hyperfixate. And they’re actually really wonderful and personable to watch, in addition to making great music.

when did you create this blog? summer 2014

what do I post: on this blog? Well, it used to be an analysis blog for HTTYD and more. Now... whatever, but usually fandom-related materials for my favorite shows... Gravity Falls, Fullmetal Alchemist, etc.

last thing i googled: middle finger. to get that middle finger emote up there.

do i get asks? absolutely. sorry that I no longer respond to everything as I once did. I no longer have the time and presence of mind to get to all asks, and it’s no longer a priority in my life or major past-time. but I read all of them and appreciate all of them and really do try to answer peeps when I’m on here and in the mood! Thanks for talking with me so much!

why i chose my url: As a How to Train Your Dragon blog, I thought it would be the COOLEST thing to pick Hiccup’s title. I was in excited shock it wasn’t taken.

average hours of sleep: uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I’m sleeping a fuckton lately, like sometimes 10, but that’s not normal to me.

lucky number: 13, 19, 320.

Instruments: Yes. I have an entire sideblog dedicated to my banjo explorations and bluegrass/country music obsession, to rant and rave to like the 0.1 person who’ll see it. ;) Feel free to check it out... I try to make it accessible to like, anyone, even peeps with none music background left beef. Banjo is my latest instrument and I’m proud of how far I’ve come in less than a year and a half. Started on piano as a wee one, got good at it. Added flute and piccolo, got good at it, played semi-competitively at local/state events in high school. Added clarinet. Added viola and played that in college orchestra because it was the one thing I could get INTO orchestra on because they didn’t audition on it. Also own/play to varying degrees of skill or incompetence: pennywhistles, soprano recorder, khloy (Cambodian flute), khene (Southeast Asian pipe instrument), tro (Cambodian spiked fiddle), tro ou (Cambodian spiked fiddle), dizi (Chinese flute), shakuhachi, ukulele, guitar, fiddle, Irish flute, harmonica, didgeridoo, shit why do I feel like I’m forgetting some things. Uhhhhhh... in college I played some taiko, shamisen, and shinobue too? I dunno, just chuck a woodwind or a string instrument at me, and I’ll figure something out. Won’t necessarily be pleasant but there’ll be notes.

what i’m wearing: red pajamas. They have snowflakes on them. they are warm and comfy.

dream job: I know it’s hard work as hell, believe me, my fam’s been in it, but seriously? transitioning to agricultural work. I’m an old-fashioned ass at heart and, as much as my work has serious perks with a flexible schedule, I hate how much of my life is spent on a screen. I’m happiest working with my hands, and I’ve got a green thumb.

dream trip: Dammit, I have to pick ONE place??? fuck that shit, I want to go everywhere, I have bucket list countries in every continent. shit. uh. how about Norway because that’s the home of my ancestors.

last book i read: I’m currently reading three right now. the last one I finished is an obscure Country Music history picture book from the 1960s. Oh hey wow did the bluegrass hyperfixation appear again? WOW YOU BETCHA IT DID. Uff-dah.

favourite food: I’m going to just say a fucking cuisine rather than narrow it down to one dish. Thai food.

nationality: United States American.

favourite song: Foggy Mountain Breakdown. Yes. Flatt & Scruggs came up again. Get used to it. I have fucking had Flatt & Scruggs appear multiple times in my dreams. I have fucking had Flatt & Scruggs more in my dreams than some of my irl friends. 

top three fictional universes: Mass Effect, Fullmetal Alchemist, Gravity Falls

gonna gently tag (no pressure!):

Okay I am sleep loopy so I cannot think of names rn but I might reblog and tag later with peeps because I always like poking friends.

[myfriendsarerealidiots]

Alrighty then, time for a little reminder, my fellow internet peeps.

Don’t assume everyone is like you.

Now, why this, now? I’m sure you’re wondering. Well the answer to that is simple, we just have to go back to a couple hours ago for a little story time.

So, like any other schoolday, I would from time to time browse through social media while being boreded out of my wits. I just so happened to be on tumblr when someone, I won’t disclose who they are but if you are reading this, hello! Welcome, please read what I have to say, texts me out of the blue. Now, I’m not a very social person, irl or online, so when I saw that message, I thought, ‘ah maybe this person is just friend searching.’ So I answered them.

In response, we had a short conversation until they mention a website...now, I’m underage and even I know that I shouldn’t go near that website but as a person, I don’t really know how to say no without sounding mean.

Now, this person hasn’t contacted me again past that like 30 minutes worth of conversation but I did get something out of it which is ‘Don’t think everyone is like you.’

Why’s that?

Well, for starters, not everyone on the internet is of legal age, and by that I mean, there are people like me who are below the age of 18. I am aware that in certain countries, doing certain acts when you are my age is considered by most, normal. However, as that may be the culture in your country, please be aware that in other countries there are many things that are different.

Despite how much the world has been connected now by the internet and so on, there is still such a thing a different cultures.

I, for example, am Asian. I live with a really Asian family where high grades are almost a must. The traditions we follow are also Asian. As such, doing certain things that let’s say Americans do, are maybe considered rude here, like talking back to your parents or calling them by their first name.

So like that example, everyone’s different. Some things that you do, may not be good for someone else and vise versa. One should keep this in mind especially on the internet where you don’t know where the person on the other side of that screen is another human, where they’re from, or what age they are.

As I end this post, I have a few suggestions,

If you or whoever you’re talking to is comfortable with it, ask them if they’re a minor or if they’re older than 18. That way, you’re going to be able to tell what topics are good to talk about and otherwise.

Keep culture differences in mind.

If you are on the receiving end, learn how to say no.

This one’s risky but, put your age on your bio. Hopefully, this would deter anyone who would like to have an ‘adult’ conversation with you.

Same as the former but with your nationality. If not, at least the continent. This is to make sure that the person on the other side of the screen has a general idea of what not to say.

Just be a good person. No one likes an ass on the internet.

And that ends the post, I hope this helped someone or just gave you a small break from the rest of your feed.

[uhoh-but-yeah-alright]

Get To Know Me 🔍

Tagged by the lovelies @missytearex and @runaway-train-works <33

Rules: Answer twenty questions and tag twenty bloggers you’d like to get to know better!

1. Name: Gillian

2. Nickname: G, Jill (also Gellz and Gigi each by literally one person LOL but I enjoy them both v much)

3. Zodiac sign: Libra

4. Height: 5’7

5. Languages: English (there was a time long ago I could speak a fair bit of Italian and when I went to Ecuador 2 years ago I somehow managed a tiny bit of usable Spanish at restaurants etc. but yeah, just English, sadly)

6. Nationality: American (why is there no easy way to specify United States with Nationality I truly hate that we straight up claim an entire TWO CONTINENTS just for us ugh worst) 

7. Favorite season: Fall

8. Favorite flower: California poppies but it’s a million-way tie for second place

9. Favorite scent: gardenias 

10. Favorite color: purple

11. Favorite animal: raccoons? penguins? flamingos? This is impossible.

12. Favorite fictional character: Dame Marjorie Chardin (aka Maude) from Harold and Maude

13. Coffee, tea or hot choc: coffee

14. Average sleep hours: probably 6ish

15. Cat or dog person: dog

16. Number of blankets I sleep with: one (I fucking love this question it’s so weird)

17. Dream vacation: Thailand 

18. Blog established: This account does not feel worthy of either of those words and also I have no idea how to look this up.

19. Number of followers: 129

20. Random fact: I can raise my left eyebrow and only because I physically trained myself when I was younger. Like, by holding down my right one as I raised them and practicing like hell. 

I might be double-tagging peeps (and 20 might as well be a million so I’m only doing 10) but if any of you haven’t already and want to play: @hazzabeeforlou @edention @ificouldflymp3 @ifgivenachonce @jaerie @kingsofeverything @nilolay @phd-mama @vondrostes @westwingwolf

[i-rove-rock-n-roll]

My Wips (and their progress)

Not in any particular order. This is also not all of them, just the ones I’m working on currently or plan to work on in the near future

Icarus--3rd draft, almost complete, currently standing at 68,490 words!

Icarus survived the fall and a bruised body isn’t going to stop him from getting back to his father. Unfortunately, he is whisked all the way to Libya and into a completely different bout of family drama, involving two brothers and a case of human sacrifice. Meanwhile, Minos, the king Icarus and his father escaped from, is hot on finding Daedalus, who is torn between mourning and denial, refusing to give up searching for his son. The ultimate question is ‘who finds who first?’

links here! (though I’ll probably add more in the future!)

Ariadne-- sequel to Icarus, follows Ariadne as she learns how to fully enjoy life and finds love with a deity named Dionysus. not even close to being done, standing around 8,000 words. Everything you love about Greek theater and drama all rolled into one. Also has a bunch of angry gods in it.

Helen--a retelling of the life of Helen and the Iliad from the point of view of a true daughter of Zeus and queen of Sparta. Helen is really tired of getting kidnapped, people. That’s all I’m gonna say.. A sequel (of sorts) to the previous two. Just started.

Medea--love and heartbreak of Medea, famous for both her use of magic and her relationship with a guy named Jason. And the fact that Theseus is apparently her stepson. And for being ruthless and killing her children (which lots of Greek characters did, I mean, hello Agamemnon, what’s up Tantalus) so her story is gonna have tons of drama. 

Set somewhere before and after Icarus and Ariadne, this is the fourth in my mythology series and has literally one line done.

Cain--about 3,000 words

Cain has wandered the earth since his brother’s death. He has lived among the homeless, walked across continents and sailed across seas. He hasn’t had a home for hundreds--thousands-- of years. Then he walks into St. Mary’s church and meets Father Turrell, a sarcastic priest that lives on coffee, chili, and musicals. Father Turrell offers Cain a job, and despite his better judgement, Cain accepts. What follows is mayhem, and Cain’s safe haven, like all his others, is ruined. But now he has Father Turrell stubbornly refusing to let Cain leave without him. So they begin to wander...and trouble follows. 

Redemption Day, about 15,000 words

When Gram Niesler returned home from prison, the last thing he expected was to be blamed for was arson. Especially considering the Donaldson’s house burned down before he’d even returned to town. Thankfully things straighten out, but Gram is soon hit with the truth that his cousin Nicki, who he still remembers as having skipped rope and painted his face with glitter, is the one behind the fire. Stranger still is her reasoning. Vengeance for her girlfriend’s death is one thing, but with literal angels and devils whispering in her ear, Gram is both trying to keep Nicki out of trouble, and tasked with helping her create a trial Armageddon. 

Reincarnation Series (No real Title yet)-- Follows the reincarnations of various deities in the modern world. Kicking things off are the duo Hunahpu and Xbalanque aka the Mayan Hero Twins! 

They always knew their dad was out of the picture, being a famous soccer player, but it’s when the twins go to find him that things get real weird, real fast. Confronted with magician half siblings and a snarky old grandmother, the twins have to wonder when their father will be home to see them. The answer, of course, is that they have to go find him. (That’s basically what I got so far both for a synopsis and a plot)

Wards and Wolfsbane (Tentative Title but idk what else to call it)  (K, so this one is also probably going to be a series as well, the first book focused on the relationship between two wolf born siblings who meet a witch. They are all just learning their history, of this wide world full of monsters and magic. Will also have vamps and other assorted magical folk hiding out) Just started the world-building, it’s Urban fantasy.

Witches and Werewolves have been at war for centuries, only made worse by the history of hunters and burnings. Each side has cause, has killers. 

Has children. 

These children are the ones that wish to change things, to form an alliance. Because they see a danger that their forbears do not. 

There is something else behind the curtain. And it’s coming very soon. 

Aztlán--my first spanish (well right now it’s spanglish) wip!

This follows a close circle of people during either the Mexican-American War or the Revolutionary war of Mexico (I haven’t decided if I’m doing two separate wips for each yet) It has plots, spies, explosions, grief, mourning, betrayal, funerals, weddings gone wrong, etc. Here’s a sneak peek in español 

Down We Fall--about 15-16,000

A story of weddings and political chess that begins with the bride stabbing the groom. The prince and the princess had been promised to each other as children, had grown up together as best friends, had told each other everything. 

But saying I love you was out of the question. 

In the realm of politics, both their kingdoms are struggling. Between infighting for current ruling authority and anarchy caused by the citizens, the pressure is put on. Something has to give. The prince and princess are not yet king and queen after all. The King is dead so who rules the chessboard? 

Please note! If you guys want me to talk more about certain wips or characters or just post snippets of whichever one of your choosing you prefer, please don’t hesitate to ask! And if you feel like chatting about these wips, writing in general, or even just talking about the weather, my messages are always open!

tagging my usual peeps! (add/remove, lemme know!)

@couchwriting@wallpatterns@luckydragonnerd@tokyoghoulua@xanthus-the-headless-stand-user@mkaiww@pheita@ashesconstellation@ashes-of-chironides@splotch-of-spice@the-real-rg@thecadmiuminkwell@ahotpeaceofshit@writingmyselfintoanearlygrave@talesofhemlock@aquaroseas@demonfairyprincess@softdramahoe @lifeofroos@panhasablog @candybunnieholic @superlock-on-pc @alwolfesblog

[forsetti]

On Guns In America: Full Mental Jacket

America loves its guns.  It loves them so much, it is willing to overlook the damage they inflict on individuals, families, and society.  It loves guns so much, it denies evidence from around the world that supports the conclusion that fewer guns = fewer gun-related injuries and deaths.  It loves guns so much, it eagerly looks for ways to make them more dangerous, more lethal, more accessible.  It loves guns because, in spite of being the world's superpower, its past and present have been steeped in insecurity, fear, and a false sense of superiority.  Schools shootings are a microcosm of the problem of guns in America-A dangerous weapon in the hands of insecure, angry, testosterone-riddled, white males whose brains and moral compasses are at best not yet fully developed and at worst, seriously and permanently fucked up.

The problem with guns in America isn't that there aren't enough of them. The problem isn't “God has been taken out of schools and society.” The problem isn't immigrants, minorities, or Muslims.  The problem is mental health-the mental health of white, male America.  To be more specific, the problem is, and always has been white supremacy. If you don't understand the role white supremacy has and does play in how America views and loves it guns, you are part of the problem. This includes a lot of “good guy” gun owners who provide cover for their not-so-good guy gun-owning brethren.

The common thread from the first European white settlers to a large number of current gun owners in America is white supremacy.  The first white men on this continent used guns to steal land, resources, and life from the Native Americans.  The 2nd Amendment was written, in part, to ratify slavery.  It was important for guns to be readily available for whites to keep slaves in line, to be able to fend off any slave rebellion, to protect their women from “violent, sex-crazed” black men.  When slavery was abolished, the heavily armed Klan came to power to ensure white rule and supremacy was maintained.  The Mulford Act in California was passed in 1967 and signed by then-governor, Ronald Regan, repealing open carry in response to members of the Black Panthers carrying guns while they patrolled the streets of Oakland to make sure the police did their jobs properly.  Gun sales went through the roof when the first black president was elected.  Right-wing media pushes gun ownership with threats of marauding bands of Mexican gangs, Muslim terrorists, race wars, and imaginary government operations that will imprison God-fearing, gun-owning, PBR-drinking, tobacco chewing, white Americans.  

The fact that America has 5% of the world's population and almost 50% of the world's guns isn't by mistake, isn't to protect it from foreign powers, isn't to defend itself from its own government.  America has the most guns because it was built on white supremacy.  Guns were the tools used to take the land from its native inhabitants.  Guns were the tools used to keep the economic resource of slavery in line. Guns were used against fellow countrymen in order to maintain the right to own other people.  Guns were used to inflict fear, harm, and death in order to preserve and enforce Jim Crow Laws.  White supremacy doesn't carry as much power without means and threat to commit violence.  Guns and racism in America go together like Dylann Roof and a Glock .45, like Mom and apple pie.

The main reasons mass shootings are more prevalent in America now than in the “Good Old Days,” are two-fold: First, white America is losing its demographic and cultural power; Second, there are exponentially more guns now than in its mythologized past.  This explosion in the number of guns in circulation is not distributed equally among the population.  While the number of guns being manufactured and sold has skyrocketed, the percentage of households that own guns has been steadily declining.  This means those who do own guns are owning more and more of them.  I'm pretty sure the Venn Diagram of homes with guns and racists is damn near one, complete circle.  

I'm not saying all gun owners are racists but a lot of the ones who own multiple guns, who purchase semi-automatics, bump stocks, high capacity magazines, push for open carry, are pro-Stand Your Ground laws, reject even the most sensible background checks, are racist as fuck.   The NRA, right wing radio, FOX News, and Republican politicians have fed these people a steady diet of fear since the passage of the Civil Rights Act.  They've latched onto anything and everything non-white that can be peddled as a threat.  They've done this with to great success.  If you don't think so, just look at the spike in gun manufactured and sold starting the second Barack Obama was elected in 2008.  At no point did he discuss taking anyone's guns during the campaign but the mere fact a black man became president scared the living fuck out of white supremacists to where they went on a weapons-buying spree that would make Adnan Khashoggi blush. There was a small spike in guns sold after Bill Clinton was elected but it went back down to normal levels during his second term.  New guns in circulation hit a record high in 2008 and the number more than doubled by the end of Obama's second term.  If you don't think race and white supremacists' fears were not the cause of this, you aren't too bright.

This relationship between guns and white supremacy in America is why you can't have a rational discussion about gun control.  Racist fears will always override common sense, logic, evidence, social well-being, decency.  To make matters worse, their irrational fears have filtered down to a lot of other gun owners.  Every day I hear someone say, “I'm a responsible gun owner and I don't do....” or “I know a lot of gun owners who are responsible and they don't do...,” as a rationalization and justification to not only defend the status quo but to argue for access to more guns.  A lot of the “good gun owners” are sure carrying a lot of water for the “bad gun owners,” right now to the point it is impossible for me to discern which is which.  Practically speaking, there isn't much difference, politically, between an overweight, shirtless red neck posting pictures of himself holding his AR-15 in front of a Confederate Flag and the gun-owning Republican next door who is a CPA who drives a KIA Soul because both are obstacles to any gun reform. The CPA might not think he is giving cover for and be providing support to Cletus's white supremacy when he parrots NRA talking points but he sure as fuck is.  If this wasn't true, you'd see these “good gun owners” come out against their fellow gun-owning brethren whenever there was a school shooting or some other horrible run-related incident.  The silence of “good gun owners” tells you where they stand and to me, it seriously calls into question just how “good” they really are.

A good person doesn't stand quietly by as children are gunned down in schools, as families are worshiping in church, as people are watching a movie in a theater.  A good person doesn't parrot conspiracy theories about gun confiscation, Jade Helm, FEMA camps, race wars... A good person doesn't look at the overwhelming evidence from the American Medical Association, the CDC, and every other industrialized country in the world and come away with the ideas that more guns are needed and teachers should be armed.  You can say and think what you will about the people you know and love who own guns about how “good” a person they are but my definition of what constitutes a good person doesn't cover this kind of moral failing.

I never see any of these “good gun owners” coming to the defense of black victims of gun violence at the hands of the police.  When 12-year-old Tamir Rice was shot within microseconds by the police for having an air rifle in an open carry state, none of these “good gun owners” came out in his defense.  Instead, they parroted the same talking points as white supremacist websites and talking heads.  The same for Michael Brown in Ferguson, Laquan McDonald in Chicago, Walter Scott in South Carolina...  Unarmed black men and boys who are killed by the police are always labeled with negative terms. Meanwhile, white mass shooters are “mentally unstable,” “misunderstood,” “a good neighbor”...  Not only are white shooters talked about in better terms, they are treated with more respect when apprehended.  Tamir Rice laid dying in the park, he received no assistance from the police who shot him.  In fact, they prohibited Tamir's sister from getting help.  When the black church shooter, Dylann Roof, in S. Carolina was caught, the police stopped by Burger King to get him food before taking him in.  When the school shooter in Florida was finally nabbed, he was taken unharmed, wrapped in a blanket, and courteously placed into a car.  Not a single “good gun owner” said a peep about any of these situations.  Instead of seeing the built-in, systemic racism of how we view and treat black victims compared to white killers, they automatically rolled out their NRA-approved talking points.  When it is time to speak up about injustice, racism, inequality, if guns are involved even remotely, these “good gun owners” always seem to stand up on the wrong side of the moral fence, if they stand up at all.  My definition of “good person” doesn't encompass this kind of shitty behavior.  At no point does an inanimate object take precedence, priority over a human being.  That many of those defending guns as THE ANSWER are also 'pro-life,” is as ridiculous as it is hypocritical.

The other main factor in America's obsession with guns is toxic masculinity.  I know the term “toxic masculinity,” has gotten pushback from a lot of people for being “too demeaning,” “too mean,” “detrimental to the discussion.”  My response to this criticism is, I don't fucking care.  If you are male and your ego is so fragile you can't handle a negative label and need to rage about it, you've pretty much proved the need for the description.  Don't #NotAllMen at me either.  This is a lazy, dishonest response.  When people use “toxic masculinity,” they are referring to very specific characteristic traits.  If you don't fit the description, then shut the fuck up about it so you don't risk joining their ranks.

Men are more violent than women.  Some men more so than others.  Insecure men of this type, even more so.  Add in a heavy dose of white and gender supremacy and you get a toxic mixture.  Throw deadly weapons designed to kill and maim at high rates and you often get very dangerous outcomes.  The more of these traits a man has, the more likely they are to be violent.  Take just about any mass shooter in America the past fifty years and you will find someone who has a history of violence against women and/or racial animus.  Men who exhibit toxic masculinity traits are mentally unstable.  They do not know how to properly process and deal with a world where they are not the king of every hill by the mere fact they are white men.  This is a cognitive problem.  To be okay with people like this having access to high powered weapons designed to kill is an epic public safety failure.  People in hospitals, jails, halfway homes...who are deemed dangerous are not allowed belts, shoestrings, anything that can be used to harm themselves or others.  Yet, we as a society have decided it is okay for mentally screwed up white men to not only own guns but make it easy for them to get as many as they want and almost whatever kind they want.  This is fucking insane.

Imagine being in charge of policy for a mental health hospital, coming up with the position that the residents who exhibit violent tendencies, believe they are naturally superior to others, and who are prone to conspiracy theories should have almost unlimited access to things that will inflict the most pain, injury, and death on others.  What Board of Directors would vote or this policy?  What rational person on the outside looking in would say, “This seems like a great idea”?  The easy answer is, “No one,” because it is so fucking stupid.

This brings us to the “the left shouldn't be so critical of the right” stage of the discussion.  Every day, I read some article or comment that claims if the left would only stop the name calling, the harsh criticism, the sense of superiority, then the right would “do the right thing.”  This argument is so fucking stupid it really doesn't deserve a response but since I'm feeling generous, here goes...  

Either your arguments and positions are supported by evidence and tethered to reality and morality or they are not.  If they are not, then it doesn't matter what the left says or thinks about you, they are still fucked up.  If you don't want to be on the wrong side of an issue, of history, of morality, then the ONLY choices you have is to either continue to be on the wrong side or mea culpa the fuck out of yourself and get on the right side.  There IS NO OPTION where you get to believe the wrong things and also get to be on the right side. These are the fucking rules of logic, of morality, of history.  Don't blame liberals because you are wrong.  Don't blame anyone but yourself for being on the wrong side.  Suck it up. Take the personal hit.  Learn a fucking lesson.  Just don't blame others for your intellectual, moral failings.

If you really believe guns are the answer and the more the merrier, you are a deeply damaged, cognitively delusion person and a big part of the reason why America is so entrenched in a culture of guns.  You are mentally unhinged and a danger to everyone around you and to society, in general.  And, I'll bet, if I scratched the surface of your personality even the slightest, I'd uncover a whole lot of racism and bigotry just beneath the surface. You can say that guns aren’t the problem, which may be true. The real problem is racism mixed with toxic masculinity.  I am all for doing everything possible to address these problems. However, until we do, I think keeping weapons out of their hands that can and do inflict massive damage to others is the very fucking least we can do. To do...to think otherwise is the very definition of “crazy.”

[dog-day-morning]

THIS AIN'T LEGAL

Have you ever heard of absolute immunity? Federal officers who violate the Civil Rights of American citizens in an attempt to do harm with recorded video evidence of the violation in action or officers who willingly falsify a police report of a violent attack in order to frame the victim while the antagonist sits before a judge and jury perjuring herself with alligator tears before an all white jury with her blonde locks, and blue eyes, damn devil, and goes free while an innocent child spends 17 months behind bars. To say that Amerikkka is unjust is an understatement. Too many times Black people are dragged into a court that's already biased, having to face a judge, and jury who may have a vested financial interest in the private prison industry, but let's be real. The school to prison pipeline is not a myth, it's a bloody bruise on the face of Lady Liberty. Liberty, and justice for all never applied to the indigenous people of Amerikkka or any of the ADOS, and FBA citizens whose roots are entrenched in the Earth bleeding from a wound the wicked do not want to heal. The above mentioned scenarios actually happened to one of your own Amerikkka, and a child from the Middle East. It's funny that Amerikkkans appear to want peace seemingly always, but you're forever raising hell outside of your jurisdiction? Joe Biden is deporting Haitian refugees out of the country ASAP, while transporting inland, and giving amnesty to Afghan refugees, and South Americans even so far as to offer them free secondary education, and housing. The culture of Amerikkka is against a Black man ever rising up to experience the American Dream in a Taliban like Aristocracy or Totalitarian society that started centuries before Biden became president. He's not the answer to our problems nor is he the root of the issue. Amerikkka is a canker sore, and a blight that impedes the progression of a once dominant, but humble people. No one needs to preach of racial superiority and use terror tactics in order to justify a calloused approach to validate this viral disease that affects everyone with a modicum of common sense, decency, and compassion. Amerikkka was a Nation before Amerigo Vespucci set foot on these shores. Alkebulan was inhabited by some of the most brilliant minds, and still is before Scipio Africanus named the dark continent after himself, an albino. Ohhh the irony, and moral hypocrisy. Timbuktu, and the city of Alexandria were well established kingdoms in Alkebulan where Greek, and Roman scholars went to gather much needed knowledge because they were dumb as hell. Egypt is a mystery that none can determine for now. When the prophecy is fulfilled by the Father whom the Prophet Joel spoke thereof He would pour His Spirit down upon all flesh, the truth will set you and I free. And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions. What's impeding us from this prophetic word? Keep your thoughts to yourself. That's a luxury I haven't had since the age of stupid. Not wanting to call you out on the sins of your fathers, but you are just like him. I hope, and pray the Father fulfills His will in time before our hearts wax cold, too late. Amerikkka’s public enemy will not be our Black sons or daughters that are trying to follow the rules of man whose lawlessness has revealed itself to be an entire race of people. You create the laws, and break them leaving everyone with a bad taste in their mouth except those who profit from our pain. Chris Rock said this years ago. “The white man is the only one who profits from everyone's pain, especially a Black man’s.” you see how they treat us, and you have no inclination of what your future will hold for your people in the aftermath of the Zombie Apocalypse. I hate this form of pop culture rhetoric. There will be souls inhabiting these bodies that were once dead, and decomposing. God will deliver the dead from the sea, and He will deliver the dead from death, and hell.

Isaiah 26:17-21

17 Like as a woman with child, that draweth near the time of her delivery, is in pain, and crieth out in her pangs; so have we been in thy sight, O Lord.

18 We have been with child, we have been in pain, we have as it were brought forth wind; we have not wrought any deliverance in the earth; neither have the inhabitants of the world fallen.

19 Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead.

20 Come, my people, enter thou into thy chambers, and shut thy doors about thee: hide thyself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast.

21 For, behold, the Lord cometh out of his place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity: the earth also shall disclose her blood, and shall no more cover her slain..

When our Lord Christ Jesus does this work how do you think those who've hated, and betrayed us for a season of sin will react in the oncoming horror set before mankind? God has placed us on the Earth for a purpose, not to suffer. I can't put the blame on Joe Biden or those who came before him for what this nation or planet has done, and is doing to us; psych!!! The God of our fathers will judge you according to your works which has wrought death and destruction. The wrath, and judgment Joe Biden, trump, and their people will incur, and experience is worse than any Stephen King novel or Jordan Peele, and M. Night Shyamalan movies can induce in your alleged, fragile psyche. I've told Jacob, and warned the gentiles of God's incoming judgment, but no ones willing to heed the words of an idiot savant. I'm guilty of many things by way of my woeful condition. I'm compelled to elaborate these truths to you as they become relevant at a particular hour. Watch out for your young children who may be a pain, but they're innocent, and they're yours. The world sees us as prey, a potential payoff for an organ harvest, and fodder for the wickedly unjust. This woman that they have been searching for these last 5 or so days in a National Park has this Nation all a buzz. Who is she? Do you know how many women of Jacob go missing everyday without any press from the media? We can blame them, but are they at fault? Hell yeah!!! Continue to read. Our people have been limited by those who control the information, the social media platforms, infighting within our own tried Black media organizations that have blessed us over the years who are left open to attack by oppressive censorship that purposely restricts what they can, and cannot reveal to the Black masses. I was amazed to find out in 2017 that Coretta Scott King, and her family successfully sued the US government over the assassination of MLK Jr.; that was in 1999. The Atlanta Black Star might have covered the litigation process, but I didn't hear a peep from anyone I knew or even hear about it on any news media platform, especially from the major media news networks. That's how they've Silenced the Lamb with threats, and bullying tactics. We've come too far to go back to Egypt. The only time I wanna hear mention of going to Egypt is if my Church takes a sabbatical to the Motherland, and my Apostle takes the trip with us to seek the truths that have been denied us. Reference Joel 2:28. Those who stay committed to this ministry will see beyond the veil. If you placed all of your faith in me or Apostle Johnson you have overlooked the reasons God led you to this Church, Elders, Evangelists, Prophetesses, Deacons, Ministers, and the entire Church family. He nor I can do anything without the will of the Father, and I’m stuck on dufus. Get yo tail back to Church ASAP!!! We place our faith in men who have let us down many times. Apostle has done much for me, but Jesus has done everything. God will do a good work in all of us. I want every man, woman, and child in this ministry to reap what they have sown; don't leave. When the sky turns black, and the heavens roll back, peeling back the clouds, that's when you will see or hear the Son of God coming for His faithful. Apostle has taught us of the temporal mental mindset many times. Evidently it’s true as many of us have forgotten his teachings. My mind went off on a tangent, excuse me, where was I ? BET is owned by Jews, who used to own us. They run the entertainment industry that Buck breaks our men, and you wouldn't believe what they do to black women, and children who are all looking for a way to display their talents in order to get wealth, and their name up in lights. Leroy has the talent, all Mr. Epstein can offer you is a bogus contract that rips you off in the end leaving you po, broke, and lonely with a busted a-hole. Those who beat the system at their own game wind up 6 feet deep. Why do you think they murdered Michael Jackson, Prince, Sam Cooke, and James Brown? Michael owned half of SONY BMI. Prince owned all of his Masters that his

siblings sold for pennies on the dollar. Sam was going to start his own label, and brother James who had a label, but the IRS falsely audited him several times forcing him to sell his label keeping Soul Brother number 1 from becoming the first billionaire recording artist decades before JZ did. THIS AINT LEGAL. All that glitters isn't gold people. Ask Mr. Goldberg who runs several porn studios in Silicone Valley California. They run the majority of that particular industry as well as recording, movie and TV production studios while controlling the financial institutions. The majority heads of the Department of the Treasury including the current, Janet Yellen have been Jewish. Not trying to be a dissenter, but someone’s getting screwed. It's the middle class, and our fat, Black… ? William Randolph Hearst made the movie Reefer Madness which was a propaganda film not because hemp was a gateway drug to other crap, hell a pack of cigarettes has killed more people than ten thousand blunts. Smoke a blunt, and 30 minutes later you wanna eat. Smoke crack, and 30 minutes later you're sucking d**k. Hemp can be used in a vast amount of ways that would’ve crippled Mr. Hearst’s other industries. You can use it as fabric for clothes that's stronger, and more durable than cotton. The hemp plant had more useful potential than the soybean, and peanut combined!!! Marijuana isn't a drug at all, it's an herb. The Egyptians used it to cure many ailments including cancer. If I were still on Instagram Mark Suckerberg would personally shut my page down himself… again. That's why I no longer use white run social media websites. Mr. Hearst's only interest in getting the government to make hemp illegal was to keep his financial, investment interests ever increasing. In the end it turned out to do more harm than good. Now that the government has managed to tax the herb, they've made it legal. Why in the hell are Black men, and women still serving draconian, archaic prison sentences for minor marijuana drug offenses that don't make sense to a mongoloid retard?!! Like I said: “THIS AINT LEGAL.” Babylon the Damned will fall on its pancaked derriere soon enough. Pray to God the Zombie Apocalypse runs right past your abode or get some pads from your son's football uniform in order to appease the dead in Christ who may want a ham sandwich or your daughter Becky. This too shall pass. Try lamb's blood? The closer I get to death or that visitation with someone I've been wanting to see for a long time because I can't see, the more these things come back to my remembrance. This is enough for today. Whatever God reveals to me in the next few days hopefully I’ll relate some of that information to you. I thank those for judging me as a simp, punk b**ch, p**sy a** n**gah, punk a** n**gah, sorry a** n**gah, faggot, and everything you project or judge according to your flesh. I have no secrets so what am I trying to hide? Get your house in order Jeff, your life may be required of you, and ya boy in the wheelchair. Still someone else's identity Yippie Yai Kai Yay mother!@#$%& 9/21/2021

[musingsfromthetardis]

“They Spoke Indian”

This is a digression from the usual Whovian content of my blog, but it’s something that’s been on my mind lately and I wanted to write about it. 

So recently I went to a small Native American related event at one of the old missions where the Spanish Conquistadors collected and housed indigenous peoples of the area to convert them to proper Spanish citizens- ie. Spanish-speaking, catholic-believing, good little obedient people.  While I was walking around, I happened to briefly overhear a tour guide talking to some tourists about the mission. I only caught a few phrases, but what I did hear has stuck in my mind. The tourists had questioned the language situation of the mission, and the guide told them how they were taught Spanish, and Spanish would have been the main language used in the mission environment. Then he went on to clarify that Spanish was not the first language of the native peoples brought here. Because of course, before the era of conquistadors and missions, the native peoples of the area spoke a different language.

“They spoke Indian,” the tour guide said, with a hint of uncertainty in his voice.��

At that point I was no longer within earshot of the group and did not hear anything else. But that phrase and it’s uncertain tone resonated in my mind.

They spoke Indian.

The first reaction I had was simple- to inwardly scoff at the phrase. 

There is no such thing as an “Indian” language. There is no language that exists on this earth called “Indian” as far as I am aware. Even in the country India, there are hundreds of languages but none of them are called “Indian” as a specific name for a specific language. “Indian” is a category, a group, a collection of many different languages that are similar but definitely not the same. 

You may as well say that people in Uganda speak “African” or people in Belgium speak “European”. Is the term completely untrue? Well, technically no. Yes French and Dutch and German are European languages, and Luganda and Swahili are African languages. But to say “They speak African” or “They speak European” is just wrong. Because no, that’s not the language. It’s generic. It removes the real culture and real language from the equation. 

Removes the real culture and real language from the equation. 

And there, my peeps, is the rub. That is exactly what happened in that place I was standing in. That was the exact mission, of the mission. To completely erase and eradicate the culture and traditional life of the original inhabitants of the area.

Not to adapt their culture, or add to their culture, or even change their culture, but to completely erase their culture. To make their culture cease to exist. 

To make the people forget their culture had even ever existed in the first place.

And here we are, several hundred years later. And what do we know of the culture of the people who were brought to the missions? Because certainly something must have survived. Certainly there are people who remember something, who remember stories from grandparents, or just... something.

And a tour guide would know those somethings, right? 

What did they look like? What types of clothes had they worn? What types of religion or spirituality did they adhere to? What types of shelters did they live in?

What language did they speak?

They spoke Indian.

Culture is a very powerful thing. It is your identity, it is what binds groups of people together. As such, it can be dangerous if you are a colonizing force wanting to subjugate and overpower a large number of people. So the Spaniards destroyed it. They took away the identity of the people who used to live here in large numbers- stripped them of their beliefs, their way of life, even their language. 

It is in language that culture really lives; the words and how you use them, the intricacies of it’s structure and the way you say things- all influence the way you see the world. We are all influenced mentally by the language(s) we speak. Language is the glue of culture, one could perhaps say. You remove it, the rest is easily brushed away. 

I think people forget that North America is a continent, and at one time was full of more diversity and unique cultural groups than Europe ever had. An entire continent of languages and cultures and different ways of life. From coastal sea-faring people to people in the north where the ground is permafrost; from people who lived in the mountains to people who lived along rivers and in forests; from the endless grass seas of the Great Plains to the deserts of the southwest and the swamps and bayous of the southeast. All unique, with their own cultures and languages. 

And what has remained?

What do we, collectively, still know of all these people? Specifically, what do we know of the people who lived here, in the mission I’m standing in right now?

They spoke Indian.

It is said with uncertainty- We know it is nothing. We know that is not a real answer by far. 

But it is all we know. 

[arawynn]

A Whole New World - Chapter 1

A not so normal day - Part 1

Bucky X Reader Werewolf AU

 Summary: In a world of werewolves you are the scapegoat of your pack – the Hydra pack. When another pack attacks, you become a captive in the famous Avengers-pack. Is it a jump from the frying pan into the fire? Or will you find somebody to love?

 Warnings: fighting (mentioned), domestically pack abuse, swearing, violence

 Your day had started surprisingly well. You had managed to sneak into the kitchen and grab some food before the staff had arrived. When they were there earlier than you, you were forced to wait until the whole pack had eaten their breakfast. In this case, your breakfast turned out to be stingy. Not that your pack was short of food, it was one of the many repressions you had to deal with.

On top of this you had managed to reach the library without meeting any pack companion. More or less everyone in the cave system was actually a pain in the ass. They picked on you at every given opportunity. Maybe except the youngs but you were forbidden to be anywhere near them. The only person who treated you just as always was Josef, the old Keeper of Tales. His demesne was the library where even the Alpha had to follow his orders.

The library was the place you could hide from the constant picking and find some peace. The cave system your pack lived in was widely ramified so there was only a very small chance to be found if you really didn’t want to. And the library itself was due to all the shelves full of nooks and crannies.

Josef showed no sign that he recognized your entering but you didn’t doubt that he knew full well about your presence. A Keeper of Tales knew everything about his pack. The information always reached him. It had to be like this, because Keepers of Tales were the chronicler of the circle. He kept track of births, deaths, shifts of members from and to other packs, who had bind themselves to whom.

The book you currently read was still in its shelf where you had left it the evening before. Your bookmark was also still in place. It was easy to proceed where you had left. War strategies across the centuries. A few years ago you would never have touched such a book, let alone read it. But without any proper tasks to attend, you had started to read each and every book in the pack’s library.

Sometime – you weren’t sure how much time had passed – the door was pushed open roughly and several people stormed in. Peeping out between the shelves you recognized Brock, Helmut and Wolfgang. The pack’s forefront. “We need all the relevant information about the Avengers pack. Now. They are literally about to force their way through our front door.” Your Alpha Brock sounded rushed and angry.

It took literally all your willpower to stay quiet. Your wolfish ears moved instinctively so they were laying backwards, close to your head. At the same time, your tail went between your legs and up your belly, firmly pressed against your body. It showed both fear and submission even though the three males didn’t know you were also in the library. But this reaction had become an instinct whenever you met one of them.

At the same time, you felt a kind of excitement. The Avengers pack was the most powerful one in North America. Some rumours claimed even that they were the most powerful pack of both American continents. And definitely among the mightiest packs of the world. Being attacked by them was a serious danger.

In the ever calm manner Josef showed always, he told them the most important facts about the attacking pack. You knew everything the Keeper of Tales said. It had been in one of the many books you had read. The Alpha cursed when Josef stopped talking. “We must evacuate. As fast as possible. We stand no chance against a danger like this..”, said Zemo, the pack’s Beta and Second-in-Command.

Rumlow growled enraged. You cringed and let out a scared whimper. “This cave is a fucking fortress! They should be unable to beat a path to our door!”, he roared. You flinched even more and started to tremble. The Alpha had never been an easy man to deal with. During the past few years he had become aggressive and unpredictable. A man who always wanted to get his way. And as the Alpha of his own pack he got it most of the time.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed hold of your neck and dragged you towards the talking men. Where von Strucker was missing, as you noticed now. Your body froze instinctively as soon as you felt the hand around your neck. Every single part of you wanted to disappear, but you didn’t dare moving so as not to provoke the predator in your back. After all, he could easily kill you without giving you any possibilities to prevent it.

Your Alpha and his Second-in-Command looked in your direction. They were not amused – to say the least. “How dare you spying on us, Omega?”, Rumlow hollered. You flinched, despite the still firm grip around your neck. “Y/N came here to read a book two hours ago. It’s not her fault that you started asking questions without making sure there’s no one to overhear you if it shall be kept private.”, Josef said calm.

Thankfulness made your knees week. It wasn’t often that someone stood up for you. Especially not against the pack’s Alpha. The dark-haired man did not tolerate his subordinates to have opinions that didn’t match his. Rumlow growled, but didn’t tackle the older man. Keepers of Tales were persons to be respected, after all.

“Leave and let us men take care of this.”, the Alpha snarled finally in your direction. A second later you were released. At this point, you should have simply left. By Brock’s standards, he was very nice to you. But somehow you felt brave. Maybe it was the support Josef had provided you with. You dared to open your mouth. “What about the old evacuation tunnel? The Alpha of Avengers has been part of our pack. Long enough to know about it.”, you remarked.

A second later, you received a resounding slap in the face. You collided with a shelf. It knocked the wind out of your lungs. For a few moments, you saw nothing but stars. There would definitely be bruises in a couple hours. “Nobody can enter the cave through that tunnel. You join the others and wait for further orders, Omega.”, the Alpha snarled. You left the library as fast as possible. The dark-haired pack leader could be unbearable even in his best mood. And because of the attack he was in foul mood.

Instead of returning to your accommodation, you headed to the old escape tunnel. Rumlow might believe that it was no threat, but you didn’t share his opinion. And despite everything, you simply had to protect your pack if it was in your power to do so.

Nobody paid you the slightest attention. The pack had become an anthill due to the attack. Rumours of it had spread already throughout the entire pack. They were too worried about their own lives and their relatives – nobody spared a thought about the pack’s social misfit. You appreciated the change. Always being picked on consumed a lot of energy.

As soon as you stepped into the old emergency tunnel, your body changed into its anthromorph shape. Beside your wolfish ears and tail, your feet and hands turned into paws. Your face became the one of a wolf. Within seconds your whole body was covered with fur. It was an instinct you neither could nor wanted to fight.

You had only gotten over with about half of the way when you heard voices. Unfamiliar voices. Your hackles rose. Intruders. And they were already halfway through the old tunnel. Suddenly, you felt fear. The urge to protect your pack by leaving for the old tunnel all alone had been impulsive and reckless. You had never learned how to fight. Not even some basics to protect yourself. And whoever was there in front of you had to be some of the best fighters the Avengers pack had. After all, they entered the enemies’ base - with no backup.

Every instinct told you to run. As soon and as fast as possible. In contrast to the intruders you knew the traps and could fairly easy avoid them - as long as you were careful. If they tried to follow you, the traps would do the rest. Back in the main cave, you could inform the warriors so they could take care of left over enemies.

At the very second you wanted to put it into action, when something caught your eye. Or rather, your ears. It was completely silent. Even though the tunnels resounded. It could mean only one thing: the intruders had detected your presence. Maybe they didn’t know exactly where you were, but they knew that you had to be close. Your body froze completely.

Your mind raced a mile a minute. There was no way to escape the hostile warriors. They would start searching for you any second. And when they found you, you were practically dead. Running back inside of the cave was effectively suicide with all the traps. It was impossible to run for your life and avoid them. You squared your shoulders. If you were dead anyways you could try to hinder the intruders. And maybe even take one or two of them to your grave. And with a lot of luck, somebody might take notice of what happened.

Your fur was still ruffled up due to your fear, but you faced the direction where the Intruders had to be once more. The corners of your mouth drew back farther and farther. Instinctively you bared your teeth and started to growl deeply. But at the same time, your ears were laid back against your head. Your tail was a little less than horizontal and fully puffed up.

On stiff legs you rounded the corner. Right behind it stood five Werewolves. Three men and two women. All of them were armed for close and long distance fights. They wore black clothes – you would bet they were made of Kevlar. In contrast to you, who had only teeth and claws. A young man with raven hair smirked. “Are you the best defender your pack has for this old tunnel? Even the traps have been more of an obstacle than you will be.”, he said condescendingly.

A second later, you assaulted him. The black-haired had your sharp teeth in his shoulder and your paws clawing at his upper arms before he could react. One of his pack comrades gasped surprised. They had known that your confidence and displaying had been a play to hide your fear and insecurity. That you might actually attack one of them had never crossed their minds. They didn’t even think about attacking you.

Suddenly, a massive hand grabbed your neck. It made your body stiffen in an instant. A second later, you felt a huge muscular body right behind you. Your hair stood on edge. There weren’t five enemies in this cave. It was a squad of six. And you had one of them in your back. “Release him and return to your human shape.”, said a deep voice next to your ear. He spoke calm and quiet, but it was none the less an order. And that man expected you to obey.

You did as demanded. Slowly so your movements wouldn’t provoke violence or further aggressions against you. “How bad are the injuries, Loki?”, asked the man behind you. “It hurts but I can still fulfil my duties.”, answered the man you had just attacked. Apparently his name was Loki. He examined his wounds but they had almost stopped bleeding.

“Anyways, my pride is hurt far worse. I didn’t expect her being that…fierce.”, he added and glanced in your direction. The man behind you simply chuckled. “Attacks are not always born from aggression. It can be because of fear as well.”, said a dark-skinned man. “I’ll keep it in mind from now on.”, Loki answered with a bow of his head. The dark-skinned had to stand above him in the hierarchy.

“Back to you, Little One. I want to avoid any unnecessary deaths. But if you try to pull a stand none of us will hesitate to kill you. Understood?”, the Alpha behind you asked. His hand was still firmly closed around your neck. A not so low-key reminder that you were still at his mercy. That he could kill you whenever he pleased. “Yes.”, you managed to pant out the words.

Very slowly he released his hold on your neck. You took a deep breath to calm down your nerves. But your body was still shaking from fear and adrenaline. “If you cooperate with us, you have nothing to fear, Little One.”, the man behind you said. To your surprise, his voice was soft and gentle.

You turned around slowly. Still aware that you could be dead any second – though you believed the faceless man from an hostile pack. When you finally faced him, your heart skipped a beat. He was tall and extremely muscular. His brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. Sharp blue eyes that surveyed every move you made. Ears and tail were relaxed, yet highly self-confident. His whole posture spoke of the power this man possessed.

James Buchanan Barnes. The Alpha of the Avengers pack. One of the most powerful men in the world.

Next Part

[howellrichard]

How to Tell if You Need Pelvic Floor Therapy

Hiya Gorgeous!

I have something really special to share with you today! My incredible colleague and friend, Ashley, recently told me about her experience with pelvic floor therapy after the birth of her (adorable) baby. Our conversation was a wakeup call for me. For one, it was a reminder that pelvic floor health is something I haven’t paid enough attention to in my own life—not because I don’t care, but because I’ve been focused on other areas of my health.

My chat with Ashley also made me realize that we haven’t covered this topic here on kriscarr.com. Well, today’s the day!

I know so many folks facing pelvic floor issues who feel like they’ve run out of options. And it’s not just in my circle—over 30 million women in the US alone deal with pain during sex or exercise, incontinence and other symptoms associated with pelvic floor dysfunction. But surprisingly, many OBGYNs and other health professionals aren’t well-trained in this area.

As a result, pelvic floor issues often go undiagnosed or untreated, or docs recommend pills or painful surgerys without offering any alternatives. And prevention? Well… when was the last time your doctor talked to you about your pelvic floor?

If you (or someone you know) are experiencing pelvic floor issues, here’s the truth: You are NOT out of options. You make the decisions about your health and you CAN heal. This topic tends to be hush hush, but it’s time to break the stigma because your health—all of it—matters.

So today I’m covering the basics. We’ll talk about what your pelvic floor is, what it does and what kinds of issues can come up. Then I’ll share some resources about pelvic floor therapy and bust a few myths about Kegel exercises.

Welcome to pelvic floor 101, toots—class is officially in session!

What is your pelvic floor?

Your pelvic floor is a group of muscles and tissues located at the base of your pelvic area. Both males and females have pelvic floor muscles, but we’ll focus on the female side of things today. This superstar group of muscles acts like a sling to support organs such as your bladder and bowels. It plays a big role in continence (the ability to control bowel and bladder movements) and sexual function.

What is pelvic floor dysfunction?

While researching this topic, I learned that there are a few types of pelvic floor issues—and the words disorder and dysfunction can actually mean different things in this context (though some resources use the terms interchangeably—confusing, I know). Let’s go over each one and the associated symptoms so you know what to look out for.

Pelvic floor dysfunction is a condition that causes pelvic floor muscles to contract when they should relax. While there’s still a lot to learn about what causes it, pelvic floor dysfunction has been associated with childbirth, traumatic injury to the pelvic area and damage to the pudendal nerve (source). Folks with this condition may experience constipation, painful intercourse or urination, urinary incontinence and lower back pain, among other symptoms (source).

Pelvic floor disorders occur when the pelvic muscles become weak or damaged. This can happen as a result of childbirth, but not just to those who deliver vaginally. That’s a common misconception, so it’s important to understand that people who give birth via C-section can experience it too (source). Genetics, long-term pressure on the abdomen (from chronic coughing or carrying extra weight, for example), pelvic surgery and radiation treatments are among the other causes of pelvic floor disorders (source).

There are three types of pelvic floor disorders…

Fecal incontinence

Fecal incontinence is the inability to control the bowels. Someone experiencing fecal incontinence may have trouble making it to the bathroom in time. While the chance of having this issue increases as we age, it’s not exclusive to older peeps—it affects over 5.5 million Americans of all ages and sexes.

Obstructive defecation

This pelvic floor disorder means it’s hard to pass poop (ouch!). Those experiencing obstructive defecation might have to strain a lot to complete a successful bowel movement or have trouble going even if they feel the urge.

Pelvic organ prolapse

Think of your pelvic floor like a hammock for your pelvic organs (I like to imagine mine swaying in the breeze!). When the muscles and tissues that make up the hammock become weak or loose, they can’t support those organs as effectively—just as a traditional hammock can’t support us well when the rope that holds it together weakens. This can cause the organs to drop or press into/out of the vagina, aka pelvic organ prolapse.

Females with pelvic organ prolapse may feel or even see a bulge coming out of their vagina. Other symptoms include leaking urine (ever pee a little when you laugh or sneeze?), as well as pelvic pressure, pain and other discomfort that tends to get worse during sex, physical activity or just over the course of the day (source).

What are the options for pelvic floor therapy?

Now that we’ve covered the types of pelvic floor dysfunction/disorders, let’s talk about solutions. Let me be crystal clear: Pelvic floor issues are NOT just a normal part of aging that we have to accept! They’re treatable and we have plenty of non-surgical routes to choose from. Don’t listen to the messages that say otherwise—they’re disempowering and just not true. I’ve heard and read countless success stories from folks who’ve tried pelvic floor therapy and found relief.

The following is not an exhaustive list, but it will give you an idea of some of the options available to you. Please note that I’m not including surgical or pharmacological treatments here, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t explore them with your doctor. All approaches have value (unless they cause harm, of course!) and the best treatment path is one that’s unique to you.

Biofeedback

During a biofeedback session, the person receiving treatment is hooked up to electrical sensors that read electrical impulses in the body and display them in a way that can be seen or heard. This can give us valuable information about bodily functions that we can’t easily feel or control. In the case of pelvic floor therapy, biofeedback can help us better understand pelvic muscles and how to properly exercise them (source).

Based on what I read, more research needs to be done to determine biofeedback’s place in pelvic floor therapy (one meta-analysis indicated that many existing studies aren’t totally reliable). The thing to keep in mind is that biofeedback is a training tool that supports other therapies, not so much a treatment in and of itself. If you’re curious, chat with an expert (look for someone certified by the Biofeedback Certification Institute of America) to see if it could be for you!

Physical therapy

Physical therapy for the pelvic floor can mean a lot of things—it really depends on the therapist you work with. It can involve some of the other therapies I’m covering today, as well as internal and external manipulation/massage of the pelvic area. This can be especially helpful for people dealing with pelvic floor dysfunction because it relaxes the muscles.

Pelvic floor physical therapy is a specialization within the broader field, so if you’re interested in trying it out, look for someone with one of these certifications from the American Physical Therapy Association: The Certificate of Achievement in Pelvic Physical Therapy (CAPP) or The Women’s Health Clinical Specialist (WCS). This article has a lot of helpful info and includes links for finding a certified practitioner in your area.

Yoga

Since many yoga poses engage your core, practicing can help strengthen muscles in and around the pelvic area. Check out this guided practice if you want to try it out. Or, talk to a trusted teacher at your studio if yoga is already part of your routine. Also, here are some helpful tips from Yoga Journal to keep in mind.

Kegel exercises

You may have heard of Kegels or even tried them yourself. People often try them and get discouraged because they don’t see results. There’s also a lot of confusing info about whether they really work. But it’s time to set the record straight: Kegels can be an incredibly powerful form of pelvic floor therapy—the key is to use the proper technique and a variety of exercises.

If you thought Kegels were just about repeatedly clenching and relaxing your pelvic muscles, you’re in for a surprise! There are actually THIRTEEN different types of Kegels (fun fact: reverse Kegels are a thing!). Think about it—when we exercise, we don’t just target one muscle with a single repeated motion because that wouldn’t help us build overall strength, balance and flexibility. The same goes for Kegels.

It’s also essential to tailor your Kegel exercises to your body and unique needs. I know that many folks in this community are curious about Kegels and want to learn more, which brings me to my next point…

The Ultimate Guide to Happier Lady Parts

I’m excited to introduce you to my friend Isa Herrera, a licensed physical therapist and expert in pelvic floor therapy. She’s helped over 14,000 women heal from pelvic pain, leaking and prolapse. And she’s not stopping there—Isa has made it her mission to destigmatize pelvic floor dysfunction and make sure everyone gets the support they need to heal.

Isa just released an ebook called The Ultimate Guide to Happier Lady Parts and when you download it (for free!), you’ll get access to her new Kegel training video. If you’re experiencing any of the symptoms we talked about—peeing a little when you cough or sneeze, pain during sex, pressure or other discomfort in your pelvic region, etc.—take advantage of this resource.

In Isa’s free report, The Ultimate Guide to Happier Lady Parts, you’ll learn:

Simple tips for reducing pelvic pain and preventing flare-ups (it can be as easy as making adjustments to your clothing and/or shower routine)

Why doctors often don’t know how to diagnose or heal pelvic floor (if you’ve seen more than one doctor who couldn’t help you, this resource is for you)

12 powerful practices that you can do at home to strengthen your muscles, prevent more damage and start to heal

The ONE yoga pose Isa swears by to relieve pelvic pain and tightness (it’s easy to do whether or not you’re an experienced yogi!)

And much more…

You’ll also get access to The Truth About Kegels video, which debunks the three most common Kegel myths and includes tips to help you do the exercises right so you get results.

I’m grateful that Isa is offering these resources for free because I know that SO many people will benefit from them. Get The Ultimate Guide to Happier Lady Parts + Kegel training video today!

You are the CEO of your health

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned from my health journey is that it’s up to us to be the CEOs of our own health. I hope this article helps you step into that power and take impeccable care of every facet of your well-being.

Please share this with someone who might benefit from reading it. Spreading the word about pelvic floor health will help break down the stigma and bring solutions to more people who need them. And, as always, I encourage you to supplement this info with your own research and advice from experts (like Isa!).

Your turn: Let’s TALK about our health challenges, whatever they are. Share with a doctor, close friend or trusted community—whoever you’re comfortable with. Don’t stuff it down or go it alone, because that could prevent you from getting the help you need. I want to support you and I have a feeling lots of others do too. Drop a

in the comments below or say “I’m in” to let me know you’re with me!

Peace & pelvic power,

The post How to Tell if You Need Pelvic Floor Therapy appeared first on KrisCarr.com.

[danielcadequinn]

Read an excerpt from Not Sorry! Now available in the Prophecy of Magic boxed set!  https://books2read.com/PoM-NOLAWars1CD Chapter 1  Who knew life after death could be so entertaining? Or exhausting.

Had someone told me I’d be spending eternity hunting supernatural beasts, I never would’ve believed them. Especially since I became one.

Just past midnight, I’m waiting in the forest preserves outside Chicago. About a half mile from Lake Arrowhead, this used to be Cook County, Illinois until being overtaken by the neighboring nation of Zion more than thirty years ago. Fortunately, an underground coalition rose up years later, eventually freeing them from Zion rule.

Gods, I hate that place.

After the last civil war, what was left of the country broke into three. Chicago is now part of what we call New America because it’s all that’s left of the former United States. They merged with Canada, and now included most of the bordering states surrounding the North American continent. Up until thirty years ago, Zion ruled most of the south and Midwest before major cities like Chicago and New Orleans fought back. There were many casualties of that war, and I was one of them.

Still sitting in the woods, I’m tired of waiting for my dinner. I’d much rather be out hunting for it. My contact said to expect my prey to show up around midnight, yet it’s ten past. Damn humans.

Staring out into the night, I glance up at the flickering streetlight shining down on the parking lot just outside the trails. Humans don’t really come out here anymore, and the woods are mostly filled with monsters like me. Well, not really. There are no monsters like me.

I pull out a leather-bound notebook from my inside jacket pocket. It holds the names of every vampire that’s not supposed to be here. One by one, I hunt and kill them all, then cross their name off my list. All while searching for the one who turned me.

After the secession, the city of New Orleans and other neighboring states was later renamed NOLA and declared a safe-haven for supernaturals like me. The DSI, Department of Supernatural Investigation, is a secret human group that actually knows about metas. They made an agreement with NOLA, that any vampire found outside its walls is fair game, mostly because our blood lust is uncontrollable and often becomes the very thing that destroys us.

Human lands had been safer since the treaty until vampires decided there wasn’t enough blood in NOLA and started migrating back here.That’s when DSI hired me.

I refused to leave New America, knowing what I stood to lose if I did, so I was allowed to stay under one condition: never feed on a human. I never wanted to be a vampire and I’m a survivor, so I learned to cope.

Girl’s gotta eat.

Since then, I’ve learned that I’m particularly good at two things: Killing vampires and holding a grudge.

Flipping through the worn pages of my notebook, I get to the page with newest names. Ever since the witch queen left to try and stop a supernatural war, all the heathens have crawled out from under their rocks. This latest batch of vamps has been helping the Zions in their human trafficking ploy. Something that’s gotten completely out of hand the second they heard Chicago’s witch savior had skipped town. 

Ravenous now, my stomach rumbles as I inhale a trace scent of blood in the air. They’re coming.

With my gaze fixed on the entrance of the parking lot, I close my eyes and listen, focusing on the sound of a car rumbling down the road. It’s still at least a mile away, so I have a little time.I step behind a huge oak tree and wait as a car pulls into the lot. A blonde vamp gets out of a Mercedes, pulls out her cell phone, then makes a call. “Where the hell are you? You’re late. Fine. I’ll wait, but just this once. Next time, you’re out.”

I’m not sure which name this is, with two females on my list, but I don’t really care.

And I’m hungry.

While the vampire is mesmerized by her phone, I move between the trees until I’m standing a few feet away. With a grin, I lunge out from the woods and attack, knocking her to the ground.

“Annaliese.” She says my name as the color drains from her face. I’m not surprised that she knows me. Every vampire here does. They fear me, as they should. “I swear.” She pleads “It’s not what you think. I’m not...”

“I don’t really care,” I say before baring my fangs. “You’re not supposed to be here, and I’m starving.

”Without another word, I sink my teeth into her neck while she thrashes in my grip, pinned down against the pavement beside her shiny luxury car.

“Please.” Her shrilled cry echoes through the still night air, but there’s nobody around to hear her. I stop just short of desiccating the girl. “Stop.”

Killing her wouldn’t be much fun if I did.

Pulling my fangs from her neck, I retract them while swallowing the last of her blood that’s still drizzling down the back of my throat. I let out a sigh and sit up, straddling her waist. I stare into her silver eyes that are dimming with each passing second.

“Any last words… Is it Gina or Renee?”I reach to my side and pull out a sharpened stake from my utility belt, ready to get this over with. She isn’t putting up much of a fight, and I’m super bored.

“What about your family?” she blurts out.

My eyes grow wide. “What did you say?”

“And Mar… I mean, I know who turned you.”

It’s no secret that the very reason I became a vampire assassin was to get my revenge on the one who sired me, but very few knew the reason behind my rage.

Before getting turned, I had a lot to live for. I was a mother. A widowed single mother with a very young daughter who had nobody else but me after my entire family was slaughtered during the last war. But then I was turned. I couldn’t control my bloodlust after that, so I couldn’t be her mother anymore.

Alexis was the reason I refused to leave. Her family–my legacy–they’re the reason I’m still here, and why I fight for humans against the very thing that stole everything from me.

Abandoning my own daughter was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, save for watching Alexis die. I never even got to say goodbye. Instead, I’ve been singularly focused for more than ninety years, searching for the bastard who turned me into the monster I never wanted to become.

“What do you know?”She’s pale, hardly any color left in her clammy skin. “Let me live, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I can get you what you’re looking for.” She gasps for air, typical for a dying vampire. And while her body can regenerate if she feeds, she won’t get very far like this. “Please.”

I debate in my head if I even want to save the bitch. As another two cars near the parking lot, I decide to pause a minute to consider my options.

“Fine.” I growl while I grab her beneath her armpits and drag her off into the woods, hiding her body behind some trees so I can deal with the other two vampires that are coming to meet her.

I drop her body to the ground, sit on top of her once more, then lean into her face. “Don’t say a goddamn word. Do you understand me? If you want to live, you keep your mouth shut while I go eat your friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” she mumbles. “Give me some blood. Please. Just a little.”

“No.” I groan as two cars pull into the parking lot. “Remember what I said. I’ll kill you and your entire family if I hear so much as a peep. Got it?”

She nods as I stand up and move back toward the parking lot, leaves crunching beneath my feet as I run.

Peering out from behind one of the trees, I watch two people get out of their cars and look inside my girl’s Mercedes. Talking amongst themselves, they get nervous since they can’t find her. Clearly, I don’t have much time before they run, so I have to make my move now.

From out of the shadows, I lunge for the guy first. He’ll be the hardest to kill. Not because he’s a man, but because he’s the oldest.

“Vampire hunter.” He groaned as he sees me rushing toward him. “Renee, run.”

“Renee.” I smile at the girl like she’s my arch nemesis. Reaching for her before she takes off, my fingers grip her throat like a vice. With one swift motion, I bash her head into the pavement, so hard, the ground cracks below her.

I kind of love inflicting pain on my victims.

“Sorry,” I say sarcastically, watching her squirm on the ground. “Not.”

Her buddy gasps at the sound of Renee’s skull cracking.

She’s not dead, though. Yet.

Next on my list, Stevie, I think is his name, tries to run. I prefer to give my prey delicacy names. We’ll call Stevie here, Ceviche. Because I’m going to absolutely love sinking my fangs into his raw neck while he flops around like a fish.

Quick on my feet, I reach out and grab his grimy T-shirt enough to pull him back to me, close enough that I can now get all my strength behind me.

Ceviche’s feet slip in an icy puddle, so I take advantage of his clumsiness and shove his shoulders forward, bouncing his head off the passenger side window. Glass shatters everywhere, and the insect’s head starts bleeding, making me even more hungry. If that’s even possible.

While Ceviche tries picking himself up off the ground, I keep hold of his shoulders, forcing his head into the side of Gina’s car, leaving a nasty dent.

Pity. It was such a pretty car, too.

His friend tries getting up, but I hop on top of her, shoving her shoulders to the pavement before baring my teeth and sinking them back into her neck. I drink just enough blood to keep her out of commission, and long enough for me to go back and kill her friend.

For a quick second, I stare at the tramp beneath me, deciding what to name her. It only takes me a second to decide not to change her name. Because I knew a Heather once who was a traitorous bitch, so I’m going to kill this one in effigy.

In the name of all backstabbing Heather’s everywhere.

  While Heather is sedated, I return to finish off Ceviche. He’s getting to his feet shakily with one hand on his head. Dark streams of blood run past his fingers enticingly, trailing out of his blond mop of wavy hair. To a human, he’d probably look pretty disgusting. But since I’m a vampire who drinks from other vamps, he looks like a big ass bloodberry milkshake.

My hunger is seriously getting the better of me.

But for now, I just want to satisfy a different kind of bloodlust. I’m pissed off at people who ruin other people’s lives, like these parasites. And the one who ruined mine all those years ago. So while perhaps I don’t have to be as brutal as I’m about to be, I feel no pity.

Girls just want to have fun.

“Here, let me give you a hand.” I wrap my fingers in his hair and pull hard, lifting him straight off the ground, nearly six feet of bloody helplessness. Grabbing his leg with my other hand, I spin him around and toss him into the nearest streetlight.

Gods, I love the strength I have.

The loud snap of his back hitting the wooden pole makes me happy. Guess he won’t be running away again. Definitely won’t be running any captives into Zion. And that makes me ecstatic.

On my way over to the heap of blubbering vampire lying on the ground, I notice a large crack running along the pavement.

“Step on a crack, break Ceviche’s back.” I sing and skip my way closer, then give the fissure a good hefty stomp and watch as a new pothole sinks into the parking lot.

Okay, so I’m a little worked up. Should probably expend some energy. Losing my temper wouldn’t be good for anybody here, me included.

Me raging on vampire blood isn’t a pretty sight.

I dart over to where Ceviche lies on the ground and grab his hand. Lifting and pulling back, I swing the huge lump of asshole around and toss him as hard as I can into Renee’s car. The door caves in and the wreck lifts up on the two opposite wheels, finally tipping over onto the roof.

“Yo, Dracula Barbie, sorry ‘bout your car, girl,” I yell over my shoulder. “I scratched it a little.”

Peering into the upside-down wreck, I giggle when I see one of his arms and his head have detached from the rest of him.

“Shame. I wasted a perfectly good asshat.”

I’m surprisingly winded as I stare at Ceviche’s broken body, though I’m also impressed with my masterpiece, effectively having dismembered the vamp. Inhaling a breath, I crouch down and plunge my favorite stake into his chest, since he’s not really dead until I do. My black soul sings as his eyelids flutter closed and the last glimpse of life drains away.

Don’t feel sorry for Ceviche or his friends. They’ve been helping the Zions kidnap innocent girls, forcing children to become brides and breeders for the Zion vermin. And feeding off the captives, of course. There’s no love for them—Stevie got exactly what he deserved, as will Dracula Barbie and Heather, who are next on my list.

 I catch my breath while strolling over to finish Heather off, who’s still lying beside the grass, barely breathing.

Not really hungry anymore, I hover over her and stare for a minute, wondering how any woman could do what she’s done, vampire or not.

Heather glances up at me and stares. Guilt. Remorse.

Good.

“So disappointing.” I pull a stake from my belt and step over her, then crouch down. “Any woman who would betray her own sisters they way you have deserves an agonizing death.” I pull up with little effort, then gleefully press the stake into her heart. “Tell Lucifer I said hey.”

She gasps for air; her red hunter eyes dim before what’s left of her fades away. Her skin turns a chalky grey and shrivels before finally desiccating.

Since it’s easier to get rid of two bodies at once, I drag Heather’s corpse and toss it on top of Ceviche’s, who’s lying on Renee’s car. I strike a match then drop it, watching the vampires’ bodies burn and crumble into nothing but a pile of ash at my feet.

From my inside jacket pocket, I pull out my little black book and strike out their names from my list. Ready to strike out Renee’s, I stomp back into the woods to find the girl who has a lead on my sire.

When I get into the woods, however, the ungrateful hussy is gone. I don’t know if she’s still alive, if someone’s killed her off, or if she recovered somehow and skedaddled. It’s more likely than not that she’s still somewhere in the woods, so I begrudgingly stalk into the forest preserves to find her.

Miles and miles of woods later, I come up empty-handed. That’s what I get for not killing first and asking questions later.

Incensed now, I trudge back to the parking lot and raid the vamps’ cars, taking anything that could be of use to me later. The first two cars are a bust except for some pot.

The Mercedes belonging to Renee, however, has the girl’s cell phone with several names I recognize. Luckily it didn’t get all smashed up like Ceviche. So I pull out my cell and call my contact to let him know one got away, but before I can even dial the number, my cell lights up in my hand.

“DSI needs you to go to NOLA and retrieve something. If you do this, I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

“What do you want?”

“We need the witch back. Things are out of hand, and the country won’t survive without her.”

“First of all, that witch went to NOLA to stop a war, what makes you think she’d care about yours? And second, you know as well as I do that if I step foot in NOLA, I may as well sign my own death certificate.”

“What if I could protect you?”

I laugh out loud. “From a nation of angry vampires? Doubtful.”

“I know people, Erhardt.”

Shaking my head, I stand silent for a minute before answering. There are so many reasons why I shouldn’t go to NOLA and just as many why I don’t want to.

Before I can finish my own thoughts, he drops a line so tempting, I can’t say no.

“What if I could give you the answer you seek?”

“Which is?”

“I know who turned you.”

“Don’t toy with me, human. And what’s going on tonight? You’re the second person to say that and not tell me the answer. Now I’m losing my damn patience. I know I said I’d never eat your kind, but if you’re pulling my leg, so help me, I’ll rip you to shreds.”

“I’m not, I swear. We’re desperate here. We need Adrien, and you need answers. Win-win. I know someone, a voodoo priestess, who can give you them. Give us what we need, and we’ll give you what you want. Do we have a deal?”

Staring up at the flickering streetlamp, I contemplate my options. I can’t imagine going to the supernatural mecca of the world and leaving there alive.

Here in New America, my country, I’m secretly revered as the guardian who rids their nation of bloodthirsty heathens, but to the vampires seeking refuge in New Orleans–the community that I refused to claim–I am the traitor. So while the idea of going to NOLA isn’t appealing, completing my quest is.

Then I can get someone to stake me, and put an end to this miserable vampire existence once and for all.

“Fine.” I relent. “I’ll go to NOLA. Two weeks. If you don’t get me what I want by then, I’ll make sure you never see your girlfriend again.”

[shipwrexked]

History of Empires in simplified form.

I love history...especially the study of Empires throughout civilization. The impact they’ve had on the world today is not to be taken lightly and yet....that’s exactly what I plan to do here today.

Imagine if you will that the great Empire’s were actually Emo Teenagers from the movie mean girls.

The world is new-ish and there’s this place called Mesopotamia. Mesopotamia was where all the cool, rich kids lived. I mean there were rumors of rich people on the other side of the Zagros Mountains but puhlease..no one believes in fairy tales.

Akkid was like so cool. He was the first Empire to arise in civilization because he saw all these tiny tribes living, working, minding their own business, and he thought: “they should be ruled by me”. Also he had really big weapons and was tre good at talking people into doing he what he wanted. There’s a rumor it was his girlfriend who talked him into it but everyone hates her because she’s so cool. They’re just jealous. 

Akkid and his girlfriend, who later became his wife, had two kids. Sumeryia the oldest and Babylonia the younger. Sumeryia was all “world conquest is so last millenium” and Bablyonia was all “whatevs I’m gonna take all your toys because I’m the youngest..that’s what we do”.

The Hurrians thought they could sit at the cool kids table but that wasn’t gonna happen because they couldn’t decide whether to like each other or hate each other and the Babylonians didn’t have time to deal with that bi-polar mess.

Then the Hittites were all “We have chariots” and the  Phoenicians were all “We have ships and purple dye”. The Phoenicians won that round being that they had ships..which meant they could spread their own language around faster and PUPLE DYE! Royals go crazy over purple dye.

Then Egypt moved into the neighborhood and it was all pyramids, and death gods, and animal/human hybrids. I mean it was wack but those Pharaohs knew how to throw down a good party!! Too bad about that whole incest thing though. 

On the other side of the Lake (ok Sea) Greece was working out. Oiling up and getting all swoled on philosophy and maths and you know SPARTA!!! Greece was taking all the good idea’s from the other Empire’s and making it their own. Like Steve Jobs and Bill Gates will tell you nerds are the rulers of tomorrow..also watch your shit cause some bully is going to come along and take it from you. 

That’s just what the Roman Empire did. Because Rome was all “we’re the football players of this continent” and Greece was all “whatever meat heads” and then Rome was all dude let’s go throw their geek asses into lockers and steal their shit...and that’s why Roman culture looks suspiciously like Greek culture. 

The Romans weren’t all bad..I mean they gave back to the communities they ruthlessly conquered. You know kind of like America in the middle east. The Romans were all we know what you want..you don’t know what you want..we’re going to tell you what you want. Then we’re going to take all your stuff and make it ours..also we’re going to take some of your people and make them our slaves..but it’s cool cause they can totally earn their freedom and become American..ugh I meant Roman citizens after we’re done using them. Golly gee whiz Rome was so nice to everybody I can’t understand why the Goths rebelled and kicked their butts.  Raise your hand if any of you have ever personally been victimized by Rome.

The Goths along with some other really pissed off peeps brought Rome down. It was like one of those feel good stories where the little nerd girl takes off her glasses and suddenly she’s pretty and the popular people want to date her...except not really. Once Rome fell the infrastructure of Western Civilization fell with it. That’s why it’s called the Dark Ages, suddenly goods, services, exchanges of ideas, theories, all of it stopped. It’d be like if suddenly the world was cut off from the internet or if you were North Korean. The entire western civilization was faced with the reality that “oh holy shit we actually don’t know what we want and Rome’s no longer her to tell us what we want”. 

When an Empire Falls there’s a power vaccuum. The larger the Empire the bigger the power vaccuum and humans will do whatever they can to fill that vacuum. Lots of little kingdoms tried to fill it but they were not Rome. Down in the Iranian peninsula arose THE OTTOMANS. The Ottomans were Muslim and their dad had this prophetic dream that told him he had to go and take all the stuff that Rome left behind. My dreams are only ever about work and giant gummie bears. The main man  Osman got the blessing of the church to bring his faith to the Infidels that were occupying the Christian west. The Christians were like “yo that faith is wack we don’t want that here” and the Osman dude was like “You are stupid infidels you don’t know what you want..I’m going to tell you what you need and if you don’t want to believe that’s o.k. You’ll have to pay extra to believe something else”.  Which really isn’t that bad a deal in that time and place but ya know NO ONE likes to pay taxes...they get down right murderous about it. Still the Ottomans managed to build and entire Muslim Empire stretching all the way up into Romania...that’s like the whole real story behind Vlad Tepesh. 

While the Ottomans were building their Muslim Empire the Germans were insidiously and on the down low infiltrating all the other regions Rome left behind...That’s a whole other post because this one is already waaay too long. 

[parkersrevenge]

Henry hadn’t meant to delay so long in Germany. The trip had been specifically planned to restore his weak constitution in the springs of Marienberg, but through it all he intended on stopping a few weeks in England. Once in Germany, though, he found it increasingly difficult to leave. The water cure actually seemed to improve his health, and the scenery had an almost fairy tale like quality to it. It was nice to leave the troubles of the city- and his own personal life- and melt away into the bliss of another world altogether. Even so, the longer he delayed by the springs, the more he worried that a side trip to England would become impossible. This in itself wasn’t too tragic for him: he wasn’t particularly fond of England anyway. There was only one thing that drew him there, and all the guilt he felt was wrapped up in them. Charles Dickens wanted to see him again, and Henry didn’t want to disappoint him.

He debated writing a letter, expecting a harsh or cold one in return. When Henry had first written about his trip almost a year before, he had promised to make Charles a priority. Both men desperately wished to see one another again, and despite that fact Henry had been on the continent for months with no plans of moving at all. How long had he been expected in London? How long had his friend been hoping to meet? The thought filled him with anxiety, and he tried to put it off. Yet he knew, the longer he delayed in writing, the worse it would be. With all the courage he had, he penned a cautious note, asking his friend’s forgiveness for his delay and informing him that he could be there by early October if he was still wanted.

The speed of the post took him by surprise. He was far more used to correspondences across the Atlantic after all, so when he found a reply in the post a few days later he could scarcely believe it. He sat as his desk, and opened the note carefully.

“My Dear Longfellow,” the letter read, “How stands it about your visit, do you say? Thus- Your bed is waiting to be slept in, the door is gaping hospitably to receive you, I am ready to spring towards it with open arms at the first indication of a Longfellow knock or ring; and the door, the bed, I, and everybody else who is in the secret, have been expecting you for the last month.”

Henry laughed as he read on. The note was filled with Charles’ wit and humor, and not a single line showed any resentment or hostility at all. At least Charles wasn’t angry with him. He remembered his friend had a volatile personality. It was nice to know, in this regard at least, that he would not fall victim to it. With everything seemingly in order, Henry packed up his things and made his way to London.

London was exactly as he had remembered it, for better and worse. The main difference this time was that he now had a friend to make his stay brighter. Perhaps this trip would change his mind, unlikely though it seemed. Dickens’ trip to America only firmed up his prejudices against Americans, so why should a trip to England change Henry’s mind about the British? Still, none of that really mattered. All that was before him, all that he cared about, was to be in the company of a friend who made his world and his life a happier and sunnier place.

Late in the afternoon he found himself on the front steps of a quaint house near Regent’s Park, just far enough away from the bustle of the city to be almost peaceful. In fact, the whole block had a certain charm to it, and Henry absentmindedly thought of how he would love to have a home like this one day.

He barely had the chance to knock when the door flung open and he was pulled into one of the most crushing hugs of his life. The force of the hug winded him, and he accidentally dropped his luggage upon collision, but he hardly cared. He had forgotten how touch starved he was, and being in his friend’s arms felt… right.

“My dear Henry, it’s about time you showed up. I was beginning to think I had imagined you, and that your very existence rested in my head alone.”

Henry laughed, pulling away just enough to look him in the eye. “With the characters you think up for your stories, Charles, thinking me up is a waste of your talents. I’m a positive bore next to Mr. Nickleby or Pickwick.”

“Absolute rubbish, my dear. You outshine them all in every way.” Charles grinned, rubbing his back gently. “And it is wonderful to know that you are real… and that you’re here. It’s about damn time.”

“As you’ve said. I didn’t realize you missed me that much.” Henry scoffed, pulling him back into a far gentler hug.

“More than you can ever know, Henry…” The hug lasted far longer than the bounds of propriety would allow, but neither man moved to break the embrace until a rustling from the next room brought them back to their senses. Charles pulled away quickly, glancing down with a nervous grin. “Ah, you dropped your luggage. Allow me.” Not looking at him, he quickly bent down to grab the carpetbag and trunk, and began carrying them down the hallway. “Follow me, dear. We’ll get you set up, then we can go over all the things I have planned. The Globe, of course… I promised we’d see a good Shakespeare production, and other theaters in general. Perhaps go to Oxford, definitely go to Rochester Castle… get you a new wardrobe- Sumner was insistent on that, and I see why-”

Just as Henry was about to follow, a small head peaked out from the doorway of the next room. Henry could only assume that this had been the source of the rustling in the first place. “Hello,” a little voice peeped. Henry smiled.

“Hello there. And who do I have the honor of addressing?”

The small child cautiously stepped into the hallway, tugging nervously at his sleeves. “I’m Charley…” he whispered, staring up at Henry in awe.

Charles turned around when he heard the voice, grinning. “Henry, this is my son, Charles. Don’t let his sheepishness fool you. He’s a real devil once you get to know him.”

Charley stuck out his tongue at that, and Dickens carefully placed the luggage down and scooped him up playfully. “Did you just stick your tongue out at your father?”

“Nooo…” Charley lied, giggling.

“Henry, you were a witness. Did this little imp stick his tongue out at me?”

Henry glanced between the father and son, both looking at him expectantly. He couldn’t help laughing at their earnest expressions. “I think you’re imagining things, friend. This angel did nothing of the sort.” Charley began to laugh hysterically, which was unavoidable as his father began to tickle him.

“You are a traitor, Henry Longfellow. You’re supposed to side with me!”

“Papa,” the boy managed to gasp, “he sided with me instead! I like him.”

“I can’t help it, Charles. I have a soft spot for children. I let them walk all over me.”

Charles made a face. “Never admit that in front of them, Henry. Now he’s going to take advantage of your kindness.”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you son?” Henry asked.

Charley just laughed harder. “Yes I would.”

“I don’t know how you ever expected any other reply than that,” Charles sighed, rolling his eyes. He quickly handed the boy over. “You made a monster. He’s your trouble now.” With an over dramatic flourish, Dickens turned around and grabbed the luggage again. Henry just laughed and followed him, little Charley chatting away excitedly. There was something positively domestic in all this, and Henry savored every single moment of it. Dickens had everything Henry had been longing for: a house, a family, a life. If he truly was cursed to never have it for himself, at least for the next few weeks he could pretend he had it here. For the first time since the death of his wife and unborn son, he finally felt like he had a home.

[Part Two]