PREVIOUSLY: Mother talked about how the girls used to play Pilgrim’s Progress, and Amy said she was too old for play-pretends.
“We are never too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far you can get before father comes home.”
“Really, mother? Where are our bundles?” asked Amy, who was a very literal young lady. 1
“Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth; I rather think she hasn’t got any,” said her mother.
“Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people.”
Beth’s bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh; but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much. It would hurt her further still to let on to her sisters that they were among the very number that she feared.
“Let us do it,” said Meg, thoughtfully. “It is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us; though we do want to be good, it’s hard work, and we forget, and don’t do our best.”
“We were in the Slough of Despond to-night, and mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?” asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty.
“Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find your guide-book,” replied Mrs. March.
They adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa and America, and in that way they got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them.
They talked over the new plan while old Hannah 2 cleared the table; then out came the four little workbaskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. 3 It was uninteresting sewing, but to-night no one grumbled. They adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa and America, and in that way they got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them.
At nine they stopped work, and sung, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sung.
Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a crook or a quaver that spoilt the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp:
“Crinkle, crinkle, ‘ittle ‘tar,”
And it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went about the house singing like a lark; and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby. Indeed, after they went to bed, they still heard their mother, as she sang by turns softly, loudly, cheerfully, and mournfully.
Even as Hannah retired, she sang. Even as the windows grew frosted from the deep night’s chill, she sang. Mother sang every hour of the night. She sang as the corners of her mouth cracked, the eddies of her throat dried. She sang as her chords spasmed, as her breath grew thin. She sang as blood and other acrid humors pooled in her mouth. She sang. She sang everything she knew, everything she thought, everything she wanted. She sang for fear, she sang to be remembered. She sang until the gnarled hand within her mind unfurled once again. The hand that flicked behind her eyes, pinching, pinching down, as if to snuff out a candle. Surely, a hand would not reach, pinch, pull, extinguish if she sang. How can one snuff a light when there is singing? It wouldn’t make sense. Surely not.
So she sang.
1 Amy, Whom Is Stupid
2 Yes, reader! Are you like me, shocked that there’s been a WHOLE ASS OTHER PERSON HERE THE WHOLE TIME? This is Hannah, the March’s only servant. She’s been part of the staff since Meg was born. I’m not sure this is in the text but she’s broadly understood to be Irish and “like a member of the family” which, ok.
In regards to the March Family finances, I’m not exactly sure where these folks lie on the 1800s economic spectrum. Obviously when we happen upon them they are on harder times than typical, but as you can see they have the ability to retain Hannah, and in the next chapter they give their breakfast to a poor family without much injury. But, they also rely pretty heavily on Aunt March for financial help. Is Father a chaplain in real life as well as in war-life? That’s not very lucrative…or was it back then? Alas! I am too bored to really investigate. All’s this to say is that right now we are to understand that the Marches are poor…ish.
3 Unclear how this helps the war effort.