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- Луиза Мэй Олкотт
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Now
,
if
she
had
been
the
heroine
of
a
moral
storybook
,
she
ought
at
this
period
of
her
life
to
have
become
quite
saintly
,
renounced
the
world
,
and
gone
about
doing
good
in
a
mortified
bonnet
,
with
tracts
in
her
pocket
.
But
,
you
see
,
Jo
wasn
’
t
a
heroine
,
she
was
only
a
struggling
human
girl
like
hundreds
of
others
,
and
she
just
acted
out
her
nature
,
being
sad
,
cross
,
listless
,
or
energetic
,
as
the
mood
suggested
.
It
’
s
highly
virtuous
to
say
we
’
ll
be
good
,
but
we
can
’
t
do
it
all
at
once
,
and
it
takes
a
long
pull
,
a
strong
pull
,
and
a
pull
all
together
before
some
of
us
even
get
our
feet
set
in
the
right
way
.
Jo
had
got
so
far
,
she
was
learning
to
do
her
duty
,
and
to
feel
unhappy
if
she
did
not
,
but
to
do
it
cheerfully
,
ah
,
that
was
another
thing
!
She
had
often
said
she
wanted
to
do
something
splendid
,
no
matter
how
hard
,
and
now
she
had
her
wish
,
for
what
could
be
more
beautiful
than
to
devote
her
life
to
Father
and
Mother
,
trying
to
make
home
as
happy
to
them
as
they
had
to
her
?
And
if
difficulties
were
necessary
to
increase
the
splendor
of
the
effort
,
what
could
be
harder
for
a
restless
,
ambitious
girl
than
to
give
up
her
own
hopes
,
plans
,
and
desires
,
and
cheerfully
live
for
others
?
Providence
had
taken
her
at
her
word
.
Here
was
the
task
,
not
what
she
had
expected
,
but
better
because
self
had
no
part
in
it
.
Now
,
could
she
do
it
?
She
decided
that
she
would
try
,
and
in
her
first
attempt
she
found
the
helps
I
have
suggested
.
Still
another
was
given
her
,
and
she
took
it
,
not
as
a
reward
,
but
as
a
comfort
,
as
Christian
took
the
refreshment
afforded
by
the
little
arbor
where
he
rested
,
as
he
climbed
the
hill
called
Difficulty
.
"
Why
don
’
t
you
write
?
That
always
used
to
make
you
happy
,
"
said
her
mother
once
,
when
the
desponding
fit
over
-
shadowed
Jo
.
"
I
’
ve
no
heart
to
write
,
and
if
I
had
,
nobody
cares
for
my
things
.
"
"
We
do
.
Write
something
for
us
,
and
never
mind
the
rest
of
the
world
.
Try
it
,
dear
.
I
’
m
sure
it
would
do
you
good
,
and
please
us
very
much
.
"
"
Don
’
t
believe
I
can
.
"
But
Jo
got
out
her
desk
and
began
to
overhaul
her
half
-
finished
manuscripts
.
An
hour
afterward
her
mother
peeped
in
and
there
she
was
,
scratching
away
,
with
her
black
pinafore
on
,
and
an
absorbed
expression
,
which
caused
Mrs
.
March
to
smile
and
slip
away
,
well
pleased
with
the
success
of
her
suggestion
.
Jo
never
knew
how
it
happened
,
but
something
got
into
that
story
that
went
straight
to
the
hearts
of
those
who
read
it
,
for
when
her
family
had
laughed
and
cried
over
it
,
her
father
sent
it
,
much
against
her
will
,
to
one
of
the
popular
magazines
,
and
to
her
utter
surprise
,
it
was
not
only
paid
for
,
but
others
requested
.
Letters
from
several
persons
,
whose
praise
was
honor
,
followed
the
appearance
of
the
little
story
,
newspapers
copied
it
,
and
strangers
as
well
as
friends
admired
it
.
For
a
small
thing
it
was
a
great
success
,
and
Jo
was
more
astonished
than
when
her
novel
was
commended
and
condemned
all
at
once
.
"
I
don
’
t
understand
it
.
What
can
there
be
in
a
simple
little
story
like
that
to
make
people
praise
it
so
?
"
she
said
,
quite
bewildered
.
"
There
is
truth
in
it
,
Jo
,
that
’
s
the
secret
.
Humor
and
pathos
make
it
alive
,
and
you
have
found
your
style
at
last
.
You
wrote
with
no
thoughts
of
fame
and
money
,
and
put
your
heart
into
it
,
my
daughter
.
You
have
had
the
bitter
,
now
comes
the
sweet
.
Do
your
best
,
and
grow
as
happy
as
we
are
in
your
success
.
"
