Work: A Story of Experience.

Louisa M. Alcott.

[By permission of Roberts Bros.]

Characters:

C. D. Aunt Betsy, there’s going to be a new Declaration of Independence.

Mrs. D. Bless us and save us! what do you mean, child?

C. D. I mean that, being of age, I’m going to take care of myself, and not be a burden any longer. Uncle thinks I ought to go away. I don’t intend to wait for him to tell me so, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel away into the world and seek my fortune. I know I can find it.

Mrs. D. What crazy idee you got in your head now?

C. D. A very sane and sensible one, that’s got to be worked out. I’ve had it a long time, and I’ve thought it over thoroughly, so I’m sure it’s the right thing to do. I hate to be dependent, and, now there’s no need of it, I can’t bear it any longer. I’m old enough to take care of myself, and if I’d been a boy I should have been told to do it long ago. I’m sick of this dull town, where the one idea is, Eat, drink, and get rich; so let me go, Aunt Betsy, and find my place, wherever it is.

Mrs. D. You mustn’t think your uncle don’t like you. He does, only he don’t show it. I don’t see why you can’t be contented. I’ve lived here all my days, and never found the place lonesome.

C. D. You and I are very different, ma’am. There was more yeast put into my composition, I guess; and after standing quiet in a warm corner so long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time so that I may turn out a wholesome loaf, else I shall turn sour and good for nothing. Does that make the matter any clearer?

Mrs. D. I see what you mean, Christie, but I never thought on’t before. You be better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makes bread poor stuff, like baker’s trash; and too much workin’ up makes it hard and dry. Now fly round, for the big oven is ’most hot, and this cake takes a sight of time in the mixin’.

C. D. You haven’t said I might go, Aunt Betsy.

Mrs. D. (Sorting ingredients and reading from cookbook). I ain’t no right to keep you, dear, if you choose to take (a pinch of salt). I’m sorry you ain’t happy, and think you might be ef you’d only (beat six yolks and whites together). But if you can’t, and feel that you need (two cups of sugar) only speak to your uncle, and ef he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon) go, my dear, and take my blessin’ with you (not forgetting to cover with a piece of paper).

C. D. When I’ve done something to be proud of, you’ll be glad to see me back again. Yes, I’ll try my experiment; get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or—

Mrs. D. How are you on’t for stockin’s, dear?

C. D. Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaring away too far and too fast. I’m poorly off for stockings, ma’am.

Mrs. D. Don’t you think you could be contented, Christie, ef I make the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?

C. D. No, ma’am, for I can’t find what I want here.

Mrs. D. What do you want to find, child?

C. D. Look in the fire and I’ll try to show you. Do you see those two logs? Well, that one smoldering dismally away in the corner is what my life is now; the other, blazing and singing, is what I want my life to be.

Mrs. D. Bless me, what an idee! They are both a burnin’ where they are put, and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference does it make?

C. D. I know the end is the same; but it does make a difference how they turn to ashes, and how I spend my life. I hope my life, like the log which fills the room with light, may, whether long or short, be useful and cheerful while it lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leave something behind besides ashes.

Mrs. D. A good smart blowin’ up with the belluses would make the green stick burn ’most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess contentedness is the best bellus for young folks ef they would only think so.

C. D. I dare say you are right, Aunt Betsy, but I want to try for myself. If I fail, I’ll come back and follow your advice.