Abby is preparing for a busy and, I hope, a profitable winter. She has music lessons already, French and drawing in store, and, if her eyes hold out, will keep her word and become what none of us can be, "an accomplished Alcott." Now, dear Father, I shall hope to hear from you occasionally, and will gladly answer all epistles from the Plato whose parlor parish is becoming quite famous. I got the "Tribune," but not the letter, and shall look it up. I have been meaning to write, but did not know where you were.
Good-by, and a happy birthday from your ever loving child,
Louisa.
Journal.
Twenty-four Years Old.
January, 1857.–Had my first new silk dress from good little L. W.,–very fine; and I felt as if all the Hancocks and Quincys beheld me as I went to two parties in it on New Year's eve.
A busy, happy month,–taught, wrote, sewed, read aloud to the "little mother," and went often to the theatre; heard good lectures; and enjoyed my Parker evenings very much.
Father came to see me on his way home; little money; had had a good time, and was asked to come again. Why don't rich people who enjoy his talk pay for it? Philosophers are always poor, and too modest to pass round their own hats.
Sent by him a good bundle to the poor Forlornites among the ten-foot drifts in W.
February.–Ran home as a valentine on the 14th.