Little women

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN LITERARY LESSONS

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in herpath. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would havegiven more real happiness then did the little sum that came to her in thiswise.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on herscribbling suit, and 'fall into a vortex', as she expressed it, writing away ather novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she couldfind no peace. Her 'scribbling suit' consisted of a black woolen pinafore onwhich she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material,adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when thedecks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyesof her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merelypopping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, "Doesgenius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask this question,but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If thisexpressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a signthat hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishlyaskew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, andcast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and notuntil the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyonedare address Jo. 

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writingfit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led ablissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safeand happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear toher as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, dayand night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her onlyat such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore noother fruit. The divine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then sheemerged from her 'vortex', hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent. 

She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she wasprevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for hervirtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the lectureon the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject forsuch an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil wouldbe remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of thePharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coaland flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles thanthat of the Sphinx. 

They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Joamused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied theseat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads andbonnets to match, discussing Women's Rights and making tatting. Beyondsat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, asomber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an oldgentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On herright, her only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in anewspaper.

It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her,idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed themelodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling overa precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated younggentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing eachother close by, and a disheveled female was flying away in the backgroundwith her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her lookingand, with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, "wantto read it? That's a first-rate story." 

Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking forlads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love,mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literaturein which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's invention fails,a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatis personae,leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.