26 It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction through much tribulation, for, mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the mud pie business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen and ink drawing, in which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But overstrained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker sketching. While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration. For the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and a dinner bell at her door in case of fire. Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the underside of the molding board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer-barrel. A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindling for some time. From fire to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers, and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her out with his cast-off palettes, brushes and colors, and she doved away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonna's, staring at you from one corner of the studio, suggested Mario. Oily brown shadows of faces with a lurid streak in the wrong place meant Rembrandt, buxom ladies and dropsical infants Rubens, and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a buoy, a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased. Several portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal bin. Softened into crayon sketches they did better, for the likenesses were good, and Amy's hair, Joe's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were pronounced wonderfully fine. A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off closet shelves onto people's heads. Children were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogreess. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by unearthly bumping and screaming, and running to the rescue found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot held fast in a pan full of plaster which had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was dug out, for Joe was so overcome with laughter while she excavated that her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt at least. After this Amy subsided, tillomania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book a delicious bit, composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken mullan stalk, or a heavenly mass of clouds that looked like a choice display of feather beds when done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after points of sight, or whatever the squint and string performances called. If genius is eternal patience, as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called high art. She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better, for she was one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tacked. She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, if Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand she'd know exactly what to do. One of her weaknesses was the desire to move in our best society without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position, fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentle woman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her. My lady, as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt, in spite of external drawbacks. I want to ask a favor of you, Mama, Amy said, coming in with an important air one day.  Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, fetch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich, and I know I am poor, yet they never made any difference. Why should they? And Mrs. March put the question with what the girls called her, Maria Theresa-Air.  And Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit. Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked, well, my swan, what is your plan? I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and make a little artistic fate for them. That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose. Oh, dear no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate, and ice cream besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living. How many young ladies are there? asked her mother, beginning to look sober. Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I daresay they won't all come. Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them about. Why, mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr. Lawrence's cherry-bounce, Hannah's pronunciation of Charabont. All of this will be expensive, Amy. Not very. I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself. Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances? If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well if you and the girls will help a little, and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it, said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy. Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she would gladly have made easier if they had not objected to taking advice as much as they did salts and sena. Very well, Amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'll do my best to help you. Thanks, mother, you are always so kind, and away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters. Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she possessed from her little house itself to her very best salt spoons, but Joe frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with it at first. Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to chuckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a coop, said Joe, who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises. I don't chuckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do, returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions arose. The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to go into good society and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes. You can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air and call it independence, if you like. That's not my way. When Amy had wedded her tongue and freed her mind, she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while Joe carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument. Amy's definition of Joe's idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much against her will, Joe at length consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy and help her sister through what she regarded as a nonsensical business. The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that, if the wash and an iron and warrant done regular, nothing would go well anywheres. This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern. But Amy's motto was, nil desperandum, and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well. The chicken was tough, the tongue too salty, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected. So did the wagon and various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got a cold and took to her bed. Meg had an unusual number of collars to keep her at home. And Joe was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying. If it was not fair on Monday the young ladies were to come on Tuesday, an arrangement which aggravated Joe and Hannah to the last degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts that the house might be got in order. The parlour struck her as looking uncommonly shabby, but without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with homemade statuary which gave an artistic air to the room as did the lovely vases of flowers Joe scattered about. The lunch looked charming and as she surveyed it she sincerely hoped it would taste well and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and Mother were all ready to do the honors. Beth was able to help Hannah behind the scenes. Joe had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind and aching head and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything would allow, and as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with anticipation of the happy moment when, lunch safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights, for the cherry bounce and the broken bridge were her strong points. Then came the hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weather-cock. A smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast that nothing might be lost. No doubt about the weather today they will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for them, said Amy, as the sun woke her next morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake, was getting a little stale. I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad today, said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair. Use the chicken, then. The toughness won't matter in a salad, advised his wife. Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it. I'm very sorry, Amy, added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats. Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do, said Amy decidedly. Shall I rush into town and demand one? asked Joe, with the magnanimity of a martyr. You'd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to try me. I'll go myself, answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail. Shrouded in a thick veil, and armed with a genteel traveling basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and fit her for the labours of the day. After some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing, to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought. As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, Amy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a newcomer who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said, Good morning, Miss March! And looking up, she beheld one of Lori's most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and congratulating herself that she had on her new travelling dress returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit. They got on excellently, for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away in a peculiarly lofty strain when the old lady got out. In stumbling to the door she upset the basket and, oh, horror, the lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the high-born eyes of a Tudor. By Joe she's forgotten her dinner, cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady. Please don't, it's mine, murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish. Oh, really, I beg pardon. It's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it, said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding. Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing, Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it? Now that was tapped, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched, the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about the charming young ladies diverted his mind from the comical mishap. I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with lorry, but I shan't see them, that's a comfort, thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed. She did not mention this meeting at home, though she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt. But went through with the preparations, which now seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the cherry-bounce, and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet. There's the rumble, they're coming. I'll go on to the porch and meet them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble, said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance she retired, with an indescribable expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage that Amy, and one young lady, run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl, cried Joe, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop, even for a laugh. In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Elliot found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them. The remodeled lunch, being gaily partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy, alas for the elegant cherry-bounce, and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset when the party went out. As she came walking in, looking very tired but as composed as ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fate had disappeared except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Joe's mouth. "'You've had a loverly afternoon for your drive, dear,' said her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come. Miss Elliot is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.  I really need some. I have so much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours,' asked Meg soberly. "'Take it all. I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will mold before I can dispose of it,' answered Amy, thinking with the sigh of the generous store she had laid in, for such an end as this. "'It's a pity Lori isn't here to help us,' began Joe, as they sat down to ice-cream and salad for the second time in two days. A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed, salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients and Evelyn. Here a general explosion of laughter cut short the history of salads, to the great surprise of the learned gentlemen. "'Fundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans like messes.  "'I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about in the—what you call it—like two little kernels in a very big nutshell, and mother waiting in state to receive the throng,' sighed Joe, quite spent with laughter. "'I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you,' said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret. "'I am satisfied. I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that,' said Amy, with a little quiver in her voice. "'I thank you all very much for helping me, and I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least.' No one did for several months, but the word FATE always produced a general smile, and Lori's birthday gift to Lori was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch-guard. End of Chapter 26. Recording by Christine Layman, Recita, California. Fortune suddenly smiled upon Joe and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness than did the little sum that came to her in this wise. Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and fall into a vortex, as she expressed it, riding away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace. Her scribbling suit consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which 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 the debts were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask with interest, does genius burn, Joe? They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on. In exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow did anyone dare address Joe. She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep first took her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living even if they bore no other fruit. The divine aflates usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her vortex, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent. She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her rich she was rewarded with a new idea. It was a people's course, the lecture on the pyramids, and Joe rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied, or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx. They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Joe amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing women's rights and making tatting. Beyond set a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind the yellow bandana. On her right her only neighbor was a studious looking lad, absorbed in a newspaper. It was a pictorial sheet, and Joe examined the work of art nearest her, idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen with unnaturally small feet and big eyes were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page the lad saw her looking, and with boyish good nature offered half his paper saying bluntly want to read it, that's a first rate story. Joe accepted it with a smile for she had never outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love mystery and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's invention fails a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatist persona, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall. Prime, isn't it? asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion. I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried, returned Joe amused at his admiration of the trash. I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could, she makes a good living out of such stories they say, and he pointed to the name of Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury under the title of the tale. Do you know her? asked Joe with sudden interest. No, but I read all her pieces and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed. Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this? And Joe looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page. Guess she does, she knows just what folks like and gets paid well for writing it. Here the lecture began, but Joe heard very little of it, for while Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzona and chips and scarabye and hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper and boldly resolving to try for the $100 prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself, not the first founded on the paper, and was already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder. She said nothing of her plan at home but fell to work the next day, much to the disquiet of her mother who always looked a little anxious when genius took to burning. Joe had never tried this style before, contending herself with the mild romances for the spread eagle. Her experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earthquake as a striking and appropriate denouement. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note modestly saying that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth. Six weeks is a long time to wait, and still a longer time for a girl to keep a secret, but Joe did both and was just beginning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement. For Joe valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation story. A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she. When having composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head and said in his unworldly way, you can do better than this Joe, aim at the highest and never mind the money. I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune? asked Amy regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye. Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two, answer Joe promptly. To the seaside they went after much discussion, and though Beth didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better. While Mrs. March declared she felt 10 years younger. So Joe was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She did earn several that year and began to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen her rubbish turned into comforts for them all. The Duke's daughter paid the butcher's bill, a phantom hand put down a new carpet, and the curse of the coventries proved the blessing of the marches in the way of groceries and gowns. Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world. Joe enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny. Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it on condition that she would cut it down one-third and omit all the parts which she particularly admired. Now I must either bundle it back into my tin kitchen to mold, pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meaning on this important subject, said Joe, calling a family council. Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen, was her father's advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to gather it in even now when it was sweet and mellow. It seems to me that Joe will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting, said Mrs. March. Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame of outsiders will prove useful even if she gets but little money. Yes, said Joe, knitting her brows. That's just it. I've been fussing over the thing so long I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it and tell me what they think of it. I wouldn't leave a word out of it. You'll spoil it if you do for the interests of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on, said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written. But Mr. Allen says, leave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story, interrupted Joe, turning to the publisher's note. Do as he tells you, he knows what we'll sell and what and we don't. Make a good popular book and get as much money as you can. Buy and buy when you've got a name you can afford to digress and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels, said Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject. Well, said Joe, having if my people are philosophical and metaphysical, it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things except what I hear fathers say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say? I should so like to see it printed soon, was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which chilled Joe's heart for a minute with foreboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture soon. So with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her firstborn on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing everyone, she took everyone's advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable, suited nobody. Her father liked the metaphysical streak, which had unconsciously got into it, so that was allowed to remain, though she had her doubts about it. Her mother thought there was trifle too much description. Out there for it came, and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Joe's piled up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and with the best intentions in life, Joe quenched the sprightly scenes which relieved the somber character of the story. Then to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big busy world to try its fate. Well it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover. You said, mother, that criticism would help me, but how can it when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising book or broken all the ten commandments, cried poor Joe, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next.  All is sweet, pure and healthy, continued the perplexed authorist. The next, the theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters. Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in spiritualism and copied my characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right. Another says, it's one of the best American novels which has appeared for years, I know better than that, and the next asserts that, though it is original and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book. It isn't, some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I had printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged. Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally, yet it was a hard time for sensitive high-spirited Joe who meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good for those whose opinions had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's best education, and when the first soreness was over she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still and fill herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.  So I'll comfort myself with that, and when I'm ready I'll up again and take another. Or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Lehmann, Recita, California. Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and bustled about like a true Martha, combered with many cares. She was too tired sometimes even to smile. John grew despetic after a course of dainty dishes and ungrateful demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, and see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better than hers. They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't live on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry. Shall I send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling? The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. At first they played Keep House, and froliced over it like children. Then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambrick wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion. While the cooking mania lasted, she went through Mrs. Cornelius's receipt book, as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to help eat up a two bounteous feast of successes, or Lottie would be privately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little hummels. An evening with John over the account books usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread-putting, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without, a family jar. Fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own current jelly. John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currents were ripe and were to be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that my wife was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use.  With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms fared to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her success, for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf that Meg resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best. She asked advice of Mrs. Cornelius. She wrapped her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left undone. She re-boiled, resugarred, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn't gel. She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand, but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that last word, as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one, but they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweet-meats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvy kitchen, rung her bedobbed hands, lifted up her voice, and wept. Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave. Invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me. How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife. But, although they had had company from time to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this veil of tears. There is an inevitability about such things which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as best we can. If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been unpardonable in him to choose that day of all the days in the year to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband. It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the dove-coat. The front door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps. The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with the distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared, but a sangunary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes. I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brooke, said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.  He paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor enjoyed the prospect mightily. In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One addition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning gaily on the stove. Lottie, with Teutonic's limb, was calmly eating bread and current wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally. My dearest girl, what is the matter? cried John, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden. Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried. I've been at it till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me, or I shall die. And the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time as the floor. What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened? asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all askew. Yes, sobbed Meg despairingly. Tell me quick, then. Don't cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love. The jelly won't gel, and I don't know what to do. John Brooke laughed, then, as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the derisive scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hardy peel, which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe. Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don't bother of any more about it. I'll buy you quartz if you want it, but for heaven's sake don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and—John got no further. For Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming, in a tone of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay. A man to dinner and everything in a mess? John Brooke, how could you do such a thing? Hush, he's in the garden. I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't be helped now, said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye. You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy I was, continued Meg petulently, for even turtle doves will peck when ruffled. I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if I ever do again, added John, with an aggrieved air. I should hope not. Take him away at once. I can't see him, and there isn't any dinner. Well, I like that. Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the pudding you promised? cried John, rushing to the larder. I hadn't time to cook anything. I meant to dine at mothers. I'm sorry, but I was so busy, and Meg's tears began again. John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day's work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty table, and a cross wife, was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself, however, and the little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word. It's a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull through and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We're both as hungry as hunters, so we shan't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat and bread and cheese. We won't ask for jelly. He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke. You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I'm too used up to exert myself for anyone. It's like a man to propose a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort in my house.  I won't see him, and you too can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like. You won't have anything else here. And having delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her pinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own room. What those two creatures did in her absence she never knew, but Mr. Scott was not taken up to mother's, and when Meg descended, after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch, which filled her with horror. Lottie reported that they had eaten a much and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff and hide the pots. Meg longed to go and tell mother but a sense of shame at her own shortcomings of loyalty to John, who might be cruel but nobody should know it. Restrained her. And after a summery cleaning up she dressed herself prettily and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven. Unfortunately John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light. He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner and promised to come again. But John was angry, though he did not show it. He felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. It wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time with perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word to flame up and blame him and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George it wasn't, and Meg must know it. He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him. Poor little thing. It was hard upon her when she tried so hardily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was young. I must be patient and teach her. He hoped she had not gone home. He hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind but firm, quite firm, and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse. Meg likewise resolved to be calm and kind but firm, and show him his duty. She longed to run to meet him and beg pardon and be kissed and comforted as she was sure of being. But, of course, she did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming began to hum quite naturally as she rocked and sowed like a lady of leisure in her best parlor. John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Neoby, but feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology he made none, only came leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly relevant remark. We are going to have a new moon, my dear. I've no objection, was Meg's equally soothing remark. A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brook and wet blanketed by Mrs. Brook and conversation languished. John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window and sowed as if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke. Both looked quite calm and firm, and both felt desperately uncomfortable. Oh, dear, thought Meg, married life is very trying, and does need infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says. The word Mother suggested other maternal councils given long ago and received with unbelieving protests. John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will be obstinate. If you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very accurate and particular about the truth, a good trait, though you call him fussy.  He has a temper, not like ours, one flash and then all over, but the white, still anger that has seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be very careful not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to add pardon if you both air, and guard against the little peaks, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret. These words came back to Meg as she sat sowing in the sunset, especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement. Her own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind as she recalled them. Her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up, thinking, I will be the first to say, forgive me. But he did not seem to hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it. Then came the thought. This is the beginning. I'll do my part and have nothing to reproach myself with. And stooping down she softly kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it. The penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly, it was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly-pots, forgive me, dear, I never will again. But he did, O bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was preserved in that little family jar. After this Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the way home. In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg.  It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing to do but sow, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing Sally's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she had not got them. Sally was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't like it, and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked even worse. She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her not only with his happiness, but what some men seemed to value more, his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife. Till now she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her like many a modern eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying something pretty so that Sally needn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little it wasn't worth worrying about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive looker on. But the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up her accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her. John was busy that month and left the bills to her. The next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sally had been buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, and wished a handsome light one for parties. Her black silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. At March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars a piece at New Year's. That was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers, but would he think it right to spend not only the prospective five and twenty, but another five and twenty out of the household fund? That was the question. Sally had urged her to do it, had offered to lend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her strength.  She answered, I'll take it, and it was cut off and paid for, and Sally had exalted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence and driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something and the police were after her. When she got home she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn't become her after all, and the words, fifty dollars, seemed stamped like a pattern down each breath. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house bills were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocket-book which they called the bank, when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously, You haven't seen my private expense-book yet. John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning of a hug me tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three rose-buds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures, and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife. The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair, under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing with every word. John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things, you know, and Sally advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year's money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for I knew you'd think it wrong in me. John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly, Don't go and hide.  I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones. That had been one of her last trifles, and John's eye had fallen on it as he spoke. Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty dollars? thought Meg with a shiver. It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress, she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over. Well, dear, what is the damned total, as Mr. Mantellini says? That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very still. Then John said slowly, but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure. Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furblows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days. It isn't made or trimmed, sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her. Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as net moffits when she gets it on, said John Dryley. I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would count up so. I can't resist them when I see Sally buying all she wants, and pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I'm tired of being poor. The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up, saying with a little quiver in his voice, I was afraid of this. I do my best, Meg. If he had scolded her or even shaken her it would not have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears. Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy, I didn't mean it. It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful. How could I say it? Oh, how could I say it? He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach, but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had reproached him with his poverty after spending his earnings recklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was John went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick, and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new great coat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change. I can't afford it, my dear. Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old great coat, crying as if her heart would break. They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and failures of those he loved. Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sally, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favour. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the great coat, and when John arrived she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home early, Meg gatted no more, and that great coat was put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and at mid-summer there came to Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life. Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the dove-coat one Saturday, with an excited face, and was received with the clash of symbols, for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the other. How's the little mama? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me before I came home? began Laurie in a loud whisper. Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of them is upstairs a worshipping. We didn't want no hurry, Cain's round. Now you go into the parlour, and I'll send them down to you, with which somewhat involved reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically. Presently Joe appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large pillow.   Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him with an imploring gesture. No, thank you, I'd rather not. I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate. Then you shan't see your nevy, said Joe decidedly, turning as if to go. I will, I will. Only you must be responsible for damages.  A peel of laughter from Joe, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with two babies instead of one.  As he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious innocence to the hilarious spectators was such dismay that Joe sat down on the floor and screamed. Twins, by Jupiter, was all he said for a minute. Then, turning to the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, Take him quick, somebody, I'm going to laugh and I shall drop him. Joe rescued his babies, and marched up and down with one on each arm as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending, while Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have told you, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I've done it, said Joe when she got her breath. I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me up, Joe, for upon my life it's one too many for me, returned Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland looking at a pair of infantile kittens. Boy and girl, aren't they beauties? said the proud Papa, beaming upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels. Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which? And Laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies. Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy, said wicked Joe. I'm afraid they mightn't like it, began Laurie, with unusual timidity in such matters. Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir, commanded Joe, fearing he might propose a proxy.  There, I knew they didn't like it. That's the boy. See him kick. He hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch into a man of your own size, will you? cried Laurie, delighted with a poke in the face from a tiny fist flapping aimlessly about. He's to be named John Lawrence and the girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have two megs. And I suppose the Manny will be Jack, unless we find a better name, said Amy, with ant-like interest. Name him Demi, John, and call him Demi for short, said Laurie. Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it, cried Joe, clapping her hands. Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were Daisy and Demi to the end of the chapter. End of Chapter 28 Recording by Christine Layman, Recita, California Chapter 29 of Little Women This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Layman, Recita, California Calls Com Joe, it's time. For what? You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me today? I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day when a single one upsets me for a week. Yes, you did. It was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me and return our neighbor's visits. If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east. It's not fair, and I don't go. Now that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises. So be honourable, come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months. At that minute Joe was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was meant to a maker general to the family, and took a special credit to herself, because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying on, and ordered out to make calls in her best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain bribe or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and, taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready. Joe March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint. You don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope, cried Amy, surveying her with amazement. Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn't for me, and furbelos only worry me. Oh, dear, sighed Amy, now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go today, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Joe, if you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully if you try that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone. Do come and take care of me. Here an artful little puss to flatter and weadle your cross-old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone. I don't know which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly. Will that satisfy you? said Joe, with a sudden change from perversity to lamb-like submission.  Now put on all your best things, and I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good impression.  Do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet. It's becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Megs and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one. While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Joe obeyed them, not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her new organdy, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet-strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly, I'm perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable I die happy. You're highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round and let me get a careful view. Joe revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, yes, you'll do.   There's one thing you can do well, Joe, that is wear a shawl. I can't, but it's very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn't. You are a thing of beauty and a joy for ever, said Joe, looking through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the golden hair. Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am? Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You haven't half-buttoned one cuff. Do it at once. You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing hole. Joe sighed and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove in doing up her cuff, but at last both were ready and sailed away, looking as pretty as pictures, Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them. Now, Joe, dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet. That's safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes, said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg with a baby on each arm. Let me see. Calm, cool, and quiet. Yes, I think I can promise that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my child. Amy looked relieved, but Naughty Joe took her at her word, for during the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as silent as the Sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her charming novel, and the Mrs. Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure, yes or no, with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word, talk, tried to draw her out, and administered covert popes with her foot. Joe sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, icily regular, splendidly null. What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is, was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed upon their guests. Joe laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Joe. How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the lambs, gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress and flutations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything. I'll be agreeable. I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll imitate what is called a charming girl. I can do it, for I have made Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the lambs don't say, what a lively, nice creature that Joe March is. Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Joe turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentleman, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favourite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated she was powerless to check Joe, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as voluble as the lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation. She rides splendidly. Who taught her? No one. She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it. I often tell her if everything else fails she can be a horse-breaker and get her living so. At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her a special aversion. But what could she do, for the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done Joe was off again, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful blunders. Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left one was lame, one blind, and the other so bulky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure-party, wasn't it? Which did she choose, asked one of the lacking gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject. None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farmhouse over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited.  There was no one to bring the horse to saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature she actually rode it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man. Did she ride the horse? Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party. Well, I call that plucky! And young Mr. Lamb turned in a proving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable. She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Joe where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic, and stupid Joe, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must need's answer with unnecessary frankness. Oh, Amy painted it! You can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister. Isn't that an original idea, cried Miss Lamb, who found Joe great fun? That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sally's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin, added Joe, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her card case at her. We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much. Observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. Any mention of her works always had a bad effect upon Joe, who either grew rigid and looked offended or changed the subject with a brusque remark as now. Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter? As Miss Lamb had enjoyed the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complementary. The minute it was made, Joe saw her mistake. But fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths. Amy, we must go. Goodbye, dear. Do come and see us. We are pining for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb. But if you should come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away. Joe said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time. Didn't I do well, asked Joe, with the satisfied air as they walked away? Nothing could have been worse was Amy's crushing reply. What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle and the hats and boots and all the rest of it? Why, it's funny and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms buy three or four hats a season and have things as easy and fine as they do. You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper pride and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak, said Amy despairingly. Poor Joe looked abashed and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors. How shall I behave here? she asked as they approached the third mansion. Just as you please, I wash my hands of you, was Amy's short answer. Then I'll enjoy myself, the boys are at home and will have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution, returned Joe gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to suit. An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings and leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Joe devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that Tom Brown was a brick, regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mama to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless cofure from the hands of an inspired French woman. Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady, who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect. For in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us, that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith and kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in ferment at the coming of a royal, yellow-haired laddie some years ago and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Joe, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March. It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad. For Joe sat on the grass with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience.  But all were enjoying themselves, and when Joe collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again. It was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks. Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that, said Joe, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol. Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor? asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Joe's dilapidated appearance. Don't like him. He puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him alone. You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod. And just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod in the bow, it would have been right, said Amy, reprovingly. No, it wouldn't, returned Joe. I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was a third cousin to a Lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels. It's no use trying to argue with you, began Amy. Not in the least, my dear, interrupted Joe, so let us look amiable and drop a card here, as the kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply grateful. The family card case, having done its duty, the girls walked on, and Joe uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged. Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers when we are tired and cross. Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style and making a formal call. It's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet. What a good girl you are, Amy, said Joe, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them, so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor and let the small one slip, but they tell best in the end, I fancy. Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air. Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you'd remember that and practice it, you'd be better liked than I am, because there is more of you. I'm a crotchety old thing and always shall be, but I'm willing to own that you are right, only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it? It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I'm not called upon to tell him so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable, because he is. But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddy to manage. But there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others, if we can. Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other boys, said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have convulsed the remarkable boy if he had heard it. If we were bells, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical. So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not bells and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort of morality. I can't argue about it. I only know that it's the way of the world, and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one. I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the laughing the world would never get on without them. We can't agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the brick-bats and hooting, I think. Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry ant with your new ideas. I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her. It's my doom, and I can't help it. They found ant Carol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Joe was not in a good humour, and the perverse fit returned, but Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both ants my-deared her affectionately, looking what they afterwards said emphatically, that child improves every day. Are you going to help about the fair deer? asked Mrs. Carol, as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in the young. Yes, ant, Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give. I'm not, put in Joe decidedly. I hate to be patronised, and the Chesters think it's a great favour to allow us to help with their highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy, they only want you to work. I am willing to work. It's for the freedmen, as well as the Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labour and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant. Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and that is drying, observed ant March, looking over her spectacles at Joe, who sat apart, rocking herself with a somewhat morose expression. If Joe had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dove like in a minute, but unfortunately we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Joe deprived herself of several years of pleasure and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue. I don't like favours. They oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd rather do everything for myself and be perfectly independent. Ahem! coughed Aunt Carol softly, with a look at Ant March. I told you so, said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carol. Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Joe sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting. Do you speak French, dear? asked Mrs. Carol, laying a hand on Amy's. Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as I like, replied Amy with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably. How are you about languages? asked Mrs. Carol of Joe. Don't know a word.  Can't bear French. It's such a slippery, silly sort of language, was the brusque reply. Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, You are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe. Eyes don't trouble you any more, do they? Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great things next winter so that I may be ready for Rome whenever that joyful time arrives. Good girl, you deserve to go, and I'm sure you will someday, said Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head as Amy picked up her ball for her. Cross-patch, draw the latch, sit by the fire and spin, squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into Joe's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing. Most observing bird, said the old lady. Come and take a walk, my dear, cried Polly, hopping toward the china-closet with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar. Thank you, I will. Come, Amy, and Joe brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say as they vanished. You'd better do it, Mary, I'll supply the money. And Aunt Carol, to reply decidedly, I certainly will, if her father and mother consent.


It's important to remember that we are spiritual beings having a human experience. The human body of consciousness is a fusion of a perfect, infinite soul and a finite, frail mortal body. It is through our mental and emotional body that we reconcile these two opposites, the infinite and the finite, and traverse the material plane essentially as a character that we are playing, kind of like an epic mass multiplayer game that we're all a part of.  On the other hand, your personality and even body are temporary and can be changed and transformed through wisdom, experience, love, and self-mastery. So remember to go easy on yourself and really think, if you could be any kind of person in the world, what kind of person would you want to be? Then set your sights on that self and do your best to walk the path. Much love.


Roma and AC Milan, face off in an Italian derby, in the first leg action of their UEFA Europa League blockbuster quarterfinal, it goes live on Thursday, April 11, 2 p.m. 3 p.m. ET on sports nights.


Sergeant thank you for coming down. We want to report where we think that there was an actual crime that was committed down the locker room and I'm outraged of this particular attitude by this young man. He was wearing an orange uniform.  Can you take a look at this clip, please? Sergeant after looking at that despicable film, where do you come out of it? What do you think? We're gonna look into this. I promise coach. Okay, I hope you do.  I've coached nearly 40 years.  This has got to stop and I am sick and tired of it. Instead of calling these guys the Seattle Seahawks, we ought to be calling them the Seattle Chicken Hawks. Back to you JB.


And with no further comments from me, I will introduce our first speaker, Michael Craig. Michael's presentation is titled Grid Scale Electricity Storage, A Help or Hindrance for Mitigating Climate Change. Welcome, Michael. Depending on who you ask or what paper you read, the object pictured behind me is either a key to solving climate change or a contributor to climate change. Now that's a problem because climate change is an immense challenge. It's going to require a lot of effort and resources to solve. And so we don't have the luxury of investing in a technology that ultimately primes harmful. So what is this object behind me? It's what we call a grid scale electricity storage device.  Take millions of iPhone batteries, put them in a box, and connect it to the grid. And that battery can charge using electricity from the grid and then provide it back to the grid when it needs it. Now, as you know from using your iPhone, batteries don't have emissions themselves. Those emissions come from two places. One, where we charge the battery with. And then also where we displace when we discharge that battery. So in current systems, what happens is that we charge that battery with a coal-fired power plant. And coal has a high carbon emissions rate. And so in so doing, we tend to increase system emissions when we use storage. But in a decarbonized system, which has lots of zero carbon sources like wind and solar, using storage tends to decrease emissions. And so we have these two ends pegged down. We know what storage does to emissions now. We know what it'll do in 50 or 60 or 70 years when we have a decarbonized system. What about in the middle? That's the gap that my research aims to fill in what I'm interested in. As a power system decarbonizes, how does storage affect electricity system emissions? So to answer that question, I use a pair of power system optimization models. The first, the capacity expansion model tells me how that power fleet evolves over time, what generators retire, what generators are added, given some emissions reduction target. And second, I use a unit commitment model, an operational model. So what I can do is I can take those future fleets that I just generated, put them into the second model, and estimate annual emissions with and without storage. And the difference that I get from that is basically how storage affects emissions. Now using these pairs of models, we've found a number of interesting results. First, we found that storage actually reduces emissions well before you get to a decarbonized system within the next 10 to 20 years, depending on the target that you set. And second, those emissions reductions are actually greater in that midterm in the next 10 to 20 years than in the long term. Because in 10 to 20 years, what storage does is it forces coal out of the fleet. And since coal has a high emissions rate, you get a lot of emissions savings from that. Whereas if you wait to put storage into the fleet until 50 or 60 years when all you have is gas or renewables, the emissions that you're saving is really just from displacing gas. And since gas has a lower emissions rate, you don't get as much value from that storage. And these results have important implications for policymakers. First, a number of states have policies today that promote storage with the express purpose of reducing system emissions. And our results indicate that that's not going to happen in the near term. But there's also a role for policy before you get to a decarbonized system. Those types of policies that are in place now would actually be very useful in five to 10 years. And for states that are thinking about addressing climate change or even at the federal level, policies that support storage will have a big role to play in the midterm. Thank you very much.