EUROPE.

THE LAY OF A GOLDEN GOOSE.

Long ago in a poultry yard One dull November morn, Beneath a motherly soft wing A little goose was born.

Who straightway peeped out of the sh.e.l.l To view the world beyond, Longing at once to sally forth And paddle in the pond.

"Oh! be not rash," her father said, A mild Socratic bird; Her mother begged her not to stray With many a warning word.

But little goosey was perverse, And eagerly did cry, "I've got a lovely pair of wings, Of course I ought to fly."

In vain parental cacklings, In vain the cold sky's frown, Ambitious goosey tried to soar, But always tumbled down.

The farm-yard jeered at her attempts, The peac.o.c.ks screamed, "Oh fie!

You're only a domestic goose, So don't pretend to fly."

Great c.o.c.k-a-doodle from his perch Crowed daily loud and clear, "Stay in the puddle, foolish bird, That is your proper sphere."

The ducks and hens said, one and all, In gossip by the pool, "Our children never play such pranks; My dear, that fowl's a fool."

The owls came out and flew about, Hooting above the rest, "No useful egg was ever hatched From transcendental nest."

Good little goslings at their play And well-conducted chicks Were taught to think poor goosey's flights Were naughty, ill-bred tricks.

_They_ were content to swim and scratch, And not at all inclined For any wild-goose chase in search Of something undefined.

Hard times she had as one may guess, That young aspiring bird, Who still from every fall arose Saddened but undeterred.

She knew she was no nightingale, Yet spite of much abuse, She longed to help and cheer the world, Although a plain gray goose.

She could not sing, she could not fly, Nor even walk with grace, And all the farm-yard had declared A puddle was her place.

But something stronger than herself Would cry, "Go on, go on!

Remember, though an humble fowl, You're cousin to a swan."

So up and down poor goosey went, A busy, hopeful bird.

Searched many wide unfruitful fields, And many waters stirred.

At length she came unto a stream Most fertile of all _Niles_, Where tuneful birds might soar and sing Among the leafy isles.

Here did she build a little nest Beside the waters still, Where the parental goose could rest Unvexed by any _bill_.

And here she paused to smooth her plumes, Ruffled by many plagues; When suddenly arose the cry, "This goose lays golden eggs."

At once the farm-yard was agog; The ducks began to quack; Prim Guinea fowls relenting called, "Come back, come back, come back."

Great chanticleer was pleased to give A patronizing crow, And the contemptuous biddies clucked, "I wish my chicks did so."

The peac.o.c.ks spread their shining tails, And cried in accents soft, "We want to know you, gifted one, Come up and sit aloft."

Wise owls awoke and gravely said, With proudly swelling b.r.e.a.s.t.s, "Rare birds have always been evoked From transcendental nests!"

News-hunting turkeys from afar Now ran with all thin legs To gobble facts and fictions of The goose with golden eggs.

But best of all the little fowls Still playing on the sh.o.r.e, Soft downy chicks and goslings gay, Chirped out, "Dear Goose, lay more."

But goosey all these weary years Had toiled like any ant, And wearied out she now replied, "My little dears, I can't.

"When I was starving, half this corn Had been of vital use, Now I am surfeited with food Like any Strasbourg goose."

So to escape too many friends, Without uncivil strife, She ran to the Atlantic pond And paddled for her life.

Soon up among the grand old Alps She found two blessed things, The health she had so nearly lost, And rest for weary limbs.

But still across the briny deep Couched in most friendly words, Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse, From literary birds.

Whereat the renovated fowl With grateful thanks profuse, Took from her wing a quill and wrote This lay of a Golden Goose.

BEX, SWITZERLAND, August, 1870.

The year 1869 was less fruitful in work than the preceding one. Miss Alcott spent the winter in Boston and the summer in Concord. She was ill and very tired, and felt little inclined for mental effort.

"Hospital Sketches," which had been first published by Redpath, was now republished by Roberts Brothers, with the addition of six shorter "Camp and Fireside Stories." The interest of the public in either the author or the work had not lessened; for two thousand copies of the book in its new form were sold the first week. In her weary condition she finds her celebrity rather a burden than a pleasure, and says in her journal:--

People begin to come and stare at the Alcotts. Reporters haunt the place to look at the auth.o.r.ess, who dodges into the woods _a la_ Hawthorne, and won't be even a very small lion.

Refreshed my soul with Goethe, ever strong and fine and alive.

Gave S. E. S. $200 to invest. What richness to have a little not needed!

Miss Alcott had some pleasant refreshment in travelling during the summer.

_July._-- ... Spent in Canada with my cousins, the Frothinghams, at their house at Riviere du Loup,--a little village on the St.

Lawrence, full of queer people. Drove, read, and walked with the little ones. A pleasant, quiet time.

_August._-- ... A month with May at Mt. Desert. A gay time, and a little rest and pleasure before the old pain and worry began again.

Made up $1,000 for S. E. S. to invest. Now I have $1,200 for a rainy day, and no debts. With that thought I can bear neuralgia gayly.

In the autumn the whole family went to Boston, the father and mother staying with Mrs. Pratt; while Louisa and her sister May, "the workers," occupied rooms in Pinckney Street. Not being well enough to do much new work, Louisa began using up her old stories, and found that the little women "helped their rejected sisters to good places where once they went a-begging." In January, 1870, she suffered from loss of voice, for which she tried "heroic treatment" under a distinguished physician. She got well enough to write a little, and in February wrote the conclusion to "The Old-fashioned Girl," which was published in March. She says:--

I wrote it with left hand in a sling, one foot up, head aching, and no voice. Yet, as the book is funny, people will say, "Didn't you enjoy doing it?" I often think of poor Tom Hood as I scribble, rather than lie and groan. I certainly earn my living by the sweat of my brow.

The book does not reveal this condition; for nothing could be fresher, brighter, and more wholesome than the heroine Polly, many of whose adventures are drawn from the author's own experience. She steps out of her usual surroundings into the fashionable life of the city, but betrays her own want of sympathy with it. The book has always been very popular.

In 1870, the success of "Hospital Sketches" and the continued receipts from "Little Women" put their author in a pecuniary position which enabled her to go abroad for the rest and refreshment which she sorely needed. The younger sister was invited to go by her friend A. B. on condition that Louisa would accompany them. This journey was very free and independent. She has given an account--somewhat travestied certainly, but very true to the general facts--in "Shawl Straps,"

although the reader would hardly suppose the old lady described in that book had not yet reached her fortieth year. These sketches were arranged after her return, at the request of Mrs. Stowe, for the "Christian Union," and were published in a book forming one volume of "Aunt Jo's Sc.r.a.p-Bag" in 1872.

Fortunately we have many of Louisa's original letters preserved in her father's copies, which have escaped the destruction of her correspondence. With some extracts from her journals, they give a sufficient account of this journey. In many respects the contrast to her former visit to Europe is most pleasant. She has now become pecuniarily independent by her own exertions, and has a popular reputation which brings her welcome and recognition wherever she goes.