“These things are always seen and felt in a person’s manner and conversation, if modestly used; but it is not necessary to display them,” said Mrs. March.

“Any more than it’s proper to wear all your bonnets, and gowns and ribbons, at once, that folks may know you’ve got ’em,” added Jo; and the lecture ended in a laugh.

     THOREAU’S FLUTE

     From the Atlantic Monthly, September, 1863

     We, sighing, said, “Our Pan is dead;
        His pipe hangs mute beside the river;
        Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
     But Music’s airy voice is fled. 
     Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
        The bluebird chants a requiem;
        The willow-blossom waits for him;—­
     The Genius of the wood is lost.”

     Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
        There came a low, harmonious breath: 
        “For such as he there is no death;
     His life the eternal life commands;
     Above man’s aims his nature rose: 
        The wisdom of a just content
        Made one small spot a continent,
     And turned to poetry Life’s prose.

     “Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,
        Swallow and aster, lake and pine,
        To him grew human or divine,—­
      Fit mates for this large-hearted child. 
     Such homage Nature ne’er forgets,
        And yearly on the coverlid
        ’Neath which her darling lieth hid
     Will write his name in violets.

     “To him no vain regrets belong,
        Whose soul, that finer instrument,
        Gave to the world no poor lament,
     But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. 
     O lonely friend! he still will be
        A potent presence, though unseen,—­
        Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: 
     Seek not for him,—­he is with thee.”

A SONG FROM THE SUDS

From ‘Little Women’

Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam rises high;
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.

I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing-day!

Along the path of a useful life,
Will heart’s-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away,
As we busily wield a broom.

I am glad a task to me is given,
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,—­
“Head you may think, Heart you may feel,
But Hand you shall work alway!”

Selections used by permission of Roberts Brothers, Publishers, and John S.P.  Alcott.