PART 2
42. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
(continued)
"Don't believe I can." But Jo got out her desk and began to
overhaul her half-finished manuscripts.
An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was,
scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression,
which caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased
with the success of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it
happened, but something got into that story that went straight to
the hearts of those who read it, for when her family had laughed
and cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to
one of the popular magazines, and to her utter surprise, it was
not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from several
persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the
little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends,
admired it. For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo was
more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned
all at once.
"I don't understand it. What can there be in a simple little
story like that to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.
"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret. Humor and pathos
make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote
with not thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it,
my daughter. You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do
your best, and grow as happy as we are in your success."
"If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn't
mine. I owe it all to you and Mother and Beth," said Jo, more
touched by her father's words than by any amount of praise from
the world.
So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories,
and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding
it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were
kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother,
like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.
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