used to let her build railroads and bridges with his big
dictionaries, tell her stories about queer pictures in his
Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he
met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts
staring down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the
globes, and best of all, the wilderness of books in which
she could wander where she liked, made the library a region
of bliss to her.
The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with
company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself
up in the easy chair, devoured poetry, romance, history,
travels, and pictures like a regular bookworm. But, like
all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as she had
just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of
a song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a
shrill voice called, "Josy-phine! Josy-phine!" and she had
to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or
read Belsham's Essays by the hour together.
Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid. What
it was, she had no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell
her, and meanwhile, found her greatest affliction in the
fact that she couldn't read, run, and ride as much as she
liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit
were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a
series of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic.
But the training she received at Aunt March's was just what
she needed, and the thought that she was doing something to
