Read An Old-Fashioned Girl Online
Authors: Louisa May Alcott
An Old-Fashioned Girl
Copyright 1870 by Louisa May Alcott
Copyright 1897, 1898, 1910, and 1911 by John S. P. Alcott
Cover/jacket illustration copyright © 1997 by Jane Dyer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may
quote brief passages in a review.
Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
The Little Brown and Company name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-316-06978-6
Contents
Chapter 8: Six years Afterward
Chapter 10: Brothers and Sisters
Chapter 11: needles and Tongues
Chapter 17: Playing Grandmother
Chapter 18: The Woman Who Did Not Dare
Also available in uniform editions:
L
ITTLE
W
OMEN
L
ITTLE
M
EN
J
O’S
B
OYS
E
IGHT
C
OUSINS
R
OSE IN
B
LOOM
U
NDER THE
L
ILACS
J
ACK AND
J
ILL
REFACE
A
s a preface is the only place where an author can with propriety explain a purpose or apologize for shortcomings, I venture
to avail myself of the privilege to make a statement for the benefit of my readers.
As the first part of “An Old-Fashioned Girl” was written in 1869, the demand for a sequel, in beseeching little letters that
made refusal impossible, rendered it necessary to carry my heroine boldly forward some six or seven years into the future.
The domestic nature of the story makes this audacious proceeding possible; while the lively fancies of my young readers will
supply all deficiencies, and overlook all discrepancies.
This explanation will, I trust, relieve those well-regulated minds, who cannot conceive of such literary lawlessness, from
the bewilderment which they suffered when the same experiment was tried in a former book.
The “Old-Fashioned Girl” is not intended as a perfect model, but as a possible improvement upon the Girl of the Period, who
seems sorrowfully ignorant or ashamed of the good old fashions which make woman truly beautiful and honored, and, through
her, render home what it should be — a happy place, where parents and children, brothers and sisters, learn to love and know
and help one another.
If the history of Polly’s girlish experiences suggests a hint or insinuates a lesson, I shall feel that, in spite of many
obstacles, I have not entirely neglected my duty toward the little men and women, for whom it is an honor and a pleasure to
write, since in them I have always found my kindest patrons, gentlest critics, warmest friends.
L. M. A.
C
HAPTER
1
“I
t’s time to go to the station, Tom.”
“Come on, then.”
“Oh, I’m not going; it’s too wet. Shouldn’t have a crimp left if I went out such a day as this; and I want to look nice when
Polly comes.”
“You don’t expect me to go and bring home a strange girl alone, do you?” And Tom looked as much alarmed as if his sister had
proposed to him to escort the wild woman of Australia.
“Of course I do. It’s your place to go and get her; and if you wasn’t a bear, you’d like it.”
“Well, I call that mean! I supposed I’d got to go; but you said you’d go, too. Catch me bothering about your friends another
time! No,
sir!
” And Tom rose from the sofa with an air of indignant resolution, the impressive effect of which was somewhat damaged by a
tousled head, and the hunched appearance of his garments generally.
“Now, don’t be cross; and I’ll get mamma to let you have that horrid Ned Miller, that you are so fond of, come and make you
a visit after Polly’s gone,” said Fanny, hoping to soothe his ruffled feelings.
“How long is she going to stay?” demanded Tom, making his toilet by a promiscuous shake.
“A month or two, maybe. She’s ever so nice; and I shall keep her as long as she’s happy.”
“She won’t stay long then, if I can help it,” muttered Tom, who regarded girls as a very unnecessary portion of creation.
Boys of fourteen are apt to think so, and perhaps it is a wise arrangement; for, being fond of turning somersaults, they have
an opportunity of indulging in a good one, metaphorically speaking, when, three or four years later, they become the abject
slaves of “those bothering girls.”
“Look here! How am I going to know the creature? I never saw her, and she never saw me. You’ll have to come too, Fan,” he
added, pausing on his way to the door, arrested by the awful idea that he might have to address several strange girls before
he got the right one.
“You’ll find her easy enough; she’ll probably be standing round looking for us. I dare say she’ll know
you,
though I’m not there, because I’ve described you to her.”
“Guess she won’t, then;” and Tom gave a hasty smooth to his curly pate and a glance at the mirror, feeling sure that his sister
hadn’t done him justice. Sisters never do, as “we fellows” know too well.
“Do go along, or you’ll be too late; and then, what
will
Polly think of me?” cried Fanny, with the impatient poke which is peculiarly aggravating to masculine dignity.
“She’ll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends, and she’ll be about right, too.”
Feeling that he said rather a neat and cutting thing, Tom sauntered leisurely away, perfectly conscious that it
was
late, but bent on not being hurried while in sight, though he ran himself off his legs to make up for it afterward.
“If I was the President, I’d make a law to shut up all boys till they were grown; for they certainly are the most provoking
toads in the world,” said Fanny, as she watched the slouchy figure of her brother strolling down the street. She might have
changed her mind, however, if she had followed him, for as soon as he turned the corner, his whole aspect altered; his hands
came out of his pockets, he stopped whistling, buttoned his jacket, gave his cap a pull, and went off at a great pace.
The train was just in when he reached the station, panting like a racehorse, and as red as a lobster with the wind and the
run.
“Suppose she’ll wear a topknot and a thingumbob, like everyone else; and however shall I know her? Too bad of Fan to make
me come alone!” thought Tom, as he stood watching the crowd stream through the depot, and feeling rather daunted at the array
of young ladies who passed. As none of them seemed looking for anyone, he did not accost them, but eyed each new batch with
the air of a martyr. “That’s her,” he said to himself, as he presently caught sight of a girl in gorgeous array, standing
with her hands folded, and a very small hat perched on the top of a very large “chig-non,” as Tom pronounced it. “I suppose
I’ve got to speak to her, so here goes;” and, nerving himself to the task, Tom slowly approached the damsel, who looked as
if the wind had blown her clothes into rags, such a flapping of sashes, scallops, ruffles, curls, and feathers was there.
“I say, if you please, is your name Polly Milton?” meekly asked Tom, pausing before the breezy stranger.
“No, it isn’t,” answered the young lady, with a cool stare that utterly quenched him.
“Where in thunder is she?” growled Tom, walking off in high dudgeon. The quick tap of feet behind him made him turn in time
to see a fresh-faced little girl running down the long station, and looking as if she rather liked it. As she smiled, and
waved her bag at him, he stopped and waited for her, saying to himself, “Hullo! I wonder if that’s Polly?”
Up came the little girl, with her hand out, and a half-shy, half-merry look in her blue eyes, as she said, inquiringly, “This
is Tom, isn’t it?”
“Yes. How did you know?” and Tom got over the ordeal of hand-shaking without thinking of it, he was so surprised.
“Oh, Fan told me you’d got curly hair, and a funny nose, and kept whistling, and wore a gray cap pulled over your eyes; so
I knew you directly.” And Polly nodded at him in the most friendly manner, having politely refrained from calling the hair
“red,” the nose “a pug,” and the cap “old” — all of which facts Fanny had carefully impressed upon her memory.
“Where are your trunks?” asked Tom, as he was reminded of his duty by her handing him the bag, which he had not offered to
take.
“Father told me not to wait for anyone, else I’d lose my chance of a hack; so I gave my check to a man, and there he is with
my trunk;” and Polly walked off after her one modest piece of baggage, followed by Tom, who felt a trifle depressed by his
own remissness in polite attentions.
“She isn’t a bit of a young lady, thank goodness! Fan didn’t tell me she was pretty. Don’t look like city girls, nor act like
’em, neither,” he thought, trudging in the rear, and eyeing with favor the brown curls bobbing along in front.
As the carriage drove off, Polly gave a little bounce on the springy seat, and laughed like a delighted child. “I do like
to ride in these nice hacks, and see all the fine things, and have a good time, don’t you?” she said, composing herself the
next minute, as if it suddenly occurred to her that she was going a-visiting.
“Not much,” said Tom, not minding what he said, for the fact that he was shut up with the strange girl suddenly oppressed
his soul.
“How’s Fan? Why didn’t she come, too?” asked Polly, trying to look demure, while her eyes danced in spite of her.
“Afraid of spoiling her crinkles;” and Tom smiled, for this base betrayal of confidence made him feel his own man again.
“You and I don’t mind dampness. I’m much obliged to you for coming to take care of me.”
It was kind of Polly to say that, and Tom felt it; for his red crop was a tender point, and to be associated with Polly’s
pretty brown curls seemed to lessen its coppery glow. Then he hadn’t done anything for her but carry the bag a few steps;
yet, she thanked him. He felt grateful, and in a burst of confidence, offered a handful of peanuts, for his pockets were always
supplied with this agreeable delicacy, and he might be traced anywhere by the trail of shells he left behind him.
As soon as he had done it, he remembered that Fanny considered them vulgar, and felt that he had disgraced his family. So
he stuck his head out of the window, and kept it there so long, that Polly asked if anything was the matter. “Pooh! who cares
for a countrified little thing like her,” said Tom manfully to himself; and then the spirit of mischief entered in and took
possession of him.
“He’s pretty drunk; but I guess he can hold his horses,” replied this evil-minded boy, with an air of calm resignation.
“Is the man tipsy? Oh, dear! Let’s get out! Are the horses bad? It’s very steep here; do you think it’s safe?” cried poor
Polly, making a cocked hat of her little beaver, by thrusting it out of the half-open window on her side.
“There’s plenty of folks to pick us up if anything happens; but perhaps it would be safer if
I
got out and sat with the man;” and Tom quite beamed with the brilliancy of this sudden mode of relief.
“Oh, do, if you ain’t afraid! Mother would be so anxious if anything
should
happen to me, so far away!” cried Polly, much distressed.
“Don’t you be worried. I’ll manage the old chap, and the horses too;” and opening the door, Tom vanished aloft, leaving poor
victimized Polly to quake inside, while he placidly revelled in freedom and peanuts outside, with the staid old driver.
Fanny came flying down to meet her “darling Polly,” as Tom presented her, with the graceful remark, “I’ve got her!” and the
air of a dauntless hunter, producing the trophies of his skill. Polly was instantly whisked upstairs; and having danced a
double-shuffle on the doormat, Tom retired to the dining room, to restore exhausted nature with half a dozen cookies.
“Ain’t you tired to death? Don’t you want to lie down?” said Fanny, sitting on the side of the bed in Polly’s room, and chattering
hard, while she examined everything her friend had on.
