change places for a while it would do them good; and they'd see what
bores they were when they "do themselves the honour of calling to
express their admiration of our charming work",' quoted Ted, with a bow
to his parent, now frowning over twelve requests for autographs.

'I have made up my mind on one point,' said Mrs Jo with great firmness.
'I will not answer this kind of letter. I've sent at least six to this
boy, and he probably sells them. This girl writes from a seminary, and
if I send her one all the other girls will at once write for more. All
begin by saying they know they intrude, and that I am of course annoyed
by these requests; but they venture to ask because I like boys, or they
like the books, or it is only one. Emerson and Whittier put these things
in the wastepaper-basket; and though only a literary nursery-maid
who provides moral pap for the young, I will follow their illustrious
example; for I shall have no time to eat or sleep if I try to satisfy
these dear unreasonable children'; and Mrs Jo swept away the entire
batch with a sigh of relief.

'I'll open the others and let you eat your breakfast in peace, liebe
Mutter,' said Rob, who often acted as her secretary. 'Here's one from
the South'; and breaking an imposing seal, he read:

'MADAM, As it has pleased Heaven to bless your efforts with a large
fortune, I feel no hesitation in asking you to supply funds to purchase
a new communion-service for our church. To whatever denomination you
belong, you will of course respond with liberality to such a request,

'Respectfully yours,

'MRS X.Y. ZAVIER'

'Send a civil refusal, dear. All I have to give must go to feed and
clothe the poor at my gates. That is my thank-offering for success. Go
on,' answered his mother, with a grateful glance about her happy home.

'A literary youth of eighteen proposes that you put your name to a novel
he has written; and after the first edition your name is to be taken off
and his put on. There's a cool proposal for you. I guess you won't agree
to that, in spite of your soft-heartedness towards most of the young
scribblers.'

'Couldn't be done. Tell him so kindly, and don't let him send the
manuscript. I have seven on hand now, and barely time to read my own,'
said Mrs Jo, pensively fishing a small letter out of the slop-bowl and
opening it with care, because the down-hill address suggested that a
child wrote it.

'I will answer this myself. A little sick girl want