ller said that a year of enforced quiet in the country
devoted mainly to sewing was very useful to her, since she reviewed and
examined the treasures laid up in her memory; and doubtless Louisa
Alcott thought out many a story which afterward delighted the world
while her fingers busily plied the needle. Yet it was a great
deliverance when she first found that the products of her brain would
bring in the needed money for family support.

[_L. in Boston to A. in Syracuse_]

THURSDAY, 27th.

DEAREST NAN: I was so glad to hear from you, and hear that all are well.

I am grubbing away as usual, trying to get money enough to buy mother a
nice warm shawl. I have eleven dollars, all my own earnings--five for
a story, and four for the pile of sewing I did for the ladies of Dr.
Gray's society, to give him as a present.

. . . I got a crimson ribbon for a bonnet for May, and I took my straw
and fixed it nicely with some little duds I had. Her old one has
haunted me all winter, and I want her to look neat. She is so graceful
and pretty and loves beauty so much it is hard for her to be poor and
wear other people's ugly things. You and I have learned not to mind
_much_; but when I think of her I long to dash out and buy the finest
hat the limited sum often dollars can procure. She says so sweetly in
one of her letters: "It is hard sometimes to see other people have so
many nice things and I so few; but I try not to be envious, but
contented with my poor clothes, and cheerful about it." I hope the
little dear will like the bonnet and the frills I made her and some
bows I fixed over from bright ribbons L. W. threw away. I get half my
rarities from her rag-bag, and she doesn't know her own rags when fixed
over. I hope I shall live to see the dear child in silk and lace, with
plenty of pictures and "bottles of cream," Europe, and all she longs
for.

For our good little Betty, who is wearing all the old gowns we left, I
shall soon be able to buy a new one, and send it with my blessing to
the cheerful saint. She writes me the funniest notes, and tries to
keep the old folks warm and make the lonely house in the snowbanks
cosey and bright.

To father I shall send new neckties and some paper; then he will be
happy, and can keep on with the beloved diaries though the heavens fall.

Don't laugh at my plans; I'll carry them out, if I go to service to do
it. Seeing so much money flying about, I long to honestly get a little