The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first to speak--intelligibly, Imean, for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable character.
"Friedrich, why didn't you..."
"Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!" cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful delight.
"I always call you so to myself--I forgot, but I won't unless you like it.""Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say `thou', also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine.""Isn't `thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable.
"Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English `you' is so cold, say `thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor.
"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo bashfully.
"Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo--ah, the dear, funny little name--I had a wish to tell something the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said `Yes', then, if I had spoken?""I don't know. I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then.""Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, `Die erste Liebe ist die beste', but that I should not expect.""Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for Inever had another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy," said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.
"Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin.""I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?""This." And Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket.
Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt.
"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.
"I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him. I will see that you go not in the wet."IN THE GARRET
Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, All fashioned and filled, long ago, By children now in their prime.
Four little keys hung side by side, With faded ribbons, brave and gay When fastened there, with childish pride, Long ago, on a rainy day.
Four little names, one on each lid, Carved out by a boyish hand, And underneath there lieth hid Histories of the happpy band Once playing here, and pausing oft To hear the sweet refrain, That came and went on the roof aloft, In the falling summer rain.
"Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
I look in with loving eyes, For folded here, with well-known care, A goodly gathering lies, The record of a peaceful life--Gifts to gentle child and girl, A bridal gown, lines to a wife, A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
No toys in this first chest remain, For all are carried away, In their old age, to join again In another small Meg's play.
Ah, happy mother! Well I know You hear, like a sweet refrain, Lullabies ever soft and low In the falling summer rain.
"Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn, And within a motley store Of headless, dolls, of schoolbooks torn, Birds and beasts that speak no more, Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet, Dreams of a future never found, Memories of a past still sweet, Half-writ poems, stories wild, April letters, warm and cold, Diaries of a wilful child, Hints of a woman early old, A woman in a lonely home, Hearing, like a sad refrain--"Be worthy, love, and love will come,"
In the falling summer rain.
My Beth! the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name, As if by loving eyes that wept, By careful hands that often came.
Death cannonized for us one saint, Ever less human than divine, And still we lay, with tender plaint, Relics in this household shrine--The silver bell, so seldom rung, The little cap which last she wore, The fair, dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door.
The songs she sang, without lament, In her prison-house of pain, Forever are they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain.
Upon the last lid's polished field--
