Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck
penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt
if half a million would have given more real happiness then did
the little sum that came to her in this wise.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put
on her scribbling suit, and ‘fall into a vortex’, as she expressed
it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till
that was finished she could find no peace. Her ‘scribbling suit’
consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her
pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a
cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were
cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of
her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely
popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest,
"Does genius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask
this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged
accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low
upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in
exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair
seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the
floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not
until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow,
did anyone dare address Jo.

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the
writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon,
and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather,
while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends
almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook
her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to
enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made
these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The
devine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged
from her ‘vortex’, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was
prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return
for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People’s
Course, the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the
choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for
granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great
want supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an
audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour,
and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than
that of the Sphinx.

They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her
stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who
occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with
massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing Women’s Rights
and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly
holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints
out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap
behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a
studious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.

It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest
her, idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances
needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war
costume, tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while
two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big
eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was
flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to
turn a page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature
offered half his paper, saying bluntly, "want to read it? That’s a
first-rate story."

Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking
for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of
love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of
light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the
author’s invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of
one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over
their downfall.

"Prime, isn’t it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.

"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried,"
returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.

"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes
a good living out of such stories, they say." and he pointed to the
name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.

"No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in
the office where this paper is printed."

"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?"
and Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly
sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page.

"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid
well for writing it."

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while
Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,
and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in
its columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended
and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself
(not the first founded on paper), and was already deep in the
concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duel
should come before the elopement or after the murder.

She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day,
much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious
when ‘genius took to burning’. Jo had never tried this style before,
contenting herself with very mild romances for The Spread Eagle. Her
experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they
gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language,
and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her
limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to
make it, and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earthquake,
as a striking and appropriate denouement. The manuscript was
privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if
the tale didn’t get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect,
she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for
a girl to keep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginning
to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again,
when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for on
opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For
a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read
her letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote
that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was
giving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his leisure hours,
if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the letter more than
the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it
was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though
it was only to write a sensation story.

A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having
composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them
with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that
she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when
the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father
had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty,
and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his
unworldly way . . .

"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never
mind the money."

"I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with
such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
reverential eye.

"Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered
Jo promptly.

To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth
didn’t come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much
better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo
was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work
with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks.
She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power
in the house, for by the magic of a pen, her ‘rubbish’ turned into
comforts for them all. The Duke’s Daughter paid the butcher’s bill,
A Phantom Hand put down a new carpet, and the Curse of the Coventrys
proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its
sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine
satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the
inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful
blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction,
and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge
that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market,
and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for
fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read
it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and
trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition
that she would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts
which she particularly admired.

"Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold,
pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get
what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house,
but cash is more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meeting
on this important subject," said Jo, calling a family council.

"Don’t spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than
you know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen,"
was her father’s advice, and he practiced what he preached, having
waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and
being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.

"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial
than by waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of
such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults,
and help her to do better next time. We are too partial, but the
praise and blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets
but little money."

"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that’s just it. I’ve been
fussing over the thing so long, I really don’t know whether it’s good,
bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial
persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."

"I wouldn’t leave a word out of it. You’ll spoil it if you do,
for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions
of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don’t explain as you
go on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most
remarkable novel ever written.

"But Mr. Allen says, ‘Leave out the explanations, make it brief
and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story’," interrupted
Jo, turning to the publisher’s note.

"Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don’t.
Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can.
By-and-by, when you’ve got a name, you can afford to digress,
and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels,"
said Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject.

"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are ‘philosophical and
metaphysical’, it isn’t my fault, for I know nothing about such
things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I’ve got some
of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for
me. Now, Beth, what do you say?"

"I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said,
and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on
the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their
childlike candor, which chilled Jo’s heart for a minute with a
forboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture ‘soon’.

So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born
on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope
of pleasing everyone, she took everyone’s advice, and like the old man
and his donkey in the fable suited nobody.

Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got
into it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts
about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much
description. Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary
links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the
agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best
intentions in life, Jo quenched the spritly scenes which relieved
the somber character of the story. Then, to complicate the ruin, she
cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance,
like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world to try its fate.

Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for
it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than
she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from
which it took her some time to recover.

"You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can
it, when it’s so contradictory that I don’t know whether I’ve written
a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor
Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her
with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. "This
man says, ‘An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.’
‘All is sweet, pure, and healthy.’" continued the perplexed
authoress. "The next, ‘The theory of the book is bad, full of
morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.’
Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don’t believe in Spiritualism,
and copied my characters from life, I don’t see how this critic can
be right. Another says, ‘It’s one of the best American novels which
has appeared for years.’ (I know better than that), and the next
asserts that ‘Though it is original, and written with great force
and feeling, it is a dangerous book.’ ‘Tisn’t! Some make fun of it,
some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to
expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I
wish I’d printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so
misjudged."

Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation
liberally. Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo,
who meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her
good, for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism
which is an author’s best education, and when the first soreness
was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in
it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting
she had received.

"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won’t kill me," she said
stoutly, "and I’ve got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts
that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible
and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head
are pronounced ‘charmingly natural, tender, and true’. So I’ll
comfort myself with that, and when I’m ready, I’ll up again and take
another."