hrough the
woods, and down the lanes; and when the pilgrimage was over they had
apples and nuts to eat, in the happy land of home.

Louisa loved all these plays, and she made some of her own and wrote
them down so that the children could act them.

But better than fun or writing Louisa loved her mother, and by and by,
as the little girl began to grow into a big girl, she felt very sad to
see her dear mother work so hard. She helped all she could with the
housework, but nothing could really help the tired mother except money;
she needed money for food and clothes, and someone grown up, to help in
the house. But there never was enough money for these things, and
Louisa's mother grew more and more weary, and sometimes ill. I cannot
tell you how much Louisa suffered over this.

At last, as Louisa thought about it, she came to care more about helping
her mother and her father and her sisters than about anything else in
all the world. And she began to work very hard to earn money. She sewed
for people, and when she was a little older she taught some little girls
their lessons, and then she wrote stories for the papers. Every bit of
money she earned, except what she had to use, she gave to her dear
family. It helped very much, but it was so little that Louisa never felt
as if she were doing anything.

Every year she grew more unselfish, and every year she worked harder.
She liked writing stories best of all her work, but she did not get much
money for them, and some people told her she was wasting her time.

At last, one day, a publisher asked Louisa, who was now a woman, to
write a book for girls. Louisa was not very well, and she was very
tired, but she always said, "I'll try," when she had a chance to work;
so she said, "I'll try," to the publisher. When she thought about the
book she remembered the good times she used to have with her sisters in
the big, bare house in the country. And so she wrote a story and put all
that in it; she put her dear mother and her wise father in it, and all
the little sisters, and besides the jolly times and the plays, she put
the sad, hard times in,--the work and worry and going without things.

When the book was written, she called it _Little Women_, and sent it to
the publisher.

And, children, the little book made Louisa famous. It was so sweet and
funny and sad and real,--like our own lives,--that everybody wanted to
read it. Everybody bought it, and much money came from it. After