e Jack, and she acted
that part. When it came to the place in the story where the giant tried
to follow Jack, the little girl cut down the bean-stalk, and down came
the giant tumbling from the loft. The giant was made out of pillows,
with a great, fierce head of paper, and funny clothes.

Another story that they acted was Cinderella. They made a wonderful
big pumpkin out of the wheelbarrow, trimmed with yellow paper, and
Cinderella rolled away in it, when the fairy godmother waved her wand.

One other beautiful story they used to play. It was the story of
Pilgrim's Progress; if you have never heard it, you must be sure to
read it as soon as you can read well enough to understand the
old-fashioned words. The little girls used to put shells in their hats
for a sign they were on a pilgrimage, as the old pilgrims used to do;
then they made journeys over the hill behind the house, and through 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 some one 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 publis