With what genuine, _personal_ pleasure one remembers that a full
measure of success and recognition was finally won by her efforts.


From "Louisa Mary Alcott: Her Life, Letters, and Journals." Little,
Brown & Co., 1889.

1852.--_High Street, Boston_.--After the smallpox summer, we went to a
house in High Street. Mother opened an intelligence office, which grew
out of her city missionary work and a desire to find places for good
girls. It was not fit work for her, but it paid; and she always did
what came to her in the work of duty or charity, and let pride, taste,
and comfort suffer for love's sake.

Anna and I taught; Lizzie was our little housekeeper--our angel in a
cellar kitchen; May went to school; father wrote and talked when he
could get classes or conversations. Our poor little home had much love
and happiness in it, and it was a shelter for lost girls, abused wives,
friendless children, and weak or wicked men. Father and mother had no
money to give, but gave them time, sympathy, help; and if blessings
would make them rich, they would be millionaires. This is practical
Christianity.

My first story was printed, and $5 paid for it. It was written in
Concord when I was sixteen. Great rubbish! Read it aloud to sisters,
and when they praised it, not knowing the author, I proudly announced
her name.

Made a resolution to read fewer novels, and those only of the best.