25 December, 1863

Let it be not said that Christmas, for all its gently maudlin sentimentality, is without productive merit. By a little careful planning, and very little bribery—those Germans will take anything for a bit of food—I managed to convince the girls to give up their breakfast and bring it to the Hummels.

The Hummels! As though they needed to eat cream and muffins, buckwheat and what have you among them! I allowed them to nibble a bit, before we betook ourselves a way and I ordered Mrs. Hummel to pack it up again and send it over by the postman’s boy. My bills are sufficient, but a little loss was necessitated by teaching the girls a lesson that once more reflected my grand felicity.

They showered me with their gifts, and I submitted to the accompanying affection. Submitting to their dramatic exploits, performed at ghastly length with too much tinfoil between them, was rather more difficult. I bore it as well as I could, knowing that a mother’s smile is a carefully honed and measured weapon, but, the applause being overly boisterous, I triggered the spring in the cot bed and collapsed the audience as best I could. Such trifling adoration must be firmly checked, lest the girls put on airs.

Old Mr. Laurence sent over an exasperatingly impressive supper. I am afraid he and his rakish grandson may bring trouble to our peaceful order.

24 December, 1863

Today I listened in at the window for a quarter of an hour whilst the girls bemoaned their troubles. I cannot deny the satisfaction it gave me to hear Beth comforting the others with the prospect of my very existence; it satisfied me less, however, to hear Amy confusing “libel” with “label”—That Child does a very great disservice to the pains I have given to her upbringing. Yet, I console myself that it is a small matter. She is young yet and can be easily molded. My inclination was increased, however, to perform another Experiment which will doubtless improve the girls’ wayward direction and prove invaluable to my future plans…

I mused upon this while they quibbled over the absence of Christmas gifts and teazed each other about their imperfections. I thought they should never notice my worn out slippers, which I have been scuffing against the fender for a month for that purpose; then they began to plot (as I had hoped) to spend their dollar upon me. I do not desire a bottle of cologne, but the gloves will be most welcome.

Having satisfied myself that I shall be well endowed this Yuletide, I proceeded to enter, submitting myself to the usual trivial affections with which the girls shower me. They inquired after their father, whom they suppose to be serving a toilsome life as an Army doctor. I did not disabuse them as to his true whereabouts—patenting our Experimental procedure with our friend Dr. Bhaer—and promised them a letter (which I spent an hour composing earlier) that caused some of them to forget their dinner. (The prospect of a letter after dinner has helped curtail many a market bill).

I brought them to tears with the letter, whose admonitions were keenly felt by all—in particular, Jo, who vowed to improve in future.

This is just as I wished it, for she can be quite rebellious—and bears watching.