About Louisa May Alcott:

      Louisa May Alcott (November 29, 1832 – March 6, 1888) was an American novelist and poet best known as the author of the novel Little Women (1868) and its sequels Little Men (1871) and Jo's Boys (1886). Raised by her transcendentalist parents, Abigail May and Amos Bronson Alcott in New England, she also grew up among many of the well-known intellectuals of the day such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

      Alcott's family suffered from financial difficulties, and while she worked to help support the family from an early age, she also sought an outlet in writing. She began to receive critical success for her writing in the 1860s. Early in her career, she sometimes used the pen name A. M. Barnard, under which she wrote novels for young adults that focused on spies, revenge, and cross dressers.

      Published in 1868, Little Women is set in the Alcott family home, Orchard House, in Concord, Massachusetts and is loosely based on Alcott's childhood experiences with her three sisters. The novel was very well received and is still a popular children's novel today, filmed several times.

      Alcott was an abolitionist and a feminist and remained unmarried throughout her life. She died from a stroke, two days after her father died, in Boston on March 6, 1888.

      Source: Wikipedia

      Mrs. Podgers' Teapot

      "Ah, dear me, dear me; I'm a deal too comfortable!" Judging from appearances, Mrs. Podgers certainly had some cause for that unusual exclamation. To begin with, the room was comfortable. It was tidy, bright, and warm—full of cozy corners and capital contrivances for quiet enjoyment. The chairs seemed to extend their plump arms invitingly; the old-fashioned sofa was so hospitable that whoever sat down upon it was slow to get up; the pictures, though portraits, did not stare one out of countenance but surveyed the scene with an air of tranquil enjoyment; and the unshuttered windows allowed the cheery light to shine out into the snowy street through blooming screens of Christmas roses and white chrysanthemums."

      The fire was comfortable; for it was neither hidden in a stove nor imprisoned behind bars, but went rollicking up the wide chimney with a jovial roar. It flickered over the supper table as if curious to discover what savory foods were concealed under the shining covers. It touched up the old portraits till they seemed to wink; it covered the walls with comical shadows, as if the portly chairs had set their arms akimbo and were dancing a jig. The fire flashed out into the street with a voiceless greeting to every passerby; it kindled mimic fires in the brass andirons and the teapot simmering on the hob, and best of all, it shone its brightest on Mrs. Podgers, as if conscious that it couldn't do a better thing.

      Mrs. Podgers was comfortable as she sat there, buxom, blooming, and brisk, in spite of her forty years and her widow's cap. Her black gown was illuminated to such an extent that it couldn't look sombre. Her cap had given up trying to be prim long ago, and cherry ribbons wouldn't have made it more becoming as it set off her crisp, black hair and met in a coquettish bow under her plump chin. Her white apron encircled her trim waist, as if conscious of its advantages, and the mourning pin upon her bosom actually seemed to twinkle with satisfaction at the enviable post it occupied.

      The sleek cat, purring on the hearth, was comfortable; so was the agreeable fragrance of muffins that pervaded the air, so was the drowsy tick of the clock in the corner. And if anything was needed to give a finishing touch to the general comfort of the scene, the figure pausing in the doorway supplied the want most successfully.

      Heroes are always expected to be young and comely, also fierce, melancholy, or at least what novel readers call "interesting"; but I am forced to own that Mrs. Podger was none of these. Half the real beauty, virtue, and romance of the world gets put into humble souls, hidden in plain bodies. Mr. Jerusalem Turner was an example of this; and, at the risk of shocking sentimental readers, I must frankly state that he was fifty, stout, and bald, also that he used bad grammar, had a double chin, and was only the clerk in a prosperous grocery store. A hale and hearty old gentleman with cheerful brown eyes, a ruddy countenance, and curly gray hair sticking up all round his head, he had an air of energy and independence that was pleasant to behold. There he stood, beaming upon the unconscious Mrs. Podgers, softly rubbing his hands and smiling to himself with the air of a man enjoying the chief satisfaction of his life, as he was.

      "Ah, dear me, dear me, I'm a deal too comfortable!" sighed Mrs. Podgers, addressing the teapot.

      "Not a bit, Mum; not a bit."

      In walked the gentleman, and up rose the lady, saying, with a start and an aspect of relief:

      "Bless me, I didn't hear you! I began to think you were never coming to your tea, Mr. 'Rusalem."

      Everybody called him Mr. 'Rusalem, and many people were ignorant that he had any other name. He liked it, for it began with the children, and the little voices had endeared it to him, not to mention the sound of it from Mrs. Podgers' lips for ten years.

      "I know I'm late, Mum, but I really couldn't help it. Tonight's a busy time, and the lads are just good for nothing with their jokes and spirits, so I stayed to steady 'em and do a little job that turned up unexpected."

      "Sit right down and have your tea while you can, then. I've kept it warm for you, and the muffins are done lovely."

      Mrs. Podgers bustled about with an alacrity that seemed to give an added relish to the supper; and when her companion was served, she sat smiling at him with her hand on the teapot, ready to replenish his cup before he could ask for it.

      "Have things been fretting of you, Mum? You looked downhearted as I came in, and that ain't accordin' to the time of year, which is merry," said Mr. 'Rusalem, stirring his tea with a sense of solid satisfaction that would have sweetened a far less palatable draught.

      "It's the teapot. I don't know what's got into it tonight, but, as I was waiting for you, it set me thinking of one thing and another, till I declare I felt as if it had up and spoke to me, showing me how I wasn't grateful enough for my blessings, but a deal more comfortable than I deserved."

      While speaking, Mrs. Podgers' eyes rested on an inscription that encircled the corpulent little silver pot: "To our Benefactor—They who give to the poor lend to the Lord." Now one wouldn't think there was anything in the speech or the inscription to disturb Mr. 'Rusalem; but there seemed to be, for he fidgeted in his chair, dropped his fork, and glanced at the teapot with a very odd expression. It was a capital little teapot, solid, bright as hands could make it, and ornamented with a robust young cherub perched upon the lid, regardless of the warmth of his seat. With her eyes still fixed upon it, Mrs. Podgers continued meditatively:

      "You know how fond I am of the teapot for poor Podgers' sake. I really feel quite superstitious about it; and when thoughts come to me, as I sit watching it, I have faith in them, because they always remind me of the past."

      Here, after vain efforts to restrain himself, Mr. 'Rusalem broke into a sudden laugh, so hearty and infectious that Mrs. Podgers couldn't help smiling, even while she shook her head at him.

      "I beg pardon, Mum; it's hysterical; I'll never do it again," panted Mr. 'Rusalem, as he got his breath and went soberly on with his supper.

      It was a singular fact that whenever the teapot was particularly alluded to, he always behaved in this incomprehensible manner—laughed, begged pardon, said it was