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

      A Christmas Dream, and How It Came True

      Adapted by Stephen Hines

      "I'm so tired of Christmas, I wish there never would be another one!" exclaimed a discontented-looking little girl, as she sat idly watching her mother arrange a pile of gifts two days before they were to be given.

      "Why, Effie, what a dreadful thing to say! You are as bad as old Scrooge; and I'm afraid something will happen to you, as it did to him, if you don't care for Christmas," answered Mamma, almost dropping the silver horn she was filling with delicious candies.

      "Who was Scrooge? What happened to him?" asked Effie, with a glimmer of interest in her listless face, as she picked out the sourest lemon drop she could find; for nothing sweet suited her just then.

      "He was one of Dickens' best characters, and you can read the charming story about him someday. He hated Christmas until a strange dream showed him how dear and beautiful it was and made a better man of him."

      "I shall read it; for I like dreams, and have a great many curious ones myself. But they don't keep me from being tired of Christmas," said Effie, poking discontentedly among the sweets for something worth eating.

      "Why are you tired of what should be the happiest time of all the year?" asked Mamma, anxiously.

      "Perhaps I shouldn't be if I had something new. But it is always the same, and there isn't any more surprise about it. I always find heaps of goodies in my stocking. Don't like some of them and soon get tired of those I do like. We always have a great dinner, and I eat too much, and feel ill next day. Then there is a Christmas tree somewhere, with a doll on top, or a stupid old Santa Claus, and children dancing and screaming over bonbons and toys that break, and shiny things that are of no use. Really, Mamma, I've had so many Christmases all alike that I don't think I can bear another one." And Effie laid herself flat on the sofa, as if the mere idea was too much for her.

      Her mother laughed at her despair, but was sorry to see her little girl so discontented when she had everything to make her happy and had known but ten Christmas days.

      "Suppose we don't give you any presents at all. How would that suit you?" asked Mamma, anxious to please her spoiled child.

      "I should like one large and splendid one, and one dear little one, to remember some very nice person by," said Effie, who was a fanciful girl full of odd whims and notions, which her friends loved to gratify, regardless of time, trouble, or money; for she was the last of three little girls, and very dear to all the family.

      "Well, my darling, I will see what I can do to please you and not say a word until all is ready. If I could only get a new idea to start with!" And Mamma went on tying up her pretty bundles with a thoughtful face while Effie strolled to the window to watch the rain that kept her indoors and made her dismal.

      "Seems to me poor children have better times than rich ones. I can't go out, and there is a girl about my age splashing along, without any maid to fuss about rubbers and cloaks and umbrellas and colds. I wish I was a beggar girl."

      "Would you like to be hungry, cold, and ragged, to beg all day and sleep on an ash heap at night?" asked Mamma, wondering what would come next.

      "Cinderella did and had a nice time in the end. This girl out here has a basket of scraps on her arm, and a big old shawl all around her, and doesn't seem to care a bit, though the water runs out of the toes of her boots. She goes paddling along, laughing at the rain, and eating a cold potato as if it tasted nicer than the chicken and ice cream I had for dinner. Yes, I do think poor children are happier than rich ones."

      "So do I, sometimes. At the orphanage today I saw two dozen merry little souls who have no parents, no home, and no hope of Christmas beyond a stick of candy or a cake. I wish you had been there to see how happy they were, playing with the old toys some richer children had sent them."

      "You may give them all mine; I'm so tired of them I never want to see them again," said Effie, turning from the window to the pretty dollhouse full of everything a child's heart could desire.

      "I will, and let you begin again with something you will not tire of, if I can only find it." And Mamma knit her brows trying to discover some grand surprise for this child who didn't care for Christmas.

      Nothing more was said then; and wandering off to the library, Effie found "A Christmas Carol," and curling herself up in the sofa corner, read it all before tea. Some of it she did not understand, but she laughed and cried over many parts of the charming story and felt better without knowing why.

      All the evening she thought of poor Tiny Tim, Mrs. Cratchit with the pudding, and the stout old gentleman who danced so gaily that "his legs twinkled in the air." Presently bedtime arrived.

      "Come, now, and toast your feet," said Effie's nurse, "while I do your pretty hair and tell stories."

      "I'll have a fairy tale tonight, a very interesting one," commanded Effie, as she put on her blue silk wrapper and little fur-lined slippers to sit before the fire and have her long curls brushed.

      So Nursey told her best tales, and when at last the child lay down under her lace curtains, her head was full of a curious jumble of Christmas elves, poor children, snowstorms, sugarplums, and surprises. So it is no wonder that she dreamed all night, and this was the dream, which she never quite forgot.