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1886
image: The Blind Girl -
John Everett
Millais, 1854|1856
HIGH up in an old house, full of poor people, lived Lizzie, with her mother
and baby Billy. The street was a
narrow, noisy place, where carts rumbled and dirty children played; where the
sun seldom shone, the fresh wind
seldom blew, and the white snow of winter was turned at once to black mud. One
bare room was Lizzie's home,
and out of it she seldom went, for she was a prisoner. We all pity the poor
princesses who were shut up in towers
by bad fairies, the men and women in jails, and the little birds in cages, but
Lizzie was a sadder prisoner than any
of these.
The prince always comes to the captive princess, the jail doors open in time,
and the birds find some kind hand to
set them free; but there seemed no hope of escape for this poor child. Only nine
years old, and condemned to
life−long helplessness, loneliness, and darkness −− for she was blind.
She could dimly remember the blue sky, green earth, and beautiful sun; for the
light went out when she was six,
and the cruel fever left her a pale little shadow to haunt that room ever since.
The father was dead, the mother
worked hard for daily bread, they had no friends, and the good fairies seemed to
have forgotten them. Still, like
the larks one sees in Brittany, the eyes of which cruel boys put out, that they
may sing the sweeter, Lizzie made
music in her cage, singing to baby; and when he slept, she sat by the window
listening to the noise below for
company, crooning to herself till she, too, fell asleep and forgot the long,
long days that had no play, no school, no
change for her such as other children know.
Every morning Mother gave them their porridge, locked the door, and went away to
work, leaving something for
the children's dinner, and Lizzie to take care of herself and Billy till night.
There was no other way, for both were
too helpless to be trusted elsewhere, and there was no one to look after them.
But Lizzie knew her way about the
room, and could find the bed, the window, and the table where the bread and milk
stood. There was seldom any
fire in the stove, and the window was barred, so the little prisoners were safe,
and day after day they lived
together a sad, solitary, unchildlike life that makes one's heart ache to think
of.
Lizzie watched over Billy like a faithful little mother, and Billy did his best
to bear his trials, and comfort sister,
like a man. He was not a rosy, rollicking fellow, like most year−old boys, but
pale and thin and quiet, with a
pathetic look in his big blue eyes, as if he said, "Something is wrong; will
some one kindly put it right for us?"
But he seldom complained unless in pain, and would lie for hours on the old bed,
watching the flies, which were
his only other playmates, stretching out his little hands to the few rays of
sunshine that crept in now and then, as if
longing for them, like a flower in a cellar. When Lizzie sung, he hummed softly;
and when he was hungry, cold,
or tired, he called "Lib! Lib!" meaning "Lizzie," and nestled up to her,
forgetting all his baby woes in her tender
arms.
Seeing her so fond and faithful, the poor neighbors loved as well as pitied her,
and did what they could for the
afflicted child. The busy women would pause at the locked door to ask if all was
right; the dirty children brought
her dandelions from the park, and the rough workmen of the factory opposite,
with a kind word would toss an
apple or a cake through the open window. They had learned to look for the little
wistful face behind the bars, and
loved to listen to the childish voice which caught and imitated the songs they
sung and whistled, like a sweet
echo. They called her "the blind lark," and, though she never knew it, many were
the better for the pity they gave
her.
Baby slept a great deal, for life offered him few pleasures, and, like a small
philosopher, he wisely tried to forget
the troubles which he could not cure; so Lizzie had nothing to do but sing, and
try to imagine how the world
looked. She had no one to tell her, and the few memories grew dimmer and dimmer
each year. She did not know
how to work or to play, never having been taught, and Mother was too tired at
night to do anything but get supper
and go to bed.
"The child will be an idiot soon, if she does not die," people said; and it
seemed as if this would be the fate of the
poor little girl, since no one came to save her during those three weary years.
She often said, "I'm of some use. I
take care of Billy, and I couldn't live without him."
But even this duty and delight was taken from her, for that cold spring nipped
the poor little flower, and one day
Billy shut his blue eyes with a patient sigh and left her all alone.
Then Lizzie's heart seemed broken, and people thought she would soon follow him,
now that her one care and
comfort was gone. All day she laid with her cheek on Billy's pillow, holding the
battered tin cup and a little
worn−out shoe, and it was pitiful to hear her sing the old lullabies as if baby
still could hear them.
"It will be a mercy if the poor thing doesn't live; blind folks are no use and a
sight of trouble," said one woman to
another as they gossiped in the hall after calling on the child during her
mother's absence, for the door was left
unlocked since she was ill.
"Yes, Mrs. Davis would get on nicely if she hadn't such a burden. Thank Heaven,
my children aren't blind,"
answered the other, hugging her baby closer as she went away.
Lizzie heard them, and hoped with all her sad little soul that death would set
her free, since she was of no use in
the world. To go and be with Billy was all her desire now, and she was on her
way to him, growing daily weaker
and more content to be dreaming of dear baby well and happy, waiting for her
somewhere in a lovely place called
Heaven.
The summer vacation came, and hundreds of eager children were hurrying away to
the mountains and seashore
for two months of healthful pleasure. Even the dirty children in the lane felt
the approach of berry−time, and
rejoiced in their freedom from cold as they swarmed like flies about the corner
grocery where over−ripe fruit was
thrown out for them to scramble over.
Lizzie heard about good times when some of these young neighbors were chosen to
go on the poor children's
picnics, and came back with big sandwiches buttoned up in their jackets;
pickles, peanuts, and buns in their
pockets; hands full of faded flowers, and hearts brimming over with childish
delight at a day in the woods. She
listened with a faint smile, enjoyed the "woodsy" smell of the green things, and
wondered if they had nice picnics
in Heaven, being sorry that Billy had missed them here. But she did not seem to
care much, or hope for any
pleasure for herself except to see baby again.
I think there were few sadder sights in that great city than this innocent
prisoner waiting so patiently to be set free.
Would it be by the gentle angel of death, or one of the human angels who keep
these little sparrows from falling
to the ground?
One hot August day, when not a breath came into the room, and the dust and noise
and evil smells were almost
unendurable, poor Lizzie lay on her bed singing feebly to herself about "the
beautiful blue sea." She was trying to
get to sleep that she might dream of a cool place, and her voice was growing
fainter and fainter, when suddenly it
seemed as if the dream had come, for a sweet odor was near, something damp and
fresh touched her feverish
cheek, and a kind voice said in her ear:
"Here is the little bird I've been following. Will you have some flowers, dear?"
"Is it Heaven? Where's Billy?" murmured Lizzie, groping about her, half awake.
image:
Will you have some flowers, dear?
"Not yet. I'm not Billy, but a friend who carries flowers to little children who
can not go and get them. Don't be
afraid, but let me sit and tell you about it," answered the voice, as a gentle
hand took hers.
"I thought, may be, I'd died, and I was glad, for I do want to see Billy so
much. He's baby, you know." And the
clinging hands held the kind one fast till it filled them with a great bunch of
roses that seemed to bring all summer
into the close, hot room with their sweetness.
"Oh, how nice! how nice! I never had such a lot. They're bigger 'n' better 'n
dandelions, aren't they? What a good
lady you must be to go 'round giving folks posies like these!" cried Lizzie,
trying to realize the astonishing fact.
Then, while the new friend fanned her, she lay luxuriating in her roses, and
listening to the sweet story of the Flower Mission which, like many other
pleasant things, she knew nothing of in her prison. Presently she told her own
little tale, never guessing how pathetic it was, till, lifting her hand to touch
the new face, she found it wet with tears.
"Are you sorry for me?" she asked. "Folks are very kind, but I'm a burden, you
know, and I'd better die and go to
Billy; I was some use to him, but I never can be to any one else. I heard 'em
say so, and poor
Mother would do better if I wasn't here."
"My child, I know a little blind girl who is no burden but a great help to her
mother, and a happy, useful creature,
as you might be if you were taught and helped as she was," went on the voice,
sounding more than ever like a
good fairy's as it told fresh wonders till Lizzie was sure it must be all a
dream.
"Who taught her? Could I do it? Where's the place?" she asked, sitting erect in
her eagerness, like a bird that hears
a hand at the door of its cage.
Then, with the comfortable arm around her, the roses stirring with the flutter
of her heart, and the sightless eyes
looking up as if they could see the face of the deliverer, Lizzie heard the
wonderful story of the House Beautiful
standing white and spacious on the hill, with the blue sea before it, the fresh
wind always blowing, the green
gardens and parks all about, and, inside, music, happy voices, shining faces,
busy hands, and year after year the
patient teaching by those who dedicate themselves to this noble and tender task.
"It must be better 'n Heaven!" cried Lizzie, as she heard of work and play,
health and happiness, love and
companionship,usefulness and independence, −− all the dear rights and simple
joys young creatures hunger for,
and perish, soul and body, without.
It was too much for her little mind to grasp at once, and she lay as if in a
blissful dream long after the kind visitor
had gone, promising to come again and to find some way for Lizzie to enter into
that lovely place where darkness
is changed to light.
That visit was like magic medicine, and the
child grew better at once, for hope was born in her heart. The heavy gloom
seemed to lift, discomforts were easier
to bear, and solitude was peopled now with troops of happy children living in
that wonderful place where
blindness was not a burden. She told it all to her mother, and the poor woman
tried to believe it, but said, sadly:
"Don't set your heart on it, child. It's easy to promise and to forget. Rich
folks don't trouble themselves about poor
folks if they can help it."
But Lizzie's faith never wavered, though the roses faded as day after day went
by and no one came. The mere
thought that it was possible to teach blind people to work and study and play
seemed to give her strength and
courage. She got up and sat at the window again, singing to herself as she
watched and waited, with the dead
flowers carefully arranged in Billy's mug, and a hopeful smile on the little
white face behind the bars.
Every one was glad she was better, and nodded to one another as they heard the
soft crooning, like a dove's coo,
in the pauses of the harsher noises that filled the street. The workmen tossed
her sweeties and whistled their
gayest airs, the children brought their dilapidated toys to amuse her, and one
woman came every day to put her
baby in Lizzie's lap, it was such a pleasure to her to feel the soft little body
in the loving arms that longed for
Billy.
Poor Mother went to her work in better spirits, and the long, hot days were less
oppressive as she thought, while
she scrubbed, of Lizzie up again; for she loved her helpless burden, heavy
though she found it.
When Saturday came around, it rained hard, and no one expected "the flower
lady." Even Lizzie said, with a
patient sigh and a hopeful smile:
"I don't believe she'll come; but, may be, it will clear up, and then I guess
she will."
It did not clear up, but the flower lady came, and as the child sat listening to
the welcome sound of her steps, her
quick ear caught the tread of two pairs of feet, the whisper of two voices, and
presently two persons came in to fill
her hands with midsummer flowers.
"This is Minna, the little girl I told you of. She wanted to see you very much,
so we paddled away like a pair of
ducks, and here we are," said Miss Grace gayly; and as she spoke Lizzie felt
soft fingers glide over her face, and a
pair of childish lips find and kiss her own. The groping touch, the hearty kiss,
made the blind children friends at
once, and, dropping her flowers, Lizzie hugged the new−comer, trembling with
excitement and delight. Then they
talked, and how the tongues went as one asked questions and the other answered
them, while Miss Grace sat by
enjoying the happiness of those who do not forget the poor, but seek them out to
save and bless.
Minna had been for a year a pupil in the happy school, where she was taught to
see with her hands, as one might
say; and the tales she told of the good times there made Lizzie cry eagerly:
"Can I go? Oh, can I go?"
"Alas, no, not yet," answered Miss Grace sadly, "I find that children under ten
can not be taken, and there is no
place for the little ones unless kind people care for them."
Lizzie gave a wail, and hid her face in the pillow, feeling as if she could not
bear the dreadful disappointment.
Minna comforted her, and Miss Grace went on to say that generous people were
trying to get another school for
the small children, that all the blind children were working hard to help on the
plan, that money was coming in,
and soon they hoped to have a pleasant place for every child who needed help.
Lizzie's tears stopped falling as she listened, for hope was not quite gone.
"I'll not be ten till next June, and I don't see how I can wait 'most a year.
Will the little school be ready 'fore then?"
she asked.
"I fear not, dear, but I will see that the long waiting is made as easy as
possible, and perhaps you can help us in
some way," answered Miss Grace, anxious to atone for her mistake in speaking
about the school before she had
made sure that Lizzie could go.
"Oh, I'd love to help; only I can't do anything," sighed the child.
"You can sing, and that is a lovely way to help. I heard of 'the blind lark,' as
they call you, and when I came to
find her, your little voice led me straight to the door of the cage. That door I
mean to open and let you hop out into
the sunshine; then, when you are well and strong, I hope you will help us get
the home for other little children
who else must wait years before they find the light. Will you?"
As Miss Grace spoke, it was beautiful to see the clouds lift from Lizzie's
wondering face, till it shone with the
sweetest beauty any face can wear, the happiness of helping others. She forgot
her own disappointment in the new
hope that came, and held on to the bed−post as if the splendid plan were almost
too much for her.
"Could I help that way?" she cried. "Would anybody care to hear me sing? Oh, how
I'd love to do anything for the
poor little ones who will have to wait."
"You shall. I'm sure the hardest heart would be touched by your singing, if you
look as you do now. We need
something new for our fair and concert, and by that time you will be ready,"
said Miss Grace, almost afraid she
had said too much; for the child looked so frail, it seemed as if even joy would
hurt her.
Fortunately her mother came in just then, and, while the lady talked to her,
Minna's childish chatter soothed Lizzie
so well that when they left she stood at the window smiling down at them and
singing like the happiest bobolink
that ever tilted on a willow branch in spring−time.
All the promises were kept, and soon a new life began for Lizzie. A better room
and well−paid work were found
for Mrs. Davis. Minna came as often as she could to cheer up her little friend,
and, best of all, Miss Grace taught
her to sing, that by and by the little voice might plead with its pathetic music
for others less blest than she. So the
winter months went by, and Lizzie grew like mayflowers underneath the snow,
getting ready to look up, sweet
and rosy, when spring set her free and called her to be glad. She counted the
months and weeks, and when the
time dwindled to days, she could hardly sleep or eat for thinking of the happy
hour when she could go to be a
pupil in the school where miracles were worked.
Her birthday was in June, and, thanks to Miss Grace, her coming was celebrated
by one of the pretty festivals of
the school, called Daisy Day. Lizzie knew nothing of this surprise, and when her
friends led her up the long flight
of steps she looked like a happy little soul climbing to the gates of Heaven.
Mr. Constantine, the ruler of this small kingdom, was a man whose fatherly heart
had room for every suffering
child in the world, and it rejoiced over every one who came, though the great
house was overflowing and many
waited as Lizzie had done.
He welcomed her so kindly that the strange place seemed like home at once, and
Minna led her away to the little
mates who proudly showed her their small possessions and filled her hands with
the treasures children love, while
pouring into her ears delightful tales of the study, work, and play that made
their lives so happy.
Lizzie was bewildered, and held fast to Minna, whose motherly care of her was
sweet to see. Kind teachers
explained rules and duties with the patience that soothes fear and wins love,
and soon Lizzie began to feel that she
was a "truly pupil" in this wonderful school where the blind could read, sew,
study, sing, run, and play. Boys
raced along the galleries and up and down the stairs as boldly as if all had
eyes. Girls swept and dusted like tidy
housewives; little fellows hammered and sawed in the workshop and never hurt
themselves; small girls sewed on
pretty work as busy as bees, and in the schoolroom lessons went on as if both
teachers and pupils were blessed
with eyes.
Lizzie could not understand it, and was content to sit and listen wherever she
was placed, while her little fingers
fumbled at the new objects near her, and her hungry mind opened like a flower to
the sun. She had no tasks that
day, and in the afternoon was led away with a flock of children, all chattering
like magpies, on the grand
expedition. Every year, when the fields were white with daisies, these poor
little souls were let loose among them
to enjoy the holy day of this child's flower. Ah, but wasn't it a pretty sight
to see the meeting between them, when
the meadows were reached and the children scattered far and wide with cries of
joy as they ran and rolled in the
white sea, or filled their eager hands, or softly felt for the dear daisies and
kissed them like old friends! The
flowers seemed to enjoy it, too, as they danced and nodded, while the wind
rippled the long grass like waves of a
green sea, and the sun smiled as if he said:
"Here's the sort of thing I like to see. Why don't I find more of it?"
Lizzie's face looked like a daisy, it was so full of light as she stood looking
up with the wide brim of her new hat
like the white petals all round it. She did not run nor shout, but went slowly
wading through the grass, feeling the
flowers touch her hands, yet picking none, for it was happiness enough to know
that they were there. Presently
she sat down and let them tap her cheeks and rustle about her ears as though
telling secrets that made her smile.
Then, as if weary with so much happiness, she lay back and let the daisies hide
her with their pretty coverlet.
Miss Grace was watching over her, but left her alone, and by and by, like a lark
from its nest in the grass, the
blind girl sent up her little voice, singing so sweetly that the children
gathered around to hear, while they made
chains and tied up their nosegays.
This was Lizzie's first concert, and no little prima donna was ever more pelted
with flowers than she; for when she
had sung all her songs, new and old, a daisy crown was put upon her head, a tall
flower for a scepter in her hand,
and all the boys and girls danced around her as if she had been Queen of the
May.
A little feast came out of the baskets, that they might be empty for the harvest
to be carried home, and, while they
ate, stories were told and shouts of laughter filled the air, for all were as
merry as if there was no darkness, pain,
or want in the world. Then they had games, and Lizzie was taught to play, for
till now she never knew what a
good romp meant. Her cheeks grew rosy, her sad little face waked up, she ran and
tumbled with the rest, and
actually screamed, to Minna's great delight.
Two or three of the children could see a little, and these were very helpful in
taking care of the little ones. Miss
Grace found them playing some game with Lizzie, and observed that all but she
were blindfolded. When she
asked why, one whispered, "We thought we should play fairer if we were all
alike." And another added, "It seems
somehow as if we were proud if we see better than the rest."
Lizzie was much touched by this sweet spirit, and a little later showed that she
had already
learned one lesson in the school, when she gathered about her some who had never
seen, and told them what she
could remember of green fields and daisy−balls before the light went out
forever.
"Surely my little lark was worth saving, if only for this one happy day,"
thought Miss Grace, as she watched the
awakened look in the blind faces, all leaning toward the speaker, whose childish
story pleased them well.
In all her long and useful life, Lizzie never forgot that Daisy Day, for it
seemed as if she were born anew, and,
like a butterfly, had left the dark chrysalis all behind her then. It was the
first page of the beautiful book just
opening before the eyes of her little mind, −− a lovely page, illustrated with
flowers, kind faces, sunshine, and
happy hopes. The new life was so full, so free, she soon fell into her place and
enjoyed it all. People worked there
so heartily, so helpfully, it was no wonder things went as if by magic, and the
poor little creatures who came in so
afflicted went out in some years independent people, ready to help themselves
and often to benefit others.
There is no need to tell all Lizzie learned and enjoyed that summer, nor how
proud her mother was when she
heard her read in the curious books, making eyes of the little fingers that felt
their way along so fast, when she
saw the neat stitches she set, the pretty clay things she modeled, the tidy way
she washed dishes, swept and
dusted, and helped keep her room in order. But the poor woman's heart was too
full for words when she heard the
child sing, −− not as before, in the dreary room, sad, soft lullabies to Billy,
−− but beautiful, gay songs, with flutes
and violins to lift and carry the little voice along on waves of music.
Lizzie really had a great gift, but she was never happier than when they all
sang together, or when she sat quietly
listening to the band as they practiced for the autumn concert. She was to have
a part in it, and the thought that she
could help to earn money for the Kindergarten made the shy child bold and glad
to do her part. Many people
knew her now, for she was very pretty, with the healthful roses in her cheeks,
curly yellow hair, and great blue
eyes that seemed to see. Her mates and teachers were proud of her, for, though
she was not as quick as some of
the pupils, her sweet temper, grateful heart, and friendly little ways made her
very dear to all, aside from the
musical talent she possessed.
Every one was busy over the fair and the concert; and fingers flew, tongues
chattered, feet trotted, and hearts beat
fast with hope and fear as the time drew near, for all were eager to secure a
home for the poor children still
waiting in darkness. It was a charity which appealed to all hearts when it was
known; but, in this busy world of
ours, people have so many cares of their own that they are apt to forget the
wants of others unless something
brings these needs very clearly before their eyes. Much money was needed, and
many ways had been tried to add
to the growing fund, that all might be well done.
"We wish to interest children in this charity for children, so that they may
gladly give a part of their abundance to
these poor little souls who have nothing. I think Lizzie will sing some of the
pennies out of their pockets, which
would otherwise go for bonbons. Let us try; so make her neat and pretty, and
we'll have a special song for her."
Mr. Constantine said this, and Miss Grace carried out his wish so well that,
when the time came, the little prima
donna did her part better even than they had hoped.
The sun shone splendidly on the opening day of the fair, and cars and carriages
came rolling out from the city, full
of friendly people with plump purses and the sympathetic interest we all take in
such things when we take time to
see, admire, and reproach ourselves that we do so little for them.
There were many children, and when they had bought the pretty handiwork of the
blind needle−women, eaten
cake and ices, wondered at the strange maps and books, twirled the big globe in
the hall, and tried to understand
how so many blind people could be so busy and so happy, they all were seated at
last to hear the music, full of
expectation, for "the pretty little girl was going to sing."
It was a charming concert, and every one enjoyed it, though many eyes grew dim
as they wandered from the tall
youths blowing the horns so sweetly, to the small ones chirping away like so
many sparrows, for the blind faces
made the sight pathetic, and such music touched the hearts as no other music
can.
"Now she's coming!" whispered the eager children, as a little girl climbed up
the steps and stood before them,
waiting to begin.
A slender little creature, in a blue gown, with sunshine falling on her pretty
hair, a pleading look in the soft eyes
that had no sign of blindness but their steadfastness, and a smile on the lips
that trembled at first, for Lizzie's heart
beat fast, and only the thought, "I'm helping the poor little ones," gave her
courage for her task.
But, when the flutes and violins began to play like a whispering wind, she
forgot the crowd before her, and, lifting
up her face, sang in clear sweet tones
THE BLIND LARK'S SONG.
WE are sitting in the shadow
Of a long and lonely night,
Waiting till some gentle angel
Comes to lead us to the light.
For we know there is a magic
That can give eyes to the blind.
Oh, well−filled hands, be generous!
Oh, pitying hearts, be kind!
Help stumbling feet that wander,
To find the upward way;
Teach hands that now lie idle
The joys of work and play.
Let pity, love, and patience
Our tender teachers be,
That, though the eyes be blinded,
The little souls may see.
Your world is large and beautiful,
Our prison dim and small;
We stand and wait, imploring −−
"Is there not room for all?
Give us our children's garden,
Where we may safely bloom,
Forgetting in God's sunshine
Our lot of grief and gloom."
A little voice comes singing,
Oh, listen to its song!
A little child is pleading
For those who suffer wrong.
Grant them the patient magic
That gives eyes to the blind!
Oh, well−filled hands, be generous!
Oh, pitying hearts, be kind!
It was a very simple little song, but it proved wonderfully effective, for
Lizzie was so carried away by her own
feeling that as she sang the last lines she stretched out her hands imploringly,
and two great tears rolled down her
cheeks. For a minute many hands were too busy fumbling for handkerchiefs to
clap, but the children were quick
to answer that gesture and those tears, and one impetuous little lad tossed a
small purse containing his last ten
cents at Lizzie's feet, the first contribution won by her innocent appeal. Then
there was great applause, and many
of the flowers just bought were thrown to the little Lark, who was obliged to
come back and sing again and again,
smiling brightly as she dropped pretty curtsies, and sang song after song with
all the added sweetness of a grateful
heart.
Hidden behind the organ, Miss Grace and Mr. Constantine shook hands joyfully,
for this was the sort of interest
they wanted, and they knew that while the children clapped and threw flowers,
the wet−eyed mothers were
thinking, self−reproachfully, "I must help this lovely charity," and the stout
old gentlemen who pounded with
their canes were resolving to go home and write some generous checks, which
would be money invested in God's
savings−bank.
It was a very happy time for all, and made strangers friends in the sweet way
which teaches heart to speak to
heart. When the concert was over, Lizzie felt many hands press hers and leave
something there, many childish lips
kiss her own, with promises to "help about the Kindergarten," and her ears were
full of kind voices thanking and
praising her for doing her part so well. Still later, when all were gone, she
proudly put the rolls of bills into Mr.
Constantine's hand, and, throwing her arms about Miss Grace's neck, said,
trembling with earnestness, "I'm not a
burden any more, and I can truly help! How can I ever thank you both for making
me so happy?"
One can fancy what their answer was and how Lizzie helped; for, long after the
Kindergarten was filled with pale
little flowers blooming slowly as she had done, the Blind Lark went on singing
pennies out of pockets, and
sweetly reminding people not to forget this noble charity.
The End
 Louisa
May Alcott
(Filadélfia, 29.11.1832 — Boston, 6.3.1888)
foi uma escritora norte americana, que se dedicou principalmente à
literatura juvenil. Foi educada pelo pai, o filósofo e educador Amos
Bronson Alcott, tendo a oportunidade de conviver com intelectuais como
Henry David Thoreau e Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Louisa sonhava ser atriz, mas tornou-se
escritora. Inspirou-se nas próprias experiências para escrever
as suas histórias. Mulherzinhas (1868), o seu
romance mais famoso, apresenta o retrato de uma família de classe média
americana do seu tempo, salientando os seus valores morais: civismo e
amor à pátria (que chega ao sacrifício dos seus
filhos) e dedicação extrema ao lar e ao próximo.
Louisa May Alcott doou à Perkins os 225 dólares que recebeu, pelos direitos da sua obra “The Blind Lark”, para ajudar na criação de um Infantário para crianças cegas.
ϟ
The Blind Lark
(texto integral)
Louisa May Alcott
1886
4.Ago.2017
Publicado por
MJA
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