She Is Too Fond Of

November Is The Most Disagreeable Month In The Whole Year," Said Margaret, Standing At The Window One Dull Afternoon, Looking Out At The Frostbitten Garden. "that's The Reason I Was Born In It," Observed Jo Pensively, Quite Unconscious Of The Blot On Her Nose.

The Moment Aunt March Took Her Nap, Or Was Busy With Company, Jo Hurried To This Quiet Place, And Curling Herself Up In The Easy Chair, Devoured Poetry, Romance, History, Travels, And Pictures Like A Regular Bookworm.

Mrs. Jo Did Not Mean The Measles, But That More Serious Malady Called Love, Which Is Apt To Ravage Communities, Spring And Autumn, When Winter Gayety And Summer Idleness Produce Whole Bouquets Of Engagements, And Set Young People To Pairing Off Like The Birds.

We'll All Grow Up Meg, No Pretending We Won't.

Men Are Always Ready To Die For Us, But Not To Make Our Lives Worth Having. Cheap Sentiment And Bad Logic.