Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir.

Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the most pensive tune.

They had always done this from the time they could lisp...
Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar, and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.
The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby..