AI Classic Books

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and so she might, for the girls’ tastes differed as much as their characters. Meg’s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it. Jo’s bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there.  Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some new, all more or less original. One of these was the ‘P.C.’, for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one, and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with a big ‘P.C.’ in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something, while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven o’clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy, who was always trying to do what she couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read:

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MAY 20, 18—   POET’S CORNER   ANNIVERSARY ODE   Again we meet to celebrate     With badge and solemn rite, Our fifty-second anniversary,     In Pickwick Hall, tonight.  We all are here in perfect health,     None gone from our small band: Again we see each well-known face,     And press each friendly hand.  Our Pickwick, always at his post,     With reverence we greet, As, spectacles on nose, he reads     Our well-filled weekly sheet.  Although he suffers from a cold,     We joy to hear him speak, For words of wisdom from him fall,     In spite of croak or squeak.  Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,     With elephantine grace, And beams upon the company,     With brown and jovial face.  Poetic fire lights up his eye,     He struggles ’gainst his lot. Behold ambition on his brow,     And on his nose, a blot.  Next our peaceful Tupman comes,     So rosy, plump, and sweet, Who chokes with laughter at the puns,     And tumbles off his seat.  Prim little Winkle too is here,     With every hair in place, A model of propriety,     Though he hates to wash his face.  The year is gone, we still unite     To joke and laugh and read, And tread the path of literature     That doth to glory lead.  Long may our paper prosper well,     Our club unbroken be, And coming years their blessings pour     On the useful, gay ‘P. C.’.   A. SNODGRASS   THE MASKED MARRIAGE  A Tale Of Venice    Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of Count Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on.

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S. PICKWICK   Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel? It is full of unruly members.   THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH   Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up, and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it with salt and butter, for dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a family named March.   T. TUPMAN   Mr. Pickwick,  Sir: —     I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man     named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and     sometimes won’t write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will     pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can’t     write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains     in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some     work which will be all  commy la fo  that means all right I am in     haste as it is nearly school time.   Yours respectably, N. WINKLE   [The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.]   A SAD ACCIDENT   On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement, followed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well.   ED.   THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT   It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the whole community.     When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher’s     cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms,     basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been     discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her     basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us     forever.   A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:  A LAMENT FOR S. B. PAT PAW   We mourn the loss of our little pet,     And sigh o’er her hapless fate, For never more by the fire she’ll sit,     Nor play by the old green gate.  The little grave where her infant sleeps     Is ’neath the chestnut tree. But o’er  her  grave we may not weep,     We know not where it may be.  Her empty bed, her idle ball,     Will never see her more; No gentle tap, no loving purr     Is heard at the parlor door.  Another cat comes after her mice,     A cat with a dirty face, But she does not hunt as our darling did,     Nor play with her airy grace.  Her stealthy paws tread the very hall     Where Snowball used to play, But she only spits at the dogs our pet     So gallantly drove away.  She is useful and mild, and does her best,     But she is not fair to see, And we cannot give her your place dear,     Nor worship her as we worship thee.   A.S.   ADVERTISEMENTS   MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her famous lecture on

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Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some time before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best. So it was an unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member.  No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted, well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did add ‘spirit’ to the meetings, and ‘a tone’ to the paper, for his orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent, being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought.  The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations, scoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah’s charms, actually sent a love letter to Jo’s care. How they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post office would hold in the years to come.