As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts. The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, `I'd know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny'; 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 sunflowers, 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 bird, and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers - rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at - with honeysuckles and morning-glories hanging their coloured 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 colours on each, and the weekly newspaper, called The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something; while Jo, who revelled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven o'clock the four members ascended to the club room, 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 shortcomings. On one occasion Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glasses, 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:
THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO
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, to-night. 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 de 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.
`Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?' asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm.
`Yes; is she not lovely, though so sad? Her dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates.'
`By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows her hand,' returned the troubadour.
`'Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the old count,' said the lady, as they joined the dance.
The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and, withdrawing the young pair to an alcove hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell upon the gay throng; and not a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange-groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus——
`My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father we wait your services.'
All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a low murmur of amazement went through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks. Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding an explanation.
`Gladly would I give it if I could; but I only know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the play end. Unmask, and receive my blessing.'
But neither bent the knee; for the young bridegroom replied, in a tone that startled all listeners, as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover; and, leaning on the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl, was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.
`My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more; for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady now my wife.'
The count stood like one changed to stone; and, turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph,
"To you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done; and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by this masked marriage."
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 a 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 acknowledgement of past misdemeanours. 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 on 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 his perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises; and, we are happy to add, is n............