Chapter: X. THE P. C. AND P. O.


                          


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 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 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 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 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
short-comings.

                      [Illustration: Mr. Pickwick]

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 gayly 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 to-night?" 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 grocer-man 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 "WOMAN AND HER POSITION," at
    Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual
    performances.

    A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young
    ladies how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside; and all are
    invited to attend.

    THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in
    the upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in
    uniform and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.

    MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll's
    Millinery next week. The latest Paris Fashions have arrived, and
    orders are respectfully solicited.

    A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course
    of a few weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the
    American stage. "THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger,"
    is the name of this thrilling drama!!!


                                 HINTS.

    If S. P. didn't use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn't
    always be late at breakfast. A. S. is requested not to whistle
    in the street. T. T. please don't forget Amy's napkin. N. W.
    must not fret because his dress has not nine tucks.


                             WEEKLY REPORT.

        Meg--Good.
        Jo--Bad.
        Beth--Very good.
        Amy--Middling.


As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to assure
my readers is a _bona fide_ copy of one written by _bona fide_ girls
once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass
rose to make a proposition.

"Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary
attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission of a new
member,--one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for
it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary
value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore
Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him."

Jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh; but all looked rather
anxious, and no one said a word, as Snodgrass took his seat.

"We'll put it to vote," said the President. "All in favor of this motion
please to manifest it by saying 'Ay.'"

A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise, by a
timid one from Beth.

"Contrary minded say 'No.'"

Meg and Amy were contrary minded; and Mr. Winkle rose to say, with great
elegance, "We don't wish any boys; they only joke and bounce about. This
is a ladies' club, and we wish to be private and proper."

"I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,"
observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she
always did when doubtful.

Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. "Sir, I give you my word as a
gentleman, Laurie won't do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and
he'll give a tone to our contributions, and keep us from being
sentimental, don't you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so
much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here,
and make him welcome if he comes."

This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet,
looking as if he had quite made up his mind.

"Yes, we ought to do it, even if we _are_ afraid. I say he _may_ come,
and his grandpa, too, if he likes."

This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her
seat to shake hands approvingly. "Now then, vote again. Everybody
remember it's our Laurie, and say 'Ay!'" cried Snodgrass excitedly.

"Ay! ay! ay!" replied three voices at once.

"Good! Bless you! Now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by the
_fetlock_,' as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present
the new member;" and, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw
open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag-bag,
flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.

          [Illustration: Jo threw open the door of the closet]

"You rogue! you traitor! Jo, how could you?" cried the three girls, as
Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth; and, producing both a chair
and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.

"The coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pickwick, trying
to get up an awful frown, and only succeeding in producing an amiable
smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion; and, rising, with a
grateful salutation to the Chair, said, in the most engaging manner,
"Mr. President and ladies,--I beg pardon, gentlemen,--allow me to
introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble servant of the club."

"Good! good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming-pan
on which she leaned.

"My faithful friend and noble patron," continued Laurie, with a wave of
the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed for
the base stratagem of to-night. I planned it, and she only gave in after
lots of teasing."

"Come now, don't lay it all on yourself; you know I proposed the
cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.

"Never you mind what she says. I'm the wretch that did it, sir," said
the new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. "But on my
honor, I never will do so again, and henceforth _dewote_ myself to the
interest of this immortal club."

"Hear! hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming-pan like a
cymbal.

"Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed
benignly.

"I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the
honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between
adjoining nations, I have set up a post-office in the hedge in the lower
corner of the garden; a fine, spacious building, with padlocks on the
doors, and every convenience for the mails,--also the females, if I may
be allowed the expression. It's the old martin-house; but I've stopped
up the door, and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts of
things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and
bundles can be passed in there; and, as each nation has a key, it will
be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key; and,
with many thanks for your favor, take my seat."

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 every
one came out surprising, for every one 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 remodelled
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
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!




           [Illustration: Jo spent the morning on the river]

 The P. C. and P. O. In the spring, the girls tend to their garden plots and form a secret society named the Pickwick Club, after Dickens, with each dressing and acting like a particular character. They create a weekly newspaper, which the narrator assures the readers is a copy of a genuine newspaper composed by four real girls. Jo proposes adding Laurie to the club, and Meg and Amy at first oppose, wanting to be private, but Beth speaks on Laurie's behalf and wins the day. Jo then shocks the club by revealing that Laurie was hiding in the closet all along. Laurie apologizes for the trick, and makes amends with the presentation of a post office, a converted birdhouse to sit in the hedge between the two houses. Delighted with the gift, the club enjoys a lively discussion and benefits from Laurie's presence. The post office, the narrator tells us, flourishes as well, passing trinkets and tickets as well as even a few love letters in the future

