Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful toward her friends,and half ashamed of herself for not speaking out frankly and setting everything right.Everybody dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even to take up their worsted work.Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect,she thought, took quite a tender interest in what she said,and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered her,though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air...
“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for Thursday.We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper compliment to you.”
Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply demurely, “You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t come.”
“Why not, Cherie?” asked Miss Belle.
“He’s too old.”
“My child, what do you mean?What is his age, I beg to know!” cried Miss Clara.
“Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg, counting stitches to hide the merriment in her eyes.
“You sly creature!Of course we meant the young man,” exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.
“There isn’t any, Laurie is only a little boy.” And Meg laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her supposed lover.
“About your age,” Nan said.
“Nearer my sister Jo’s; I am seventeen in August,” returned Meg, tossing her head.
“It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?” said Annie, looking wise about nothing.
“Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are so fond of them.My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,so it is quite natural that we children should play together, ” and Meg hoped they would say no more.
“It’s evident Daisy isn’t out yet,” said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.
“Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round,” returned Miss Belle with a shrug.
“I’m going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do anything for you, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like an elephant in silk and lace.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” replied Sallie. “I’ve got my new pink silk for Thursday and don’t want a thing. ”
“Nor I...” began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she did want several things and could not have them.
“What shall you wear?” asked Sallie.
“My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly torn last night,” said Meg,trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you send home for another?” said Sallie, who was not an observing young lady.
“I haven’t got any other.” It cost Meg an effort to say that,but Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, “Only that?How funny...” She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at her and broke in, saying kindly...
“Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn’t out yet?There’s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen,for I’ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I’ve outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, won’t you, dear?”
“You are very kind, but I don’t mind my old dress if you don’t,it does well enough for a little girl like me,” said Meg.
“Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do it,and you’d be a regular little beauty with a touch here and there.I shan’t let anyone see you till you are done,and then we’ll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball, ” said Belle in her persuasive tone.
Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made,for a desire to see if she would be ‘a little beauty’ after touching up caused her to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid,and between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled her hair,they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder,and Hortense would have added ‘a soupcon of rouge’, if Meg had not rebelled.They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror.A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings,for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink silk which did not show.A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty,white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart.A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off,and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
“Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle,leading the way to the room where the others were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving,and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had really begun at last,for the mirror had plainly told her that she was ‘a little beauty’.Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood,like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes,while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.
“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt and those French heels,or she will trip herself up. Take your silver butterfly,and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara,and don’t any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,” said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
“You don’t look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I’m nowhere beside you,for Belle has heaps of taste, and you’re quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang,don’t be so careful of them, and be sure you don’t trip,” returned Sallie,trying not to care that Meg was prettier than herself.
Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them...
“Daisy March—father a colonel in the army—one of our first families, but reverses of fortune,you know; intimate friends of the Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her.”
“Dear me!” said the old lady, putting up her glass for another observation of Meg,who tried to look as if she had not heard and been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat’s fibs.The ‘queer feeling’ did not pass away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so got on pretty well,though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept getting under her feet,and she was in constant fear lest her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken.She was flirting her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to be witty,when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused, for just opposite, she saw Laurie.He was staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought,for though he bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and wish she had her old dress on.To complete her confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who,she was happy to see, looked unusually boyish and shy.
“Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won’t care for it, or let it change me a bit,” thought Meg, and rustled across the room to shake hands with her friend.
“I’m glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn’t.” she said, with her most grown-up air.
“Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,” answered Laurie,without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her maternal tone.
“What shall you tell her?” asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his opinion of her,yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.
“I shall say I didn’t know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike yourself,I’m quite afraid of you,” he said, fumbling at his glove button.
“How absurd of you!The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like it. Wouldn’t Jo stare if she saw me?” said Meg, bent on making him say whether he thought her improved or not.
“Yes, I think she would,” returned Laurie gravely.
“Don’t you like me so?” asked Meg.
“No, I don’t,” was the blunt reply.
“Why not?” in an anxious tone.
He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders,and fantastically trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer,which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.
“I don’t like fuss and feathers.”
That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg walked away,saying petulantly, “You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”
Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool her cheeks,for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant color. As she stood there,Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after she heard him saying to his mother...
“They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her,but they have spoiled her entirely. She’s nothing but a doll tonight.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Meg. “I wish I’d been sensible and worn my own things,then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so uncomfortable and ashamed of myself.”
She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the curtains,never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some one touched her, and turning,she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow and his hand out...
“Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me.”
“I’m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,” said Meg,trying to look offended and failing entirely.
“Not a bit of it, I’m dying to do it. Come, I’ll be good. I don’t like your gown,but I do think you are just splendid.” And he waved his hands,as if words failed to express his admiration.
Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch the time,“Take care my skirt doesn’t trip you up. It’s the plague of my life and I was a goose to wear it.”
“Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie,looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.
Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home, they were well matched,and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round,feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.
“Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?” said Meg, as he stood fanning her when her breath gave out,which it did very soon though she would not own why.
“Won’t I!” said Laurie, with alacrity.
“Please don’t tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won’t understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.”
“Then why did you do it?” said Laurie’s eyes, so plainly that Meg hastily added...
“I shall tell them myself all about it, and ‘fess’ to Mother how silly I’ve been.But I’d rather do it myself. So you’ll not tell, will you?”
“I give you my word I won’t, only what shall I say when they ask me?”
“Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time.”
“I’ll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other?You don’t look as if you were having a good time. Are you?” And Laurie looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper...
“No, not just now. Don’t think I’m horrid. I only wanted a little fun, but this sort doesn’t pay, I find, and I’m getting tired of it.”
“Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?” said Laurie, knitting his black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a pleasant addition to the party.
“He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he’s coming for them. What a bore!” said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused Laurie immensely.
He did not speak to her again till suppertime,when he saw her drinking champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher,who were behaving ‘like a pair of fools’, as Laurie said to himself,for he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a defender was needed.
“You’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that. I wouldn’t, Meg,your mother doesn’t like it, you know,” he whispered, leaning over her chair,as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.
“I’m not Meg tonight, I’m ‘a doll’ who does all sorts of crazy things.Tomorrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and feathers’ and be desperately good again,” she answered with an affected little laugh.
“Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off,ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.
Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.After supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it,nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that scandalized Laurie,who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it,for Meg kept away from him till he came to say good night.
“Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had already begun.
“Silence a la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he went away.
This little bit of byplay excited Annie’s curiosity,but Meg was too tired for gossip and went to bed,feeling as if she had been to a masquerade and hadn’t enjoyed herself as much as she expected.She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home,quite used up with her fortnight’s fun and feeling that she had ‘sat in the lap of luxury’ long enough.
“It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all the time.Home is a nice place, though it isn’t splendid,” said Meg,looking about her with a restful expression,as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.
“I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,” replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day.For motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children’s faces.
Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a charming time she had had,but something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed,she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried.As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair and, taking Beth’s stool,leaned her elbows on her mother’s knee, saying bravely...
“Marmee, I want to ‘fess’.”
“I thought so. What is it, dear?”
“Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.
“Of course not. Don’t I always tell you everything?I was ashamed to speak of it before the younger children,but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffats’.”
“We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little anxious.
“I told you they dressed me up, but I didn’t tell you that they powdered and squeezed and frizzled,and made me look like a fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn’t proper. I know he did,though he didn’t say so, and one man called me ‘a doll’. I knew it was silly,but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me.”
“Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter,and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies.
“No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable, ” said Meg self-reproachfully.
“There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek,which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly...
“Yes. It’s very silly, but I want to tell it,because I hate to have people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats’, and as she spoke,Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly,as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg’s innocent mind.
“Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo indignantly.“Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so on the spot?”
“I couldn’t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help hearing at first,and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t remember that I ought to go away.”
“Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff.The idea of having ‘plans’ and being kind to Laurie because he’s rich and may marry us by-and-by!Won’t he shout when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?” And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good joke.
“If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you!She mustn’t, must she, Mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.
“No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can,” said Mrs. March gravely.“I was very unwise to let you go among people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say,but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people.I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.”
“Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me. I’ll forget all the bad and remember only the good,for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go.I’ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, Mother. I know I’m a silly little girl,and I’ll stay with you till I’m fit to take care of myself.But it is nice to be praised and admired, and I can’t help saying I like it,” said Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession.
“That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless,if the liking does not become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things.Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having,and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.”
Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind her,looking both interested and a little perplexed,for it was a new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers,and things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly,and was drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow.
“Mother, do you have ‘plans’, as Mrs. Moffat said?” asked Meg bashfully.
“Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat’s,I suspect. I will tell you some of them,for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart of yours right,on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me,and mothers’ lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo,your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my ‘plans’ and help me carry them out, if they are good.”
Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair,looking as if she thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair.Holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way...
“I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be admired, loved, and respected.To have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives,with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send.To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman,and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it,Meg, right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes,you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you,but not to have you make a dash in the world, marry rich men merely because they are rich,or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting.Money is a needful and precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing,but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for.I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”
“Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put themselves forward,” sighed Meg.
“Then we’ll be old maids,” said Jo stoutly.
“Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls,running about to find husbands,” said Mrs. March decidedly. “Don’t be troubled, Meg,poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls,but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to time.Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you,and contented here if they are not. One thing remember, my girls.Mother is always ready to be your confidant, Father to be your friend,and both of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or single,will be the pride and comfort of our lives.”
“We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade them good night.
CHAPTER TEN 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 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:
“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, 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.“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 on 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 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 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