Читать книгу Little Women (Extended Edition) – By Louisa May Alcott - Everbooks Editorial - Страница 25

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:

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“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

________

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: