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 ear-rings 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 about 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 spoilt her entirely; she's nothing but a doll, to-night."
"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 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 don'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 practised 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 to-night. 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 supper-time, 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.
[Illustration: I wouldn't, Meg]
"You'll have a splitting headache to-morrow, 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, to-night; I'm 'a doll,' who does all sorts of crazy
things. To-morrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers,' and be
desperately good again," she answered, with an affected little laugh.
"Wish to-morrow 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 à la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he
went away.
This little bit of by-play 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 children, but I want you to know all the dreadful
things I did at the Moffat's."
"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,--
[Illustration: Holding a hand of each, Mrs. March said, &c.]
"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 trust and hope 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.
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.