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
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, Ferdi nand 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. unruly members.
THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH
Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his gar den, 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
*Star-shaped medal, a badge of his rank.
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. 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 star tled 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 a 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 per ilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises; and, we are happy to add, is now doing well.
T. TUPMAN.
MR. PICKWICK, Sir:—I address you upon the sub ject of sin the sinner I mean is 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 fet lock* and prepare some work which will be all commy la fo† that means all right I am
ED.
*Amy actually means “take time by the forelock”—that is, act quickly, lest an opportunity be lost (a fetlock is a tuft of hair near the back of a horse’s hoof; a fore lock grows over a horse’s head). †That is, comme il faut, French for “proper.”
THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT For never more by the fire she’ll sit, Nor play by the old green gate.
It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysteri ous disappearance of our cher ished 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 com munity. When last seen, she was sit ting at the gate, watching the butcher’s cart; and it is feared tha
t some villain, tempted by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been discov ered; 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. 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.
A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:
A LAMENT 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 wor ship thee.
FOR S. B. PAT PAW
We mourn the loss of our little pet, And sigh o‘er her hapless fate,
A. s.
ADVERTISEMENTS and orders are respectfully solicited.
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 NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which will sur pass anything ever seen on the American stage. “THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger,” is the name of this thrilling drama! ! !
A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how to cook. Han nah Brown will preside; and all are invited to attend.
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.