“We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both,
with all their hearts, as she bade them good night.
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 land 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:
