__________________________________________________
>
    “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,