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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 gorcerman 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

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