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 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:

      _________________________________________________

       “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