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
[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 startled 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 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 several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well.
ED.
THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT
It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our cherished 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 community.
When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher’s cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been discovered, 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.
A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:
A LAMENT
for S. B. Pat Paw
We mourn the loss of our little pet
And sigh o’er her hapless fate,
For never more by the fire she’ll sit,
Nor play by the old green gate.
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.
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 worship thee.
A.S.
ADVERTISEMENTS
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 WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside, and all are invited to attend.
THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.
MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll’s Millinery next week. The latest Paris fashions have arrived, and orders are respectfully solicited.
A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage. The Greek Slave, or Constantine the Avenger, is the name of this thrilling drama!!!
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.
WEEKLY REPORT
Meg—Good.
Jo—Bad.
Beth—Very Good.
Amy—Middling.
As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass rose to make a proposition.
“Mr. President and gentlemen,” he began, assuming a parliamentary attitude and tone, “I wish to propose the admission of a new member—one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him.”
Jo’s sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat.
“We’ll put it to a vote,” said the President. “All in favor of this motion please to manifest it by saying ‘Aye.’ ”
A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody’s surprise, by a timid one from Beth.
“Contrary-minded say ‘No.’ ”
Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great elegance, “We don’t wish any boys; they only joke and bounce about. This is a ladies’ club, and we wish to be private and proper.”
“I’m afraid he’ll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,” observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she always did when doubtful.
Up bounced Snodgrass, very much in earnest. “Sir! I give you my word as a gentleman, Laurie won’t do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and he’ll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being sentimental, don’t you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here, and make him welcome if he comes.”
This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind.
“Yes, we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and his grandpa, too, if he likes.”
This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her seat to shake hands approvingly. “Now then, vote again. Everybody remember it’s our Laurie, and say ‘Aye!’ ” cried Snodgrass excitedly.
“Aye! Aye! Aye!” replied three voices at once.
“Good! Bless you! Now, as there’s nothing like ‘taking time by the fetlock,’ as Winkle characteristically