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: