Little Women

~A new book to add to my very favorite list!

After a productively busy week there is nothing better then coming home from such a wonderful church service, having lunch and enjoy the stormy weather outside. And to top that off to sit and read to my hearts content! Well, just about! :)

This has been has been my feelings the last couple of weeks over this book; having the greatest desire to stop and sit and read this wonderful book, but then telling myself not to read to fast because there will be no more! And that is a very sad thought!

 One of the reasons I had not read it before was that I was lazy and thought the movie was good enough! What was I thinking? And I also think I was afraid to read it in the past because of the sad part in the story. And yes, indeed it is sad, but all of the joys and sweets mixed with the sorrow reminds me of life and how beautiful and precious it is. How precious family is. I don't think I have laughed out-loud so much from a book. The creativity of Louisa May Alcot is so inspiring and enjoyable. She has encouraged me in so many areas. First of all in being a women, wife, daughter, sister and friend. If you have not read this book give it a try and be delighted. 

Here is a litte a little insert to wet your tongue :D

One of these was the "P.C.," for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one; and as all 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 garret, on which occasion 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. As 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; 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-naturdley reminded each other of their faults and shortcomings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glasses, rapped upon the table, hemmed and having stared hard and Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read.


"The Pickwick Portfolio"
May 20 18-
Poet's Corner


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 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


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 dog our pet.

She is useful and mild, and does her best,

But she is not fair to see,

And we cannot giver her your place dear,

Nor worship her as we worship thee.

~A.S.

Ha, wow, I didn't intend to put so much in! I couldn't resist!

~A very blessed Sunday to all my dear friends!~