the tea, and the coffee. Let things go as far as they would!
The little boys took the sugar and cream.
"As soon as they have done drinking bring back the cups and saucers to
be washed," she said to the Gibbons boys and the little boys.
This was an idea of Mary Osborne's.
But what was their surprise that the more they poured out the more
cups they seemed to have! Elizabeth Eliza took the coffee, and Mary
Osborne the tea. Amanda brought fresh cups from the kitchen.
"I can't understand it," Elizabeth Eliza said to Amanda. "Do they come
back to you round through the piazza? Surely there are more cups than
there were!"
Her surprise was greater when some of them proved to be coffee-cups
that matched the set! And they never had had coffee-cups.
Solomon John came in at this moment, breathless with triumph.
"Solomon John!" Elizabeth Eliza exclaimed; "I cannot understand the
cups!"
"It is my doing," said Solomon John, with an elevated air. "I went to
the lady from Philadelphia, in the midst of her talk. 'What do you do
in Philadelphia, when you haven't enough cups?' 'Borrow of my
neighbors,' she answered, as quick as she could."
"She must have guessed," interrupted Elizabeth Eliza.
"That may be," said Solomon John. "But I whispered to Ann Maria
Bromwick,--she was standing by,--and she took me straight over into
their closet, and old Mr. Bromwick bought this set just where we
bought ours. And they had a coffee-set, too"--
"You mean where our father and mother bought them. We were not born,"
said Elizabeth Eliza.
"It is all the same," said Solomon John. "They match exactly."
So they did, and more and more came in.
Elizabeth Eliza exclaimed:--
"And Agamemnon says we are not a family for emergencies!"
"Ann Maria was very good about it," said Solomon John; "and quick,
too. And old Mrs. Bromwick has kept all her set of two dozen coffee
and tea cups!"
Elizabeth Eliza was ready to faint with delight and relief. She told
the Gibbons boys, by mistake, instead of Agamemnon and the little
boys. She almost let fall the cups and saucers she took in her hand.
"No trouble now!"
She thought of the cow, and she thought of the pig, and she poured on.
No trouble, except about the chairs. She looked into the room; all
seemed to be sitting down, even her mother. No, her father was
standing, talking to Mr. Jeffers. But he was drinking coffee, and the
Gibbons boys were handing things around.
The daughters of the lady from Philadelphia were sitting on shawls on
the edge of the window that opened upon the piazza. It was a soft,
warm evening, and some of the young people were on the piazza.
Everybody was talking and laughing, except those who were listening.
Mr. Peterkin broke away, to bring back his cup and another for more
coffee.
"It's a great success, Elizabeth Eliza," he whispered. "The coffee is
admirable, and plenty of cups. We asked none too many. I should not
mind having a tea-party every week."
[Illustration]
Elizabeth Eliza sighed with relief as she filled his cup. It was going
off well. There were cups enough, but she was not sure she could live
over another such hour of anxiety; and what was to be done after tea?
THE PETERKINS TOO LATE FOR THE EXHIBITION.
_Dramatis Personae._--Amanda (friend of Elizabeth Eliza), Amanda's
mother, girls of the graduating class, Mrs. Peterkin, Elizabeth Eliza.
AMANDA [_coming in with a few graduates_].
Mother, the exhibition is over, and I have brought the whole class
home to the collation.
MOTHER.--The whole class! But I only expected a few.
AMANDA.--The rest are coming. I brought Julie, and Clara, and Sophie
with me. [_A voice is heard._] Here are the rest.
MOTHER.--Why, no. It is Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza!
AMANDA.--Too late for the exhibition. Such a shame! But in time for
the collation.
MOTHER [_to herself_].--If the ice-cream will go round.
_Amanda._--But what made you so late? Did you miss the train? This is
Elizabeth Eliza, girls,--you have heard me speak of her. What a pity
you were too late!
MRS. PETERKIN.--We tried to come; we did our best.
MOTHER.--Did you miss the train? Didn't you get my postal-card?
MRS. PETERKIN.--We had nothing to do with the train.
AMANDA.--You don't mean you walked?
MRS. PETERKIN.--Oh, no, indeed!
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--We came in a horse and carryall.
JULIA.--I always wondered how anybody could come in a horse!
AMANDA.--You are too foolish, Julie. They came in the carryall part.
But didn't you start in time?
MRS. PETERKIN.--It all comes from the carryall being so hard to turn.
I told Mr. Peterkin we should get into trouble with one of those
carryalls that don't turn easy.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--They turn easy enough in the stable, so you can't
tell.
MRS. PETERKIN.--Yes; we started with the little boys and Solomon John
on the back seat, and Elizabeth Eliza on the front. She was to drive,
and I was to see to the driving. But the horse was not faced toward
Boston.
MOTHER.--And you tipped over in turning round! Oh, what an accident!
AMANDA.--And the little boys,--where are they? Are they killed?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--The little boys are all safe. We left them at the
Pringles', with Solomon John.
MOTHER.--But what did happen?
MRS. PETERKIN.--We started the wrong way.
MOTHER.--You lost your way, after all?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--No; we knew the way well enough.
AMANDA.--It's as plain as a pikestaff!
MRS. PETERKIN.--No; we had the horse faced in the wrong
direction,--toward Providence.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--And mother was afraid to have me turn, and we kept
on and on till we should reach a wide place.
MRS. PETERKIN.--I thought we should come to a road that would veer off
to the right or left, and bring us back to the right direction.
MOTHER.--Could not you all get out and turn the thing round?
MRS. PETERKIN.--Why, no; if it had broken down we should not have been
in anything, and could not have gone anywhere.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--Yes, I have always heard it was best to stay in the
carriage, whatever happens.
JULIA.--But nothing seemed to happen.
MRS. PETERKIN.--Oh, yes; we met one man after another, and we asked
the way to Boston.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--And all they would say was, "Turn right round,--you
are on the road to Providence."
MRS. PETERKIN.--As if we could turn right round! That was just what we
couldn't.
MOTHER.--You don't mean you kept on all the way to Providence?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--Oh, dear, no! We kept on and on, till we met a man
with a black hand-bag,--black leather, I should say.
JULIA.--He must have been a book-agent.
MRS. PETERKIN.--I dare say he was; his bag seemed heavy. He set it on
a stone.
MOTHER.--I dare say it was the same one that came here the other day.
He wanted me to buy the "History of the Aborigines, Brought up from
Earliest Times to the Present Date," in four volumes. I told him I
hadn't time to read so much. He said that was no matter, few did, and
it wasn't much worth it; they bought books for the look of the thing.
AMANDA.--Now, that was illiterate; he never could have graduated. I
hope, Elizabeth Eliza, you had nothing to do with that man.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--Very likely it was not the same one.
MOTHER.--Did he have a kind of pepper-and-salt suit, with one of the
buttons worn?
MRS. PETERKIN.--I noticed one of the buttons was off.
AMANDA.--We're off the subject. Did you buy his book?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--He never offered us his book.
MRS. PETERKIN.--He told us the same story,--we were going to
Providence; if we wanted to go to Boston we must turn directly round.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--I told him I couldn't; but he took the horse's head,
and the first thing I knew--
AMANDA.--He had yanked you round!
MRS. PETERKIN.--I screamed; I couldn't help it!
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--I was glad when it was over!
MOTHER.--Well, well; it shows the disadvantage of starting wrong.
MRS. PETERKIN.--Yes, we came straight enough when the horse was headed
right; but we lost time.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--I am sorry enough I lost the exhibition, and seeing
you take the diploma, Amanda. I never got the diploma myself. I came
near it.
MRS. PETERKIN.--Somehow, Elizabeth Eliza never succeeded. I think
there was partiality about the promotions.
[Illustration]
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--I never was good about remembering things. I studied
well enough, but when I came to say off my lesson I couldn't think
what it was. Yet I could have answered some of the other girls'
questions.
JULIA.--It's odd how the other girls always have the easiest
questions.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--I never could remember poetry. There was only one
thing I could repeat.
AMANDA.--Oh, do let us have it now; and then we'll recite to you some
of our exhibition pieces.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--I'll try.
MRS. PETERKIN.--Yes, Elizabeth Eliza, do what you can to help
entertain Amanda's friends.
[_All stand looking at_ ELIZABETH ELIZA, _who remains silent and
thoughtful._]
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--I'm trying to think what it is about. You all know
it. You remember, Amanda,--the name is rather long.
AMANDA.--It can't be Nebuchadnezzar, can it?--that is one of the
longest names I know.
ELIZABETH ELIZA. Oh, dear, no!
JULIA.--Perhaps it's Cleopatra.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--It does begin with a "C,"--only he was a boy.
AMANDA.--That's a pity, for it might be "We are seven," only that is a
girl. Some of them were boys.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--It begins about a boy--if I could only think where
he was. I can't remember.
AMANDA.--Perhaps he "stood upon the burning deck"?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--That's just it; I knew he stood somewhere.
AMANDA.--Casabianca! Now begin--go ahead.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--
"The boy stood on the burning deck,
When--when"--
I can't think who stood there with him.
JULIA.--If the deck was burning, it must have been on fire. I guess
the rest ran away, or jumped into boats.
AMANDA.--That's just it:--
"Whence all but him had fled."
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--I think I can say it now.
"The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled"--
[_She hesitates._] Then I think he went--
JULIA.--Of course, he fled after the rest.
AMANDA.--Dear, no! That's the point. He didn't.
"The flames rolled on, he would not go
Without his father's word."
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--Oh, yes. Now I can say it.
"The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flames rolled on, he would not go
Without his father's word."
But it used to rhyme. I don't know what has happened to it.
MRS. PETERKIN.--Elizabeth Eliza is very particular about the rhymes.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.--It must be "without his father's _head_," or,
perhaps, "without his father _said_" he should.
JULIA.--I think you must have omitted something.
AMANDA.--She has left out ever so much!
MOTHER.--Perhaps it's as well to omit some, for the ice-cream has
come, and you must all come down.
AMANDA.--And here are the rest of the girls; and let us all unite in a
song!
[_Exeunt omnes singing._]
THE PETERKINS CELEBRATE THE FOURTH OF JULY.
The day began early.
A compact had been made with the little boys the evening before.
They were to be allowed to usher in the glorious day by the blowing of
horns exactly at sunrise. But they were to blow them for precisely
five minutes only, and no sound of the horns should be heard afterward
till the family were downstairs.
It was thought that a peace might thus be bought by a short, though
crowded, period of noise.
The morning came. Even before the morning, at half-past three o'clock,
a terrible blast of the horns aroused the whole family.
Mrs. Peterkin clasped her hands to her head and exclaimed: "I am
thankful the lady from Philadelphia is not here!" For she had been
invited to stay a week, but had declined to come before the Fourth of
July, as she was not well, and her doctor had prescribed quiet.
[Illustration]
And the number of the horns was most remarkable! It was as though
every cow in the place had arisen and was blowing through both her own
horns!
"How many little boys are there? How many have we?" exclaimed Mr.
Peterkin, going over their names one by one mechanically, thinking he
would do it, as he might count imaginary sheep jumping over a fence,
to put himself to sleep. Alas! the counting could not put him to sleep
now, in such a din.
And how unexpectedly long the five minutes seemed! Elizabeth Eliza was
to take out her watch and give the signal for the end of the five
minutes, and the ceasing of the horns. Why did not the signal come?
Why did not Elizabeth Eliza stop them?
And certainly it was long before sunrise; there was no dawn to be
seen!
[Illustration]
"We will not try this plan again," said Mrs. Peterkin.
"If we live to another Fourth," added Mr. Peterkin, hastening to the
door to inquire into the state of affairs.
Alas! Amanda, by mistake, had waked up the little boys an hour too
early. And by another mistake the little boys had invited three or
four of their friends to spend the night with them. Mrs. Peterkin had
given them permission to have the boys for the whole day, and they
understood the day as beginning when they went to bed the night
before. This accounted for the number of horns.
[Illustration]
It would have been impossible to hear any explanation; but the five
minutes were over, and the horns had ceased, and there remained only
the noise of a singular leaping of feet, explained perhaps by a
possible pillow-fight, that kept the family below partially awake
until the bells and cannon made known the dawning of the glorious
day,--the sunrise, or "the rising of the sons," as Mr. Peterkin
jocosely called it when they heard the little boys and their friends
clattering down the stairs to begin the outside festivities.
They were bound first for the swamp, for Elizabeth Eliza, at the
suggestion of the lady from Philadelphia, had advised them to hang
some flags around the pillars of the piazza. Now the little boys knew
of a place in the swamp where they had been in the habit of digging
for "flag-root," and where they might find plenty of flag flowers.
They did bring away all they could, but they were a little out of
bloom. The boys were in the midst of nailing up all they had on the
pillars of the piazza, when the procession of the Antiques and
Horribles passed along. As the procession saw the festive arrangements
on the piazza, and the crowd of boys, who cheered them loudly, it
stopped to salute the house with some especial strains of greeting.
Poor Mrs. Peterkin! They were directly under her windows! In a few
moments of quiet, during the boys' absence from the house on their
visit to the swamp, she had been trying to find out whether she had a
sick-headache, or whether it was all the noise, and she was just
deciding it was the sick-headache, but was falling into a light
slumber, when the fresh noise outside began.
There were the imitations of the crowing of cocks, and braying of
donkeys, and the sound of horns, encored and increased by the cheers
of the boys. Then began the torpedoes, and the Antiques and Horribles
had Chinese crackers also.
And, in despair of sleep, the family came down to breakfast.
Mrs. Peterkin had always been much afraid of fireworks, and had never
allowed the boys to bring gunpowder into the house. She was even
afraid of torpedoes; they looked so much like sugar-plums she was sure
some of the children would swallow them, and explode before anybody
knew it.
She was very timid about other things. She was not sure even about
pea-nuts. Everybody exclaimed over this: "Surely there was no danger
in pea-nuts!" But Mrs. Peterkin declared she had been very much
alarmed at the Centennial Exhibition, and in the crowded corners of
the streets in Boston, at the pea-nut stands, where they had machines
to roast the pea-nuts. She did not think it was safe. They might go
off any time, in the midst of a crowd of people, too!
Mr. Peterkin thought there actually was no danger, and he should be
sorry to give up the pea-nut. He thought it an American institution,
something really belonging to the Fourth of July. He even confessed to
a quiet pleasure in crushing the empty shells with his feet on the
sidewalks as he went along the streets.
Agamemnon thought it a simple joy.
In consideration, however, of the fact that they had had no real
celebration of the Fourth the last year, Mrs. Peterkin had consented
to give over the day, this year, to the amusement of the family as a
Centennial celebration. She would prepare herself for a terrible
noise,--only she did not want any gunpowder brought into the house.
The little boys had begun by firing some torpedoes a few days
beforehand, that their mother might be used to the sound, and had
selected their horns some weeks before.
Solomon John had been very busy in inventing some fireworks. As Mrs.
Peterkin objected to the use of gunpowder, he found out from the
dictionary what the different parts of gunpowder are,--saltpetre,
charcoal, and sulphur. Charcoal, he discovered, they had in the
wood-house; saltpetre they would find in the cellar, in the beef
barrel; and sulphur they could buy at the apothecary's. He explained
to his mother that these materials had never yet exploded in the
house, and she was quieted.
Agamemnon, meanwhile, remembered a recipe he had read somewhere for
making a "fulminating paste" of iron-filings and powder of brimstone.
He had written it down on a piece of paper in his pocket-book. But the
iron filings must be finely powdered. This they began upon a day or
two before, and the very afternoon before laid out some of the paste
on the piazza.
[Illustration]
Pin-wheels and rockets were contributed by Mr. Peterkin for the
evening. According to a programme drawn up by Agamemnon and Solomon
John, the reading of the Declaration of Independence was to take place
in the morning, on the piazza, under the flags.
The Bromwicks brought over their flag to hang over the door.
"That is what the lady from Philadelphia meant," explained Elizabeth
Eliza.
[Illustration]
"She said the flags of our country," said the little boys. "We thought
she meant 'in the country.'"
Quite a company assembled; but it seemed nobody had a copy of the
Declaration of Independence.
Elizabeth Eliza said she could say one line, if they each could add as
much. But it proved they all knew the same line that she did, as they
began:--
"When, in the course of--when, in the course of--when, in the course
of human--when in the course of human events--when, in the course of
human events, it becomes--when, in the course of human events, it
becomes necessary--when, in the course of human events, it becomes
necessary for one people"--
They could not get any farther. Some of the party decided that "one
people" was a good place to stop, and the little boys sent off some
fresh torpedoes in honor of the people. But Mr. Peterkin was not
satisfied. He invited the assembled party to stay until sunset, and
meanwhile he would find a copy, and torpedoes were to be saved to be
fired off at the close of every sentence.
And now the noon bells rang and the noon bells ceased.
[Illustration]
Mrs. Peterkin wanted to ask everybody to dinner. She should have some
cold beef. She had let Amanda go, because it was the Fourth, and
everybody ought to be free that one day; so she could not have much of
a dinner. But when she went to cut her beef she found Solomon had
taken it to soak, on account of the saltpetre, for the fireworks!
Well, they had a pig; so she took a ham, and the boys had bought
tamarinds and buns and a cocoa-nut. So the company stayed on, and when
the Antiques and Horribles passed again they were treated to pea-nuts
and lemonade.
They sung patriotic songs, they told stories, they fired torpedoes,
they frightened the cats with them. It was a warm afternoon; the red
poppies were out wide, and the hot sun poured down on the alley-ways
in the garden. There was a seething sound of a hot day in the buzzing
of insects, in the steaming heat that came up from the ground. Some
neighboring boys were firing a toy cannon. Every time it went off Mrs.
Peterkin started, and looked to see if one of the little boys was
gone. Mr. Peterkin had set out to find a copy of the "Declaration."
Agamemnon had disappeared. She had not a moment to decide about her
headache. She asked Ann Maria if she were not anxious about the
fireworks, and if rockets were not dangerous. They went up, but you
were never sure where they came down.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
And then came a fresh tumult! All the fire-engines in town rushed
toward them, clanging with bells, men and boys yelling! They were out
for a practice, and for a Fourth-of-July show.
Mrs. Peterkin thought the house was on fire, and so did some of the
guests. There was great rushing hither and thither. Some thought they
would better go home; some thought they would better stay. Mrs.
Peterkin hastened into the house to save herself, or see what she
could save. Elizabeth Eliza followed her, first proceeding to collect
all the pokers and tongs she could find, because they could be thrown
out of the window without breaking. She had read of people who had
flung looking-glasses out of the window by mistake, in the excitement
of the house being on fire, and had carried the pokers and tongs
carefully into the garden. There was nothing like being prepared. She
had always determined to do the reverse. So with calmness she told
Solomon John to take down the looking-glasses. But she met with a
difficulty,--there were no pokers and tongs, as they did not use them.
They had no open fires; Mrs. Peterkin had been afraid of them. So
Elizabeth Eliza took all the pots and kettles up to the upper windows,
ready to be thrown out.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
But where was Mrs. Peterkin? Solomon John found she had fled to the
attic in terror. He persuaded her to come down, assuring her it was
the most unsafe place; but she insisted upon stopping to collect some
bags of old pieces, that nobody would think of saving from the general
wreck, she said, unless she did. Alas! this was the result of
fireworks on Fourth of July! As they came downstairs they heard the
voices of all the company declaring there was no fire; the danger was
past. It was long before Mrs. Peterkin could believe it. They told her
the fire company was only out for show, and to celebrate the Fourth of
July. She thought it already too much celebrated.
[Illustration]
Elizabeth Eliza's kettles and pans had come down through the windows
with a crash, that had only added to the festivities, the little boys
thought.
[Illustration]
Mr. Peterkin had been roaming about all this time in search of a copy
of the Declaration of Independence. The public library was shut, and
he had to go from house to house; but now, as the sunset bells and
cannon began, he returned with a copy, and read it, to the pealing of
the bells and sounding of the cannon. Torpedoes and crackers were
fired at every pause. Some sweet-marjoram pots, tin cans filled with
crackers which were lighted, went off with great explosions.
At the most exciting moment, near the close of the reading, Agamemnon,
with an expression of terror, pulled Solomon John aside.
"I have suddenly remembered where I read about the 'fulminating paste'
we made. It was in the preface to 'Woodstock,' and I have been round
to borrow the book, to read the directions over again, because I was
afraid about the 'paste' going off. READ THIS QUICKLY! and tell me,
_Where is the fulminating paste?_"
Solomon John was busy winding some covers of paper over a little
parcel. It contained chlorate of potash and sulphur mixed. A friend
had told him of the composition. The more thicknesses of paper you put
round it the louder it would go off. You must pound it with a hammer.
Solomon John felt it must be perfectly safe, as his mother had taken
potash for a medicine.
He still held the parcel as he read from Agamemnon's book: "This
paste, when it has lain together about twenty-six hours, will _of
itself_ take fire, and burn all the sulphur away with a blue flame and
a bad smell."
"Where is the paste?" repeated Solomon John, in terror.
"We made it just twenty-six hours ago," said Agamemnon.
"We put it on the piazza," exclaimed Solomon John, rapidly recalling
the facts, "and it is in front of our mother's feet!"