having been in the institution but a few months.
He left another college in consequence of a misunderstanding about the
hour for morning prayers. He went every day regularly at ten o'clock,
but found, afterward, that he should have gone at half-past six. This
hour seemed to him and to Mrs. Peterkin unseasonable, at a time of
year when the sun was not up, and he would have been obliged to go to
the expense of candles.
Agamemnon was always willing to try another college, wherever he could
be admitted. He wanted to attain knowledge, however it might be found.
But, after going to five, and leaving each before the year was out, he
gave it up.
He determined to lay out the money that would have been expended in a
collegiate education in buying an Encyclopaedia, the most complete that
he could find, and to spend his life studying it systematically. He
would not content himself with merely reading it, but he would study
into each subject as it came up, and perfect himself in that subject.
By the time, then, that he had finished the Encyclopaedia he should
have embraced all knowledge, and have experienced much of it.
[Illustration]
The family were much interested in this plan of making practice of
every subject that came up.
He did not, of course, get on very fast in this way. In the second
column of the very first page he met with A as a note in music. This
led him to the study of music. He bought a flute, and took some
lessons, and attempted to accompany Elizabeth Eliza on the piano.
This, of course, distracted him from his work on the Encyclopaedia. But
he did not wish to return to A until he felt perfect in music. This
required a long time.
Then in this same paragraph a reference was made; in it he was
requested to "see Keys." It was necessary, then, to turn to "Keys."
This was about the time the family were moving, which we have
mentioned, when the difficult subject of keys came up, that suggested
to him his own simple invention, and the hope of getting a patent for
it. This led him astray, as inventions before have done with
master-minds, so that he was drawn aside from his regular study.
The family, however, were perfectly satisfied with the career
Agamemnon had chosen. It would help them all, in any path of life, if
he should master the Encyclopaedia in a thorough way.
Mr. Peterkin agreed it would in the end be not as expensive as a
college course, even if Agamemnon should buy all the different
Encyclopaedias that appeared. There would be no "spreads" involved; no
expense of receiving friends at entertainments in college; he could
live at home, so that it would not be necessary to fit up another
room, as at college. At all the times of his leaving he had sold out
favorably to other occupants.
Solomon John's destiny was more uncertain. He was looking forward to
being a doctor some time, but he had not decided whether to be
allopathic or homoeopathic, or whether he could not better invent
his own pills. And he could not understand how to obtain his doctor's
degree.
For a few weeks he acted as clerk in a druggist's store. But he could
serve only in the tooth-brush and soap department, because it was
found he was not familiar enough with the Latin language to compound
the drugs. He agreed to spend his evenings in studying the Latin
grammar; but his course was interrupted by his being dismissed for
treating the little boys too frequently to soda.
[Illustration]
The little boys were going through the schools regularly. The family
had been much exercised with regard to their education. Elizabeth
Eliza felt that everything should be expected from them; they ought to
take advantage from the family mistakes. Every new method that came up
was tried upon the little boys. They had been taught spelling by all
the different systems, and were just able to read, when Mr. Peterkin
learned that it was now considered best that children should not be
taught to read till they were ten years old.
Mrs. Peterkin was in despair. Perhaps, if their books were taken from
them even then, they might forget what they had learned. But no, the
evil was done; the brain had received certain impressions that could
not be blurred over.
This was long ago, however. The little boys had since entered the
public schools. They went also to a gymnasium, and a whittling school,
and joined a class in music, and another in dancing; they went to some
afternoon lectures for children, when there was no other school, and
belonged to a walking-club. Still Mr. Peterkin was dissatisfied by the
slowness of their progress. He visited the schools himself, and found
that they did not lead their classes. It seemed to him a great deal of
time was spent in things that were not instructive, such as putting on
and taking off their india-rubber boots.
[Illustration]
Elizabeth Eliza proposed that they should be taken from school and
taught by Agamemnon from the Encyclopaedia. The rest of the family
might help in the education at all hours of the day. Solomon John
could take up the Latin grammar; and she could give lessons in French.
The little boys were enchanted with the plan, only they did not want
to have the study-hours all the time.
Mr. Peterkin, however, had a magnificent idea, that they should make
their life one grand Object Lesson. They should begin at breakfast,
and study everything put upon the table,--the material of which it was
made, and where it came from. In the study of the letter A, Agamemnon
had embraced the study of music, and from one meal they might gain
instruction enough for a day.
"We shall have the assistance," said Mr. Peterkin, "of Agamemnon, with
his Encyclopaedia."
Agamemnon modestly suggested that he had not yet got out of A, and in
their first breakfast everything would therefore have to begin with A.
"That would not be impossible," said Mr. Peterkin. "There is Amanda,
who will wait on table, to start with"--
"We could have 'am-and-eggs," suggested Solomon John.
Mrs. Peterkin was distressed. It was hard enough to think of anything
for breakfast, and impossible if it all had to begin with one letter.
Elizabeth Eliza thought it would not be necessary. All they were to do
was to ask questions, as in examination papers, and find their answers
as they could. They could still apply to the Encyclopaedia, even if it
were not in Agamemnon's alphabetical course.
[Illustration]
Mr. Peterkin suggested a great variety. One day they would study the
botany of the breakfast-table; another day, its natural history. The
study of butter would include that of the cow. Even that of the
butter-dish would bring in geology. The little boys were charmed at
the idea of learning pottery from the cream-jug, and they were
promised a potter's wheel directly.
"You see, my dear," said Mr. Peterkin to his wife, "before many weeks
we shall be drinking our milk from jugs made by our children."
[Illustration]
Elizabeth Eliza hoped for a thorough study.
"Yes," said Mr. Peterkin, "we might begin with botany. That would be
near to Agamemnon alphabetically. We ought to find out the botany of
butter. On what does the cow feed?"
The little boys were eager to go out and see.
"If she eats clover," said Mr. Peterkin, "we shall expect the botany
of clover."
The little boys insisted that they were to begin the next day; that
very evening they should go out and study the cow.
Mrs. Peterkin sighed, and decided she would order a simple breakfast.
The little boys took their note-books and pencils, and clambered upon
the fence, where they seated themselves in a row.
For there were three little boys. So it was now supposed. They were
always coming in or going out, and it had been difficult to count
them, and nobody was very sure how many there were.
There they sat, however, on the fence, looking at the cow. She looked
at them with large eyes.
"She won't eat," they cried, "while we are looking at her!"
So they turned about, and pretended to look into the street, and
seated themselves that way, turning their heads back, from time to
time, to see the cow.
"Now she is nibbling a clover."
"No, that is a bit of sorrel."
"It's a whole handful of grass."
"What kind of grass?" they exclaimed.
It was very hard, sitting with their backs to the cow, and pretending
to the cow that they were looking into the street, and yet to be
looking at the cow all the time, and finding out what she was eating;
and the upper rail of the fence was narrow and a little sharp. It was
very high, too, for some additional rails had been put on to prevent
the cow from jumping into the garden or street.
[Illustration]
Suddenly, looking out into the hazy twilight, Elizabeth Eliza saw six
legs and six india-rubber boots in the air, and the little boys
disappeared!
"They are tossed by the cow! The little boys are tossed by the cow!"
Mrs. Peterkin rushed for the window, but fainted on the way. Solomon
John and Elizabeth Eliza were hurrying to the door, but stopped, not
knowing what to do next. Mrs. Peterkin recovered herself with a
supreme effort, and sent them out to the rescue.
But what could they do? The fence had been made so high, to keep the
cow out, that nobody could get in. The boy that did the milking had
gone off with the key of the outer gate, and perhaps with the key of
the shed door. Even if that were not locked, before Agamemnon could
get round by the wood-shed and cow-shed, the little boys might be
gored through and through!
Elizabeth Eliza ran to the neighbors, Solomon John to the druggist's
for plasters, while Agamemnon made his way through the dining-room to
the wood-shed and outer-shed door. Mr. Peterkin mounted the outside of
the fence, while Mrs. Peterkin begged him not to put himself in
danger. He climbed high enough to view the scene. He held to the
corner post and reported what he saw.
They were not gored. The cow was at the other end of the lot. One of
the little boys was lying in a bunch of dark leaves. He was moving.
The cow glared, but did not stir. Another little boy was pulling his
india-rubber boots out of the mud. The cow still looked at him.
Another was feeling the top of his head. The cow began to crop the
grass, still looking at him.
Agamemnon had reached and opened the shed door. The little boys were
next seen running toward it.
A crowd of neighbors, with pitchforks, had returned meanwhile with
Elizabeth Eliza. Solomon John had brought four druggists. But, by the
time they had reached the house, the three little boys were safe in
the arms of their mother!
"This is too dangerous a form of education," she cried; "I had rather
they went to school."
"No!" they bravely cried. They were still willing to try the other
way.
THE EDUCATIONAL BREAKFAST.
Mrs. Peterkin's nerves were so shaken by the excitement of the fall of
the three little boys into the enclosure where the cow was kept that
the educational breakfast was long postponed. The little boys
continued at school, as before, and the conversation dwelt as little
as possible upon the subject of education.
Mrs. Peterkin's spirits, however, gradually recovered. The little boys
were allowed to watch the cow at her feed. A series of strings was
arranged by Agamemnon and Solomon John, by which the little boys could
be pulled up, if they should again fall down into the enclosure. These
were planned something like curtain-cords, and Solomon John frequently
amused himself by pulling one of the little boys up or letting him
down.
Some conversation did again fall upon the old difficulty of questions.
Elizabeth Eliza declared that it was not always necessary to answer;
that many who could did not answer questions,--the conductors of the
railroads, for instance, who probably knew the names of all the
stations on a road, but were seldom able to tell them.
"Yes," said Agamemnon, "one might be a conductor without even knowing
the names of the stations, because you can't understand them when they
do tell them!"
"I never know," said Elizabeth Eliza, "whether it is ignorance in
them, or unwillingness, that prevents them from telling you how soon
one station is coming, or how long you are to stop, even if one asks
ever so many times. It would be so useful if they would tell."
[Illustration]
Mrs. Peterkin thought this was carried too far in the horse-cars in
Boston. The conductors had always left you as far as possible from the
place where you wanted to stop; but it seemed a little too much to
have the aldermen take it up, and put a notice in the cars, ordering
the conductors "to stop at the farthest crossing."
Mrs. Peterkin was, indeed, recovering her spirits. She had been
carrying on a brisk correspondence with Philadelphia, that she had
imparted to no one, and at last she announced, as its result, that she
was ready for a breakfast on educational principles.
A breakfast indeed, when it appeared! Mrs. Peterkin had mistaken the
alphabetical suggestion, and had grasped the idea that the whole
alphabet must be represented in one breakfast.
This, therefore, was the bill of fare: Apple-sauce, Bread, Butter,
Coffee, Cream, Doughnuts, Eggs, Fish-balls, Griddles, Ham, Ice (on
butter), Jam, Krout (sour), Lamb-chops, Morning Newspapers, Oatmeal,
Pepper, Quince-marmalade, Rolls, Salt, Tea Urn, Veal-pie, Waffles,
Yeast-biscuit.
Mr. Peterkin was proud and astonished. "Excellent!" he cried. "Every
letter represented except Z." Mrs. Peterkin drew from her pocket a
letter from the lady from Philadelphia. "She thought you would call it
X-cellent for X, and she tells us," she read, "that if you come with a
zest, you will bring the Z."
Mr. Peterkin was enchanted. He only felt that he ought to invite the
children in the primary schools to such a breakfast; what a zest,
indeed, it would give to the study of their letters!
It was decided to begin with Apple-sauce.
"How happy," exclaimed Mr. Peterkin, "that this should come first of
all! A child might be brought up on apple-sauce till he had mastered
the first letter of the alphabet, and could go on to the more involved
subjects hidden in bread, butter, baked beans, etc."
Agamemnon thought his father hardly knew how much was hidden in the
apple. There was all the story of William Tell and the Swiss
independence. The little boys were wild to act William Tell, but Mrs.
Peterkin was afraid of the arrows. Mr. Peterkin proposed they should
begin by eating the apple-sauce, then discussing it, first
botanically, next historically; or perhaps first historically,
beginning with Adam and Eve, and the first apple.
Mrs. Peterkin feared the coffee would be getting cold, and the
griddles were waiting. For herself, she declared she felt more at home
on the marmalade, because the quinces came from grandfather's, and she
had seen them planted; she remembered all about it, and now the bush
came up to the sitting-room window. She seemed to have heard him tell
that the town of Quincy, where the granite came from, was named from
them, and she never quite recollected why, except they were so hard,
as hard as stone, and it took you almost the whole day to stew them,
and then you might as well set them on again.
[Illustration]
Mr. Peterkin was glad to be reminded of the old place at
grandfather's. In order to know thoroughly about apples they ought to
understand the making of cider. Now, they might some time drive up to
grandfather's, scarcely twelve miles away, and see the cider made.
Why, indeed, should not the family go this very day up to
grandfather's and continue the education of the breakfast?
"Why not, indeed?" exclaimed the little boys. A day at grandfather's
would give them the whole process of the apple, from the orchard to
the cider-mill. In this way they could widen the field of study, even
to follow in time the cup of coffee to Java.
It was suggested, too, that at grandfather's they might study the
processes of maple syrup as involved in the griddle-cakes.
[Illustration]
Agamemnon pointed out the connection between the two subjects: they
were both the products of trees,--the apple-tree and the maple. Mr.
Peterkin proposed that the lesson for the day should be considered the
study of trees, and on the way they could look at other trees.
Why not, indeed, go this very day? There was no time like the present.
Their breakfast had been so copious they would scarcely be in a hurry
for dinner, and would, therefore, have the whole day before them.
Mrs. Peterkin could put up the remains of the breakfast for luncheon.
But how should they go? The carryall, in spite of its name, could
hardly take the whole family, though they might squeeze in six, as the
little boys did not take up much room.
Elizabeth Eliza suggested that she could spend the night at
grandfather's. Indeed, she had been planning a visit there, and would
not object to staying some days. This would make it easier about
coming home, but it did not settle the difficulty in getting there.
Why not "Ride and Tie"?
The little boys were fond of walking; so was Mr. Peterkin; and
Agamemnon and Solomon John did not object to their turn. Mrs. Peterkin
could sit in the carriage, when it was waiting for the pedestrians to
come up; or, she said, she did not object to a little turn of walking.
Mr. Peterkin would start, with Solomon John and the little boys,
before the rest, and Agamemnon should drive his mother and Elizabeth
Eliza to the first stopping-place.
[Illustration]
Then came up another question,--of Elizabeth Eliza's trunk. If she
stayed a few days she would need to carry something. It might be hot,
and it might be cold. Just as soon as she carried her thin things she
would need her heaviest wraps. You never could depend upon the
weather. Even "Probabilities" got you no farther than to-day.
In an inspired moment Elizabeth Eliza bethought herself of the
expressman. She would send her trunk by the express, and she left the
table directly to go and pack it. Mrs. Peterkin busied herself with
Amanda over the remains of the breakfast. Mr. Peterkin and Agamemnon
went to order the horse and the expressman, and Solomon John and the
little boys prepared themselves for a pedestrian excursion.
Elizabeth Eliza found it difficult to pack in a hurry; there were so
many things she might want, and then again she might not. She must put
up her music, because her grandfather had a piano; and then she
bethought herself of Agamemnon's flute, and decided to pick out a
volume or two of the Encyclopaedia. But it was hard to decide, all by
herself, whether to take G for griddle-cakes, or M for maple-syrup, or
T for tree. She would take as many as she could make room for. She put
up her work-box and two extra work-baskets, and she must take some
French books she had never yet found time to read. This involved
taking her French dictionary, as she doubted if her grandfather had
one. She ought to put in a "Botany," if they were to study trees; but
she could not tell which, so she would take all there were. She might
as well take all her dresses, and it was no harm if one had too many
wraps. When she had her trunk packed she found it over-full; it was
difficult to shut it. She had heard Solomon John set out from the
front door with his father and the little boys, and Agamemnon was busy
holding the horse at the side door, so there was no use in calling for
help. She got upon the trunk; she jumped upon it; she sat down upon
it, and, leaning over, found she could lock it! Yes, it was really
locked.
[Illustration]
But, on getting down from the trunk, she found her dress had been
caught in the lid; she could not move away from it! What was worse,
she was so fastened to the trunk that she could not lean forward far
enough to turn the key back, to unlock the trunk and release herself!
The lock had slipped easily, but she could not now get hold of the key
in the right way to turn it back.
She tried to pull her dress away. No, it was caught too firmly. She
called for help to her mother or Amanda, to come and open the trunk.
But her door was shut. Nobody near enough to hear! She tried to pull
the trunk toward the door, to open it and make herself heard; but it
was so heavy that, in her constrained position, she could not stir it.
In her agony she would have been willing to have torn her dress; but
it was her travelling dress, and too stout to tear. She might cut it
carefully. Alas, she had packed her scissors, and her knife she had
lent to the little boys the day before! She called again. What silence
there was in the house! Her voice seemed to echo through the room. At
length, as she listened, she heard the sound of wheels.
Was it the carriage, rolling away from the side door? Did she hear the
front door shut? She remembered then that Amanda was to "have the
day." But she, Elizabeth Eliza, was to have spoken to Amanda, to
explain to her to wait for the expressman. She was to have told her as
she went downstairs. But she had not been able to go downstairs! And
Amanda must have supposed that all the family had left, and she, too,
must have gone, knowing nothing of the expressman. Yes, she heard the
wheels! She heard the front door shut!
But could they have gone without her? Then she recalled that she had
proposed walking on a little way with Solomon John and her father, to
be picked up by Mrs. Peterkin, if she should have finished her packing
in time. Her mother must have supposed that she had done so,--that she
had spoken to Amanda, and started with the rest. Well, she would soon
discover her mistake. She would overtake the walking party, and, not
finding Elizabeth Eliza, would return for her. Patience only was
needed. She had looked around for something to read; but she had
packed up all her books. She had packed her knitting. How quiet and
still it was! She tried to imagine where her mother would meet the
rest of the family. They were good walkers, and they might have
reached the two-mile bridge. But suppose they should stop for water
beneath the arch of the bridge, as they often did, and the carryall
pass over it without seeing them, her mother would not know but she
was with them? And suppose her mother should decide to leave the horse
at the place proposed for stopping and waiting for the first
pedestrian party, and herself walk on, no one would be left to tell
the rest when they should come up to the carryall. They might go on
so, through the whole journey, without meeting, and she might not be
missed till they should reach her grandfather's!
Horrible thought! She would be left here alone all day. The expressman
would come, but the expressman would go, for he would not be able to
get into the house!
She thought of the terrible story of Ginevra, of the bride who was
shut up in her trunk, and forever! She was shut up on hers, and knew
not when she should be released! She had acted once in the ballad of
the "Mistletoe Bough." She had been one of the "guests," who had sung
"Oh, the Mistletoe Bough!" and had looked up at it, and she had seen
at the side-scenes how the bride had laughingly stepped into the
trunk. But the trunk then was only a make-believe of some boards in
front of a sofa, and this was a stern reality.
[Illustration]
It would be late now before her family would reach her grandfather's.
Perhaps they would decide to spend the night. Perhaps they would fancy
she was coming by express. She gave another tremendous effort to move
the trunk toward the door. In vain. All was still.
[Illustration]
Meanwhile, Mrs. Peterkin sat some time at the door, wondering why
Elizabeth Eliza did not come down. Mr. Peterkin had started on, with
Solomon John and all the little boys. Agamemnon had packed the things
into the carriage,--a basket of lunch, a change of shoes for Mr.
Peterkin, some extra wraps,--everything that Mrs. Peterkin could think
of for the family comfort. Still Elizabeth Eliza did not come. "I
think she must have walked on with your father," she said, at last;
"you had better get in." Agamemnon now got in. "I should think she
would have mentioned it," she continued; "but we may as well start on,
and pick her up!" They started off. "I hope Elizabeth Eliza thought to
speak to Amanda, but we must ask her when we come up with her."