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THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS,
With Others of their kin.
BY LUCRETIA P. HALE.
* * * * *
BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
1906.
_Copyright, 1886_,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
Printers
S.J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.
TO
THE LADY FROM PHILADELPHIA,
BELOVED BY THE PETERKIN FAMILY,
This Book is Dedicated.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
The following Papers contain the last records of the Peterkin Family,
who unhappily ventured to leave their native land and have never
returned. Elizabeth Eliza's Commonplace Book has been found among the
family papers, and will be published here for the first time. It is
evident that she foresaw that the family were ill able to contend with
the commonplace struggle of life; and we may not wonder that they could
not survive the unprecedented, far away from the genial advice of
friends, especially that of the Lady from Philadelphia.
It is feared that Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin lost their lives after leaving
Tobolsk, perhaps in some vast conflagration.
Agamemnon and Solomon John were probably sacrificed in some effort to
join in or control the disturbances which arose in the distant places
where they had established themselves,--Agamemnon in Madagascar, Solomon
John in Rustchuk.
The little boys have merged into men in some German university, while
Elizabeth Eliza must have been lost in the mazes of the Russian language.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
The Last of the Peterkins.
CHAPTER
I. ELIZABETH ELIZA WRITES A PAPER
II. ELIZABETH ELIZA'S COMMONPLACE-BOOK
III. THE PETERKINS PRACTISE TRAVELLING
IV. THE PETERKINS' EXCURSION FOR MAPLE SUGAR
V. THE PETERKINS "AT HOME"
VI. MRS. PETERKIN IN EGYPT
VII. MRS. PETERKIN FAINTS ON THE GREAT PYRAMID
VIII. THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS
Others of their Kin.
IX. LUCILLA'S DIARY
X. JEDIDIAH'S NOAH'S ARK
XI. CARRIE'S THREE WISHES
XII. "WHERE CAN THOSE BOYS BE?"
XIII. A PLACE FOR OSCAR
XIV. THE FIRST NEEDLE
* * * * *
THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS.
I.
ELIZABETH ELIZA WRITES A PAPER.
Elizabeth Eliza joined the Circumambient Club with the idea that it
would be a long time before she, a new member, would have to read a
paper. She would have time to hear the other papers read, and to see how
it was done; and she would find it easy when her turn came. By that time
she would have some ideas; and long before she would be called upon,
she would have leisure to sit down and write out something. But a year
passed away, and the time was drawing near. She had, meanwhile, devoted
herself to her studies, and had tried to inform herself on all subjects
by way of preparation. She had consulted one of the old members of the
Club as to the choice of a subject.
"Oh, write about anything," was the answer,--"anything you have been
thinking of."
Elizabeth Eliza was forced to say she had not been thinking lately. She
had not had time. The family had moved, and there was always an
excitement about something, that prevented her sitting down to think.
"Why not write out your family adventures?" asked the old member.
Elizabeth Eliza was sure her mother would think it made them too public;
and most of the Club papers, she observed, had some thought in them. She
preferred to find an idea.
[Illustration: Elizabeth Eliza writes a paper.]
So she set herself to the occupation of thinking. She went out on
the piazza to think; she stayed in the house to think. She tried a
corner of the china-closet. She tried thinking in the cars, and lost her
pocket-book; she tried it in the garden, and walked into the strawberry
bed. In the house and out of the house, it seemed to be the same,--she
could not think of anything to think of. For many weeks she was seen
sitting on the sofa or in the window, and nobody disturbed her. "She is
thinking about her paper," the family would say, but she only knew that
she could not think of anything.
Agamemnon told her that many writers waited till the last moment, when
inspiration came which was much finer than anything studied. Elizabeth
Eliza thought it would be terrible to wait till the last moment, if the
inspiration should not come! She might combine the two ways,--wait till
a few days before the last, and then sit down and write anyhow. This
would give a chance for inspiration, while she would not run the risk
of writing nothing.
She was much discouraged. Perhaps she had better give it up? But, no;
everybody wrote a paper: if not now, she would have to do it sometime!
And at last the idea of a subject came to her! But it was as hard to
find a moment to write as to think. The morning was noisy, till the
little boys had gone to school; for they had begun again upon their
regular course, with the plan of taking up the study of cider in
October. And after the little boys had gone to school, now it was one
thing, now it was another,--the china-closet to be cleaned, or one of
the neighbors in to look at the sewing-machine. She tried after dinner,
but would fall asleep. She felt that evening would be the true time,
after the cares of day were over.
The Peterkins had wire mosquito-nets all over the house,--at every door
and every window. They were as eager to keep out the flies as the
mosquitoes. The doors were all furnished with strong springs, that
pulled the doors to as soon as they were opened. The little boys had
practised running in and out of each door, and slamming it after them.
This made a good deal of noise, for they had gained great success in
making one door slam directly after another, and at times would keep up
a running volley of artillery, as they called it, with the slamming of
the doors. Mr. Peterkin, however, preferred it to flies.
So Elizabeth Eliza felt she would venture to write of a summer evening
with all the windows open.
She seated herself one evening in the library, between two large
kerosene lamps, with paper, pen, and ink before her. It was a beautiful
night, with the smell of the roses coming in through the mosquito-nets,
and just the faintest odor of kerosene by her side. She began upon her
work. But what was her dismay! She found herself immediately surrounded
with mosquitoes. They attacked her at every point. They fell upon her
hand as she moved it to the inkstand; they hovered, buzzing, over her
head; they planted themselves under the lace of her sleeve. If she moved
her left hand to frighten them off from one point, another band fixed
themselves upon her right hand. Not only did they flutter and sting, but
they sang in a heathenish manner, distracting her attention as she tried
to write, as she tried to waft them off. Nor was this all. Myriads of
June-bugs and millers hovered round, flung themselves into the lamps,
and made disagreeable funeral-pyres of themselves, tumbling noisily on
her paper in their last unpleasant agonies. Occasionally one darted with
a rush toward Elizabeth Eliza's head.
If there was anything Elizabeth Eliza had a terror of, it was a
June-bug. She had heard that they had a tendency to get into the hair.
One had been caught in the hair of a friend of hers, who had long
luxuriant hair. But the legs of the June-bug were caught in it like
fish-hooks, and it had to be cut out, and the June-bug was only
extricated by sacrificing large masses of the flowing locks.
Elizabeth Eliza flung her handkerchief over her head. Could she
sacrifice what hair she had to the claims of literature? She gave a cry
of dismay.
The little boys rushed in a moment to the rescue. They flapped
newspapers, flung sofa-cushions; they offered to stand by her side
with fly-whisks, that she might be free to write. But the struggle
was too exciting for her, and the flying insects seemed to increase.
Moths of every description--large brown moths, small, delicate white
millers--whirled about her, while the irritating hum of the mosquito
kept on more than ever. Mr. Peterkin and the rest of the family came in
to inquire about the trouble. It was discovered that each of the little
boys had been standing in the opening of a wire door for some time,
watching to see when Elizabeth Eliza would have made her preparations
and would begin to write. Countless numbers of dorbugs and winged
creatures of every description had taken occasion to come in. It was
found that they were in every part of the house.
"We might open all the blinds and screens," suggested Agamemnon, "and
make a vigorous onslaught and drive them all out at once."
"I do believe there are more inside than out now," said Solomon John.
"The wire nets, of course," said Agamemnon, "keep them in now."
"We might go outside," proposed Solomon John, "and drive in all that are
left. Then to-morrow morning, when they are all torpid, kill them and
make collections of them."
Agamemnon had a tent which he had provided in case he should ever go to
the Adirondacks, and he proposed using it for the night. The little boys
were wild for this.
Mrs. Peterkin thought she and Elizabeth Eliza would prefer trying to
sleep in the house. But perhaps Elizabeth Eliza would go on with her
paper with more comfort out of doors.
A student's lamp was carried out, and she was established on the steps
of the back piazza, while screens were all carefully closed to prevent
the mosquitoes and insects from flying out. But it was of no use. There
were outside still swarms of winged creatures that plunged themselves
about her, and she had not been there long before a huge miller flung
himself into the lamp and put it out. She gave up for the evening.
Still the paper went on. "How fortunate," exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza,
"that I did not put it off till the last evening!" Having once begun,
she persevered in it at every odd moment of the day. Agamemnon presented
her with a volume of "Synonymes," which was of great service to her. She
read her paper, in its various stages, to Agamemnon first, for his
criticism, then to her father in the library, then to Mr. and Mrs.
Peterkin together, next to Solomon John, and afterward to the whole
family assembled. She was almost glad that the lady from Philadelphia
was not in town, as she wished it to be her own unaided production. She
declined all invitations for the week before the night of the club, and
on the very day she kept her room with _eau sucrée_, that she might
save her voice. Solomon John provided her with Brown's Bronchial Troches
when the evening came, and Mrs. Peterkin advised a handkerchief over her
head, in case of June-bugs. It was, however, a cool night. Agamemnon
escorted her to the house.
The Club met at Ann Maria Bromwick's. No gentlemen were admitted to the
regular meetings. There were what Solomon John called "occasional annual
meetings," to which they were invited, when all the choicest papers of
the year were re-read.
Elizabeth Eliza was placed at the head of the room, at a small table,
with a brilliant gas-jet on one side. It was so cool the windows could
be closed. Mrs. Peterkin, as a guest, sat in the front row.
This was her paper, as Elizabeth Eliza read it, for she frequently
inserted fresh expressions:--
THE SUN.
It is impossible that much can be known about it. This is why we
have taken it up as a subject. We mean the sun that lights us by
day and leaves us by night. In the first place, it is so far off.
No measuring-tapes could reach it; and both the earth and the sun are
moving about so, that it would be difficult to adjust ladders to reach
it, if we could. Of course, people have written about it, and there are
those who have told us how many miles off it is. But it is a very large
number, with a great many figures in it; and though it is taught in most
if not all of our public schools, it is a chance if any one of the
scholars remembers exactly how much it is.
It is the same with its size. We cannot, as we have said, reach it
by ladders to measure it; and if we did reach it, we should have no
measuring-tapes large enough, and those that shut up with springs are
difficult to use in a high place. We are told, it is true, in a great
many of the school-books, the size of the sun; but, again, very few of
those who have learned the number have been able to remember it after
they have recited it, even if they remembered it then. And almost all of
the scholars have lost their school-books, or have neglected to carry
them home, and so they are not able to refer to them,--I mean, after
leaving school. I must say that is the case with me, I should say with
us, though it was different. The older ones gave their school-books to
the younger ones, who took them back to school to lose them, or who have
destroyed them when there were no younger ones to go to school. I should
say there are such families. What I mean is, the fact that in some
families there are no younger children to take off the school-books. But
even then they are put away on upper shelves, in closets or in attics,
and seldom found if wanted,--if then, dusty.
Of course, we all know of a class of persons called astronomers, who
might be able to give us information on the subject in hand, and who
probably do furnish what information is found in school-books. It should
be observed, however, that these astronomers carry on their observations
always in the night. Now, it is well known that the sun does not shine
in the night. Indeed, that is one of the peculiarities of the night,
that there is no sun to light us, so we have to go to bed as long as
there is nothing else we can do without its light, unless we use lamps,
gas, or kerosene, which is very well for the evening, but would be
expensive all night long; the same with candles. How, then, can we
depend upon their statements, if not made from their own observation?--I
mean, if they never saw the sun?
We cannot expect that astronomers should give us any valuable
information with regard to the sun, which they never see, their
occupation compelling them to be up at night. It is quite likely that
they never see it; for we should not expect them to sit up all day as
well as all night, as, under such circumstances, their lives would not
last long.
Indeed, we are told that their name is taken from the word _aster_,
which means "star;" the word is "aster--know--more." This, doubtless,
means that they know more about the stars than other things. We see,
therefore, that their knowledge is confined to the stars, and we cannot
trust what they have to tell us of the sun.
There are other asters which should not be mixed up with these,--we mean
those growing by the wayside in the fall of the year. The astronomers,
from their nocturnal habits, can scarcely be acquainted with them; but
as it does not come within our province, we will not inquire.
We are left, then, to seek our own information about the sun. But we
are met with a difficulty. To know a thing, we must look at it. How can
we look at the sun? It is so very bright that our eyes are dazzled in
gazing upon it. We have to turn away, or they would be put out,--the
sight, I mean. It is true, we might use smoked glass, but that is apt to
come off on the nose. How, then, if we cannot look at it, can we find
out about it? The noonday would seem to be the better hour, when it is
the sunniest; but, besides injuring the eyes, it is painful to the neck
to look up for a long time. It is easy to say that our examination of
this heavenly body should take place at sunrise, when we could look at
it more on a level, without having to endanger the spine. But how many
people are up at sunrise? Those who get up early do it because they are
compelled to, and have something else to do than look at the sun.
The milkman goes forth to carry the daily milk, the ice-man to leave
the daily ice. But either of these would be afraid of exposing their
vehicles to the heating orb of day,--the milkman afraid of turning the
milk, the ice-man timorous of melting his ice,--and they probably avoid
those directions where they shall meet the sun's rays. The student, who
might inform us, has been burning the midnight oil. The student is not
in the mood to consider the early sun.
There remains to us the evening, also,--the leisure hour of the day.
But, alas! our houses are not built with an adaptation to this subject.
They are seldom made to look toward the sunset. A careful inquiry and
close observation, such as have been called for in preparation of this
paper, have developed the fact that not a single house in this town
faces the sunset! There may be windows looking that way, but in such a
case there is always a barn between. I can testify to this from personal
observations, because, with my brothers, we have walked through the
several streets of this town with notebooks, carefully noting every
house looking upon the sunset, and have found none from which the sunset
could be studied. Sometimes it was the next house, sometimes a row of
houses, or its own wood-house, that stood in the way.
Of course, a study of the sun might be pursued out of doors. But in
summer, sunstroke would be likely to follow; in winter, neuralgia and
cold. And how could you consult your books, your dictionaries, your
encyclopædias? There seems to be no hour of the day for studying the
sun. You might go to the East to see it at its rising, or to the West
to gaze upon its setting, but--you don't.
* * * * *
Here Elizabeth Eliza came to a pause. She had written five different
endings, and had brought them all, thinking, when the moment came,
she would choose one of them. She was pausing to select one, and
inadvertently said, to close the phrase, "you don't." She had not meant
to use the expression, which she would not have thought sufficiently
imposing,--it dropped out unconsciously,--but it was received as a close
with rapturous applause.
She had read slowly, and now that the audience applauded at such a
length, she had time to feel she was much exhausted and glad of an end.
Why not stop there, though there were some pages more? Applause, too,
was heard from the outside. Some of the gentlemen had come,--Mr.
Peterkin, Agamemnon, and Solomon John, with others,--and demanded
admission.
"Since it is all over, let them in," said Ann Maria Bromwick.
Elizabeth Eliza assented, and rose to shake hands with her applauding
friends.
II.
ELIZABETH ELIZA'S COMMONPLACE-BOOK.
I am going to jot down, from time to time, any suggestions that occur
to me that will be of use in writing another paper, in case I am called
upon. I might be asked unexpectedly for certain occasions, if anybody
happened to be prevented from coming to a meeting.
I have not yet thought of a subject, but I think that is not of as much
consequence as to gather the ideas. It seems as if the ideas might
suggest the subject, even if the subject does not suggest the ideas.
Now, often a thought occurs to me in the midst, perhaps, of conversation
with others; but I forget it afterwards, and spend a great deal of time
in trying to think what it was I was thinking of, which might have been
very valuable.
I have indeed, of late, been in the habit of writing such thoughts on
scraps of paper, and have often left the table to record some idea that
occurred to me; but, looking up the paper and getting ready to write it,
the thought has escaped me.
Then again, when I have written it, it has been on the backs of
envelopes or the off sheet of a note, and it has been lost, perhaps
thrown into the scrap-basket. Amanda is a little careless about such
things; and, indeed, I have before encouraged her in throwing away old
envelopes, which do not seem of much use otherwise, so perhaps she is
not to blame.
* * * * *
The more I think of it, the more does it seem to me there would be an
advantage if everybody should have the same number to their houses,--of
course not everybody, but everybody acquainted. It is so hard to
remember all the numbers; the streets you are not so likely to forget.
Friends might combine to have the same number. What made me think of it
was that we do have the same number as the Easterlys. To be sure, we are
out of town, and they are in Boston; but it makes it so convenient, when
I go into town to see the Easterlys, to remember that their number is
the same as ours.
* * * * *
Agamemnon has lost his new silk umbrella. Yet the case was marked with
his name in full, and the street address and the town. Of course he left
the case at home, going out in the rain. He might have carried it with
the address in his pocket, yet this would not have helped after losing
the umbrella. Why not have a pocket for the case in the umbrella?
* * * * *
In shaking the dust from a dress, walk slowly backwards. This prevents
the dust from falling directly on the dress again.
* * * * *
On Carving Duck.--It is singular that I can never get so much off the
breast as other people do.
Perhaps I have it set on wrong side up.
* * * * *
I wonder why they never have catalogues for libraries arranged from the
last letter of the name instead of the first.
There is our Italian teacher whose name ends with a "j," which I should
remember much easier than the first letter, being so odd.
* * * * *
I cannot understand why a man should want to marry his wife's deceased
sister. If she is dead, indeed, how can he? And if he has a wife, how
wrong! I am very glad there is a law against it.
* * * * *
It is well, in prosperity, to be brought up as though you were living in
adversity; then, if you have to go back to adversity, it is all the
same.
On the other hand, it might be as well, in adversity, to act as though
you were living in prosperity; otherwise, you would seem to lose the
prosperity either way.
* * * * *
Solomon John has invented a new extinguisher. It is to represent a Turk
smoking a pipe, which is to be hollow, and lets the smoke out. A very
pretty idea!
* * * * *
A bee came stumbling into my room this morning, as it has done every
spring since we moved here,--perhaps not the same bee. I think there
must have been a family bee-line across this place before ever a house
was built here, and the bees are trying for it every year.
Perhaps we ought to cut a window opposite.
There's room enough in the world for me and thee; go thou and trouble
some one else,--as the man said when he put the fly out of the window.
* * * * *
Ann Maria thinks it would be better to fix upon a subject first; but
then she has never yet written a paper herself, so she does not realize
that you have to have some thoughts before you can write them. She
should think, she says, that I would write about something that I see.
But of what use is it for me to write about what everybody is seeing,
as long as they can see it as well as I do?
* * * * *
The paper about emergencies read last week was one of the best I ever
heard; but, of course, it would not be worth while for me to write the
same, even if I knew enough.
* * * * *
My commonplace-book ought to show me what to do for common things; and
then I can go to lectures, or read the "Rules of Emergencies" for the
uncommon ones.
Because, as a family, I think we are more troubled about what to do
on the common occasions than on the unusual ones. Perhaps because the
unusual things don't happen to us, or very seldom; and for the uncommon
things, there is generally some one you can ask.
I suppose there really is not as much danger about these uncommon things
as there is in the small things, because they don't happen so often, and
because you are more afraid of them.
I never saw it counted up, but I conclude that more children tumble into
mud-puddles than into the ocean or Niagara Falls, for instance. It was
so, at least, with our little boys; but that may have been partly
because they never saw the ocean till last summer, and have never been
to Niagara. To be sure, they had seen the harbor from the top of Bunker
Hill Monument, but there they could not fall in. They might have fallen
off from the top of the monument, but did not. I am sure, for our little
boys, they have never had the remarkable things happen to them. I
suppose because they were so dangerous that they did not try them, like
firing at marks and rowing boats. If they had used guns, they might
have shot themselves or others; but guns have never been allowed in the
house. My father thinks it is dangerous to have them. They might go
off unexpected. They would require us to have gunpowder and shot in the
house, which would be dangerous. Amanda, too, is a little careless.
And we never shall forget the terrible time when the "fulminating paste"
went off one Fourth of July. It showed what might happen even if you did
not keep gunpowder in the house.
To be sure, Agamemnon and Solomon John are older now, and might learn
the use of fire-arms; but even then they might shoot the wrong
person--the policeman or some friends coming into the house--instead of
the burglar.
And I have read of safe burglars going about. I don't know whether it
means that it is safe for them or for us; I hope it is the latter.
Perhaps it means that they go without fire-arms, making it safer for
them.
* * * * *
I have the "Printed Rules for Emergencies," which will be of great use,
as I should be apt to forget which to do for which. I mean I should be
quite likely to do for burns and scalds what I ought to do for cramp.
And when a person is choking, I might sponge from head to foot, which
is what I ought to do to prevent a cold.
But I hope I shall not have a chance to practise. We have never had the
case of a broken leg, and it would hardly be worth while to break one on
purpose.
Then we have had no cases of taking poison, or bites from mad dogs,
perhaps partly because we don't keep either poison or dogs; but then our
neighbors might, and we ought to be prepared. We do keep cats, so that
we do not need to have poison for the rats; and in this way we avoid
both dangers,--from the dogs going mad, and from eating the poison by
mistake instead of the rats.
To be sure, we don't quite get rid of the rats, and need a trap for the
mice; but if you have a good family cat it is safer.
* * * * *
About window-curtains--I mean the drapery ones--we have the same trouble
in deciding every year. We did not put any in the parlor windows when we
moved, only window-shades, because there were so many things to be done,
and we wanted time to make up our minds as to what we would have.
But that was years ago, and we have not decided yet, though we consider
the subject every spring and fall.
The trouble is, if we should have heavy damask ones like the Bromwicks',
it would be very dark in the winter, on account of the new, high
building opposite.
Now, we like as much light as we can get in the winter, so we have
always waited till summer, thinking we would have some light muslin
ones, or else of the new laces. But in summer we like to have the room
dark, and the sun does get round in the morning quite dazzling on the
white shades. (We might have dark-colored shades, but there would be the
same trouble of its being too dark in the winter.)
We seem to need the heavy curtains in summer and the light curtains in
winter, which would look odd. Besides, in winter we do need the heavy
curtains to shut out the draughts, while in summer we like all the air
we can get.
I have been looking for a material that shall shut out the air and yet
let in the light, or else shut out the light and let in the air; or else
let in the light when you want it, and not when you don't. I have not
found it yet; but there are so many new inventions that I dare say I
shall come across it in time. They seem to have invented everything
except a steamer that won't go up and down as well as across.
* * * * *
I never could understand about averages. I can't think why people are so
fond of taking them,--men generally. It seems to me they tell anything
but the truth. They try to tell what happens every evening, and they
don't tell one evening right.
There was our Free Evening Cooking-school. We had a class of fourteen
girls; and they admired it, and liked nothing better, and attended
regularly. But Ann Maria made out the report according to the average of
attendance on the whole number of nights in the ten weeks of the school,
one evening a week; so she gave the numbers 12-3/5 each night.
Now the fact was, they all came every night except one, when there was
such a storm, nobody went,--not even the teacher, nor Ann Maria, nor any
of us. It snowed and it hailed and the wind blew, and our steps were so
slippery Amanda could not go out to put on ashes; ice even on the upper
steps. The janitor, who makes the fire, set out to go; but she was blown
across the street, into the gutter. She did succeed in getting in to Ann
Maria's, who said it was foolish to attempt it, and that nobody would
go; and I am not sure but she spent the night there,--at Ann Maria's, I
mean. Still, Ann Maria had to make up the account of the number of
evenings of the whole course.
But it looks, in the report, as though there were never the whole
fourteen there, and as though 1-2/5 of a girl stayed away every night,
when the facts are we did not have a single absence, and the whole
fourteen were there every night, except the night there was no school;
and I have been told they all had on their things to come that night,
but their mothers would not let them,--those that had mothers,--and they
would have been blown away if they had come.
It seems to me the report does not present the case right, on account of
the averages.
I think it is indeed the common things that trouble one to decide about,
as I have said, since for the remarkable ones one can have advice. The
way we do on such occasions is to ask our friends, especially the lady
from Philadelphia.
Whatever we should have done without her, I am sure I cannot tell, for
her advice is always inestimable. To be sure, she is not always here;
but there is the daily mail (twice from here to Boston), and the
telegraph, and to some places the telephone.
But for some common things there is not time for even the telephone.
* * * * *
Yesterday morning, for instance, going into Boston in the early train,
I took the right side for a seat, as is natural, though I noticed that
most of the passengers were crowding into the seats on the other side.
I found, as we left the station, that I was on the sunny side, which was
very uncomfortable. So I made up my mind to change sides, coming out.
But, unexpectedly, I stayed in till afternoon at Mrs. Easterly's. It
seems she had sent a note to ask me (which I found at night all right,
when I got home), as Mr. Easterly was away. So I did not go out till
afternoon. I did remember my determination to change sides in going out,
and as I took the right going in, not to take the right going out. But
then I remembered, as it was afternoon, the sun would have changed; so
if the right side was wrong in the morning, it would be right in the
afternoon. At any rate, it would be safe to take the other side. I did
observe that most of the people took the opposite side, the left side;
but I supposed they had not stopped to calculate.
When we came out of the station and from under the bridges, I found I
was sitting in the sun again, the same way as in the morning, in spite
of all my reasoning. Ann Maria, who had come late and taken the last
seat on the other side, turned round and called across to me, "Why do
you always take the sunny side? Do you prefer it?" I was sorry not to
explain it to her, but she was too far off.
It might be safe to do what most of the other people do, when you cannot
stop to inquire; but you cannot always tell, since very likely they may
be mistaken. And then if they have taken all the seats, there is not
room left for you. Still, this time, in coming out, I had reached the
train in plenty of season, and might have picked out my seat, but then
there was nobody there to show where most of the people would go. I
might have changed when I saw where most would go; but I hate changing,
and the best seats were all taken.
* * * * *
My father thinks it would be a good plan for Amanda to go to the
Lectures on Physics. She has lived with us a great many years, and she
still breaks as many things as she did at the beginning.
Dr. Murtrie, who was here the other night, said he learned when quite a
boy, from some book on Physics, that if he placed some cold water in the
bottom of a pitcher, before pouring in boiling-hot water, it would not
break. Also, that in washing a glass or china pitcher in very hot water,
the outside and inside should be in the hot water, or, as he said,
should feel the hot water at the same time. I don't quite understand
exactly how, unless the pitcher has a large mouth, when it might be put
in sideways.
He told the reasons, which, being scientific, I cannot remember or
understand.
If Amanda had known about this, she might have saved a great deal of
valuable glass and china. Though it has not always been from hot water,
the breaking, for I often think she has not the water hot enough; but
often from a whole tray-full sliding out of her hand, as she was coming
up-stairs, and everything on it broke.
But Dr. Murtrie said if she had learned more of the Laws of Physics she
would not probably so often tip over the waiter.
The trouble is, however, remembering at the right time. She might have
known the law perfectly well, and forgotten it just on the moment, or
her dress coming in the way may have prevented.
Still, I should like very well myself to go to the Lectures on Physics.
Perhaps I could find out something about scissors,--why it is they do
always tumble down, and usually, though so heavy, without any noise, so
that you do not know that they have fallen. I should say they had no
law, because sometimes they are far under the sofa in one direction, or
hidden behind the leg of the table in another, or perhaps not even on
the floor, but buried in the groove at the back of the easy-chair, and
you never find them till you have the chair covered again. I do feel
always in the back of the chair now; but Amanda found mine, yesterday,
in the groove of the sofa.
* * * * *
It is possible Elizabeth Eliza may have taken the remaining sheets of
her commonplace-book abroad with her. We have not been able to recover
them.
III.
THE PETERKINS PRACTISE TRAVELLING.
Long ago Mrs. Peterkin had been afraid of the Mohammedans, and would
have dreaded to travel among them; but since the little boys had taken
lessons of the Turk, and she had become familiar with his costume and
method of sitting, she had felt less fear of them as a nation.
To be sure, the Turk had given but few lessons, as, soon after making
his engagement, he had been obliged to go to New York to join a
tobacconist's firm. Mr. Peterkin had not regretted his payment for
instruction in advance; for the Turk had been very urbane in his
manners, and had always assented to whatever the little boys or any of
the family had said to him.
Mrs. Peterkin had expressed a desire to see the famous Cleopatra's
Needle which had been brought from Egypt. She had heard it was something
gigantic for a needle, and it would be worth a journey to New York. She
wondered at their bringing it such a distance, and would have supposed
that some of Cleopatra's family would have objected to it if they were
living now.
Agamemnon said that was the truth; there was no one left to object; they
were all mummies under ground, with such heavy pyramids over them that
they would not easily rise to object.
Mr. Peterkin feared that all the pyramids would be brought away in time.
Agamemnon said there were a great many remaining in Egypt. Still, he
thought it would be well to visit Egypt soon, before they were all
brought away, and nothing but the sand left. Mrs. Peterkin said she
would be almost as willing to travel to Egypt as to New York, and it
would seem more worth while to go so far to see a great many than to go
to New York only for one needle.
"That would certainly be a needless expense," suggested Solomon John.
Elizabeth Eliza was anxious to see the Sphinx. Perhaps it would answer
some of the family questions that troubled them day after day.
Agamemnon felt it would be a great thing for the education of the little
boys. If they could have begun with the Egyptian hieroglyphics before
they had learned their alphabet, they would have begun at the right end.
Perhaps it was not too late now to take them to Egypt, and let them
begin upon its old learning. The little boys declared it was none too
late. They could not say the alphabet backward now, and could never
remember whether _u_ came before _v_; and the voyage would be
a long one, and before they reached Egypt, very likely they would have
forgotten all.
It was about this voyage that Mrs. Peterkin had much doubt. What she was
afraid of was getting in and out of the ships and boats. She was afraid
of tumbling into the water between, when she left the wharf. Elizabeth
Eliza agreed with her mother in this, and began to calculate how many
times they would have to change between Boston and Egypt.
There was the ferry-boat across to East Boston would make two changes;
one more to get on board the steamer; then Liverpool--no, to land at
Queenstown would make two more,--four, five changes; Liverpool, six.
Solomon John brought the map, and they counted up. Dover, seven; Calais,
eight; Marseilles, nine; Malta, if they landed, ten, eleven; and
Alexandria, twelve changes.
Mrs. Peterkin shuddered at the possibilities, not merely for herself,
but for the family. She could fall in but once, but by the time they
should reach Egypt, how many would be left out of a family of eight?
Agamemnon began to count up the contingencies. Eight times twelve would
make ninety-six chances (8 × 12 = 96). Mrs. Peterkin felt as if all
might be swept off before the end could be reached.
Solomon John said it was not usual to allow more than one chance in a
hundred. People always said "one in a hundred," as though that were the
usual thing expected. It was not at all likely that the whole family
would be swept off.
Mrs. Peterkin was sure they would not want to lose one; they could
hardly pick out which they could spare, she felt certain. Agamemnon
declared there was no necessity for such risks. They might go directly
by some vessel from Boston to Egypt.
Solomon John thought they might give up Egypt, and content themselves
with Rome. "All roads lead to Rome;" so it would not be difficult to
find their way.
But Mrs. Peterkin was afraid to go. She had heard you must do as the
Romans did if you went to Rome; and there were some things she certainly
should not like to do that they did. There was that brute who killed
Cæsar! And she should not object to the long voyage. It would give them
time to think it all over.
Mr. Peterkin thought they ought to have more practice in travelling, to
accustom themselves to emergencies. It would be fatal to start on so
long a voyage and to find they were not prepared. Why not make their
proposed excursion to the cousins at Gooseberry Beach, which they had
been planning all summer? There they could practise getting in and out
of a boat, and accustom themselves to the air of the sea. To be sure,
the cousins were just moving up from the seashore, but they could take
down a basket of luncheon, in order to give no trouble, and they need
not go into the house.
Elizabeth Eliza had learned by heart, early in the summer, the list of
trains, as she was sure they would lose the slip their cousins had sent
them; and you never could find the paper that had the trains in when you
wanted it. They must take the 7 A.M. train into Boston in time to go
across to the station for the Gooseberry train at 7.45, and they would
have to return from Gooseberry Beach by a 3.30 train. The cousins would
order the "barge" to meet them on their arrival, and to come for them
at 3 P.M., in time for the return train, if they were informed the day
before. Elizabeth Eliza wrote them a postal card, giving them the
information that they would take the early train. The "barge" was the
name of the omnibus that took passengers to and from the Gooseberry
station. Mrs. Peterkin felt that its very name was propitious to this
Egyptian undertaking.
The day proved a fine one. On reaching Boston, Mrs. Peterkin and
Elizabeth Eliza were put into a carriage with the luncheon-basket to
drive directly to the station. Elizabeth Eliza was able to check the
basket at the baggage-station, and to buy their "go-and-return" tickets
before the arrival of the rest of the party, which appeared, however,
some minutes before a quarter of eight. Mrs. Peterkin counted the little
boys. All were there. This promised well for Egypt. But their joy was of
short duration. On presenting their tickets at the gate of entrance,
they were stopped. The Gooseberry train had gone at 7.35! The Mattapan
train was now awaiting its passengers. Impossible! Elizabeth Eliza
had repeated 7.45 every morning through the summer. It must be the
Gooseberry train. But the conductor would not yield. If they wished to
go to Mattapan they could go; if to Gooseberry, they must wait till the
5 P.M. train.
Mrs. Peterkin was in despair. Their return train was 3.30; how could 5
P.M. help them?
Mr. Peterkin, with instant decision, proposed they should try something
else. Why should not they take their luncheon-basket across some ferry?
This would give them practice. The family hastily agreed to this. What
could be better? They went to the baggage-office, but found their basket
had gone in the 7.35 train! They had arrived in time, and could have
gone too. "If we had only been checked!" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin. The
baggage-master, showing a tender interest, suggested that there was a
train for Plymouth at eight, which would take them within twelve miles
of Gooseberry Beach, and they might find "a team" there to take them
across. Solomon John and the little boys were delighted with the
suggestion.
"We could see Plymouth Rock," said Agamemnon.
But hasty action would be necessary. Mr. Peterkin quickly procured
tickets for Plymouth, and no official objected to their taking the 8
A.M. train. They were all safely in the train. This had been a test
expedition; and each of the party had taken something, to see what would
be the proportion of things lost to those remembered. Mr. Peterkin had
two umbrellas, Agamemnon an atlas and spyglass, and the little boys were
taking down two cats in a basket. All were safe.
"I am glad we have decided upon Plymouth," said Mr. Peterkin. "Before
seeing the pyramids of Egypt we certainly ought to know something of
Plymouth Rock. I should certainly be quite ashamed, when looking at
their great obelisks, to confess that I had never seen our own Rock."
The conductor was attracted by this interesting party. When Mr. Peterkin
told him of their mistake of the morning, and that they were bound for
Gooseberry Beach, he advised them to stop at Kingston, a station nearer
the beach. They would have but four miles to drive, and a reduction
could be effected on their tickets. The family demurred. Were they ready
now to give up Plymouth? They would lose time in going there. Solomon
John, too, suggested it would be better, chronologically, to visit
Plymouth on their return from Egypt, after they had seen the earliest
things.
This decided them to stop at Kingston.
But they found here no omnibus nor carriage to take them to Gooseberry.
The station-master was eager to assist them, and went far and near in
search of some sort of wagon. Hour after hour passed away, the little
boys had shared their last peanut, and gloom was gathering over the
family, when Solomon John came into the station to say there was a
photographer's cart on the other side of the road. Would not this be a
good chance to have their photographs taken for their friends before
leaving for Egypt? The idea reanimated the whole party, and they made
their way to the cart, and into it, as the door was open. There was,
however, no photographer there.
Agamemnon tried to remember what he had read of photography. As all the
materials were there, he might take the family's picture. There would
indeed be a difficulty in introducing his own. Solomon John suggested
they might arrange the family group, leaving a place for him. Then, when
all was ready, he could put the curtain over the box, take his place
hastily, then pull away the curtain by means of a string. And Solomon
John began to look around for a string while the little boys felt in
their pockets.
Agamemnon did not exactly see how they could get the curtain back.
Mr. Peterkin thought this of little importance. They would all be glad
to sit some time after travelling so long. And the longer they sat the
better for the picture, and perhaps somebody would come along in time
to put back the curtain. They began to arrange the group. Mr. and Mrs.
Peterkin were placed in the middle, sitting down. Elizabeth Eliza stood
behind them, and the little boys knelt in front with the basket of cats.
Solomon John and Agamemnon were also to stand behind, Agamemnon leaning
over his father's shoulder. Solomon John was still looking around for a
string when the photographer himself appeared. He was much surprised to
find a group all ready for him. He had gone off that morning for a short
holiday, but was not unwilling to take the family, especially when he
heard they were soon going to Egypt. He approved of the grouping made by
the family, but suggested that their eyes should not all be fixed upon
the same spot. Before the pictures were finished, the station-master
came to announce that two carriages were found to take the party to
Gooseberry Beach.
"There is no hurry," said Mr. Peterkin, "Let the pictures be finished;
they have made us wait, we can keep them waiting as long as we please."
The result, indeed, was very satisfactory. The photographer pronounced
it a remarkably fine group. Elizabeth Eliza's eyes were lifted to the
heavens perhaps a little too high. It gave her a rapt expression not
customary with her; but Mr. Peterkin thought she might look in that way
in the presence of the Sphinx. It was necessary to have a number of
copies, to satisfy all the friends left behind when they should go to
Egypt; and it certainly would not be worth while to come again so great
a distance for more.
It was therefore a late hour when they left Kingston. It took some time
to arrange the party in two carriages. Mr. Peterkin ought to be in one,
Mrs. Peterkin in the other; but it was difficult to divide the little
boys, as all wished to take charge of the cats. The drive, too, proved
longer than was expected,--six miles instead of four.
When they reached their cousin's door, the "barge" was already standing
there.
"It has brought our luncheon-basket!" exclaimed Solomon John.
"I am glad of it," said Agamemnon, "for I feel hungry enough for it."
He pulled out his watch. It was three o'clock!
This was indeed the "barge," but it had come for their return. The
Gooseberry cousins, much bewildered that the family did not arrive at
the time expected, had forgotten to send to countermand it. And the
"barge" driver, supposing the family had arrived by the other station,
had taken occasion to bring up the lunch-basket, as it was addressed to
the Gooseberry cousins. The cousins flocked out to meet them. "What had
happened? What had delayed them? They were glad to see them at last."
Mrs. Peterkin, when she understood the state of the case, insisted upon
getting directly into the "barge" to return, although the driver said
there would be a few moments to spare. Some of the cousins busied
themselves in opening the luncheon-basket, and a part led the little
boys and Agamemnon and Solomon John down upon the beach in front of the
house; there would be a few moments for a glance at the sea. Indeed, the
little boys ventured in their India-rubber boots to wade in a little
way, as the tide was low. And Agamemnon and Solomon John walked to look
at a boat that was drawn up on the beach, and got into it and out of it
for practice, till they were all summoned back to the house.
It was indeed time to go. The Gooseberry cousins had got out the
luncheon, and had tried to persuade the family to spend the night. Mrs.
Peterkin declared this would be impossible. They never had done such a
thing. So they went off, eating their luncheon as they went, the little
boys each with a sandwich in one hand and a piece of cake in the other.
Mrs. Peterkin was sure they should miss the train or lose some of the
party. No, it was a great success; for all, and more than all, were
found in the train: slung over the arm of one of the little boys was
found the basket containing the cats. They were to have left the cats,
but in their haste had brought them away again.