THIS was Mrs. Peterkin. It was a mistake. She had poured out a delicious
cup of coffee, and, just as she was helping herself to cream, she found
she had put in salt instead of sugar! It tasted bad. What should she do?
Of course she couldn’t drink the coffee; so she called in the family,
for she was sitting at a late breakfast all alone. The family came in;
they all tasted, and looked, and wondered what should be done, and all
sat down to think.
At last Agamemnon, who had been to college, said, “Why don’t we go over
and ask the advice of the chemist?” (For the chemist lived over the
way, and was a very wise man.) Mrs. Peterkin said, “Yes,” and Mr.
Peterkin said, “Very well,” and all the children said they would go too.
So the little boys put on their india-rubber boots, and over they went.
Now the chemist was just trying to find out something which should turn
everything it touched into gold; and he had a large glass bottle into
which he put all kinds of gold and silver, and many other valuable
things, and melted them all up over the fire, till he had almost found
what he wanted. He could turn things into almost gold. But just now he
had used up all the gold that he had round the house, and gold was
high. He had used up his wife’s gold thimble and his great-grandfather’s
gold-bowed spectacles; and he had melted up the gold head of his
great-great-grandfather’s cane; and, just as the Peterkin family came
in, he was down on his knees before his wife, asking her to let him have
her wedding-ring to melt up with an the rest, because this time he knew
he should succeed, and should be able to turn everything into gold; and
then she could have a new wedding-ring of diamonds, all set in emeralds
and rubies and topazes, and all the furniture could be turned into the
finest of gold.
Now his wife was just consenting when the Peterkin family burst in.
You can imagine how mad the chemist was! He came near throwing his
crucible--that was the name of his melting-pot--at their heads. But he
didn’t. He listened as calmly as he could to the story of how Mrs.
Peterkin had put salt in her coffee.
At first he said he couldn’t do anything about it; but when Agamemnon
said they would pay in gold if he would only go, he packed up his
bottles in a leather case, and went back with them all.
First he looked at the coffee, and then stirred it. Then he put in a
little chlorate of potassium, and the family tried it all round; but it
tasted no better. Then he stirred in a little bichlorate of magnesia.
But Mrs. Peterkin didn’t like that. Then he added some tartaric acid
and some hypersulphate of lime. But no; it was no better. “I have it!”
exclaimed the chemist,--“a little ammonia is just the thing!” No, it
wasn’t the thing at all.
Then he tried, each in turn, some oxalic, cyanic, acetic, phosphoric,
chloric, hyperchloric, sulphuric, boracic, silicic, nitric, formic,
nitrous nitric, and carbonic acids. Mrs. Peterkin tasted each, and said
the flavor was pleasant, but not precisely that of coffee. So then he
tried a little calcium, aluminum, barium, and strontium, a little clear
bitumen, and a half of a third of a sixteenth of a grain of arsenic.
This gave rather a pretty color; but still Mrs.
Peterkin ungratefully said it tasted of anything but coffee. The chemist
was not discouraged. He put in a little belladonna and atropine, some
granulated hydrogen, some potash, and a very little antimony, finishing
off with a little pure carbon. But still Mrs. Peterkin was not
satisfied.
The chemist said that all he had done ought to have taken out the
salt. The theory remained the same, although the experiment had failed.
Perhaps a little starch would have some effect. If not, that was all
the time he could give. He should like to be paid, and go. They were all
much obliged to him, and willing to give him $1.37 1/2 in gold. Gold
was now 2.69 3/4, so Mr. Peterkin found in the newspaper. This gave
Agamemnon a pretty little sum. He sat himself down to do it. But there
was the coffee! All sat and thought awhile, till Elizabeth Eliza said,
“Why don’t we go to the herb-woman?” Elizabeth Eliza was the only
daughter. She was named after her two aunts,--Elizabeth, from the sister
of her father; Eliza, from her mother’s sister. Now, the herb-woman was
an old woman who came round to sell herbs, and knew a great deal. They
all shouted with joy at the idea of asking her, and Solomon John and
the younger children agreed to go and find her too. The herb-woman
lived down at the very end of the street; so the boys put on their
india-rubber boots again, and they set off. It was a long walk through
the village, but they came at last to the herb-woman’s house, at the
foot of a high hill. They went through her little garden. Here she had
marigolds and hollyhocks, and old maids and tall sunflowers, and all
kinds of sweet-smelling herbs, so that the air was full of tansy-tea
and elder-blow. Over the porch grew a hop-vine, and a brandy-cherry
tree shaded the door, and a luxuriant cranberry-vine flung its delicious
fruit across the window. They went into a small parlor, which smelt very
spicy. All around hung little bags full of catnip, and peppermint, and
all kinds of herbs; and dried stalks hung from the ceiling; and on the
shelves were jars of rhubarb, senna, manna, and the like.
But there was no little old woman. She had gone up into the woods to
get some more wild herbs, so they all thought they would follow
her,--Elizabeth Eliza, Solomon John, and the little boys. They had to
climb up over high rocks, and in among huckleberry-bushes and black
berry-vines. But the little boys had their india-rubber boots. At last
they discovered the little old woman. They knew her by her hat. It was
steeple-crowned, without any vane. They saw her digging with her trowel
round a sassafras bush. They told her their story,---how their mother had
put salt in her coffee, and how the chemist had made it worse instead
of better, and how their mother couldn’t drink it, and wouldn’t she
come and see what she could do? And she said she would, and took up her
little old apron, with pockets all round, all filled with everlasting
and pennyroyal, and went back to her house.
There she stopped, and stuffed her huge pockets with some of all the
kinds of herbs. She took some tansy and peppermint, and caraway-seed
and dill, spearmint and cloves, pennyroyal and sweet marjoram, basil and
rosemary, wild thyme and some of the other time,---such as you have in
clocks,--sappermint and oppermint, catnip, valerian, and hop; indeed,
there isn’t a kind of herb you can think of that the little old woman
didn’t have done up in her little paper bags, that had all been dried in
her little Dutch-oven. She packed these all up, and then went back with
the children, taking her stick.
Meanwhile Mrs. Peterkin was getting quite impatient for her coffee.
As soon as the little old woman came she had it set over the fire, and
began to stir in the different herbs. First she put in a little hop for
the bitter. Mrs.
Peterkin said it tasted like hop-tea, and not at all like coffee. Then
she tried a little flagroot and snakeroot, then some spruce gum, and
some caraway and some dill, some rue and rosemary, some sweet marjoram
and sour, some oppermint and sappermint, a little spearmint and
peppermint, some wild thyme, and some of the other tame time, some
tansy and basil, and catnip and valerian, and sassafras, ginger, and
pennyroyal. The children tasted after each mixture, but made up dreadful
faces. Mrs. Peterkin tasted, and did the same. The more the old woman
stirred, and the more she put in, the worse it all seemed to taste.
So the old woman shook her head, and muttered a few words, and said
she must go. She believed the coffee was bewitched. She bundled up her
packets of herbs, and took her trowel, and her basket, and her stick,
and went back to her root of sassafras, that she had left half in the
air and half out. And all she would take for pay was five cents in
currency.
Then the family were in despair, and all sat and thought a great while.
It was growing late in the day, and Mrs. Peterkin hadn’t had her cup
of coffee. At last Elizabeth Eliza said, “They say that the lady from
Philadelphia, who is staying in town, is very wise. Suppose I go and ask
her what is best to be done.” To this they all agreed, it was a great
thought, and off Elizabeth Eliza went.
She told the lady from Philadelphia the whole story,--how her mother had
put salt in the coffee; how the chemist had been called in; how he tried
everything but could make it no better; and how they went for the little
old herb-woman, and how she had tried in vain, for her mother couldn’t
drink the coffee. The lady from Philadelphia listened very attentively,
and then said, “Why doesn’t your mother make a fresh cup of coffee?”
Elizabeth Eliza started with surprise.
Solomon John shouted with joy; so did Agamemnon, who had just finished
his sum; so did the little boys, who had followed on. “Why didn’t we
think of that?” said Elizabeth Eliza; and they all went back to their
mother, and she had her cup of coffee.