EVER since the picnic the Peterkins had been wanting to have “something”
at their house in the way of entertainment. The little boys wanted to
get up a “great Exposition,” to show to the people of the place. But Mr.
Peterkin thought it too great an effort to send to foreign countries for
“exhibits,” and it was given up.
There was, however, a new water-trough needed on the town common,
and the ladies of the place thought it ought to be something
handsome,--something more than a common trough,--and they ought to work
for it.
Elizabeth Eliza had heard at Philadelphia how much women had done, and
she felt they ought to contribute to such a cause. She had an idea, but
she would not speak of it at first, not until after she had written to
the lady from Philadelphia. She had often thought, in many cases, if
they had asked her advice first, they might have saved trouble.
Still, how could they ask advice before they themselves knew what they
wanted?
It was very easy to ask advice, but you must first know what to ask
about. And again: Elizabeth Eliza felt you might have ideas, but
you could not always put them together. There was this idea of the
water-trough, and then this idea of getting some money for it. So
she began with writing to the lady from Philadelphia. The little boys
believed she spent enough for it in postage-stamps before it all came
out.
But it did come out at last that the Peterkins were to have
some charades at their own house for the benefit of the needed
water-trough,--tickets sold only to especial friends. Ann Maria Bromwick
was to help act, because she could bring some old bonnets and gowns that
had been worn by an aged aunt years ago, and which they had always kept.
Elizabeth Eliza said that Solomon John would have to be a Turk, and they
must borrow all the red things and cashmere scarfs in the place. She
knew people would be willing to lend things.
Agamemnon thought you ought to get in something about the Hindoos, they
were such an odd people. Elizabeth Eliza said you must not have it too
odd, or people would not understand it, and she did not want anything to
frighten her mother.
She had one word suggested by the lady from Philadelphia in her
letters,--the one that had “Turk” in it,--but they ought to have two words
“Oh, yes,” Ann Maria said, “you must have two words; if the people paid
for their tickets they would want to get their money’s worth.”
Solomon John thought you might have “Hindoos”; the little boys could
color their faces brown, to look like Hindoos. You could have the first
scene an Irishman catching a hen, and then paying the water-taxes for
“dues,” and then have the little boys for Hindoos.
A great many other words were talked of, but nothing seemed to suit.
There was a curtain, too, to be thought of, because the folding-doors
stuck when you tried to open and shut them. Agamemnon said that the
Pan-Elocutionists had a curtain they would probably lend John Osborne,
and so it was decided to ask John Osborne to help.
If they had a curtain they ought to have a stage. Solomon John said he
was sure he had boards and nails enough, and it would be easy to make a
stage if John Osborne would help put it up.
All this talk was the day before the charades. In the midst of it Ann
Maria went over for her old bonnets and dresses and umbrellas, and they
spent the evening in trying on the various things,--such odd caps and
remarkable bonnets! Solomon John said they ought to have plenty of
bandboxes; if you only had bandboxes enough a charade was sure to go off
well; he had seen charades in Boston. Mrs.
Peterkin said there were plenty in their attic, and the little boys
brought down piles of them, and the back parlor was filled with
costumes.
Ann Maria said she could bring over more things if she only knew what
they were going to act. Elizabeth Eliza told her to bring anything she
had,--it would all come of use.
The morning came, and the boards were collected for the stage. Agamemnon
and Solomon John gave themselves to the work, and John Osborne helped
zealously. He said the Pan-Elocutionists would lend a scene also. There
was a great clatter of bandboxes, and piles of shawls in corners, and
such a piece of work in getting up the curtain! In the midst of it came
in the little boys, shouting, “All the tickets are sold, at ten cents
each!”
“Seventy tickets sold!” exclaimed Agamemnon.
“Seven dollars for the water-trough!” said Elizabeth Eliza.
“And we do not know yet what we are going to act!” exclaimed Ann Maria.
But everybody’s attention had to be given to the scene that was going
up in the background, borrowed from the Pan-Elocutionists. It was
magnificent, and represented a forest.
“Where are we going to put seventy people?” exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin,
venturing, dismayed, into the heaps of shavings, and boards, and litter.
The little boys exclaimed that a large part of the audience consisted
of boys, who would not take up much room. But how much clearing and
sweeping and moving of chairs was necessary before all could be made
ready! It was late, and some of the people had already come to secure
good seats, even before the actors had assembled.
“What are we going to act?” asked Ann Maria.
“I have been so torn with one thing and another,” said Elizabeth Eliza,
“I haven’t had time to think!”
“Haven’t you the word yet?” asked John Osborne, for the audience was
flocking in, and the seats were filling up rapidly.
“I have got one word in my pocket,” said Elizabeth Eliza, “in the letter
from the lady from Philadelphia. She sent me the parts of the word.
Solomon John is to be a Turk, but I don’t yet understand the whole of
the word.”
“You don’t know the word, and the people are all here!” said John
Osborne, impatiently.
“Elizabeth Eliza!” exclaimed Ann Maria, “Solomon John says I’m to be a
Turkish slave, and I’ll have to wear a veil. Do you know where the veils
are? You know I brought them over last night.”
“Elizabeth Eliza! Solomon John wants you to send him the large cashmere
scarf!” exclaimed one of the little boys, coming in.
“Elizabeth Eliza! you must tell us what kind of faces to make up!” cried
another of the boys.
And the audience were heard meanwhile taking the seats on the other side
of the thin curtain.
“You sit in front, Mrs. Bromwick; you are a little hard of hearing; sit
where you can hear.”
“And let Julia Fitch come where she can see,” said another voice.
“And we have not any words for them to hear or see!” exclaimed John
Osborne, behind the curtain.
“Oh, I wish we’d never determined to have charades! exclaimed Elizabeth
Eliza.
“Can’t we return the money?”
“They are all here; we must give them something!” said John Osborne,
heroically.
“And Solomon John is almost dressed,” reported Ann Maria,
winding a veil around her head.
“Why don’t we take Solomon John’s word ‘Hindoos’ for the first?” said
Agamemnon.
John Osborne agreed to go in the first, hunting the “hin,” or anything,
and one of the little boys took the part of the hen, with the help of a
feather duster.
The bell rang, and the first scene began.
It was a great success. John Osborne’s Irish was perfect. Nobody guessed
the word, for the hen crowed by mistake; but it received great applause.
Mr. Peterkin came on in the second scene to receive the water-rates, and
made a long speech on taxation. He was interrupted by Ann Maria as an
old woman in a huge bonnet. She persisted in turning her back to the
audience, speaking so low nobody heard her; and Elizabeth Eliza, who
appeared in a more remarkable bonnet, was so alarmed she went directly
back, saying she had forgotten something But this was supposed to be the
effect intended, and it was loudly cheered.
Then came a long delay, for the little boys brought out a number of
their friends to be browned for Hindoos. Ann Maria played on the piano
till the scene was ready. The curtain rose upon five brown boys done up
in blankets and turbans.
“I am thankful that is over,” said Elizabeth Eliza, “for now we can act
my word. Only I don’t myself know the whole.”
“Never mind, let us act it,” said John Osborne, “and the audience can
guess the whole.”
“The first syllable must be the letter P,” said Elizabeth Eliza, “and we
must have a school.”
Agamemnon was master, and the little boys and their friends went on as
scholars.
All the boys talked and shouted at once, acting their idea of a school
by flinging pea-nuts about, and scoffing at the master.
“They’ll guess that to be ‘row,’” said John Osborne in despair; “they’ll
never guess ‘P’!”
The next scene was gorgeous. Solomon John, as a Turk, reclined on John
Osborne’s army-blanket. He had on a turban, and a long beard, and all
the family shawls. Ann Maria and Elizabeth Eliza were brought in to him,
veiled, by the little boys in their Hindoo costumes.
This was considered the great scene of the evening, though Elizabeth
Eliza was sure she did not know what to do,--whether to kneel or sit
down; she did not know whether Turkish women did sit down, and she could
not help laughing whenever she looked at Solomon John. He, however,
kept his solemnity. “I suppose I need not say much,” he had said, “for I
shall be the ‘Turk who was dreaming of the hour.’” But he did order
the little boys to bring sherbet, and when they brought it without ice
insisted they must have their heads cut off, and Ann Maria fainted, and
the scene closed.
“What are we to do now?” asked John Osborne, warming up to the occasion.
“We must have an ‘inn’ scene,” said Elizabeth Eliza, consulting her
letter; “two inns, if we can.”
“We will have some travellers disgusted with one inn, and going
to another,” said John Osborne.
“Now is the time for the bandboxes,” said Solomon John, who, since
his Turk scene was over, could give his attention to the rest of the
charade.
Elizabeth Eliza and Ann Maria went on as rival hostesses, trying to draw
Solomon John, Agamemnon, and John Osborne into their several inns.
The little boys carried valises, hand-bags, umbrellas, and bandboxes.
Bandbox after bandbox appeared, and when Agamemnon sat down upon his the
applause was immense. At last the curtain fell.
“Now for the whole,” said John Osborne, as he made his way off the stage
over a heap of umbrellas.
“I can’t think why the lady from Philadelphia did not send me the
whole,” said Elizabeth Eliza, musing over the letter.
“Listen, they are guessing,” said John Osborne. “‘D-ice-box.’ I don’t
wonder they get it wrong.”
“But we know it can’t be that!” exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza, in agony.
“How can we act the whole if we don’t know it ourselves?”
“Oh, I see it!” said Ann Maria, clapping her hands. “Get your whole
family in for the last scene.”
Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin were summoned to the stage, and formed the
background, standing on stools; in front were Agamemnon and Solomon
John, leaving room for Elizabeth Eliza between; a little in advance,
and in front of all, half kneeling, were the little boys, in their
india-rubber boots.
The audience rose to an exclamation of delight, “The Peterkins!”
“P-Turk-Inns!”
It was not until this moment that Elizabeth Eliza guessed the whole.
“What a tableau!” exclaimed Mr. Bromwick; “the Peterkin family guessing
their own charade.”