Dramatis Personæ.—Amanda (friend of Elizabeth Eliza), Amanda’s mother, girls of the graduating class, Mrs. Peterkin, Elizabeth Eliza. AMANDA [coming in with a few graduates ].
MOTHER, the exhibition is over, and I have brought the whole class home to the collation.
MOTHER.—The whole class! I But I only expected a few.
AMANDA.—The rest are coming. I brought Julie, and Clara, and Sophie with me. [A voice is heard. ] Here are the rest.
MOTHER.—Why, no. It is Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza!
AMANDA.—Too late for the exhibition. Such a shame! But in time for the collation.
MOTHER [to herself ].—If the ice-cream will go round.
AMANDA.—But what made you so late? Did you miss the train? This is Elizabeth Eliza, girls—you have heard me speak of her. What a pity you were too late!
MRS. PETERKIN.—We tried to come; we did our best.
MOTHER.—Did you miss the train? Didn’t you get my postal-card?
MRS. PETERKIN.—We had nothing to do with the train.
AMANDA.—You don’t mean you walked?
MRS. PETERKIN.—O no, indeed!
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—We came in a horse and carryall.
JULIA.—I always wondered how anybody could come in a horse!
AMANDA.—You are too foolish, Julia. They came in the carryall part. But didn’t you start in time?
MRS. PETERKIN.—It all comes from the carryall being so hard to turn. I told Mr.
Peterkin we should get into trouble with one of those carryalls that don’t turn easy.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—They turn easy enough in the stable, so you can’t tell.
MRS. PETERKIN.—Yes; we started with the little boys and Solomon John on the back seat, and Elizabeth Eliza on the front. She was to drive, and I was to see to the driving. But the horse was not faced toward Boston.
MOTHER.—And you tipped over in turning round! Oh, what an accident!
AMANDA.—And the little boys—where are they? Are they killed?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—The little boys are all safe. We left them at the Pringles’, with Solomon John.
MOTHER.—But what did happen?
MRS. PETERKIN.—We started the wrong way.
MOTHER.—You lost your way, after all?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—No; we knew the way well enough.
AMANDA.—It’s as plain as a pikestaff!
MRS. PETERKIN.—No; we had the horse faced in the wrong direction,—toward Providence.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—And mother was afraid to have me turn, and we kept on and on till we should reach a wide place.
MRS. PETERKIN.—I thought we should come to a road that would veer off to the right or left, and bring us back to the right direction.
MOTHER.—Could not you all get out and turn the thing round?
MRS. PETERKIN.—Why, no; if it had broken down we should not have been in anything, and could not have gone anywhere.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—Yes, I have always heard it was best to stay in the carriage, whatever happens.
JULIA.—But nothing seemed to happen.
MRS. PETERKIN.—O yes; we met one man after another, and we asked the way to Boston.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—And all they would say was, “Turn right round—you are on the road to Providence.”
MRS. PETERKIN.—As if we could turn right round! That was just what we couldn’t.
MOTHER.—You don’t mean you kept on all the way to Providence?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—O dear, no! We kept on and on, till we met a man with a black hand-bag—black leather I should say.
JULIA.—He must have been a book-agent.
MRS. PETERKIN.—I dare say he was; his bag seemed heavy. He set it on a stone.
MOTHER.—I dare say it was the same one that came here the other day. He wanted me to buy the “History of the Aborigines, Brought up from Earliest Times to the Present Date,” in four volumes. I told him I hadn’t time to read so much. He said that was no matter, few did, and it wasn’t much worth it—they bought books for the look of the thing.
AMANDA.—Now, that was illiterate; he never could have graduated. I hope, Elizabeth Eliza, you had nothing to do with that man.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—Very likely it was not the same one.
MOTHER.—Did he have a kind of pepper-and-salt suit, with one of the buttons worn?
MRS. PETERKIN.—I noticed one of the buttons was off.
AMANDA.—We’re off the subject. Did you buy his book?
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—He never offered us his book.
MRS. PETERKIN.—He told us the same story,—we were going to Providence; if we wanted to go to Boston, we must turn directly round.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I told him I couldn’t; but he took the horse’s head, and the first thing I knew—AMANDA.—He had yanked you round!
MRS. PETERKIN.—I screamed; I couldn’t help it!
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I was glad when it was over!
MOTHER.—Well, well; it shows the disadvantage of starting wrong.
MRS. PETERKIN.—Yes, we came straight enough when the horse was headed right; but we lost time.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I am sorry enough I lost the exhibition, and seeing you take the diploma, Amanda. I never got the diploma myself. I came near it.
MRS. PETERKIN.—Somehow, Elizabeth Eliza never succeeded. I think there was partiality about the promotions.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I never was good about remembering things. I studied well enough, but, when I came to say off my lesson, I couldn’t think what it was. Yet I could have answered some of the other girls’ questions.
JULIA.—It’s odd how the other girls always have the easiest questions.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I never could remember poetry There was only one thing I could repeat.
AMANDA.—Oh, do let us have it now; and then we’ll recite to you some of our exhibition pieces.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I’ll try.
MRS. PETERKIN.—Yes, Elizabeth Eliza, do what you can to help entertain Amanda’s friends.
[All stand looking at ELIZABETH ELIZA, who remains silent and thoughtful. ] ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I’m trying to think what it is about. You all know it. You remember, Amanda,—the name is rather long.
AMANDA.—It can’t be Nebuchadnezzar, can it?—that is one of the longest names I know.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—O dear, no!
JULIA.—Perhaps it’s Cleopatra.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—It does begin with a “C”—only he was a boy.
AMANDA.—That’s a pity, for it might be “We are seven,” only that is a girl. Some of them were boys.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—It begins about a boy—if I could only think where he was. I can’t remember.
AMANDA.—Perhaps he “stood upon the burning deck?”
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—That’s just it; I knew he stood somewhere.
AMANDA.—Casablanca! Now begin—go ahead.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—“The boy stood on the burning deck, When—When—” I can’t think who stood there with him.
JULIA.—If the deck was burning, it must have been on fire. I guess the rest ran away, or jumped into boats.
AMANDA.—That’s just it:—“Whence all but him had fled.”
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I think I can say it now.
[She hesitates. ] Then I think he went—
JULIA.—Of course, he fled after the rest.
AMANDA.—Dear, no! That’s the point. He didn’t.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—O yes. Now I can say it.
But it used to rhyme. I don’t know what has happened to it.
MRS. PETERKIN.—Elizabeth Eliza is very particular about the rhymes.
ELIZABETH ELIZA.—It must be “without his father’s head,” or, perhaps, “without his father said” he should.
JULIA.—I think you must have omitted something.
AMANDA.—She has left out ever so much!
MOTHER.—Perhaps it’s as well to omit some, for the ice-cream has come, and you must all come down.
AMANDA.—And here are the rest of the girls; and let us all unite in a song!
[Exeunt omnes, singing. ]
THE day began early. A compact had been made with the little boys the evening before.
They were to be allowed to usher in the glorious day by the blowing of horns exactly at sunrise. But they were to blow them for precisely five minutes only, and no sound of the horns should be heard afterward till the family were downstairs.
It was thought that a peace might thus be bought by a short, though crowded, period of noise.
The morning came. Even before the morning, at half-past three o’clock, a terrible blast of the horns aroused the whole family.
Mrs. Peterkin clasped her hands to her head and exclaimed: “I am thankful the lady from Philadelphia is not here!” For she had been invited to stay a week, but had declined to come before the Fourth of July, as she was not well, and her doctor had prescribed quiet.
And the number of the horns was most remarkable! It was as though every cow in the place had arisen and was blowing through both her own horns!
“How many little boys are there? How many have we?” exclaimed Mr. Peterkin, going over their names one by one mechanically, thinking he would do it, as he might count imaginary sheep jumping over a fence, to put himself to sleep. Alas!
the counting could not put him to sleep now, in such a din.
And how unexpectedly long the five minutes seemed! Elizabeth Eliza was to take out her watch and give the signal for the end of the five minutes, and the ceasing of the horns. Why did not the signal come? Why did not Elizabeth Eliza stop them?
And certainly it was long before sunrise; there was no dawn to be seen!
“We will not try this plan again,” said Mrs. Peterkin.
“If we live to another Fourth,” added Mr. Peterkin, hastening to the door to inquire into the state of affairs.
Alas! Amanda, by mistake, had waked up the little boys an hour too early. And by another mistake the little boys had invited three or four of their friends to spend the night with them. Mrs. Peterkin had given them permission to have the boys for the whole day, and they understood the day as beginning when they went to bed the night before. This accounted for the number of horns.
It would have been impossible to hear any explanation; but the five minutes were over, and the horns had ceased, and there remained only the noise of a singular leaping of feet, explained perhaps by a possible pillow-fight, that kept the family below partially awake until the bells and cannon made known the dawning of the glorious day,—the sunrise, or “the rising of the sons,” as Mr.
Peterkin jocosely called it when they heard the little boys and their friends clattering down the stairs to begin the outside festivities.
They were bound first for the swamp, for Elizabeth Eliza, at the suggestion of the lady from Philadelphia, had advised them to hang some flags around the pillars of the piazza. Now the little boys knew of a place in the swamp where they had been in the habit of digging for “flag-root,” and where they might find plenty of flag flowers. They did bring away all they could, but they were a little out of bloom. The boys were in the midst of nailing up all they had on the pillars of the piazza when the procession of the Antiques and Horribles passed along. As the procession saw the festive arrangements on the piazza, and the crowd of boys, who cheered them loudly, it stopped to salute the house with some especial strains of greeting.
Poor Mrs. Peterkin! They were directly under her windows! In a few moments of quiet, during the boys’ absence from the house on their visit to the swamp, she had been trying to find out whether she had a sick-headache, or whether it was all the noise, and she was just deciding it was the sick headache, but was falling into a light slumber, when the fresh noise outside began.
There were the imitations of the crowing of cocks, and braying of donkeys, and the sound of horns, encored and increased by the cheers of the boys. Then began the torpedoes, and the Antiques and Horribles had Chinese crackers also.
And, in despair of sleep, the family came down to breakfast.
Mrs. Peterkin had always been much afraid of fire-works, and had never allowed the boys to bring gunpowder into the house. She was even afraid of torpedoes; they looked so much like sugar-plums she was sure some the children would swallow them, and explode before anybody knew it.
She was very timid about other things. She was not sure even about pea-nuts.
Everybody exclaimed over this: “Surely there was no danger in pea-nuts!” But Mrs. Peterkin declared she had been very much alarmed at the Centennial Exhibition, and in the crowded corners of the streets in Boston, at the pea-nut stands, where they had machines to roast the pea-nuts. She did not think it was safe. They might go off any time, in the midst of a crowd of people, too!
Mr. Peterkin thought there actually was no danger, and he should be sorry to give up the pea-nut. He thought it an American institution, something really belonging to the Fourth of July. He even confessed to a quiet pleasure in crushing the empty shells with his feet on the sidewalks as he went along the streets.
Agamemnon thought it a simple joy.
In consideration, however, of the fact that they had had no real celebration of the Fourth the last year, Mrs. Peterkin had consented to give over the day, this year, to the amusement of the family as a Centennial celebration. She would prepare herself for a terrible noise,—only she did not want any gunpowder brought into the house.
The little boys had begun by firing some torpedoes a few days beforehand, that their mother might be used to the sound, and had selected their horns some weeks before.
Solomon John had been very busy in inventing some fireworks. As Mrs. Peterkin objected to the use of gunpowder, he found out from the dictionary what the different parts of gunpowder are,—saltpetre, charcoal, and sulphur. Charcoal, he discovered, they had in the wood-house; saltpetre they would find in the cellar, in the beef barrel; and sulphur they could buy at the apothecary’s. He explained to his mother that these materials had never yet exploded in the house, and she was quieted.
Agamemnon, meanwhile, remembered a recipe he had read somewhere for making a “fulminating paste” of iron-filings and powder of brimstone. He had written it down on a piece of paper in his pocket-book. But the iron filings must be finely powdered. This they began upon a day or two before, and the very afternoon before laid out some of the paste on the piazza.
Pin-wheels and rockets were contributed by Mr. Peterkin for the evening.
According to a programme drawn up by Agamemnon and Solomon John, the reading of the Declaration of Independence was to take place in the morning, on the piazza, under the flags.
The Bromwicks brought over their flag to hang over the door.
“That is what the lady from Philadelphia meant,” explained Elizabeth Eliza.
“She said the flags of our country,” said the little boys. “We thought she meant ‘in the country.’”
Quite a company assembled; but it seemed nobody had a copy of the Declaration of Independence.
Elizabeth Eliza said she could say one line, if they each could add as much. But it proved they all knew the same line that she did, as they began:—“When, in the course of—when, in the course of—when, in the course of human—when in the course of human events—when, in the course of human events, it becomes—when, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary—when, in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people”—They could not get any farther. Some of the party decided that “one people” was a good place to stop, and the little boys sent off some fresh torpedoes in honor of the people. But Mr. Peterkin was not satisfied. He invited the assembled party to stay until sunset, and meanwhile he would find a copy, and torpedoes were to be saved to be fired off at the close of every sentence.
And now the noon bells rang and the noon bells ceased.
Mrs. Peterkin wanted to ask everybody to dinner. She should have some cold beef. She had let Amanda go, because it was the Fourth, and everybody ought to be free that one day; so she could not have much of a dinner. But when she went to cut her beef she found Solomon had taken it to soak, on account of the saltpetre, for the fireworks!
Well, they had a pig; so she took a ham, and the boys had bought tamarinds and buns and a cocoa-nut. So the company stayed on, and when the Antiques and Horribles passed again they were treated to pea-nuts and lemonade.
They sung patriotic songs, they told stories, they fired torpedoes, they frightened the cats with them. It was a warm afternoon; the red poppies were out wide, and the hot sun poured down on the alley-ways in the garden. There was a seething sound of a hot day in the buzzing of insects, in the steaming heat that came up from the ground. Some neighboring boys were firing a toy cannon. Every time it went off Mrs. Peterkin started, and looked to see if one of the little boys was gone. Mr. Peterkin had set out to find a copy of the “Declaration.” Agamemnon had disappeared. She had not a moment to decide about her headache.
She asked Ann Maria if she were not anxious about the fireworks, and if rockets were not dangerous. They went up, but you were never sure where they came down.
And then came a fresh tumult! All the fire-engines in town rushed toward them, clanging with bells, men and boys yelling! They were out for a practice and for a Fourth-of-July show.
Mrs. Peterkin thought the house was on fire, and so did some of the guests.
There was great rushing hither and thither. Some thought they would better go home; some thought they would better stay. Mrs. Peterkin hastened into the house to save herself, or see what she could save. Elizabeth Eliza followed her, first proceeding to collect all the pokers and tongs she could find, because they could be thrown out of the window without breaking. She had read of people who had flung looking-glasses out of the window by mistake, in the excitement of the house being on fire, and had carried the pokers and tongs carefully into the garden. There was nothing like being prepared. She had always determined to do the reverse. So with calmness she told Solomon John to take down the looking-glasses. But she met with a difficulty,—there were no pokers and tongs, as they did not use them. They had no open fires; Mrs. Peterkin had been afraid of them. So Elizabeth Eliza took all the pots and kettles up to the upper windows, ready to be thrown out.
But where was Mrs. Peterkin? Solomon John found she had fled to the attic in terror. He persuaded her to come down, assuring her it was the most unsafe place; but she insisted upon stopping to collect some bags of old pieces, that nobody would think of saving from the general wreck, she said, unless she did. Alas! this was the result of fireworks on Fourth of July! As they came downstairs they heard the voices of all the company declaring there was no fire; the danger was past. It was long before Mrs. Peterkin could believe it. They told her the fire company was only out for show, and to celebrate the Fourth of July. She thought it already too much celebrated.
Elizabeth Eliza’s kettles and pans had come down through the windows with a crash, that had only added to the festivities, the little boys thought.
Mr. Peterkin had been roaming about all this time in search of a copy of the Declaration of Independence. The public library was shut, and he had to go from house to house; but now, as the sunset bells and cannon began, he returned with a copy, and read it, to the pealing of the bells and sounding of the cannon.
Torpedoes and crackers were fired at every pause. Some sweet-marjoram pots, tin cans filled with crackers which were lighted, went off with great explosions.
At the most exciting moment, near the close of the reading, Agamemnon, with an expression of terror, pulled Solomon John aside.
“I have suddenly remembered where I read about the ‘fulminating paste’ we made. It was in the preface to ‘Woodstock,’ and I have been round to borrow the book to read the directions over again, because I was afraid about the ‘paste’ going off. READ THIS QUICKLY! and tell me, Where is the fulminating paste?”
Solomon John was busy winding some covers of paper over a little parcel. It contained chlorate of potash and sulphur mixed. A friend had told him of the composition. The more thicknesses of paper you put round it the louder it would go off. You must pound it with a hammer. Solomon John felt it must be perfectly safe, as his mother had taken potash for a medicine.
He still held the parcel as he read from Agamemnon’s book: “This paste, when it has lain together about twenty-six hours, will of itself take fire, and burn all the sulphur away with a blue flame and a bad smell.”
“Where is the paste?” repeated Solomon John, in terror.
“We made it just twenty-six hours ago,” said Agamemnon.
“We put it on the piazza,” exclaimed Solomon John, rapidly recalling the facts, “and it is in front of our mother’s feet!”
He hastened to snatch the paste away before it should take fire, flinging aside the packet in his hurry. Agamemnon, jumping upon the piazza at the same moment, trod upon the paper parcel, which exploded at once with the shock, and he fell to the ground, while at the same moment the paste “fulminated” into a blue flame directly in front of Mrs. Peterkin!
It was a moment of great confusion. There were cries and screams. The bells were still ringing, the cannon firing, and Mr. Peterkin had just reached the closing words: “Our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.”
“We are all blown up, as I feared we should be,” Mrs. Peterkin at length ventured to say, finding herself in a lilac-bush by the side of the piazza. She scarcely dared to open her eyes to see the scattered limbs about her.
It was so with all. Even Ann Maria Bromwick clutched a pillar of the piazza, with closed eyes.
At length Mr. Peterkin said, calmly, “Is anybody killed?”
There was no reply. Nobody could tell whether it was because everybody was killed, or because they were too wounded to answer. It was a great while before Mrs. Peterkin ventured to move.
But the little boys soon shouted with joy, and cheered the success of Solomon John’s fireworks, and hoped he had some more. One of them had his face blackened by an unexpected cracker, and Elizabeth Eliza’s muslin dress was burned here and there. But no one was hurt; no one had lost any limbs, though Mrs. Peterkin was sure she had seen some flying in the air. Nobody could understand how, as she had kept her eyes firmly shut.
No greater accident had occurred than the singeing of the tip of Solomon John’s nose. But there was an unpleasant and terrible odor from the “fulminating paste.”
Mrs. Peterkin was extricated from the lilac-bush. No one knew how she got there.
Indeed, the thundering noise had stunned everybody. It had roused the neighborhood even more than before. Answering explosions came on every side, and, though the sunset light had not faded away, the little boys hastened to send off rockets under cover of the confusion. Solomon John’s other fireworks would not go. But all felt he had done enough.
Mrs. Peterkin retreated into the parlor, deciding she really did have a headache. At times she had to come out when a rocket went off, to see if it was one of the little boys. She was exhausted by the adventures of the day, and almost thought it could not have been worse if the boys had been allowed gunpowder. The distracted lady was thankful there was likely to be but one Centennial Fourth in her lifetime, and declared she should never more keep anything in the house as dangerous as saltpetred beef, and she should never venture to take another spoonful of potash.
THERE was some doubt about the weather. Solomon John looked at the “Probabilities;” there were to be “areas” of rain in the New England States.
Agamemnon thought if they could only know where the areas of rain were to be they might go to the others. Mr. Peterkin proposed walking round the house in a procession, to examine the sky. As they returned they met Ann Maria Bromwick, who was to go, much surprised not to find them ready.
Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin were to go in the carryall, and take up the lady from Philadelphia, and Ann Maria, with the rest, was to follow in a wagon, and to stop for the daughters of the lady from Philadelphia. The wagon arrived, and so Mr. Peterkin had the horse put into the carryall.
A basket had been kept on the back piazza for some days, where anybody could put anything that would be needed for the picnic as soon as it was thought of.
Agamemnon had already decided to take a thermometer; somebody was always complaining of being too hot or too cold at a picnic, and it would be a great convenience to see if she really were so. He thought now he might take a barometer, as “Probabilities” was so uncertain. Then, if it went down in a threatening way, they could all come back.
The little boys had tied their kites to the basket. They had never tried them at home; it might be a good chance on the hills. Solomon John had put in some fishing-poles; Elizabeth Eliza, a book of poetry. Mr. Peterkin did not like sitting on the ground, and proposed taking two chairs, one for himself and one for anybody else. The little boys were perfectly happy; they jumped in and out of the wagon a dozen times, with new india-rubber boots, bought for the occasion.
Before they started, Mrs. Peterkin began to think she had already had enough of the picnic, what with going and coming, and trying to remember things. So many mistakes were made. The things that were to go in the wagon were put in the carryall, and the things in the carryall had to be taken out for the wagon!
Elizabeth Eliza forgot her water-proof, and had to go back for her veil, and Mr.
Peterkin came near forgetting his umbrella.
Mrs. Peterkin sat on the piazza and tried to think. She felt as if she must have forgotten something; she knew she must. Why could not she think of it now, before it was too late? It seems hard any day to think what to have for dinner, but how much easier now it would be to stay at home quietly and order the dinner,—and there was the butcher’s cart! But now they must think of everything.
At last she was put into the carryall, and Mr. Peterkin in front to drive.
Twice they started, and twice they found something was left behind,—the loaf of fresh brown bread on the back piazza, and a basket of sandwiches on the front porch. And just as the wagon was leaving, the little boys shrieked, “The basket of things was left behind!”
Everybody got out of the wagon. Agamemnon went back into the house, to see if anything else were left. He looked into the closets; he shut the front door, and was so busy that he forgot to get into the wagon himself. It started off and went down the street without him!
He was wondering what he should do if he were left behind (why had they not thought to arrange a telegraph wire to the back wheel of the wagon, so that he might have sent a message in such a case!), when the Bromwicks drove out of their yard in their buggy, and took him in.
They joined the rest of the party at Tatham Corners, where they were all to meet and consult where they were to go. Mrs. Peterkin called to Agamemnon, as soon as he appeared. She had been holding the barometer and the thermometer, and they waggled so that it troubled her. It was hard keeping the thermometer out of the sun, which would make it so warm. It really took away her pleasure, holding the things. Agamemnon decided to get into the carryall, on the seat with his father, and take the barometer and thermometer.
The consultation went on. Should they go to Cherry Swamp, or Lonetown Hill? You had the view if you went to Lonetown Hill, but maybe the drive to Cherry Swamp was prettier.
Somebody suggested asking the lady from Philadelphia, as the picnic was got up for her.
But where was she?
“I declare,” said Mr. Peterkin, “I forgot to stop for her!” The whole picnic there, and no lady from Philadelphia!
It seemed the horse had twitched his head in a threatening manner as they passed the house, and Mr. Peterkin had forgotten to stop, and Mrs. Peterkin had been so busy managing the thermometers that she had not noticed, and the wagon had followed on behind.
Mrs. Peterkin was in despair. She knew they had forgotten something! She did not like to have Mr. Peterkin make a short turn, and it was getting late, and what would the lady from Philadelphia think of it, and had they not better give it all up?
But everybody said “No!” and Mr. Peterkin said he could make a wide turn round the Lovejoy barn. So they made the turn, and took up the lady from Philadelphia, and the wagon followed behind and took up their daughters, for there was a driver in the wagon besides Solomon John.
Ann Maria Bromwick said it was so late by this time, they might as well stop and have the picnic on the Common! But the question was put again, Where should they go?
The lady from Philadelphia decided for Strawberry Nook—it sounded inviting.
There were no strawberries, and there was no nook, it was said, but there was a good place to tie the horses.
Mrs. Peterkin was feeling a little nervous, for she did not know what the lady from Philadelphia would think of their having forgotten her, and the more she tried to explain it, the worse it seemed to make it. She supposed they never did such things in Philadelphia; she knew they had invited all the world to a party, but she was sure she would never want to invite anybody again. There was no fun about it till it was all over. Such a mistake—to have a party for a person, and then go without her; but she knew they would forget something! She wished they had not called it their picnic.
There was another bother! Mr. Peterkin stopped. “Was anything broke?” exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin. “Was something forgotten?” asked the lady from Philadelphia.
No! But Mr. Peterkin didn’t know the way; and here he was leading all the party, and a long row of carriages following.
They stopped, and it seemed nobody knew the way to Strawberry Nook, unless it was the Gibbons boys, who were far behind. They were made to drive up, and said that Strawberry Nook was in quite a different direction, but they could bring the party round to it through the meadows.
The lady from Philadelphia thought they might stop anywhere, such a pleasant day, but Mr. Peterkin said they were started for Strawberry Nook, and had better keep on, So they kept on. It proved to be an excellent place, where they could tie the horses to a fence. Mrs. Peterkin did not like their all heading different ways; it seemed as if any of them might come at her, and tear up the fence, especially as the little boys had their kites flapping round. The Tremletts insisted upon the whole party going up the hill; it was too damp below. So the Gibbons boys, and the little boys and Agamemnon, and Solomon John, and all the party had to carry everything up to the rocks. The large basket of “things” was very heavy.
It had been difficult to lift it into the wagon, and it was harder to take it out. But with the help of the driver, and Mr. Peterkin, and old Mr. Bromwick, it was got up the hill.
And at last all was arranged. Mr. Peterkin was seated in his chair. The other was offered to the lady from Philadelphia, but she preferred the carriage cushions; so did old Mr. Bromwick. And the table-cloth was spread,—for they did bring a table-cloth,—and the baskets were opened, and the picnic really began.
The pickles had tumbled into the butter, and the spoons had been forgotten, and the Tremletts’ basket had been left on their front door-step. But nobody seemed to mind. Everybody was hungry, and everything they ate seemed of the best. The little boys were perfectly happy, and ate of all the kinds of cake. Two of the Tremletts would stand while they were eating, because they were afraid of the ants and the spiders that seemed to be crawling round. And Elizabeth Eliza had to keep poking with a fern leaf to drive the insects out of the plates. The lady from Philadelphia was made comfortable with the cushions and shawls, leaning against a rock. Mrs. Peterkin wondered if she forgot she had been forgotten.
John Osborne said it was time for conundrums, and asked: “Why is a pastoral musical play better than the music we have here? Because one is a grasshopper, and the other is a grass-opera!”
Elizabeth Eliza said she knew a conundrum, a very funny one, one of her friends in Boston had told her. It was, “Why is—” It began, “Why is something like—no, Why are they different?” It was something about an old woman, or else it was something about a young one. It was very funny, if she could only think what it was about, or whether it was alike or different.
The lady from Philadelphia was proposing they should guess Elizabeth Eliza’s conundrum, first the question, and then the answer, when one of the Tremletts came running down the hill, and declared she had just discovered a very threatening cloud, and she was sure it was going to rain down directly.
Everybody started up, though no cloud was to be seen.
There was a great looking for umbrellas and water-proofs. Then it appeared that Elizabeth Eliza had left hers, after all, though she had gone back for it twice.
Mr. Peterkin knew he had not forgotten his umbrella, because he had put the whole umbrella-stand into the wagon, and it had been brought up the hill, but it proved to hold only the family canes!
There was a great cry for the “emergency basket,” that had not been opened yet.
Mrs. Peterkin explained how for days the family had been putting into it what might be needed, as soon as anything was thought of. Everybody stopped to see its contents. It was carefully covered with newspapers. First came out a backgammon-board. “That would be useful,” said Ann Maria, “if we have to spend the afternoon in anybody’s barn.” Next, a pair of andirons. “What were they for?” “In case of needing a fire in the woods,” explained Solomon John. Then came a volume of the Encyclopædia. But it was the first volume, Agamemnon now regretted, and contained only A and a part of B, and nothing about rain or showers. Next, a bag of pea-nuts, put in by the little boys, and Elizabeth Eliza’s book of poetry, and a change of boots for Mr. Peterkin; a small foot-rug in case the ground should be damp; some paint-boxes of the little boys’; a box of fish-hooks for Solomon John; an ink-bottle, carefully done up in a great deal of newspaper, which was fortunate, as the ink was oozing out; some old magazines, and a blacking-bottle; and at the bottom, a sun-dial. It was all very entertaining, and there seemed to be something for every occasion but the present. Old Mr. Bromwick did not wonder the basket was so heavy. It was all so interesting that nobody but the Tremletts went down to the carriages.
The sun was shining brighter than ever, and Ann Maria insisted on setting up the sun-dial. Certainly there was no danger of a shower, and they might as well go on with the picnic. But when Solomon John and Ann Maria had arranged the sun-dial, they asked everybody to look at their watches, so that they might see if it was right. And then came a great exclamation at the hour: “It was time they were all going home!”
The lady from Philadelphia had been wrapping her shawl about her, as she felt the sun was low. But nobody had any idea it was so late! Well, they had left late, and went back a great many times, had stopped sometimes to consult, and had been long on the road, and it had taken a long time to fetch up the things, so it was no wonder it was time to go away. But it had been a delightful picnic, after all.
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.”