Chapter 2

But the children were taught not to speak at table. Agamemnon, however, made a sign of disgust at his fat, and Elizabeth Eliza at her lean, and so on, and they presently discovered what was the difficulty.

“What shall be done now?” said Mrs. Peterkin.

They all sat and thought for a little while.

At last said Mrs. Peterkin, rather uncertainly, “Suppose we ask the lady from Philadelphia what is best to be done.”

But Mr. Peterkin said he didn’t like to go to her for everything; let the children try and eat their dinner as it was.

And they all tried, but they couldn’t. “Very well, then.” said Mr. Peterkin, “let them go and ask the lady from Philadelphia.”

“All of us?” cried one of the little boys, in the excitement of the moment.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “only put on your india-rubber boots.” And they hurried out of the house.

The lady from Philadelphia was just going in to her dinner; but she kindly stopped in the entry to hear what the trouble was. Agamemnon and Elizabeth Eliza told her all the difficulty, and the lady from Philadelphia said, “But why don’t you give the slices of fat to those who like the fat, and the slices of lean to those who like the lean?”

They looked at one another. Agamemnon looked at Elizabeth Eliza, and Solomon John looked at the little boys. “Why didn’t we think of that?” said they, and ran home to tell their mother.

WHY THE PETERKINS HAD A LATE DINNER.

THE trouble was in the dumb-waiter. All had seated themselves at the dinner-table, and Amanda had gone to take out the dinner she had sent up from the kitchen on the dumb-waiter. But something was the matter; she could not pull it up. There was the dinner, but she could not reach it. All the family, in turn, went and tried; all pulled together, in vain; the dinner could not be stirred.

“No dinner!” exclaimed Agamemnon.

“I am quite hungry,” said Solomon John.

At last Mr. Peterkin said, “I am not proud. I am willing to dine in the kitchen.”

This room was below the dining-room. All consented to this. Each one went down, taking a napkin.

The cook laid the kitchen table, put on it her best table-cloth, and the family sat down. Amanda went to the dumb-waiter for the dinner, but she could not move it down.

The family were all in dismay. There was the dinner, half-way between the kitchen and dining-room, and there were they all hungry to eat it!

“What is there for dinner?” asked Mr. Peterkin.

“Roast turkey,” said Mrs. Peterkin.

Mr. Peterkin lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

“Squash, tomato, potato, and sweet potato,” Mrs. Peterkin continued.

“Sweet potato!” exclaimed both the little boys.

“I am very glad now that I did not have cranberry,” said Mrs. Peterkin, anxious to find a bright point.

“Let us sit down and think about it,” said Mr. Peterkin.

“I have an idea,” said Agamemnon, after a while.

“Let us hear it,” said Mr. Peterkin. “Let each one speak his mind.”

“The turkey,” said Agamemnon, “must be just above the kitchen door. If I had a ladder and an axe, I could cut away the plastering and reach it.”

“That is a great idea,” said Mrs. Peterkin.

“If you think you could do it,” said Mr. Peterkin.

“Would it not be better to have a carpenter?” asked Elizabeth Eliza.

“A carpenter might have a ladder and an axe, and I think we have neither,” said Mrs. Peterkin.

“A carpenter! A carpenter!” exclaimed the rest.

It was decided that Mr. Peterkin, Solomon John, and the little boys should go in search of a carpenter.

Agamemnon proposed that, meanwhile, he should go and borrow a book; for he had another idea.

“This affair of the turkey,” he said, “reminds me of those buried cities that have been dug out,--Herculaneum, for instance.”

“Oh, yes,” interrupted Elizabeth Eliza, “and Pompeii.”

“Yes,” said Agamemnon, “they found there pots and kettles. Now, I should like to know how they did it; and I mean to borrow a book and read. I think it was done with a pickaxe.”

So the party set out. But when Mr. Peterkin reached the carpenter’s shop, there was no carpenter to be found there.

“He must be at his house, eating his dinner,” suggested Solomon John.

“Happy man,” exclaimed Mr. Peterkin, “he has a dinner to eat!”

They went to the carpenter’s house, but found he had gone out of town for a day’s job. But his wife told them that he always came back at night to ring the nine-o’clock bell.

“We must wait till then,” said Mr. Peterkin, with an effort at cheerfulness.

At home he found Agamemnon reading his book, and all sat down to hear of Herculaneum and Pompeii.

Time passed on, and the question arose about tea. Would it do to have tea when they had had no dinner? A part of the family thought it would not do; the rest wanted tea.

“I suppose you remember the wise lady of Philadelphia, who was here not long ago,” said Mr. Peterkin.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Peterkin.

“Let us try to think what she would advise us,” said Mr. Peterkin.

“I wish she were here,” said Elizabeth Eliza.

“I think,” said Mr. Peterkin, “she would say, let them that want tea have it; the rest can go without.”

So they had tea, and, as it proved, all sat down to it. But not much was eaten, as there had been no dinner.

When the nine-o’clock bell was heard, Agamemnon, Solomon John, and the little boys rushed to the church, and found the carpenter.

They asked him to bring a ladder, axes and pickaxe. As he felt it might be a case of fire, he brought also his fire-buckets.

When the matter was explained to him, he went into the dining-room, looked into the dumb-waiter, untwisted a cord, and arranged the weight, and pulled up the dinner.

There was a family shout.

“The trouble was in the weight,” said the carpenter.

“That is why it is called a dumb-waiter,” Solomon John explained to the little boys.

The dinner was put upon the table.

Mrs. Peterkin frugally suggested that they might now keep it for the next day, as to-day was almost gone, and they had had tea.

But nobody listened. All sat down to the roast turkey; and Amanda warmed over the vegetables.

“Patient waiters are no losers,” said Agamemnon.

THE PETERKINS’ SUMMER JOURNEY.

IN fact, it was their last summer’s journey--for it had been planned then; but there had been so many difficulties, it had been delayed.

The first trouble had been about trunks. The family did not own a trunk suitable for travelling.

Agamemnon had his valise, that he had used when he stayed a week at a time at the academy; and a trunk had been bought for Elizabeth Eliza when she went to the seminary. Solomon John and Mr. Peterkin, each had his patent-leather hand-bag. But all these were too small for the family. And the little boys wanted to carry their kite.

Mrs. Peterkin suggested her grandmother’s trunk. This was a hair-trunk, very large and capacious. It would hold everything they would want to carry, except what would go in Elizabeth Eliza’s trunk, or the valise and bags.

Everybody was delighted at this idea. It was agreed that the next day the things should be brought into Mrs. Peterkin’s room, for her to see if they could all be packed.

“If we can get along,” said Elizabeth Eliza, “without having to ask advice, I shall be glad!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Peterkin, “It is time now for people to be coming to ask advice of us.”

The next morning Mrs. Peterkin began by taking out the things that were already in the trunk. Here were last year’s winter things, and not only these, but old clothes that had been put away,--Mrs. Peterkin’s wedding-dress; the skirts the little boys used to wear before they put on jackets and trousers.

All day Mrs. Peterkin worked over the trunk, putting away the old things, putting in the new. She packed up all the clothes she could think of, both summer and winter ones, because you never can tell what sort of weather you will have.

Agamemnon fetched his books, and Solomon John his spy-glass. There were her own and Elizabeth Eliza’s best bonnets in a bandbox; also Solomon John’s hats, for he had an old one and a new one. He bought a new hat for fishing, with a very wide brim and deep crown; all of heavy straw.

Agamemnon brought down a large heavy dictionary, and an atlas still larger. This contained maps of all the countries in the world.

“I have never had a chance to look at them,” he said; “but when one travels, then is the time to study geography.”

Mr. Peterkin wanted to take his turning-lathe. So Mrs. Peterkin packed his tool-chest. It gave her some trouble, for it came to her just as she had packed her summer dresses. At first she thought it would help to smooth the dresses, and placed it on top; but she was forced to take all out, and set it at the bottom. This was not so much matter, as she had not yet the right dresses to put in. Both Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza would need new dresses for this occasion. The little boys’ hoops went in; so did their india-rubber boots, in case it should not rain when they started. They each had a hoe and shovel, and some baskets, that were packed.

Mrs. Peterkin called in all the family on the evening of the second day to see how she had succeeded. Everything was packed, even the little boys’ kite lay smoothly on the top.

“I like to see a thing so nicely done,” said Mr. Peterkin.

The next thing was to cord up the trunk, and Mr. Peterkin tried to move it. But neither he, nor Agamemnon, nor Solomon John could lift it alone, or all together.

Here was a serious difficulty. Solomon John tried to make light of it.

“Expressmen could lift it. Expressmen were used to such things.”

“But we did not plan expressing it,” said Mrs. Peterkin, in a discouraged tone.

“We can take a carriage,” said Solomon John.

“I am afraid the trunk would not go on the back of a carriage,” said Mrs.

Peterkin.

“The hackman could not lift it, either,” said Mr. Peterkin.

“People do travel with a great deal of baggage,” said Elizabeth Eliza.

“And with very large trunks,” said Agamemnon.

“Still they are trunks that can be moved,” said Mr. Peterkin, giving another try at the trunk in vain. “I am afraid we must give it up,” he said; “it would be such a trouble in going from place to place.”

“We would not mind if we got it to the place,” said Elizabeth Eliza.

“But how to get it there?” Mr. Peterkin asked, with a sigh.

“This is our first obstacle,” said Agamemnon; “we must do our best to conquer it.”

“What is an obstacle?” asked the little boys.

“It is the trunk,” said Solomon John.

“Suppose we look out the word in the dictionary,” said Agamemnon, taking the large volume from the trunk. “Ah, here it is--” And he read:-- “OBSTACLE, an impediment.”

“That is a worse word than the other,” said one of the little boys.

“But listen to this,” and Agamemnon continued: “Impediment is something that entangles the feet; obstacle, something that stands in the way; obstruction, something that blocks up the passage; hinderance, something that holds back.”

“The trunk is all these,” said Mr. Peterkin, gloomily.

“It does not entangle the feet,” said Solomon John, “for it can’t move.”

“I wish it could,” said the little boys together.

Mrs. Peterkin spent a day or two in taking the things out of the trunk and putting them away.

“At least,” she said, “this has given me some experience in packing.”

And the little boys felt as if they had quite been a journey.

But the family did not like to give up their plan. It was suggested that they might take the things out of the trunk, and pack it at the station; the little boys could go and come with the things. But Elizabeth Eliza thought the place too public.

Gradually the old contents of the great trunk went back again to it.

At length a friend unexpectedly offered to lend Mr. Peterkin a good-sized family trunk. But it was late in the season, and so the journey was put off from that summer.

But now the trunk was sent round to the house, and a family consultation was held about packing it. Many things would have to be left at home, it was so much smaller than the grandmother’s hair-trunk. But Agamemnon had been studying the atlas through the winter, and felt familiar with the more important places, so it would not be necessary to take it. And Mr. Peterkin decided to leave his turning-lathe at home, and his tool-chest.

Again Mrs. Peterkin spent two days in accommodating the things. With great care and discretion, and by borrowing two more leather bags, it could be accomplished. Everything of importance could be packed, except the little boys’ kite. What should they do about that?

The little boys proposed carrying it in their hands; but Solomon John and Elizabeth Eliza would not consent to this.

“I do think it is one of the cases where we might ask the advice of the lady from Philadelphia,” said Mrs. Peterkin, at last.

“She has come on here,” said Agamemnon, “and we have not been to see her this summer.”

“She may think we have been neglecting her,” suggested Mr. Peterkin.

The little boys begged to be allowed to go and ask her opinion about the kite.

They came back in high spirits.

“She says we might leave this one at home, and make a new kite when we get there,” they cried.

“What a sensible idea!” exclaimed Mr. Peterkin; “and I may have leisure to help you.”

“We’ll take plenty of newspapers,” said Solomon John.

“And twine,” said the little boys. And this matter was settled.

The question then was, “When should they go?”

THE PETERKINS SNOWED-UP.

MRS. PETERKIN awoke one morning to find a heavy snow-storm raging. The wind had flung the snow against the windows, had heaped it up around the house, and thrown it into huge white drifts over the fields, covering hedges and fences.

Mrs. Peterkin went from one window to the other to look out; but nothing could be seen but the driving storm and the deep white snow. Even Mr. Bromwick’s house, on the opposite side of the street, was hidden by the swift-falling flakes.

“What shall I do about it?” thought Mrs. Peterkin. “No roads cleared out! Of course there’ll be no butcher and no milkman!”

The first thing to be done was to wake up all the family early; for there was enough in the house for breakfast, and there was no knowing when they would have anything more to eat.

It was best to secure the breakfast first.

So she went from one room to the other, as soon as it was light, waking the family, and before long all were dressed and downstairs.

And then all went round the house to see what had happened.

All the water-pipes that there were were frozen. The milk was frozen. They could open the door into the wood-house; but the wood-house door into the yard was banked up with snow; and the front door, and the piazza door, and the side door stuck. Nobody could get in or out!

Meanwhile, Amanda, the cook, had succeeded in making the kitchen fire, but had discovered there was no furnace coal.

“The furnace coal was to have come to-day,” said Mrs. Peterkin, apologetically.

“Nothing will come to-day,” said Mr. Peterkin, shivering.

But a fire could be made in a stove in the dining-room.

All were glad to sit down to breakfast and hot coffee. The little boys were much pleased to have “ice-cream” for breakfast.

“When we get a little warm,” said Mr. Peterkin, “we will consider what is to be done.”

“I am thankful I ordered the sausages yesterday,” said Mrs. Peterkin. “I was to have had a leg of mutton to-day.”

“Nothing will come to-day,” said Agamemnon, gloomily.

“Are these sausages the last meat in the house?” asked Mr. Peterkin.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Peterkin.

The potatoes also were gone, the barrel of apples empty, and she had meant to order more flour that very day.

“Then we are eating our last provisions,” said Solomon John, helping himself to another sausage.

“I almost wish we had stayed in bed,” said Agamemnon.

“I thought it best to make sure of our breakfast first,” repeated Mrs. Peterkin.

“Shall we literally have nothing left to eat?” asked Mr. Peterkin.

“There’s the pig!” suggested Solomon John.

Yes, happily, the pigsty was at the end of the wood-house, and could be reached under cover.

But some of the family could not eat fresh pork.

“We should have to ‘corn’ part of him,” said Agamemnon.

“My butcher has always told me,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “that if I wanted a ham I must keep a pig. Now we have the pig, but have not the ham!”

“Perhaps we could ‘corn’ one or two of his legs,” suggested one of the little boys.

“We need not settle that now,” said Mr. Peterkin. “At least the pig will keep us from starving.”

The little boys looked serious; they were fond of their pig.

“If we had only decided to keep a cow,” said Mrs. Peterkin.

“Alas! yes,” said Mr. Peterkin, “one learns a great many things too late!”

“Then we might have had ice-cream all the time!” exclaimed the little boys.

Indeed, the little boys, in spite of the prospect of starving, were quite pleasantly excited at the idea of being snowed-up, and hurried through their breakfasts that they might go and try to shovel out a path from one of the doors.

“I ought to know more about the water-pipes,” said Mr. Peterkin. “Now, I shut off the water last night in the bath-room, or else I forgot to; and I ought to have shut it off in the cellar.”

The little boys came back. Such a wind at the front door, they were going to try the side door.

“Another thing I have learned to-day,” said Mr. Peterkin, “is not to have all the doors on one side of the house, because the storm blows the snow against all the doors.”

Solomon John started up.

“Let us see if we are blocked up on the east side of the house!” he exclaimed.

“Of what use,” asked Mr. Peterkin, “since we have no door on the east side?”

“We could cut one,” said Solomon John.

“Yes, we could cut a door,” exclaimed Agamemnon.

“But how can we tell whether there is any snow there?” asked Elizabeth Eliza,--“for there is no window.”

In fact, the east side of the Peterkins’ house formed a blank wall. The owner had originally planned a little block of semi-detached houses. He had completed only one, very semi and very detached.

“It is not necessary to see,” said Agamemnon, profoundly; “of course, if the storm blows against this side of the house, the house itself must keep the snow from the other side.”

“Yes,” said Solomon John, “there must be a space clear of snow on the east side of the house, and if we could open a way to that “--“We could open a way to the butcher,” said Mr. Peterkin, promptly.

Agamemnon went for his pick-axe. He had kept one in the house ever since the adventure of the dumb-waiter.

“What part of the wall had we better attack?” asked Mr. Peterkin.

Mrs. Peterkin was alarmed.

“What will Mr. Mudge, the owner of the house, think of it?” she exclaimed. “Have we a right to injure the wall of the house?”

“It is right to preserve ourselves from starving,” said Mr. Peterkin. “The drowning man must snatch at a straw!”

“It is better that he should find his house chopped a little when the thaw comes,” said Elizabeth Eliza, “than that he should find us lying about the house, dead of hunger, upon the floor.”

Mrs. Peterkin was partially convinced.

The little boys came in to warm their hands. They had not succeeded in opening the side door, and were planning trying to open the door from the wood-house to the garden.

“That would be of no use,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “the butcher cannot get into the garden.”

“But we might shovel off the snow,” suggested one of the little boys, “and dig down to some of last year’s onions.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Peterkin, Agamemnon, and Solomon John had been bringing together their carpenter’s tools, and Elizabeth Eliza proposed using a gouge, if they would choose the right spot to begin.

The little boys were delighted with the plan, and hastened to find,--one, a little hatchet, and the other a gimlet. Even Amanda armed herself with a poker.

“It would be better to begin on the ground floor,” said Mr. Peterkin.

“Except that we may meet with a stone foundation,” said Solomon John.

“If the wall is thinner upstairs,” said Agamemnon, “it will do as well to cut a window as a door, and haul up anything the butcher may bring below in his cart.”

Everybody began to pound a little on the wall to find a favorable place, and there was a great deal of noise. The little boys actually cut a bit out of the plastering with their hatchet and gimlet. Solomon John confided to Elizabeth Eliza that it reminded him of stories of prisoners who cut themselves free, through stone walls, after days and days of secret labor.

Mrs. Peterkin, even, had come with a pair of tongs in her hand. She was interrupted by a voice behind her.

“Here’s your leg of mutton, marm!”

It was the butcher. How had he got in?

“Excuse me, marm, for coming in at the side door, but the back gate is kinder blocked up. You were making such a pounding I could not make anybody hear me knock at the side door.”

“But how did you make a path to the door?” asked Mr. Peterkin. “You must have been working at it a long time. It must be near noon now.”

“I’m about on regular time,” answered the butcher. “The town team has cleared out the high road, and the wind has been down the last half-hour. The storm is over.”

True enough! The Peterkins had been so busy inside the house they had not noticed the ceasing of the storm outside.

“And we were all up an hour earlier than usual,” said Mr. Peterkin, when the butcher left. He had not explained to the butcher why he had a pickaxe in his hand.

“If we had lain abed till the usual time,” said Solomon John, “we should have been all right.”

“For here is the milkman!” said Elizabeth Eliza, as a knock was now heard at the side door.

“It is a good thing to learn,” said Mr. Peterkin, “not to get up any earlier than is necessary.”

THE PETERKINS DECIDE TO KEEP A COW.

NOT that they were fond of drinking milk, nor that they drank very much. But for that reason Mr. Peterkin thought it would be well to have a cow, to encourage the family to drink more, as he felt it would be so healthy.

Mrs. Peterkin recalled the troubles of the last cold winter, and how near they came to starving, when they were shut up in a severe snow-storm, and the water-pipes burst, and the milk was frozen. If the cow-shed could open out of the wood-shed, such trouble might be prevented.

Tony Larkin was to come over and milk the cow every morning, and Agamemnon and Solomon John agreed to learn how to milk, in case Tony should be “snowed up,” or have the whooping-cough in the course of the winter. The little boys thought they knew how already.

But if they were to have three or four pailfuls of milk every day, it was important to know where to keep it.

“One way will be,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “to use a great deal every day. We will make butter.”

“That will be admirable,” thought Mr. Peterkin.

“And custards,” suggested Solomon John.

“And syllabub,” said Elizabeth Eliza.

“And cocoa-nut cakes,” exclaimed the little boys.

“We don’t need the milk for cocoa-nut cakes,” said Mrs. Peterkin.

The little boys thought they might have a cocoa-nut tree instead of a cow. You could have the milk from the cocoa-nuts, and it would be pleasant climbing the tree, and you would not have to feed it.

“Yes,” said Mr. Peterkin, “we shall have to feed the cow.”

“Where shall we pasture her?” asked Agamemnon.

“Up on the hills, up on the hills,” exclaimed the little boys, “where there are a great many bars to take down, and huckleberry-bushes!”

Mr. Peterkin had been thinking of their own little lot behind the house.

“But I don’t know,” he said, “but the cow might eat off all the grass in one day, and there would not be any left for to-morrow, unless the grass grew fast enough every night.”

Agamemnon said it would depend upon the season. In a rainy season the grass would come up very fast, in a drought it might not grow at all.

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Peterkin, “that is the worst of having a cow,--there might be a drought.”

Mr. Peterkin thought they might make some calculation from the quantity of grass in the lot.