Chapter 4

And so she began to pour out and to send round the sandwiches, and the tea, and the coffee. Let things go as far as they would!

The little boys took the sugar and cream.

“As soon as they have done drinking bring back the cups and saucers to be washed,” she said to the Gibbons boys and the little boys.

This was an idea of Mary Osborne’s.

But what was their surprise, that the more they poured out, the more cups they seemed to have! Elizabeth Eliza took the coffee, and Mary Osborne the tea.

Amanda brought fresh cups from the kitchen.

“I can’t understand it,” Elizabeth Eliza said to Amanda. “Do they come back to you, round through the piazza? Surely there are more cups than there were!”

Her surprise was greater when some of them proved to be coffee-cups that matched the set! And they never had had coffee-cups.

Solomon John came in at this moment, breathless with triumph.

“Solomon John!” Elizabeth Eliza exclaimed; “I cannot understand the cups!”

“It is my doing,” said Solomon John, with an elevated air. “I went to the lady from Philadelphia, in the midst of her talk. ‘What do you do in Philadelphia, when you haven’t enough cups?’ ‘Borrow of my neighbors,’ she answered, as quick as she could.”

“She must have guessed,” interrupted Elizabeth Eliza.

“That may be,” said Solomon John. “But I whispered to Ann Maria Bromwick,--she was standing by,--and she took me straight over into their closet, and old Mr. Bromwick bought this set just where we bought ours. And they had a coffee-set, too”--“You mean where our father and mother bought them. We were not born,” said Elizabeth Eliza.

“It is all the same,” said Solomon John. “They match exactly.”

So they did, and more and more came in.

Elizabeth Eliza exclaimed:

“And Agamemnon says we are not a family for emergencies!”

“Ann Maria was very good about it,” said Solomon John; “and quick, too. And old Mrs. Bromwick has kept all her set of two dozen coffee and tea cups!”

Elizabeth Eliza was ready to faint with delight and relief. She told the Gibbons boys, by mistake, instead of Agamemnon, and the little boys. She almost let fall the cups and saucers she took in her hand.

“No trouble now!”

She thought of the cow, and she thought of the pig, and she poured on.

No trouble, except about the chairs. She looked into the room; all seemed to be sitting down, even her mother. No, her father was standing, talking to Mr.

Jeffers. But he was drinking coffee, and the Gibbons boys were handing things around.

The daughters of the lady from Philadelphia were sitting on shawls on the edge of the window that opened upon the piazza. It was a soft, warm evening, and some of the young people were on the piazza. Everybody was talking and laughing, except those who were listening.

Mr. Peterkin broke away, to bring back his cup and another for more coffee.

“It’s a great success, Elizabeth Eliza,” he whispered. “The coffee is admirable, and plenty of cups. We asked none too many. I should not mind having a tea-party every week.”

Elizabeth Eliza sighed with relief as she filled his cup. It was going off well.

There were cups enough, but she was not sure she could live over another such hour of anxiety; and what was to be done after tea?

THE PETERKINS TOO LATE FOR THE EXHIBITION.

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.

“The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled---”

[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.

“The flames rolled on, he would not go Without his father’s word.”

ELIZABETH ELIZA.--O yes. Now I can say it.

“The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flames rolled on, he would not go Without his father’s word.”

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 PETERKINS CELEBRATE THE FOURTH OF JULY.

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.