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THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS,
With Others of their kin.
BY LUCRETIA P. HALE.
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BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 1906.
_Copyright, 1886_, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. Printers S.J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.
TO
THE LADY FROM PHILADELPHIA,
BELOVED BY THE PETERKIN FAMILY,
This Book is Dedicated.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
The following Papers contain the last records of the Peterkin Family,who unhappily ventured to leave their native land and have neverreturned. Elizabeth Eliza's Commonplace Book has been found among thefamily papers, and will be published here for the first time. It isevident that she foresaw that the family were ill able to contend withthe commonplace struggle of life; and we may not wonder that they couldnot survive the unprecedented, far away from the genial advice offriends, especially that of the Lady from Philadelphia.
It is feared that Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin lost their lives after leavingTobolsk, perhaps in some vast conflagration.
Agamemnon and Solomon John were probably sacrificed in some effort tojoin in or control the disturbances which arose in the distant placeswhere they had established themselves,--Agamemnon in Madagascar, SolomonJohn in Rustchuk.
The little boys have merged into men in some German university, whileElizabeth Eliza must have been lost in the mazes of the Russian language.
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CONTENTS.
The Last of the Peterkins.
CHAPTER
I. ELIZABETH ELIZA WRITES A PAPER
II. ELIZABETH ELIZA'S COMMONPLACE-BOOK
III. THE PETERKINS PRACTISE TRAVELLING
IV. THE PETERKINS' EXCURSION FOR MAPLE SUGAR
V. THE PETERKINS "AT HOME"
VI. MRS. PETERKIN IN EGYPT
VII. MRS. PETERKIN FAINTS ON THE GREAT PYRAMID
VIII. THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS
Others of their Kin.
IX. LUCILLA'S DIARY
X. JEDIDIAH'S NOAH'S ARK
XI. CARRIE'S THREE WISHES
XII. "WHERE CAN THOSE BOYS BE?"
XIII. A PLACE FOR OSCAR
XIV. THE FIRST NEEDLE
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THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS.
I.
ELIZABETH ELIZA WRITES A PAPER.
Elizabeth Eliza joined the Circumambient Club with the idea that itwould be a long time before she, a new member, would have to read apaper. She would have time to hear the other papers read, and to see howit was done; and she would find it easy when her turn came. By that timeshe would have some ideas; and long before she would be called upon,she would have leisure to sit down and write out something. But a yearpassed away, and the time was drawing near. She had, meanwhile, devotedherself to her studies, and had tried to inform herself on all subjectsby way of preparation. She had consulted one of the old members of theClub as to the choice of a subject.
"Oh, write about anything," was the answer,--"anything you have beenthinking of."
Elizabeth Eliza was forced to say she had not been thinking lately. Shehad not had time. The family had moved, and there was always anexcitement about something, that prevented her sitting down to think.
"Why not write out your family adventures?" asked the old member.
Elizabeth Eliza was sure her mother would think it made them too public;and most of the Club papers, she observed, had some thought in them. Shepreferred to find an idea.
Elizabeth Eliza writes a paper.]
So she set herself to the occupation of thinking. She went out onthe piazza to think; she stayed in the house to think. She tried acorner of the china-closet. She tried thinking in the cars, and lost herpocket-book; she tried it in the garden, and walked into the strawberrybed. In the house and out of the house, it seemed to be the same,--shecould not think of anything to think of. For many weeks she was seensitting on the sofa or in the window, and nobody disturbed her. "She isthinking about her paper," the family would say, but she only knew thatshe could not think of anything.
Agamemnon told her that many writers waited till the last moment, wheninspiration came which was much finer than anything studied. ElizabethEliza thought it would be terrible to wait till the last moment, if theinspiration should not come! She might combine the two ways,--wait tilla few days before the last, and then sit down and write anyhow. Thiswould give a chance for inspiration, while she would not run the riskof writing nothing.
She was much discouraged. Perhaps she had better give it up? But, no;everybody wrote a paper: if not now, she would have to do it sometime!
And at last the idea of a subject came to her! But it was as hard tofind a moment to write as to think. The morning was noisy, till thelittle boys had gone to school; for they had begun again upon theirregular course, with the plan of taking up the study of cider inOctober. And after the little boys had gone to school, now it was onething, now it was another,--the china-closet to be cleaned, or one ofthe neighbors in to look at the sewing-machine. She tried after dinner,but would fall asleep. She felt that evening would be the true time,after the cares of day were over.
The Peterkins had wire mosquito-nets all over the house,--at every doorand every window. They were as eager to keep out the flies as themosquitoes. The doors were all furnished with strong springs, thatpulled the doors to as soon as they were opened. The little boys hadpractised running in and out of each door, and slamming it after them.This made a good deal of noise, for they had gained great success inmaking one door slam directly after another, and at times would keep upa running volley of artillery, as they called it, with the slamming ofthe doors. Mr. Peterkin, however, preferred it to flies.
So Elizabeth Eliza felt she would venture to write of a summer eveningwith all the windows open.
She seated herself one evening in the library, between two largekerosene lamps, with paper, pen, and ink before her. It was a beautifulnight, with the smell of the roses coming in through the mosquito-nets,and just the faintest odor of kerosene by her side. She began upon herwork. But what was her dismay! She found herself immediately surroundedwith mosquitoes. They attacked her at every point. They fell upon herhand as she moved it to the inkstand; they hovered, buzzing, over herhead; they planted themselves under the lace of her sleeve. If she movedher left hand to frighten them off from one point, another band fixedthemselves upon her right hand. Not only did they flutter and sting, butthey sang in a heathenish manner, distracting her attention as she triedto write, as she tried to waft them off. Nor was this all. Myriads ofJune-bugs and millers hovered round, flung themselves into the lamps,and made disagreeable funeral-pyres of themselves, tumbling noisily onher paper in their last unpleasant agonies. Occasionally one darted witha rush toward Elizabeth Eliza's head.
If there was anything Elizabeth Eliza had a terror of, it was aJune-bug. She had heard that they had a tendency to get into the hair.One had been caught in the hair of a friend of hers, who had longluxuriant hair. But the legs of the June-bug were caught in it likefish-hooks, and it had to be cut out, and the June-bug was onlyextricated by sacrificing large masses of
the flowing locks.
Elizabeth Eliza flung her handkerchief over her head. Could shesacrifice what hair she had to the claims of literature? She gave a cryof dismay.
The little boys rushed in a moment to the rescue. They flappednewspapers, flung sofa-cushions; they offered to stand by her sidewith fly-whisks, that she might be free to write. But the strugglewas too exciting for her, and the flying insects seemed to increase.Moths of every description--large brown moths, small, delicate whitemillers--whirled about her, while the irritating hum of the mosquitokept on more than ever. Mr. Peterkin and the rest of the family came into inquire about the trouble. It was discovered that each of the littleboys had been standing in the opening of a wire door for some time,watching to see when Elizabeth Eliza would have made her preparationsand would begin to write. Countless numbers of dorbugs and wingedcreatures of every description had taken occasion to come in. It wasfound that they were in every part of the house.
"We might open all the blinds and screens," suggested Agamemnon, "andmake a vigorous onslaught and drive them all out at once."
"I do believe there are more inside than out now," said Solomon John.
"The wire nets, of course," said Agamemnon, "keep them in now."
"We might go outside," proposed Solomon John, "and drive in all that areleft. Then to-morrow morning, when they are all torpid, kill them andmake collections of them."
Agamemnon had a tent which he had provided in case he should ever go tothe Adirondacks, and he proposed using it for the night. The little boyswere wild for this.
Mrs. Peterkin thought she and Elizabeth Eliza would prefer trying tosleep in the house. But perhaps Elizabeth Eliza would go on with herpaper with more comfort out of doors.
A student's lamp was carried out, and she was established on the stepsof the back piazza, while screens were all carefully closed to preventthe mosquitoes and insects from flying out. But it was of no use. Therewere outside still swarms of winged creatures that plunged themselvesabout her, and she had not been there long before a huge miller flunghimself into the lamp and put it out. She gave up for the evening.
Still the paper went on. "How fortunate," exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza,"that I did not put it off till the last evening!" Having once begun,she persevered in it at every odd moment of the day. Agamemnon presentedher with a volume of "Synonymes," which was of great service to her. Sheread her paper, in its various stages, to Agamemnon first, for hiscriticism, then to her father in the library, then to Mr. and Mrs.Peterkin together, next to Solomon John, and afterward to the wholefamily assembled. She was almost glad that the lady from Philadelphiawas not in town, as she wished it to be her own unaided production. Shedeclined all invitations for the week before the night of the club, andon the very day she kept her room with _eau sucree_, that she mightsave her voice. Solomon John provided her with Brown's Bronchial Trocheswhen the evening came, and Mrs. Peterkin advised a handkerchief over herhead, in case of June-bugs. It was, however, a cool night. Agamemnonescorted her to the house.
The Club met at Ann Maria Bromwick's. No gentlemen were admitted to theregular meetings. There were what Solomon John called "occasional annualmeetings," to which they were invited, when all the choicest papers ofthe year were re-read.
Elizabeth Eliza was placed at the head of the room, at a small table,with a brilliant gas-jet on one side. It was so cool the windows couldbe closed. Mrs. Peterkin, as a guest, sat in the front row.
This was her paper, as Elizabeth Eliza read it, for she frequentlyinserted fresh expressions:--
THE SUN.
It is impossible that much can be known about it. This is why wehave taken it up as a subject. We mean the sun that lights us byday and leaves us by night. In the first place, it is so far off.No measuring-tapes could reach it; and both the earth and the sun aremoving about so, that it would be difficult to adjust ladders to reachit, if we could. Of course, people have written about it, and there arethose who have told us how many miles off it is. But it is a very largenumber, with a great many figures in it; and though it is taught in mostif not all of our public schools, it is a chance if any one of thescholars remembers exactly how much it is.
It is the same with its size. We cannot, as we have said, reach itby ladders to measure it; and if we did reach it, we should have nomeasuring-tapes large enough, and those that shut up with springs aredifficult to use in a high place. We are told, it is true, in a greatmany of the school-books, the size of the sun; but, again, very few ofthose who have learned the number have been able to remember it afterthey have recited it, even if they remembered it then. And almost all ofthe scholars have lost their school-books, or have neglected to carrythem home, and so they are not able to refer to them,--I mean, afterleaving school. I must say that is the case with me, I should say withus, though it was different. The older ones gave their school-books tothe younger ones, who took them back to school to lose them, or who havedestroyed them when there were no younger ones to go to school. I shouldsay there are such families. What I mean is, the fact that in somefamilies there are no younger children to take off the school-books. Buteven then they are put away on upper shelves, in closets or in attics,and seldom found if wanted,--if then, dusty.
Of course, we all know of a class of persons called astronomers, whomight be able to give us information on the subject in hand, and whoprobably do furnish what information is found in school-books. It shouldbe observed, however, that these astronomers carry on their observationsalways in the night. Now, it is well known that the sun does not shinein the night. Indeed, that is one of the peculiarities of the night,that there is no sun to light us, so we have to go to bed as long asthere is nothing else we can do without its light, unless we use lamps,gas, or kerosene, which is very well for the evening, but would beexpensive all night long; the same with candles. How, then, can wedepend upon their statements, if not made from their own observation?--Imean, if they never saw the sun?
We cannot expect that astronomers should give us any valuableinformation with regard to the sun, which they never see, theiroccupation compelling them to be up at night. It is quite likely thatthey never see it; for we should not expect them to sit up all day aswell as all night, as, under such circumstances, their lives would notlast long.
Indeed, we are told that their name is taken from the word _aster_,which means "star;" the word is "aster--know--more." This, doubtless,means that they know more about the stars than other things. We see,therefore, that their knowledge is confined to the stars, and we cannottrust what they have to tell us of the sun.
There are other asters which should not be mixed up with these,--we meanthose growing by the wayside in the fall of the year. The astronomers,from their nocturnal habits, can scarcely be acquainted with them; butas it does not come within our province, we will not inquire.
We are left, then, to seek our own information about the sun. But weare met with a difficulty. To know a thing, we must look at it. How canwe look at the sun? It is so very bright that our eyes are dazzled ingazing upon it. We have to turn away, or they would be put out,--thesight, I mean. It is true, we might use smoked glass, but that is apt tocome off on the nose. How, then, if we cannot look at it, can we findout about it? The noonday would seem to be the better hour, when it isthe sunniest; but, besides injuring the eyes, it is painful to the neckto look up for a long time. It is easy to say that our examination ofthis heavenly body should take place at sunrise, when we could look atit more on a level, without having to endanger the spine. But how manypeople are up at sunrise? Those who get up early do it because they arecompelled to, and have something else to do than look at the sun.
The milkman goes forth to carry the daily milk, the ice-man to leavethe daily ice. But either of these would be afraid of exposing theirvehicles to the heating orb of day,--the milkman afraid of turning themilk, the ice-man timorous of melting his ice,--and they probably avoidthose directions where they shall meet the sun's rays. The student, whomight inform us, has been burning the midnight
oil. The student is notin the mood to consider the early sun.
There remains to us the evening, also,--the leisure hour of the day.But, alas! our houses are not built with an adaptation to this subject.They are seldom made to look toward the sunset. A careful inquiry andclose observation, such as have been called for in preparation of thispaper, have developed the fact that not a single house in this townfaces the sunset! There may be windows looking that way, but in such acase there is always a barn between. I can testify to this from personalobservations, because, with my brothers, we have walked through theseveral streets of this town with notebooks, carefully noting everyhouse looking upon the sunset, and have found none from which the sunsetcould be studied. Sometimes it was the next house, sometimes a row ofhouses, or its own wood-house, that stood in the way.
Of course, a study of the sun might be pursued out of doors. But insummer, sunstroke would be likely to follow; in winter, neuralgia andcold. And how could you consult your books, your dictionaries, yourencyclopaedias? There seems to be no hour of the day for studying thesun. You might go to the East to see it at its rising, or to the Westto gaze upon its setting, but--you don't.
* * * * *
Here Elizabeth Eliza came to a pause. She had written five differentendings, and had brought them all, thinking, when the moment came,she would choose one of them. She was pausing to select one, andinadvertently said, to close the phrase, "you don't." She had not meantto use the expression, which she would not have thought sufficientlyimposing,--it dropped out unconsciously,--but it was received as a closewith rapturous applause.
She had read slowly, and now that the audience applauded at such alength, she had time to feel she was much exhausted and glad of an end.Why not stop there, though there were some pages more? Applause, too,was heard from the outside. Some of the gentlemen had come,--Mr.Peterkin, Agamemnon, and Solomon John, with others,--and demandedadmission.
"Since it is all over, let them in," said Ann Maria Bromwick.
Elizabeth Eliza assented, and rose to shake hands with her applaudingfriends.
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