







                       THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS,

                       With Others of their kin.

                          BY LUCRETIA P. HALE.




                   *       *       *       *       *

                                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 never
returned. Elizabeth Eliza's Commonplace Book has been found among the
family papers, and will be published here for the first time. It is
evident that she foresaw that the family were ill able to contend with
the commonplace struggle of life; and we may not wonder that they could
not survive the unprecedented, far away from the genial advice of
friends, especially that of the Lady from Philadelphia.

It is feared that Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin lost their lives after leaving
Tobolsk, perhaps in some vast conflagration.

Agamemnon and Solomon John were probably sacrificed in some effort to
join in or control the disturbances which arose in the distant places
where they had established themselves,--Agamemnon in Madagascar, Solomon
John in Rustchuk.

The little boys have merged into men in some German university, while
Elizabeth Eliza must have been lost in the mazes of the Russian language.

       *       *       *       *       *




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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS.




I.

ELIZABETH ELIZA WRITES A PAPER.


Elizabeth Eliza joined the Circumambient Club with the idea that it
would be a long time before she, a new member, would have to read a
paper. She would have time to hear the other papers read, and to see how
it was done; and she would find it easy when her turn came. By that time
she 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 year
passed away, and the time was drawing near. She had, meanwhile, devoted
herself to her studies, and had tried to inform herself on all subjects
by way of preparation. She had consulted one of the old members of the
Club as to the choice of a subject.

"Oh, write about anything," was the answer,--"anything you have been
thinking of."

Elizabeth Eliza was forced to say she had not been thinking lately. She
had not had time. The family had moved, and there was always an
excitement 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. She
preferred to find an idea.

[Illustration: Elizabeth Eliza writes a paper.]

So she set herself to the occupation of thinking. She went out on
the piazza to think; she stayed in the house to think. She tried a
corner of the china-closet. She tried thinking in the cars, and lost her
pocket-book; she tried it in the garden, and walked into the strawberry
bed. In the house and out of the house, it seemed to be the same,--she
could not think of anything to think of. For many weeks she was seen
sitting on the sofa or in the window, and nobody disturbed her. "She is
thinking about her paper," the family would say, but she only knew that
she could not think of anything.

Agamemnon told her that many writers waited till the last moment, when
inspiration came which was much finer than anything studied. Elizabeth
Eliza thought it would be terrible to wait till the last moment, if the
inspiration should not come! She might combine the two ways,--wait till
a few days before the last, and then sit down and write anyhow. This
would give a chance for inspiration, while she would not run the risk
of 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 to
find a moment to write as to think. The morning was noisy, till the
little boys had gone to school; for they had begun again upon their
regular course, with the plan of taking up the study of cider in
October. And after the little boys had gone to school, now it was one
thing, now it was another,--the china-closet to be cleaned, or one of
the 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 door
and every window. They were as eager to keep out the flies as the
mosquitoes. The doors were all furnished with strong springs, that
pulled the doors to as soon as they were opened. The little boys had
practised 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 in
making one door slam directly after another, and at times would keep up
a running volley of artillery, as they called it, with the slamming of
the doors. Mr. Peterkin, however, preferred it to flies.

So Elizabeth Eliza felt she would venture to write of a summer evening
with all the windows open.

She seated herself one evening in the library, between two large
kerosene lamps, with paper, pen, and ink before her. It was a beautiful
night, 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 her
work. But what was her dismay! She found herself immediately surrounded
with mosquitoes. They attacked her at every point. They fell upon her
hand as she moved it to the inkstand; they hovered, buzzing, over her
head; they planted themselves under the lace of her sleeve. If she moved
her left hand to frighten them off from one point, another band fixed
themselves upon her right hand. Not only did they flutter and sting, but
they sang in a heathenish manner, distracting her attention as she tried
to write, as she tried to waft them off. Nor was this all. Myriads of
June-bugs and millers hovered round, flung themselves into the lamps,
and made disagreeable funeral-pyres of themselves, tumbling noisily on
her paper in their last unpleasant agonies. Occasionally one darted with
a rush toward Elizabeth Eliza's head.

If there was anything Elizabeth Eliza had a terror of, it was a
June-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 long
luxuriant hair. But the legs of the June-bug were caught in it like
fish-hooks, and it had to be cut out, and the June-bug was only
extricated by sacrificing large masses of the flowing locks.

Elizabeth Eliza flung her handkerchief over her head. Could she
sacrifice what hair she had to the claims of literature? She gave a cry
of dismay.

The little boys rushed in a moment to the rescue. They flapped
newspapers, flung sofa-cushions; they offered to stand by her side
with fly-whisks, that she might be free to write. But the struggle
was too exciting for her, and the flying insects seemed to increase.
Moths of every description--large brown moths, small, delicate white
millers--whirled about her, while the irritating hum of the mosquito
kept on more than ever. Mr. Peterkin and the rest of the family came in
to inquire about the trouble. It was discovered that each of the little
boys had been standing in the opening of a wire door for some time,
watching to see when Elizabeth Eliza would have made her preparations
and would begin to write. Countless numbers of dorbugs and winged
creatures of every description had taken occasion to come in. It was
found that they were in every part of the house.

"We might open all the blinds and screens," suggested Agamemnon, "and
make 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 are
left. Then to-morrow morning, when they are all torpid, kill them and
make collections of them."

Agamemnon had a tent which he had provided in case he should ever go to
the Adirondacks, and he proposed using it for the night. The little boys
were wild for this.

Mrs. Peterkin thought she and Elizabeth Eliza would prefer trying to
sleep in the house. But perhaps Elizabeth Eliza would go on with her
paper with more comfort out of doors.

A student's lamp was carried out, and she was established on the steps
of the back piazza, while screens were all carefully closed to prevent
the mosquitoes and insects from flying out. But it was of no use. There
were outside still swarms of winged creatures that plunged themselves
about her, and she had not been there long before a huge miller flung
himself 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 presented
her with a volume of "Synonymes," which was of great service to her. She
read her paper, in its various stages, to Agamemnon first, for his
criticism, then to her father in the library, then to Mr. and Mrs.
Peterkin together, next to Solomon John, and afterward to the whole
family assembled. She was almost glad that the lady from Philadelphia
was not in town, as she wished it to be her own unaided production. She
declined all invitations for the week before the night of the club, and
on the very day she kept her room with _eau sucrée_, that she might
save her voice. Solomon John provided her with Brown's Bronchial Troches
when the evening came, and Mrs. Peterkin advised a handkerchief over her
head, in case of June-bugs. It was, however, a cool night. Agamemnon
escorted her to the house.

The Club met at Ann Maria Bromwick's. No gentlemen were admitted to the
regular meetings. There were what Solomon John called "occasional annual
meetings," to which they were invited, when all the choicest papers of
the 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 could
be closed. Mrs. Peterkin, as a guest, sat in the front row.

This was her paper, as Elizabeth Eliza read it, for she frequently
inserted fresh expressions:--


THE SUN.

It is impossible that much can be known about it. This is why we
have taken it up as a subject. We mean the sun that lights us by
day 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 are
moving about so, that it would be difficult to adjust ladders to reach
it, if we could. Of course, people have written about it, and there are
those who have told us how many miles off it is. But it is a very large
number, with a great many figures in it; and though it is taught in most
if not all of our public schools, it is a chance if any one of the
scholars remembers exactly how much it is.

It is the same with its size. We cannot, as we have said, reach it
by ladders to measure it; and if we did reach it, we should have no
measuring-tapes large enough, and those that shut up with springs are
difficult to use in a high place. We are told, it is true, in a great
many of the school-books, the size of the sun; but, again, very few of
those who have learned the number have been able to remember it after
they have recited it, even if they remembered it then. And almost all of
the scholars have lost their school-books, or have neglected to carry
them home, and so they are not able to refer to them,--I mean, after
leaving school. I must say that is the case with me, I should say with
us, though it was different. The older ones gave their school-books to
the younger ones, who took them back to school to lose them, or who have
destroyed them when there were no younger ones to go to school. I should
say there are such families. What I mean is, the fact that in some
families there are no younger children to take off the school-books. But
even 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, who
might be able to give us information on the subject in hand, and who
probably do furnish what information is found in school-books. It should
be observed, however, that these astronomers carry on their observations
always in the night. Now, it is well known that the sun does not shine
in 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 as
there 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 be
expensive all night long; the same with candles. How, then, can we
depend upon their statements, if not made from their own observation?--I
mean, if they never saw the sun?

We cannot expect that astronomers should give us any valuable
information with regard to the sun, which they never see, their
occupation compelling them to be up at night. It is quite likely that
they never see it; for we should not expect them to sit up all day as
well as all night, as, under such circumstances, their lives would not
last 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 cannot
trust what they have to tell us of the sun.

There are other asters which should not be mixed up with these,--we mean
those growing by the wayside in the fall of the year. The astronomers,
from their nocturnal habits, can scarcely be acquainted with them; but
as it does not come within our province, we will not inquire.

We are left, then, to seek our own information about the sun. But we
are met with a difficulty. To know a thing, we must look at it. How can
we look at the sun? It is so very bright that our eyes are dazzled in
gazing upon it. We have to turn away, or they would be put out,--the
sight, I mean. It is true, we might use smoked glass, but that is apt to
come off on the nose. How, then, if we cannot look at it, can we find
out about it? The noonday would seem to be the better hour, when it is
the sunniest; but, besides injuring the eyes, it is painful to the neck
to look up for a long time. It is easy to say that our examination of
this heavenly body should take place at sunrise, when we could look at
it more on a level, without having to endanger the spine. But how many
people are up at sunrise? Those who get up early do it because they are
compelled 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 leave
the daily ice. But either of these would be afraid of exposing their
vehicles to the heating orb of day,--the milkman afraid of turning the
milk, the ice-man timorous of melting his ice,--and they probably avoid
those directions where they shall meet the sun's rays. The student, who
might inform us, has been burning the midnight oil. The student is not
in 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 and
close observation, such as have been called for in preparation of this
paper, have developed the fact that not a single house in this town
faces the sunset! There may be windows looking that way, but in such a
case there is always a barn between. I can testify to this from personal
observations, because, with my brothers, we have walked through the
several streets of this town with notebooks, carefully noting every
house looking upon the sunset, and have found none from which the sunset
could be studied. Sometimes it was the next house, sometimes a row of
houses, or its own wood-house, that stood in the way.

Of course, a study of the sun might be pursued out of doors. But in
summer, sunstroke would be likely to follow; in winter, neuralgia and
cold. And how could you consult your books, your dictionaries, your
encyclopædias? There seems to be no hour of the day for studying the
sun. You might go to the East to see it at its rising, or to the West
to gaze upon its setting, but--you don't.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here Elizabeth Eliza came to a pause. She had written five different
endings, and had brought them all, thinking, when the moment came,
she would choose one of them. She was pausing to select one, and
inadvertently said, to close the phrase, "you don't." She had not meant
to use the expression, which she would not have thought sufficiently
imposing,--it dropped out unconsciously,--but it was received as a close
with rapturous applause.

She had read slowly, and now that the audience applauded at such a
length, 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 demanded
admission.

"Since it is all over, let them in," said Ann Maria Bromwick.

Elizabeth Eliza assented, and rose to shake hands with her applauding
friends.




II.

ELIZABETH ELIZA'S COMMONPLACE-BOOK.


I am going to jot down, from time to time, any suggestions that occur
to me that will be of use in writing another paper, in case I am called
upon. I might be asked unexpectedly for certain occasions, if anybody
happened to be prevented from coming to a meeting.

I have not yet thought of a subject, but I think that is not of as much
consequence as to gather the ideas. It seems as if the ideas might
suggest the subject, even if the subject does not suggest the ideas.

Now, often a thought occurs to me in the midst, perhaps, of conversation
with others; but I forget it afterwards, and spend a great deal of time
in trying to think what it was I was thinking of, which might have been
very valuable.

I have indeed, of late, been in the habit of writing such thoughts on
scraps of paper, and have often left the table to record some idea that
occurred to me; but, looking up the paper and getting ready to write it,
the thought has escaped me.

Then again, when I have written it, it has been on the backs of
envelopes or the off sheet of a note, and it has been lost, perhaps
thrown into the scrap-basket. Amanda is a little careless about such
things; and, indeed, I have before encouraged her in throwing away old
envelopes, which do not seem of much use otherwise, so perhaps she is
not to blame.

       *       *       *       *       *

The more I think of it, the more does it seem to me there would be an
advantage if everybody should have the same number to their houses,--of
course not everybody, but everybody acquainted. It is so hard to
remember all the numbers; the streets you are not so likely to forget.
Friends might combine to have the same number. What made me think of it
was that we do have the same number as the Easterlys. To be sure, we are
out of town, and they are in Boston; but it makes it so convenient, when
I go into town to see the Easterlys, to remember that their number is
the same as ours.

       *       *       *       *       *

Agamemnon has lost his new silk umbrella. Yet the case was marked with
his name in full, and the street address and the town. Of course he left
the case at home, going out in the rain. He might have carried it with
the address in his pocket, yet this would not have helped after losing
the umbrella. Why not have a pocket for the case in the umbrella?

       *       *       *       *       *

In shaking the dust from a dress, walk slowly backwards. This prevents
the dust from falling directly on the dress again.

       *       *       *       *       *

On Carving Duck.--It is singular that I can never get so much off the
breast as other people do.

Perhaps I have it set on wrong side up.

       *       *       *       *       *

I wonder why they never have catalogues for libraries arranged from the
last letter of the name instead of the first.

There is our Italian teacher whose name ends with a "j," which I should
remember much easier than the first letter, being so odd.

       *       *       *       *       *

I cannot understand why a man should want to marry his wife's deceased
sister. If she is dead, indeed, how can he? And if he has a wife, how
wrong! I am very glad there is a law against it.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is well, in prosperity, to be brought up as though you were living in
adversity; then, if you have to go back to adversity, it is all the
same.

On the other hand, it might be as well, in adversity, to act as though
you were living in prosperity; otherwise, you would seem to lose the
prosperity either way.

       *       *       *       *       *

Solomon John has invented a new extinguisher. It is to represent a Turk
smoking a pipe, which is to be hollow, and lets the smoke out. A very
pretty idea!

       *       *       *       *       *

A bee came stumbling into my room this morning, as it has done every
spring since we moved here,--perhaps not the same bee. I think there
must have been a family bee-line across this place before ever a house
was built here, and the bees are trying for it every year.

Perhaps we ought to cut a window opposite.

There's room enough in the world for me and thee; go thou and trouble
some one else,--as the man said when he put the fly out of the window.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ann Maria thinks it would be better to fix upon a subject first; but
then she has never yet written a paper herself, so she does not realize
that you have to have some thoughts before you can write them. She
should think, she says, that I would write about something that I see.
But of what use is it for me to write about what everybody is seeing,
as long as they can see it as well as I do?

       *       *       *       *       *

The paper about emergencies read last week was one of the best I ever
heard; but, of course, it would not be worth while for me to write the
same, even if I knew enough.

       *       *       *       *       *

My commonplace-book ought to show me what to do for common things; and
then I can go to lectures, or read the "Rules of Emergencies" for the
uncommon ones.

Because, as a family, I think we are more troubled about what to do
on the common occasions than on the unusual ones. Perhaps because the
unusual things don't happen to us, or very seldom; and for the uncommon
things, there is generally some one you can ask.

I suppose there really is not as much danger about these uncommon things
as there is in the small things, because they don't happen so often, and
because you are more afraid of them.

I never saw it counted up, but I conclude that more children tumble into
mud-puddles than into the ocean or Niagara Falls, for instance. It was
so, at least, with our little boys; but that may have been partly
because they never saw the ocean till last summer, and have never been
to Niagara. To be sure, they had seen the harbor from the top of Bunker
Hill Monument, but there they could not fall in. They might have fallen
off from the top of the monument, but did not. I am sure, for our little
boys, they have never had the remarkable things happen to them. I
suppose because they were so dangerous that they did not try them, like
firing at marks and rowing boats. If they had used guns, they might
have shot themselves or others; but guns have never been allowed in the
house. My father thinks it is dangerous to have them. They might go
off unexpected. They would require us to have gunpowder and shot in the
house, which would be dangerous. Amanda, too, is a little careless.
And we never shall forget the terrible time when the "fulminating paste"
went off one Fourth of July. It showed what might happen even if you did
not keep gunpowder in the house.

To be sure, Agamemnon and Solomon John are older now, and might learn
the use of fire-arms; but even then they might shoot the wrong
person--the policeman or some friends coming into the house--instead of
the burglar.

And I have read of safe burglars going about. I don't know whether it
means that it is safe for them or for us; I hope it is the latter.
Perhaps it means that they go without fire-arms, making it safer for
them.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have the "Printed Rules for Emergencies," which will be of great use,
as I should be apt to forget which to do for which. I mean I should be
quite likely to do for burns and scalds what I ought to do for cramp.
And when a person is choking, I might sponge from head to foot, which
is what I ought to do to prevent a cold.

But I hope I shall not have a chance to practise. We have never had the
case of a broken leg, and it would hardly be worth while to break one on
purpose.

Then we have had no cases of taking poison, or bites from mad dogs,
perhaps partly because we don't keep either poison or dogs; but then our
neighbors might, and we ought to be prepared. We do keep cats, so that
we do not need to have poison for the rats; and in this way we avoid
both dangers,--from the dogs going mad, and from eating the poison by
mistake instead of the rats.

To be sure, we don't quite get rid of the rats, and need a trap for the
mice; but if you have a good family cat it is safer.

       *       *       *       *       *

About window-curtains--I mean the drapery ones--we have the same trouble
in deciding every year. We did not put any in the parlor windows when we
moved, only window-shades, because there were so many things to be done,
and we wanted time to make up our minds as to what we would have.

But that was years ago, and we have not decided yet, though we consider
the subject every spring and fall.

The trouble is, if we should have heavy damask ones like the Bromwicks',
it would be very dark in the winter, on account of the new, high
building opposite.

Now, we like as much light as we can get in the winter, so we have
always waited till summer, thinking we would have some light muslin
ones, or else of the new laces. But in summer we like to have the room
dark, and the sun does get round in the morning quite dazzling on the
white shades. (We might have dark-colored shades, but there would be the
same trouble of its being too dark in the winter.)

We seem to need the heavy curtains in summer and the light curtains in
winter, which would look odd. Besides, in winter we do need the heavy
curtains to shut out the draughts, while in summer we like all the air
we can get.

I have been looking for a material that shall shut out the air and yet
let in the light, or else shut out the light and let in the air; or else
let in the light when you want it, and not when you don't. I have not
found it yet; but there are so many new inventions that I dare say I
shall come across it in time. They seem to have invented everything
except a steamer that won't go up and down as well as across.

       *       *       *       *       *

I never could understand about averages. I can't think why people are so
fond of taking them,--men generally. It seems to me they tell anything
but the truth. They try to tell what happens every evening, and they
don't tell one evening right.

There was our Free Evening Cooking-school. We had a class of fourteen
girls; and they admired it, and liked nothing better, and attended
regularly. But Ann Maria made out the report according to the average of
attendance on the whole number of nights in the ten weeks of the school,
one evening a week; so she gave the numbers 12-3/5 each night.

Now the fact was, they all came every night except one, when there was
such a storm, nobody went,--not even the teacher, nor Ann Maria, nor any
of us. It snowed and it hailed and the wind blew, and our steps were so
slippery Amanda could not go out to put on ashes; ice even on the upper
steps. The janitor, who makes the fire, set out to go; but she was blown
across the street, into the gutter. She did succeed in getting in to Ann
Maria's, who said it was foolish to attempt it, and that nobody would
go; and I am not sure but she spent the night there,--at Ann Maria's, I
mean. Still, Ann Maria had to make up the account of the number of
evenings of the whole course.

But it looks, in the report, as though there were never the whole
fourteen there, and as though 1-2/5 of a girl stayed away every night,
when the facts are we did not have a single absence, and the whole
fourteen were there every night, except the night there was no school;
and I have been told they all had on their things to come that night,
but their mothers would not let them,--those that had mothers,--and they
would have been blown away if they had come.

It seems to me the report does not present the case right, on account of
the averages.

I think it is indeed the common things that trouble one to decide about,
as I have said, since for the remarkable ones one can have advice. The
way we do on such occasions is to ask our friends, especially the lady
from Philadelphia.

Whatever we should have done without her, I am sure I cannot tell, for
her advice is always inestimable. To be sure, she is not always here;
but there is the daily mail (twice from here to Boston), and the
telegraph, and to some places the telephone.

But for some common things there is not time for even the telephone.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yesterday morning, for instance, going into Boston in the early train,
I took the right side for a seat, as is natural, though I noticed that
most of the passengers were crowding into the seats on the other side.
I found, as we left the station, that I was on the sunny side, which was
very uncomfortable. So I made up my mind to change sides, coming out.
But, unexpectedly, I stayed in till afternoon at Mrs. Easterly's. It
seems she had sent a note to ask me (which I found at night all right,
when I got home), as Mr. Easterly was away. So I did not go out till
afternoon. I did remember my determination to change sides in going out,
and as I took the right going in, not to take the right going out. But
then I remembered, as it was afternoon, the sun would have changed; so
if the right side was wrong in the morning, it would be right in the
afternoon. At any rate, it would be safe to take the other side. I did
observe that most of the people took the opposite side, the left side;
but I supposed they had not stopped to calculate.

When we came out of the station and from under the bridges, I found I
was sitting in the sun again, the same way as in the morning, in spite
of all my reasoning. Ann Maria, who had come late and taken the last
seat on the other side, turned round and called across to me, "Why do
you always take the sunny side? Do you prefer it?" I was sorry not to
explain it to her, but she was too far off.

It might be safe to do what most of the other people do, when you cannot
stop to inquire; but you cannot always tell, since very likely they may
be mistaken. And then if they have taken all the seats, there is not
room left for you. Still, this time, in coming out, I had reached the
train in plenty of season, and might have picked out my seat, but then
there was nobody there to show where most of the people would go. I
might have changed when I saw where most would go; but I hate changing,
and the best seats were all taken.

       *       *       *       *       *

My father thinks it would be a good plan for Amanda to go to the
Lectures on Physics. She has lived with us a great many years, and she
still breaks as many things as she did at the beginning.

Dr. Murtrie, who was here the other night, said he learned when quite a
boy, from some book on Physics, that if he placed some cold water in the
bottom of a pitcher, before pouring in boiling-hot water, it would not
break. Also, that in washing a glass or china pitcher in very hot water,
the outside and inside should be in the hot water, or, as he said,
should feel the hot water at the same time. I don't quite understand
exactly how, unless the pitcher has a large mouth, when it might be put
in sideways.

He told the reasons, which, being scientific, I cannot remember or
understand.

If Amanda had known about this, she might have saved a great deal of
valuable glass and china. Though it has not always been from hot water,
the breaking, for I often think she has not the water hot enough; but
often from a whole tray-full sliding out of her hand, as she was coming
up-stairs, and everything on it broke.

But Dr. Murtrie said if she had learned more of the Laws of Physics she
would not probably so often tip over the waiter.

The trouble is, however, remembering at the right time. She might have
known the law perfectly well, and forgotten it just on the moment, or
her dress coming in the way may have prevented.

Still, I should like very well myself to go to the Lectures on Physics.
Perhaps I could find out something about scissors,--why it is they do
always tumble down, and usually, though so heavy, without any noise, so
that you do not know that they have fallen. I should say they had no
law, because sometimes they are far under the sofa in one direction, or
hidden behind the leg of the table in another, or perhaps not even on
the floor, but buried in the groove at the back of the easy-chair, and
you never find them till you have the chair covered again. I do feel
always in the back of the chair now; but Amanda found mine, yesterday,
in the groove of the sofa.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is possible Elizabeth Eliza may have taken the remaining sheets of
her commonplace-book abroad with her. We have not been able to recover
them.




III.

THE PETERKINS PRACTISE TRAVELLING.


Long ago Mrs. Peterkin had been afraid of the Mohammedans, and would
have dreaded to travel among them; but since the little boys had taken
lessons of the Turk, and she had become familiar with his costume and
method of sitting, she had felt less fear of them as a nation.

To be sure, the Turk had given but few lessons, as, soon after making
his engagement, he had been obliged to go to New York to join a
tobacconist's firm. Mr. Peterkin had not regretted his payment for
instruction in advance; for the Turk had been very urbane in his
manners, and had always assented to whatever the little boys or any of
the family had said to him.

Mrs. Peterkin had expressed a desire to see the famous Cleopatra's
Needle which had been brought from Egypt. She had heard it was something
gigantic for a needle, and it would be worth a journey to New York. She
wondered at their bringing it such a distance, and would have supposed
that some of Cleopatra's family would have objected to it if they were
living now.

Agamemnon said that was the truth; there was no one left to object; they
were all mummies under ground, with such heavy pyramids over them that
they would not easily rise to object.

Mr. Peterkin feared that all the pyramids would be brought away in time.
Agamemnon said there were a great many remaining in Egypt. Still, he
thought it would be well to visit Egypt soon, before they were all
brought away, and nothing but the sand left. Mrs. Peterkin said she
would be almost as willing to travel to Egypt as to New York, and it
would seem more worth while to go so far to see a great many than to go
to New York only for one needle.

"That would certainly be a needless expense," suggested Solomon John.

Elizabeth Eliza was anxious to see the Sphinx. Perhaps it would answer
some of the family questions that troubled them day after day.

Agamemnon felt it would be a great thing for the education of the little
boys. If they could have begun with the Egyptian hieroglyphics before
they had learned their alphabet, they would have begun at the right end.
Perhaps it was not too late now to take them to Egypt, and let them
begin upon its old learning. The little boys declared it was none too
late. They could not say the alphabet backward now, and could never
remember whether _u_ came before _v_; and the voyage would be
a long one, and before they reached Egypt, very likely they would have
forgotten all.

It was about this voyage that Mrs. Peterkin had much doubt. What she was
afraid of was getting in and out of the ships and boats. She was afraid
of tumbling into the water between, when she left the wharf. Elizabeth
Eliza agreed with her mother in this, and began to calculate how many
times they would have to change between Boston and Egypt.

There was the ferry-boat across to East Boston would make two changes;
one more to get on board the steamer; then Liverpool--no, to land at
Queenstown would make two more,--four, five changes; Liverpool, six.
Solomon John brought the map, and they counted up. Dover, seven; Calais,
eight; Marseilles, nine; Malta, if they landed, ten, eleven; and
Alexandria, twelve changes.

Mrs. Peterkin shuddered at the possibilities, not merely for herself,
but for the family. She could fall in but once, but by the time they
should reach Egypt, how many would be left out of a family of eight?
Agamemnon began to count up the contingencies. Eight times twelve would
make ninety-six chances (8 × 12 = 96). Mrs. Peterkin felt as if all
might be swept off before the end could be reached.

Solomon John said it was not usual to allow more than one chance in a
hundred. People always said "one in a hundred," as though that were the
usual thing expected. It was not at all likely that the whole family
would be swept off.

Mrs. Peterkin was sure they would not want to lose one; they could
hardly pick out which they could spare, she felt certain. Agamemnon
declared there was no necessity for such risks. They might go directly
by some vessel from Boston to Egypt.

Solomon John thought they might give up Egypt, and content themselves
with Rome. "All roads lead to Rome;" so it would not be difficult to
find their way.

But Mrs. Peterkin was afraid to go. She had heard you must do as the
Romans did if you went to Rome; and there were some things she certainly
should not like to do that they did. There was that brute who killed
Cæsar! And she should not object to the long voyage. It would give them
time to think it all over.

Mr. Peterkin thought they ought to have more practice in travelling, to
accustom themselves to emergencies. It would be fatal to start on so
long a voyage and to find they were not prepared. Why not make their
proposed excursion to the cousins at Gooseberry Beach, which they had
been planning all summer? There they could practise getting in and out
of a boat, and accustom themselves to the air of the sea. To be sure,
the cousins were just moving up from the seashore, but they could take
down a basket of luncheon, in order to give no trouble, and they need
not go into the house.

Elizabeth Eliza had learned by heart, early in the summer, the list of
trains, as she was sure they would lose the slip their cousins had sent
them; and you never could find the paper that had the trains in when you
wanted it. They must take the 7 A.M. train into Boston in time to go
across to the station for the Gooseberry train at 7.45, and they would
have to return from Gooseberry Beach by a 3.30 train. The cousins would
order the "barge" to meet them on their arrival, and to come for them
at 3 P.M., in time for the return train, if they were informed the day
before. Elizabeth Eliza wrote them a postal card, giving them the
information that they would take the early train. The "barge" was the
name of the omnibus that took passengers to and from the Gooseberry
station. Mrs. Peterkin felt that its very name was propitious to this
Egyptian undertaking.

The day proved a fine one. On reaching Boston, Mrs. Peterkin and
Elizabeth Eliza were put into a carriage with the luncheon-basket to
drive directly to the station. Elizabeth Eliza was able to check the
basket at the baggage-station, and to buy their "go-and-return" tickets
before the arrival of the rest of the party, which appeared, however,
some minutes before a quarter of eight. Mrs. Peterkin counted the little
boys. All were there. This promised well for Egypt. But their joy was of
short duration. On presenting their tickets at the gate of entrance,
they were stopped. The Gooseberry train had gone at 7.35! The Mattapan
train was now awaiting its passengers. Impossible! Elizabeth Eliza
had repeated 7.45 every morning through the summer. It must be the
Gooseberry train. But the conductor would not yield. If they wished to
go to Mattapan they could go; if to Gooseberry, they must wait till the
5 P.M. train.

Mrs. Peterkin was in despair. Their return train was 3.30; how could 5
P.M. help them?

Mr. Peterkin, with instant decision, proposed they should try something
else. Why should not they take their luncheon-basket across some ferry?
This would give them practice. The family hastily agreed to this. What
could be better? They went to the baggage-office, but found their basket
had gone in the 7.35 train! They had arrived in time, and could have
gone too. "If we had only been checked!" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin. The
baggage-master, showing a tender interest, suggested that there was a
train for Plymouth at eight, which would take them within twelve miles
of Gooseberry Beach, and they might find "a team" there to take them
across. Solomon John and the little boys were delighted with the
suggestion.

"We could see Plymouth Rock," said Agamemnon.

But hasty action would be necessary. Mr. Peterkin quickly procured
tickets for Plymouth, and no official objected to their taking the 8
A.M. train. They were all safely in the train. This had been a test
expedition; and each of the party had taken something, to see what would
be the proportion of things lost to those remembered. Mr. Peterkin had
two umbrellas, Agamemnon an atlas and spyglass, and the little boys were
taking down two cats in a basket. All were safe.

"I am glad we have decided upon Plymouth," said Mr. Peterkin. "Before
seeing the pyramids of Egypt we certainly ought to know something of
Plymouth Rock. I should certainly be quite ashamed, when looking at
their great obelisks, to confess that I had never seen our own Rock."

The conductor was attracted by this interesting party. When Mr. Peterkin
told him of their mistake of the morning, and that they were bound for
Gooseberry Beach, he advised them to stop at Kingston, a station nearer
the beach. They would have but four miles to drive, and a reduction
could be effected on their tickets. The family demurred. Were they ready
now to give up Plymouth? They would lose time in going there. Solomon
John, too, suggested it would be better, chronologically, to visit
Plymouth on their return from Egypt, after they had seen the earliest
things.

This decided them to stop at Kingston.

But they found here no omnibus nor carriage to take them to Gooseberry.
The station-master was eager to assist them, and went far and near in
search of some sort of wagon. Hour after hour passed away, the little
boys had shared their last peanut, and gloom was gathering over the
family, when Solomon John came into the station to say there was a
photographer's cart on the other side of the road. Would not this be a
good chance to have their photographs taken for their friends before
leaving for Egypt? The idea reanimated the whole party, and they made
their way to the cart, and into it, as the door was open. There was,
however, no photographer there.

Agamemnon tried to remember what he had read of photography. As all the
materials were there, he might take the family's picture. There would
indeed be a difficulty in introducing his own. Solomon John suggested
they might arrange the family group, leaving a place for him. Then, when
all was ready, he could put the curtain over the box, take his place
hastily, then pull away the curtain by means of a string. And Solomon
John began to look around for a string while the little boys felt in
their pockets.

Agamemnon did not exactly see how they could get the curtain back.
Mr. Peterkin thought this of little importance. They would all be glad
to sit some time after travelling so long. And the longer they sat the
better for the picture, and perhaps somebody would come along in time
to put back the curtain. They began to arrange the group. Mr. and Mrs.
Peterkin were placed in the middle, sitting down. Elizabeth Eliza stood
behind them, and the little boys knelt in front with the basket of cats.
Solomon John and Agamemnon were also to stand behind, Agamemnon leaning
over his father's shoulder. Solomon John was still looking around for a
string when the photographer himself appeared. He was much surprised to
find a group all ready for him. He had gone off that morning for a short
holiday, but was not unwilling to take the family, especially when he
heard they were soon going to Egypt. He approved of the grouping made by
the family, but suggested that their eyes should not all be fixed upon
the same spot. Before the pictures were finished, the station-master
came to announce that two carriages were found to take the party to
Gooseberry Beach.

"There is no hurry," said Mr. Peterkin, "Let the pictures be finished;
they have made us wait, we can keep them waiting as long as we please."

The result, indeed, was very satisfactory. The photographer pronounced
it a remarkably fine group. Elizabeth Eliza's eyes were lifted to the
heavens perhaps a little too high. It gave her a rapt expression not
customary with her; but Mr. Peterkin thought she might look in that way
in the presence of the Sphinx. It was necessary to have a number of
copies, to satisfy all the friends left behind when they should go to
Egypt; and it certainly would not be worth while to come again so great
a distance for more.

It was therefore a late hour when they left Kingston. It took some time
to arrange the party in two carriages. Mr. Peterkin ought to be in one,
Mrs. Peterkin in the other; but it was difficult to divide the little
boys, as all wished to take charge of the cats. The drive, too, proved
longer than was expected,--six miles instead of four.

When they reached their cousin's door, the "barge" was already standing
there.

"It has brought our luncheon-basket!" exclaimed Solomon John.

"I am glad of it," said Agamemnon, "for I feel hungry enough for it."

He pulled out his watch. It was three o'clock!

This was indeed the "barge," but it had come for their return. The
Gooseberry cousins, much bewildered that the family did not arrive at
the time expected, had forgotten to send to countermand it. And the
"barge" driver, supposing the family had arrived by the other station,
had taken occasion to bring up the lunch-basket, as it was addressed to
the Gooseberry cousins. The cousins flocked out to meet them. "What had
happened? What had delayed them? They were glad to see them at last."

Mrs. Peterkin, when she understood the state of the case, insisted upon
getting directly into the "barge" to return, although the driver said
there would be a few moments to spare. Some of the cousins busied
themselves in opening the luncheon-basket, and a part led the little
boys and Agamemnon and Solomon John down upon the beach in front of the
house; there would be a few moments for a glance at the sea. Indeed, the
little boys ventured in their India-rubber boots to wade in a little
way, as the tide was low. And Agamemnon and Solomon John walked to look
at a boat that was drawn up on the beach, and got into it and out of it
for practice, till they were all summoned back to the house.

It was indeed time to go. The Gooseberry cousins had got out the
luncheon, and had tried to persuade the family to spend the night. Mrs.
Peterkin declared this would be impossible. They never had done such a
thing. So they went off, eating their luncheon as they went, the little
boys each with a sandwich in one hand and a piece of cake in the other.

Mrs. Peterkin was sure they should miss the train or lose some of the
party. No, it was a great success; for all, and more than all, were
found in the train: slung over the arm of one of the little boys was
found the basket containing the cats. They were to have left the cats,
but in their haste had brought them away again.

This discovery was made in a search for the tickets which Elizabeth
Eliza had bought, early in the morning, to go and return; they were
needed now for return. She was sure she had given them to her father.
Mrs. Peterkin supposed that Mr. Peterkin must have changed them for the
Kingston tickets. The little boys felt in their pockets, Agamemnon and
Solomon John in theirs. In the excitement, Mrs. Peterkin insisted upon
giving up her copy of their new photograph, and could not be satisfied
till the conductor had punched it. At last the tickets were found in the
outer lappet of Elizabeth Eliza's hand-bag. She had looked for them in
the inner part.

It was after this that Mr. Peterkin ventured to pronounce the whole
expedition a success. To be sure, they had not passed the day at the
beach, and had scarcely seen their cousins; but their object had been
to practise travelling, and surely they had been travelling all day.
Elizabeth Eliza had seen the sea, or thought she had. She was not
sure--she had been so busy explaining to the cousins and showing the
photographs. Agamemnon was sorry she had not walked with them to the
beach, and tried getting in and out of the boat. Elizabeth Eliza
regretted this. Of course it was not the same as getting into a boat on
the sea, where it would be wobbling more, but the step must have been
higher from the sand. Solomon John said there was some difficulty. He
had jumped in, but was obliged to take hold of the side in getting out.

The little boys were much encouraged by their wade into the tide. They
had been a little frightened at first when the splash came, but the
tide had been low. On the whole, Mr. Peterkin continued, things had gone
well. Even the bringing back of the cats might be considered a good
omen. Cats were worshipped in Egypt, and they ought not to have tried
to part with them. He was glad they had brought the cats. They gave the
little boys an interest in feeding them while they were waiting at the
Kingston station.

Their adventures were not quite over, as the station was crowded when
they reached Boston. A military company had arrived from the South and
was received by a procession. A number of distinguished guests also were
expected, and the Peterkins found it difficult to procure a carriage.
They had determined to take a carriage, so that they might be sure to
reach their own evening train in season.

At last Mr. Peterkin discovered one that was empty, standing at the end
of a long line. There would be room for Mrs. Peterkin, Elizabeth Eliza,
himself, and the little boys, and Agamemnon and Solomon John agreed to
walk behind in order to keep the carriage in sight. But they were much
disturbed when they found they were going at so slow a pace. Mr. Peterkin
called to the coachman in vain. He soon found that they had fallen into
the line of the procession, and the coachman was driving slowly on
behind the other carriages. In vain Mr. Peterkin tried to attract the
driver's attention. He put his head out of one window after another, but
only to receive the cheers of the populace ranged along the sidewalk.
He opened the window behind the coachman and pulled his coat. But the
cheering was so loud that he could not make himself heard. He tried to
motion to the coachman to turn down one of the side streets, but in
answer the driver pointed out with his whip the crowds of people. Mr.
Peterkin, indeed, saw it would be impossible to make their way through
the throng that filled every side street which they crossed. Mrs.
Peterkin looked out of the back window for Agamemnon and Solomon John.
They were walking side by side, behind the carriage, taking off their
hats, and bowing to the people cheering on either side.

"They are at the head of a long row of men, walking two by two," said
Mrs. Peterkin.

"They are part of the procession," said Elizabeth Eliza.

"We are part of the procession," Mr. Peterkin answered.

"I rather like it," said Mrs. Peterkin, with a calm smile, as she looked
out of the window and bowed in answer to a cheer.

"Where do you suppose we shall go?" asked Elizabeth Eliza.

"I have often wondered what became of a procession," said Mr. Peterkin.
"They are always going somewhere, but I never could tell where they went
to."

"We shall find out!" exclaimed the little boys, who were filled with
delight, looking now out of one window, now out of the other.

"Perhaps we shall go to the armory," said one.

This alarmed Mrs. Peterkin. Sounds of martial music were now heard, and
the noise of the crowd grew louder. "I think you ought to ask where we
are going," she said to Mr. Peterkin.

"It is not for us to decide," he answered calmly. "They have taken us
into the procession. I suppose they will show us the principal streets,
and will then leave us at our station."

This, indeed, seemed to be the plan. For two hours more the Peterkins,
in their carriage, and Agamemnon and Solomon John, afoot, followed on.
Mrs. Peterkin looked out upon rows and rows of cheering people. The
little boys waved their caps.

"It begins to be a little monotonous," said Mrs. Peterkin, at last.

"I am afraid we have missed all the trains," said Elizabeth Eliza,
gloomily. But Mr. Peterkin's faith held to the last, and was rewarded.
The carriage reached the square in which stood the railroad station. Mr.
Peterkin again seized the lapels of the coachman's coat and pointed to
the station, and he was able to turn his horses in that direction. As
they left the crowd, they received a parting cheer. It was with
difficulty that Agamemnon and Solomon John broke from the ranks.

"That was a magnificent reception!" exclaimed Mr. Peterkin, wiping his
brow, after paying the coachman twice his fee. But Elizabeth Eliza said,--

"But we have lost all the trains, I am sure."

They had lost all but one. It was the last.

"And we have lost the cats!" the little boys suddenly exclaimed. But
Mrs. Peterkin would not allow them to turn back in search of them.




IV.

THE PETERKINS' EXCURSION FOR MAPLE SUGAR.


It was, to be sure, a change of plan to determine to go to Grandfather's
for a maple-sugaring instead of going to Egypt! But it seemed best.
Egypt was not given up,--only postponed. "It has lasted so many
centuries," sighed Mr. Peterkin, "that I suppose it will not crumble
much in one summer more."

The Peterkins had determined to start for Egypt in June, and Elizabeth
Eliza had engaged her dressmaker for January; but after all their plans
were made, they were told that June was the worst month of all to go to
Egypt in,--that they would arrive in midsummer, and find the climate
altogether too hot,--that people who were not used to it died of it.
Nobody thought of going to Egypt in summer; on the contrary, everybody
came away. And what was worse, Agamemnon learned that not only the
summers were unbearably hot, but there really was no Egypt in
summer,--nothing to speak of,--nothing but water; for there was a great
inundation of the river Nile every summer, which completely covered the
country, and it would be difficult to get about except in boats.

Mr. Peterkin remembered he had heard something of the sort, but he did
not suppose it had been kept up with the modern improvements.

Mrs. Peterkin felt that the thing must be very much exaggerated. She
could not believe the whole country would be covered, or that everybody
would leave; as summer was surely the usual time for travel, there must
be strangers there, even if the natives left. She would not be sorry if
there were fewer of the savages. As for the boats, she supposed after
their long voyage they would all be used to going about in boats; and
she had thought seriously of practising, by getting in and out of the
rocking-chair from the sofa.

The family, however, wrote to the lady from Philadelphia, who had
travelled in Egypt, and whose husband knew everything about Egypt that
could be known,--that is, everything that had already been dug up,
though he could only guess at what might be brought to light next.

The result was a very earnest recommendation not to leave for Egypt till
the autumn. Travellers did not usually reach there before December,
though October might be pleasant on account of the fresh dates.

So the Egypt plan was reluctantly postponed; and, to make amends for the
disappointment to the little boys, an excursion for maple syrup was
proposed instead.

Mr. Peterkin considered it almost a necessity. They ought to acquaint
themselves with the manufactures of their own new country before
studying those of the oldest in the world. He had been inquiring into
the products of Egypt at the present time, and had found sugar to be one
of their staples. They ought, then, to understand the American methods
and compare them with those of Egypt. It would be a pretty attention,
indeed, to carry some of the maple sugar to the principal dignitaries
of Egypt.

But the difficulties in arranging an excursion proved almost as great
as for going to Egypt. Sugar-making could not come off until it was
warm enough for the sun to set the sap stirring. On the other hand,
it must be cold enough for snow, as you could only reach the woods on
snow-sleds. Now, if there were sun enough for the sap to rise, it would
melt the snow; and if it were cold enough for sledding, it must be too
cold for the syrup. There seemed an impossibility about the whole thing.
The little boys, however, said there always had been maple sugar every
spring,--they had eaten it; why shouldn't there be this spring?

Elizabeth Eliza insisted gloomily that this was probably old sugar they
had eaten,--you never could tell in the shops.

Mrs. Peterkin thought there must be fresh sugar occasionally, as the old
would have been eaten up. She felt the same about chickens. She never
could understand why there were only the old, tough ones in the market,
when there were certainly fresh young broods to be seen around the
farm-houses every year. She supposed the market-men had begun with the
old, tough fowls, and so they had to go on so. She wished they had begun
the other way; and she had done her best to have the family eat up the
old fowls, hoping they might, some day, get down to the young ones.

As to the uncertainty about the weather, she suggested they should go to
Grandfather's the day before. But how can you go the day before, when
you don't yet know the day?

All were much delighted, therefore, when Hiram appeared with the
wood-sled, one evening, to take them, as early as possible the next
day, to their grandfather's. He reported that the sap had started,
the kettles had been on some time, there had been a light snow for
sleighing, and to-morrow promised to be a fine day. It was decided
that he should take the little boys and Elizabeth Eliza early, in the
wood-sled; the others would follow later, in the carry-all.

Mrs. Peterkin thought it would be safer to have some of the party go on
wheels, in case of a general thaw the next day.

A brilliant sun awoke them in the morning. The wood-sled was filled with
hay, to make it warm and comfortable, and an arm-chair was tied in for
Elizabeth Eliza. But she was obliged to go first to visit the secretary
of the Circumambient Society, to explain that she should not be present
at their evening meeting. One of the rules of this society was to take
always a winding road when going upon society business, as the word
"circumambient" means "compassing about." It was one of its laws to copy
Nature as far as possible, and a straight line is never seen in Nature.
Therefore she could not send a direct note to say she should not be
present; she could only hint it in general conversation with the
secretary; and she was obliged to take a roundabout way to reach the
secretary's house, where the little boys called for her in her
wood-sled.

What was her surprise to find eight little boys instead of three! In
passing the school-house they had picked up five of their friends, who
had reached the school door a full hour before the time. Elizabeth Eliza
thought they ought to inquire if their parents would be willing they
should go, as they all expected to spend the night at Grandfather's.
Hiram thought it would require too much time to stop for the consent of
ten parents; if the sun kept on at this rate, the snow would be gone
before they should reach the woods. But the little boys said most of the
little boys lived in a row, and Elizabeth Eliza felt she ought not to
take the boys away for all night without their parents' knowledge. The
consent of two mothers and two fathers was gained, and Mr. Dobson was
met in the street, who said he would tell the other mother. But at each
place they were obliged to stop for additional tippets and great-coats
and India-rubber boots for the little boys. At the Harrimans', too, the
Harriman girls insisted on dressing up the wood-sled with evergreens,
and made one of the boys bring their last Christmas-tree, that was
leaning up against the barn, to set it up in the back of the sled, over
Elizabeth Eliza. All this made considerable delay; and when they reached
the high-road again, the snow was indeed fast melting. Elizabeth Eliza
was inclined to turn back, but Hiram said they would find the sleighing
better farther up among the hills. The armchair joggled about a good
deal, and the Christmas-tree creaked behind her; and Hiram was obliged
to stop occasionally and tie in the chair and the tree more firmly.

But the warm sun was very pleasant, the eight little boys were very
lively, and the sleigh-bells jingled gayly as they went on.

It was so late when they reached the wood-road that Hiram decided they
had better not go up the hill to their grandfather's, but turn off into
the woods.

"Your grandfather will be there by this time," he declared.

Elizabeth Eliza was afraid the carry-all would miss them, and thought
they had better wait. Hiram did not like to wait longer, and proposed
that one or two of the little boys should stop to show the way. But it
was so difficult to decide which little boys should stay that he gave
it up. Even to draw lots would take time. So he explained that there
was a lunch hidden somewhere in the straw; and the little boys thought
it an admirable time to look it up, and it was decided to stop in the
sun at the corner of the road. Elizabeth Eliza felt a little jounced
in the armchair, and was glad of a rest; and the little boys soon
discovered an ample lunch,--just what might have been expected from
Grandfather's,--apple-pie and doughnuts, and plenty of them! "Lucky
we brought so many little boys!" they exclaimed.

Hiram, however, began to grow impatient. "There 'll be no snow left," he
exclaimed, "and no afternoon for the syrup!"

But far in the distance the Peterkin carry-all was seen slowly
approaching through the snow, Solomon John waving a red handkerchief.
The little boys waved back, and Hiram ventured to enter upon the
wood-road, but at a slow pace, as Elizabeth Eliza still feared that by
some accident the family might miss them.

It was with difficulty that the carry-all followed in the deep but soft
snow, in among the trunks of the trees and over piles of leaves hidden
in the snow. They reached at last the edge of a meadow; and on the high
bank above it stood a row of maples, a little shanty by the side, a slow
smoke proceeding from its chimney. The little boys screamed with
delight, but there was no reply. Nobody there!

"The folks all gone!" exclaimed Hiram; "then we must be late." And he
proceeded to pull out a large silver watch from a side pocket. It was so
large that he seldom was at the pains to pull it out, as it took time;
but when he had succeeded at last, and looked at it, he started.

"Late, indeed! It is four o'clock, and we were to have been here by
eleven; they have given you up."

The little boys wanted to force in the door; but Hiram said it was no
use,--they wouldn't understand what to do, and he should have to see to
the horses,--and it was too late, and it was likely they had carried off
all the syrup. But he thought a minute, as they all stood in silence and
gloom; and then he guessed they might find some sugar at Deacon Spear's,
close by, on the back road, and that would be better than nothing. Mrs.
Peterkin was pretty cold, and glad not to wait in the darkening wood; so
the eight little boys walked through the wood-path, Hiram leading the
way; and slowly the carry-all followed.

They reached Deacon Spear's at length; but only Mrs. Spear was at home.
She was very deaf, but could explain that the family had taken all their
syrup to the annual festival.

"We might go to the festival," exclaimed the little boys.

"It would be very well," said Mrs. Peterkin, "to eat our fresh syrup
there."

But Mrs. Spear could not tell where the festival was to be, as she had
not heard; perhaps they might know at Squire Ramsay's. Squire Ramsay's
was on their way to Grandfather's, so they stopped there; but they
learned that the "Squire's folks had all gone with their syrup to the
festival," but the man who was chopping wood did not know where the
festival was to be.

"They 'll know at your grandfather's," said Mrs. Peterkin, from the
carry-all.

"Yes, go on to your grandfather's," advised Mr. Peterkin, "for I think
I felt a drop of rain." So they made the best of their way to
Grandfather's.

At the moment they reached the door of the house, a party of young
people whom Elizabeth Eliza knew came by in sleighs. She had met them
all when visiting at her grandfather's.

"Come along with us," they shouted; "we are all going down to the sugar
festival."

"That is what we have come for," said Mr. Peterkin.

"Where is it?" asked Solomon John.

"It is down your way," was the reply.

"It is in your own New Hall," said another. "We have sent down all our
syrup. The Spears and Ramsays and Doolittles have gone on with theirs.
No time to stop; there's good sleighing on the old road."

There was a little consultation with the grandfather. Hiram said that
he could take them back with the wood-sled, when he heard there was
sleighing on the old road; and it was decided that the whole party
should go in the wood-sled, with the exception of Mr. Peterkin, who
would follow on with the carry-all. Mrs. Peterkin would take the
arm-chair, and cushions were put in for Elizabeth Eliza, and more
apple-pie for all. No more drops of rain appeared, though the clouds
were thickening over the setting sun.

"All the way back again," sighed Mrs. Peterkin, "when we might have
stayed at home all day, and gone quietly out to the New Hall!" But
the little boys thought the sledding all day was great fun,--and the
apple-pie! "And we did see the kettle through the cracks of the shanty!"

"It is odd the festival should be held at the New Hall," said Elizabeth
Eliza; "for the secretary did say something about the society meeting
there to-night, being so far from the centre of the town."

This hall was so called because it was once a new hall, built to be used
for lectures, assemblies, and entertainments of this sort, for the
convenience of the inhabitants who had collected about some flourishing
factories.

"You can go to your own Circumambient Society, then!" exclaimed Solomon
John.

"And in a truly circumambient manner," said Agamemnon; and he explained
to the little boys that they could now understand the full meaning of
the word, for surely Elizabeth Eliza had taken the most circumambient
way of reaching the place by coming away from it.

"We little thought, when we passed it early this morning," said
Elizabeth Eliza, "that we should come back to it for our maple sugar."

"It is odd the secretary did not tell you they were going to join the
sugar festival," said Mrs. Peterkin.

"It is one of the rules of the society," said Elizabeth Eliza, "that the
secretary never tells anything directly. She only hinted at the plan of
the New Hall."

"I don't see how you can find enough to talk about," said Solomon John.

"We can tell of things that never have happened," said Elizabeth Eliza,
"or that are not likely to happen, and wonder what would have happened
if they had happened."

They arrived at the festival at last, but very late, and glad to find a
place that was warm. There was a stove at each end of the hall, and an
encouraging sound and smell from the simmering syrup. There were long
tables down the hall, on which were placed, in a row, first a bowl of
snow, then a pile of saucers and spoons, then a plate of pickles,
intended to whet the appetite for more syrup; another of bread, then
another bowl of snow, and so on. Hot syrup was to be poured on the snow
and eaten as candy.

The Peterkin family were received at this late hour with a wild
enthusiasm. Elizabeth Eliza was an especial heroine, and was made
directly the president of the evening. Everybody said that she had best
earned the distinction; for had she not come to the meeting by the
longest way possible, by going away from it? The secretary declared that
the principles of the society had been completely carried out. She had
always believed that if left to itself, information would spread itself
in a natural instead of a forced way.

"Now, in this case, if I had written twenty-nine notifications to this
meeting, I should have wasted just so much of my time. But the
information has disseminated naturally. Ann Maria said what a good plan
it would be to have the Circumambients go to the sugaring at the New
Hall. Everybody said it would be a good plan. Elizabeth Eliza came and
spoke of the sugaring, and I spoke of the New Hall."

"But if you had told Elizabeth Eliza that all the maple syrup was to be
brought here--" began Mrs. Peterkin.

"We should have lost our excursion for maple syrup," said Mr. Peterkin.

Later, as they reached home in the carry-all (Hiram having gone back
with the wood-sled), Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, after leaving little boys at
their homes all along the route, found none of their own to get out at
their own door. They must have joined Elizabeth Eliza, Agamemnon, and
Solomon John in taking a circuitous route home with the rest of the
Circumambients.

"The little boys will not be at home till midnight," said Mrs. Peterkin,
anxiously. "I do think this is carrying the thing too far, after such a
day!"

"Elizabeth Eliza will feel that she has acted up to the principles of
the society," said Mr. Peterkin, "and we have done our best; for, as the
little boys said, 'we did see the kettle.'"




V.

THE PETERKINS "AT HOME."


Might not something be done by way of farewell before leaving for Egypt?
They did not want to give another tea-party, and could not get in all at
dinner. They had had charades and a picnic. Elizabeth Eliza wished for
something unusual, that should be remembered after they had left for
Egypt. Why should it not be a fancy ball? There never had been one in
the place.

Mrs. Peterkin hesitated. Perhaps for that reason they ought not to
attempt it. She liked to have things that other people had. She however
objected most to the "ball" part. She could indeed still dance a minuet,
but she was not sure she could get on in the "Boston dip."

The little boys said they would like the "fancy" part and "dressing up."
They remembered their delight when they browned their faces for Hindus,
at their charades, just for a few minutes; and what fun it would be to
wear their costumes through a whole evening! Mrs. Peterkin shook her
head; it was days and days before the brown had washed out of their
complexions.

Still, she too was interested in the "dressing up." If they should wear
costumes, they could make them of things that might be left behind, that
they had done wearing, if they could only think of the right kind of
things.

Mrs. Peterkin, indeed, had already packed up, although they were not to
leave for two months, for she did not want to be hurried at the last.
She and Elizabeth Eliza went on different principles in packing.

Elizabeth Eliza had been told that you really needed very little to
travel with,--merely your travelling dress and a black silk. Mrs.
Peterkin, on the contrary, had heard it was best to take everything you
had, and then you need not spend your time shopping in Paris. So they
had decided upon adopting both ways. Mrs. Peterkin was to take her
"everything," and already had all the shoes and stockings she should
need for a year or two. Elizabeth Eliza, on the other hand, prepared a
small valise. She consoled herself with the thought that if she should
meet anything that would not go into it, she could put it in one of her
mother's trunks.

It was resolved to give the fancy ball.

Mr. Peterkin early determined upon a character. He decided to be Julius
Cæsar. He had a bald place on the top of his head, which he was told
resembled that of the great Roman; and he concluded that the dress would
be a simple one to get up, requiring only a sheet for a toga.

Agamemnon was inclined to take the part which his own name represented,
and he looked up the costume of the Greek king of men. But he was
dissatisfied with the representation given of him in Dr. Schliemann's
"Mykenæ." There was a picture of Agamemnon's mask, but very much
battered. He might get a mask made in that pattern, indeed, and the
little boys were delighted with the idea of battering it. Agamemnon
would like to wear a mask, then he would have no trouble in keeping up
his expression. But Elizabeth Eliza objected to the picture in Dr.
Schliemann's book; she did not like it for Agamemnon,--it was too
slanting in the eyes. So it was decided he should take the part of Nick
Bottom, in "Midsummer Night's Dream." He could then wear the ass's head,
which would have the same advantage as a mask, and would conceal his own
face entirely. Then he could be making up any face he pleased in the
ass's head, and would look like an ass without any difficulty, while his
feet would show he was not one. Solomon John thought that they might
make an ass's head if they could get a pattern, or could see the real
animal and form an idea of the shape. Barnum's Circus would be along in
a few weeks, and they could go on purpose to study the donkeys, as there
usually was more than one donkey in the circus. Agamemnon, however, in
going with a friend to a costumer's in Boston, found an ass's head
already made.

The little boys found in an illustrated paper an accurate description
of the Hindu snake-charmer's costume, and were so successful in their
practice of shades of brown for the complexion, that Solomon John
decided to take the part of Othello, and use some of their staining
fluid.

There was some discussion as to consulting the lady from Philadelphia,
who was in town.

Solomon John thought they ought to practise getting on by themselves,
for soon the Atlantic would lie between her and them. Mrs. Peterkin
thought they could telegraph. Elizabeth Eliza wanted to submit to her
two or three questions about the supper, and whether, if her mother were
Queen Elizabeth, they could have Chinese lanterns. Was China invented at
that time? Agamemnon was sure China was one of the oldest countries in
the world and did exist, though perhaps Queen Elizabeth did not know it.

Elizabeth Eliza was relieved to find that the lady from Philadelphia
thought the question not important. It would be impossible to have
everything in the house to correspond with all the different characters,
unless they selected some period to represent, such as the age of Queen
Elizabeth. Of course, Elizabeth Eliza would not wish to do this when her
father was to be Julius Cæsar.

The lady from Philadelphia advised Mrs. Peterkin to send for Jones the
"caterer" to take charge of the supper. But his first question staggered
her. How many did she expect?

They had not the slightest idea. They had sent invitations to everybody.
The little boys proposed getting the directory of the place, and marking
out the people they didn't know and counting up the rest. But even if
this would give the number of invitations, it would not show how many
would accept; and then there was no such directory. They could not
expect answers, as their invitations were cards with "At Home" on them.
One answer had come from a lady, that she too would be "at home" with
rheumatism. So they only knew there was one person who would not come.
Elizabeth Eliza had sent in Circumambient ways to all the members of
that society,--by the little boys, for instance, who were sure to stop
at the base-ball grounds, or somewhere, so a note was always delayed by
them. One Circumambient note she sent by mail, purposely omitting the
"Mass.," so that it went to the Dead-Letter Office, and came back six
weeks after the party.

But the Peterkin family were not alone in commotion. The whole town was
in excitement, for "everybody" had been invited. Ann Maria Bromwick
had a book of costumes that she lent to a few friends, and everybody
borrowed dresses or lent them, or went into town to the costumer's.
Weeks passed in preparation. "What are you going to wear?" was the only
question exchanged; and nobody answered, as nobody would tell.

At length the evening came,--a beautiful night in late summer, warm
enough to have had the party out-of-doors; but the whole house was
lighted up and thrown open, and Chinese lanterns hung in the portico and
on the pillars of the piazzas.

At an early hour the Peterkins were arrayed in their costumes. The
little boys had their legs and arms and faces browned early in the day,
and wore dazzlingly white full trousers and white turbans.

Elizabeth Eliza had prepared a dress as Queen Elizabeth; but Solomon
John was desirous that she should be Desdemona, and she gave up her
costume to her mother. Mrs. Peterkin therefore wore a red wig which Ann
Maria had found at a costumer's, a high ruff, and an old-fashioned
brocade. She was not sure that it was proper for Queen Elizabeth to wear
spectacles; but Queen Elizabeth must have been old enough, as she lived
to be seventy. As for Elizabeth Eliza, in recalling the fact that
Desdemona was smothered by pillows, she was so impressed by it that she
decided she could wear the costume of a sheet-and-pillow-case party. So
she wore a white figured silk that had been her mother's wedding-dress,
and over it draped a sheet as a large mantle, and put a pillow-case upon
her head, and could represent Desdemona not quite smothered. But Solomon
John wished to carry out the whole scene at the end.

As they stood together, all ready to receive, in the parlor at the
appointed hour, Mr. Peterkin suddenly exclaimed,--

"This will never do! We are not the Peterkins,--we are distinguished
guests! We cannot receive."

"We shall have to give up the party," said Mrs. Peterkin.

"Or our costumes," groaned Agamemnon from his ass's head.

"We must go out, and come in as guests," said Elizabeth Eliza, leading
the way to a back door, for guests were already thronging in, and up
the front stairs. They passed out by a piazza, through the hedge of
hollyhocks, toward the front of the house. Through the side windows of
the library they could see the company pouring in. The black attendant
was showing them upstairs; some were coming down, in doubt whether to
enter the parlors, as no one was there. The wide middle entrance hall
was lighted brilliantly; so were the parlors on one side and the library
on the other.

But nobody was there to receive! A flock of guests was
assembling,--peasant girls, Italian, German, and Norman; Turks, Greeks,
Persians, fish-wives, brigands, chocolate-women, Lady Washington,
Penelope, Red Riding-hood, Joan of Arc, nuns, Amy Robsart, Leicester,
two or three Mary Stuarts, Neapolitan fisher-boys, pirates of Penzance
and elsewhere,--all lingering, some on the stairs, some going up, some
coming down.

Charles I. without his head was entering the front door (a short
gentleman, with a broad ruff drawn neatly together on top of his own
head, which was concealed in his doublet below).

Three Hindu snake-charmers leaped wildly in and out among the throng,
flinging about dark, crooked sticks for snakes.

There began to be a strange, deserted air about the house. Nobody knew
what to do, where to go!

"Can anything have happened to the family?"

"Have they gone to Egypt?" whispered one.

No ushers came to show them in. A shudder ran through the whole
assembly, the house seemed so uninhabited; and some of the guests were
inclined to go away. The Peterkins saw it all through the long
library-windows.

"What shall we do?" said Mr. Peterkin. "We have said _we_ should
be 'At Home.'"

"And here we are, all out-of-doors among the hollyhocks," said Elizabeth
Eliza.

"There are no Peterkins to 'receive,'" said Mr. Peterkin, gloomily.

"We might go in and change our costumes," said Mrs. Peterkin, who
already found her Elizabethan ruff somewhat stiff; "but, alas! I could
not get at my best dress."

"The company is filling all the upper rooms," said Elizabeth Eliza; "we
cannot go back."

At this moment the little boys returned from the front door, and in a
subdued whisper explained that the lady from Philadelphia was arriving.

"Oh, bring her here!" said Mrs. Peterkin. And Solomon John hastened to
meet her.

She came, to find a strange group half lighted by the Chinese lanterns.
Mr. Peterkin, in his white toga, with a green wreath upon his head, came
forward to address her in a noble manner, while she was terrified by the
appearance of Agamemnon's ass's head, half hidden among the leaves.

"What shall we do?" exclaimed Mr. Peterkin. "There are no Peterkins;
yet we have sent cards to everybody that they are 'At Home'!"

The lady from Philadelphia, who had been allowed to come without
costume, considered for a moment. She looked through the windows to the
seething mass now crowding the entrance hall. The Hindu snake-charmers
gambolled about her.

"_We_ will receive as the Peterkin family!" she exclaimed. She
inquired for a cap of Mrs. Peterkin's, with a purple satin bow, such as
she had worn that very morning. Amanda was found by a Hindu, and sent
for it and for a purple cross-over shawl that Mrs. Peterkin was wont to
wear. The daughters of the lady from Philadelphia put on some hats of
the little boys and their India-rubber boots. Hastily they went in
through the back door and presented themselves, just as some of the
wavering guests had decided to leave the house, it seeming so quiet
and sepulchral.

The crowd now flocked into the parlors. The Peterkins themselves left
the hollyhocks and joined the company that was entering; Mr. Peterkin,
as Julius Cæsar, leading in Mrs. Peterkin, as Queen Elizabeth. Mrs.
Peterkin hardly knew what to do, as she passed the parlor door; for one
of the Osbornes, as Sir Walter Raleigh, flung a velvet cloak before
her. She was uncertain whether she ought to step on it, especially as
she discovered at that moment that she had forgotten to take off her
rubber overshoes, which she had put on to go through the garden. But
as she stood hesitating, the lady from Philadelphia, as Mrs. Peterkin,
beckoned her forward, and she walked over the ruby velvet as though it
were a door-mat.

For another surprise stunned her,--there were three Mrs. Peterkins! Not
only Mrs. Bromwick, but their opposite neighbor, had induced Amanda to
take dresses of Mrs. Peterkin's from the top of the trunks, and had come
in at the same moment with the lady from Philadelphia, ready to receive.
She stood in the middle of the bow-window at the back of the room, the
two others in the corners. Ann Maria Bromwick had the part of Elizabeth
Eliza, and Agamemnon too was represented; and there were many sets of
"little boys" in India-rubber boots, going in and out with the Hindu
snake-charmers.

Mr. Peterkin had studied up his Latin grammar a little, in preparation
for his part of Julius Cæsar. Agamemnon had reminded him that it was
unnecessary, as Julius Cæsar in Shakspeare spoke in English. Still he
now found himself using with wonderful ease Latin phrases such as "E
pluribus unum," "lapsus linguæ," and "sine qua non," where they seemed
to be appropriate.

Solomon John looked well as Othello, although by some he was mistaken
for an older snake-charmer, with his brown complexion, glaring white
trousers, and white shirt. He wore a white lawn turban that had belonged
to his great-grandmother. His part, however, was more understood when he
was with Elizabeth Eliza as Desdemona; for they occasionally formed a
tableau, in which he pulled the pillow-case completely over her head.

Agamemnon was greeted with applause as Nick Bottom. He sang the song of
the "ousel cock," but he could not make himself heard. At last he found
a "Titania" who listened to him.

But none of the company attempted to carry out the parts represented by
their costumes. Charles I. soon conversed with Oliver Cromwell and with
the different Mary Stuarts, who chatted gayly, as though executions were
every-day occurrences.

At first there was a little awkwardness. Nuns stood as quiet as if in
their convent cells, and brave brigands hid themselves behind the doors;
but as the different guests began to surprise each other, the sounds of
laughter and talking increased. Every new-comer was led up to each
several Mrs. Peterkin.

Then came a great surprise,--a band of music sounded from the piazza.
Some of the neighbors had sent in the town band, as a farewell tribute.
This added to the excitement of the occasion. Strains of dance-music
were heard, and dancing was begun. Sir Walter Raleigh led out Penelope,
and Red Riding-hood without fear took the arm of the fiercest brigand
for a round dance.

The various groups wandered in and out. Elizabeth Eliza studied the
costumes of her friends, and wished she had tried each one of them. The
members of the Circumambient Society agreed that it would be always well
to wear costumes at their meetings. As the principles of the society
enforced a sort of uncertainty, if you always went in a different
costume you would never have to keep up your own character. Elizabeth
Eliza thought she should enjoy this. She had all her life been troubled
with uncertainties and questions as to her own part of "Elizabeth
Eliza," wondering always if she were doing the right thing. It did not
seem to her that other people had such a bother. Perhaps they had
simpler parts. They always seemed to know when to speak and when to
be silent, while she was always puzzled as to what she should do as
Elizabeth Eliza. Now, behind her pillow-case, she could look on and do
nothing; all that was expected of her was to be smothered now and then.
She breathed freely and enjoyed herself, because for the evening she
could forget the difficult role of Elizabeth Eliza.

Mrs. Peterkin was bewildered. She thought it a good occasion to study
how Mrs. Peterkin should act; but there were three Mrs. Peterkins. She
found herself gazing first at one, then at another. Often she was
herself called Mrs. Peterkin.

[Illustration: The ass's head proved hot and heavy, and Agamemnon was
forced to hang it over his arm.]

At supper-time the bewilderment increased. She was led in by the Earl
of Leicester, as principal guest. Yet it was to her own dining-room,
and she recognized her own forks and spoons among the borrowed ones,
although the china was different (because their own set was not large
enough to go round for so much company). It was all very confusing. The
dance-music floated through the air. Three Mrs. Peterkins hovered before
her, and two Agamemnons; for the ass's head proved hot and heavy, and
Agamemnon was forced to hang it over his arm as he offered coffee to
Titania. There seemed to be two Elizabeth Elizas, for Elizabeth Eliza
had thrown back her pillow-case in order to eat her fruit-ice. Mr.
Peterkin was wondering how Julius Cæsar would have managed to eat
his salad with his fork, before forks were invented, and then he fell
into a fit of abstraction, planning to say "Vale" to the guests as they
left, but anxious that the word should not slip out before the time.
Eight little boys and three Hindu snake-charmers were eating copiously
of frozen pudding. Two Joans of Arc were talking to Charles I., who had
found his head. All things seemed double to Mrs. Peterkin as they
floated before her.

"Was she eating her own supper or somebody's else? Were they Peterkins,
or were they not?"

Strains of dance-music sounded from the library. Yes, they were giving a
fancy ball! The Peterkins were "At Home" for the last time before
leaving for Egypt!




VI.

MRS. PETERKIN IN EGYPT.


The family had taken passage in the new line for Bordeaux. They supposed
they had; but would they ever reach the vessel in New York? The last
moments were terrific. In spite of all their careful arrangements, their
planning and packing of the last year, it seemed, after all, as if
everything were left for the very last day. There were presents for the
family to be packed, six steamer-bags for Mrs. Peterkin, half a dozen
satchels of salts-bottles for Elizabeth Eliza, Apollinaris water,
lunch-baskets. All these must be disposed of.

On the very last day Elizabeth Eliza went into Boston to buy a bird, as
she had been told she would be less likely to be sea-sick if she had a
bird in a cage in her stateroom. Both she and her mother disliked the
singing of caged birds, especially of canaries; but Mrs. Peterkin argued
that they would be less likely to be homesick, as they never had birds
at home. After long moments of indecision, Elizabeth Eliza determined
upon two canary-birds, thinking she might let them fly as they
approached the shore of Portugal, and they would then reach their native
islands. This matter detained her till the latest train, so that on her
return from Boston to their quiet suburban home, she found the whole
family assembled in the station, ready to take the through express train
to New York.

She did not have time, therefore, to go back to the house for her own
things. It was now locked up and the key intrusted to the Bromwicks; and
all the Bromwicks and the rest of the neighbors were at the station,
ready to bid them good-by. The family had done their best to collect all
her scattered bits of baggage; but all through her travels, afterward,
she was continually missing something she had left behind, that she
would have packed and had intended to bring.

They reached New York with half a day on their hands; and during this
time Agamemnon fell in with some old college friends, who were going
with a party to Greece to look up the new excavations. They were to
leave the next day in a steamer for Gibraltar. Agamemnon felt that here
was the place for him, and hastened to consult his family. Perhaps he
could persuade them to change their plans and take passage with the
party for Gibraltar. But he reached the pier just as the steamer for
Bordeaux was leaving the shore. He was too late, and was left behind!
Too late to consult them, too late even to join them! He examined his
map, however,--one of his latest purchases, which he carried in his
pocket,--and consoled himself with the fact that on reaching Gibraltar
he could soon communicate with his family at Bordeaux, and he was easily
reconciled to his fate.

It was not till the family landed at Bordeaux that they discovered the
absence of Agamemnon. Every day there had been some of the family unable
to come on deck,--sea-sick below. Mrs. Peterkin never left her berth,
and constantly sent messages to the others to follow her example, as she
was afraid some one of them would be lost overboard. Those who were on
deck from time to time were always different ones, and the passage was
remarkably quick; while, from the tossing of the ship, as they met rough
weather, they were all too miserable to compare notes or count their
numbers. Elizabeth Eliza especially had been exhausted by the voyage.
She had not been many days seasick, but the incessant singing of the
birds had deprived her of sleep. Then the necessity of talking French
had been a great tax upon her. The other passengers were mostly French,
and the rest of the family constantly appealed to her to interpret their
wants, and explain them to the _garçon_ once every day at dinner.
She felt as if she never wished to speak another word in French; and
the necessity of being interpreter at the hotel at Bordeaux, on their
arrival, seemed almost too much for her. She had even forgotten to let
her canary-birds fly when off shore in the Bay of Biscay, and they were
still with her, singing incessantly, as if they were rejoicing over an
approach to their native shores. She thought now she must keep them till
their return, which they were already planning.

The little boys, indeed, would like to have gone back on the return trip
of the steamer. A son of the steward told them that the return cargo
consisted of dried fruits and raisins; that every stateroom, except
those occupied with passengers, would be filled with boxes of raisins
and jars of grapes; that these often broke open in the passage, giving
a great opportunity for boys.

But the family held to their Egypt plan, and were cheered by making the
acquaintance of an English party. At the _table d'hôte_ Elizabeth
Eliza by chance dropped her fork into her neighbor's lap. She apologized
in French; her neighbor answered in the same language, which Elizabeth
Eliza understood so well that she concluded she had at last met with a
true Parisian, and ventured on more conversation, when suddenly they
both found they were talking in English, and Elizabeth Eliza exclaimed,
"I am so glad to meet an American," at the moment that her companion was
saying, "Then you are an Englishwoman!"

From this moment Elizabeth Eliza was at ease, and indeed both parties
were mutually pleased. Elizabeth Eliza's new friend was one of a large
party, and she was delighted to find that they too were planning a
winter in Egypt. They were waiting till a friend should have completed
her "cure" at Pau, and the Peterkins were glad also to wait for the
appearance of Agamemnon, who might arrive in the next steamer.

One of the little boys was sure he had heard Agamemnon's voice the
morning after they left New York, and was certain he must have been on
board the vessel. Mr. Peterkin was not so sure. He now remembered that
Agamemnon had not been at the dinner-table the very first evening; but
then neither Mrs. Peterkin nor Solomon John was able to be present, as
the vessel was tossing in a most uncomfortable manner, and nothing but
dinner could have kept the little boys at table. Solomon John knew that
Agamemnon had not been in his own stateroom during the passage, but he
himself had seldom left it, and it had been always planned that
Agamemnon should share that of a fellow-passenger.

However this might be, it would be best to leave Marseilles with the
English party by the "P. & O." steamer. This was one of the English
"Peninsular and Oriental" line, that left Marseilles for Alexandria,
Egypt, and made a return trip directly to Southampton, England. Mr.
Peterkin thought it might be advisable to take "go-and-return" tickets,
coming back to Southampton; and Mrs. Peterkin liked the idea of no
change of baggage, though she dreaded the longer voyage. Elizabeth Eliza
approved of this return trip in the P. & O. steamer, and decided it
would give a good opportunity to dispose of her canary-birds on her
return.

The family therefore consoled themselves at Marseilles with the belief
that Agamemnon would appear somehow. If not, Mr. Peterkin thought he
could telegraph him from Marseilles, if he only knew where to telegraph
to. But at Marseilles there was great confusion at the Hôtel de
Noailles; for the English party met other friends, who persuaded them to
take route together by Brindisi. Elizabeth Eliza was anxious to continue
with her new English friend, and Solomon John was delighted with the
idea of passing through the whole length of Italy. But the sight of the
long journey, as she saw it on the map in the guide-book, terrified Mrs.
Peterkin. And Mr. Peterkin had taken their tickets for the Marseilles
line. Elizabeth Eliza still dwelt upon the charm of crossing under the
Alps, while this very idea alarmed Mrs. Peterkin.

On the last morning the matter was still undecided. On leaving the
hotel, it was necessary for the party to divide and take two omnibuses.
Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin reached the steamer at the moment of departure,
and suddenly Mrs. Peterkin found they were leaving the shore. As they
crossed the broad gangway to reach the deck, she had not noticed they
had left the pier; indeed, she had supposed that the steamer was one she
saw out in the offing, and that they would be obliged to take a boat to
reach it. She hurried from the group of travellers whom she had followed
to find Mr. Peterkin reading from his guide-book to the little boys an
explanation that they were passing the Château d'If, from which the
celebrated historical character the Count of Monte Cristo had escaped by
flinging himself into the sea.

"Where is Elizabeth Eliza? Where is Solomon John?" Mrs. Peterkin
exclaimed, seizing Mr. Peterkin's arm. Where indeed? There was a pile
of the hand-baggage of the family, but not that of Elizabeth Eliza, not
even the bird-cage. "It was on the top of the other omnibus," exclaimed
Mrs. Peterkin. Yes, one of the little boys had seen it on the pavement
of the court-yard of the hotel, and had carried it to the omnibus in
which Elizabeth Eliza was sitting. He had seen her through the window.

"Where is that other omnibus?" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, looking vaguely
over the deck, as they were fast retreating from the shore. "Ask
somebody what became of that other omnibus!" she exclaimed. "Perhaps
they have gone with the English people," suggested Mr. Peterkin; but he
went to the officers of the boat, and attempted to explain in French
that one half of his family had been left behind. He was relieved to
find that the officers could understand his French, though they did not
talk English. They declared, however, it was utterly impossible to turn
back. They were already two minutes and a half behind time on account of
waiting for a party who had been very long in crossing the gangway.

Mr. Peterkin returned gloomily with the little boys to Mrs. Peterkin.
"We cannot go back," he said, "we must content ourselves with going on;
but I conclude we can telegraph from Malta. We can send a message to
Elizabeth Eliza and Solomon John, telling them that they can take the
next Marseilles P. & O. steamer in ten days, or that they can go back
to Southampton for the next boat, which leaves at the end of this week.
And Elizabeth Eliza may decide upon this," Mr. Peterkin concluded, "on
account of passing so near the Canary Isles."

"She will be glad to be rid of the birds," said Mrs. Peterkin, calming
herself.

These anxieties, however, were swallowed up in new trials. Mrs. Peterkin
found that she must share her cabin (she found it was called "cabin,"
and not "stateroom," which bothered her and made her feel like Robinson
Crusoe),--her cabin she must share with some strange ladies, while Mr.
Peterkin and the little boys were carried to another part of the ship.
Mrs. Peterkin remonstrated, delighted to find that her English was
understood, though it was not listened to. It was explained to her
that every family was divided in this way, and that she would meet Mr.
Peterkin and the little boys at meal-times in the large _salon_--on
which all the cabins opened--and on deck; and she was obliged to content
herself with this. Whenever they met their time was spent in concocting
a form of telegram to send from Malta. It would be difficult to bring it
into the required number of words, as it would be necessary to suggest
three different plans to Elizabeth Eliza and Solomon John. Besides
the two they had already discussed, there was to be considered the
possibility of their having joined the English party. But Mrs. Peterkin
was sure they must have gone back first to the Hôtel de Noailles, to
which they could address their telegram.

She found, meanwhile, the ladies in her cabin very kind and agreeable.
They were mothers returning to India, who had been home to England to
leave their children, as they were afraid to expose them longer to the
climate of India. Mrs. Peterkin could have sympathetic talks with them
over their family photographs. Mrs. Peterkin's family-book was, alas!
in Elizabeth Eliza's hand-bag. It contained the family photographs,
from early childhood upward, and was a large volume, representing the
children at every age.

At Malta, as he supposed, Mr. Peterkin and the little boys landed, in
order to send their telegram. Indeed, all of the gentlemen among the
passengers, and some of the ladies, gladly went on shore to visit the
points of interest that could be seen in the time allotted. The steamer
was to take in coal, and would not leave till early the next morning.

Mrs. Peterkin did not accompany them. She still had her fears about
leaving the ship and returning to it, although it had been so quietly
accomplished at Marseilles.

The party returned late at night, after Mrs. Peterkin had gone to her
cabin. The next morning, she found the ship was in motion, but she did
not find Mr. Peterkin and the little boys at the breakfast-table as
usual. She was told that the party who went on shore had all been to
the opera, and had returned at a late hour to the steamer, and would
naturally be late at breakfast. Mrs. Peterkin went on deck to await
them, and look for Malta as it seemed to retreat in the distance. But
the day passed on, and neither Mr. Peterkin nor either of the little
boys appeared! She tried to calm herself with the thought that they must
need sleep; but all the rest of the passengers appeared, relating their
different adventures. At last she sent the steward to inquire for them.
He came back with one of the officers of the boat, much disturbed, to
say that they could not be found; they must have been left behind. There
was great excitement, and deep interest expressed for Mrs. Peterkin. One
of the officers was very surly, and declared he could not be responsible
for the inanity of passengers. Another was more courteous. Mrs. Peterkin
asked if they could not go back,--if, at least, she could not be put
back. He explained how this would be impossible, but that the company
would telegraph when they reached Alexandria.

Mrs. Peterkin calmed herself as well as she could, though indeed she was
bewildered by her position. She was to land in Alexandria alone, and the
landing she was told would be especially difficult. The steamer would
not be able to approach the shore; the passengers would go down the
sides of the ship, and be lifted off the steps, by Arabs, into a felucca
(whatever that was) below. She shuddered at the prospect. It was darker
than her gloomiest fancies had pictured. Would it not be better to
remain in the ship, go back to Southampton, perhaps meet Elizabeth Eliza
there, picking up Mr. Peterkin at Malta on the way? But at this moment
she discovered that she was not on a "P. & O." steamer,--it was a French
steamer of the "Messagerie" line; they had stopped at Messina, and not
at Malta. She could not go back to Southampton, so she was told by an
English colonel on his way to India. He indeed was very courteous, and
advised her to "go to an hotel" at Alexandria with some of the ladies,
and send her telegrams from there. To whom, however, would she wish to
send a telegram?

"Who is Mr. Peterkin's banker?" asked the Colonel. Alas! Mrs. Peterkin
did not know. He had at first selected a banker in London, but had
afterward changed his mind and talked of a banker in Paris; and she was
not sure what was his final decision. She had known the name of the
London banker, but had forgotten it, because she had written it down,
and she never did remember the things she wrote down in her book. That
was her old memorandum-book, and she had left it at home because she had
brought a new one for her travels. She was sorry now she had not kept
the old book. This, however, was not of so much importance, as it did
not contain the name of the Paris banker; and this she had never heard.
"Elizabeth Eliza would know;" but how could she reach Elizabeth Eliza?

Some one asked if there were not some friend in America to whom she
could appeal, if she did not object to using the ocean telegraph.

"There is a friend in America," said Mrs. Peterkin, "to whom we all of
us do go for advice, and who always does help us. She lives in
Philadelphia."

"Why not telegraph to her for advice?" asked her friends.

Mrs. Peterkin gladly agreed that it would be the best plan. The expense
of the cablegram would be nothing in comparison with the assistance the
answer would bring.

Her new friends then invited her to accompany them to their hotel
in Alexandria, from which she could send her despatch. The thought
of thus being able to reach her hand across the sea to the lady from
Philadelphia gave Mrs. Peterkin fresh courage,--courage even to make the
landing. As she descended the side of the ship and was guided down the
steps, she closed her eyes that she might not see herself lifted into
the many-oared boat by the wild-looking Arabs, of whom she had caught
a glimpse from above. But she could not close her ears; and as they
approached the shore, strange sounds almost deafened her. She closed her
eyes again, as she was lifted from the boat and heard the wild yells and
shrieks around her. There was a clashing of brass, a jingling of bells,
and the screams grew more and more terrific. If she did open her eyes,
she saw wild figures gesticulating, dark faces, gay costumes, crowds of
men and boys, donkeys, horses, even camels, in the distance. She closed
her eyes once more as she was again lifted. Should she now find herself
on the back of one of those high camels? Perhaps for this she came to
Egypt. But when she looked round again, she found she was leaning back
in a comfortable open carriage, with a bottle of salts at her nose. She
was in the midst of a strange whirl of excitement; but all the party
were bewildered, and she had scarcely recovered her composure when they
reached the hotel.

Here a comfortable meal and rest somewhat restored them. By the next day
a messenger from the boat brought her the return telegram from Messina.
Mr. Peterkin and family, left behind by the "Messagerie" steamer, had
embarked the next day by steamer, probably for Naples.

More anxious than ever was Mrs. Peterkin to send her despatch. It was
too late the day of their arrival; but at an early hour next day it was
sent, and after a day had elapsed, the answer came:--

  "All meet at the Sphinx."


Everything now seemed plain. The words were few but clear. Her English
friends were going directly to Cairo, and she accompanied them.

After reaching Cairo, the whole party were obliged to rest awhile. They
would indeed go with Mrs. Peterkin on her first visit to the Sphinx, as
to see the Sphinx and ascend the pyramid formed part of their programme.
But many delays occurred to detain them, and Mrs. Peterkin had resolved
to carry out completely the advice of the telegram. She would sit every
day before the Sphinx. She found that as yet there was no hotel exactly
in front of the Sphinx, nor indeed on that side of the river, and she
would be obliged to make the excursion of nine miles there and nine
miles back, each day. But there would always be a party of travellers
whom she could accompany. Each day she grew more and more accustomed to
the bewildering sights and sounds about her, and more and more willing
to intrust herself to the dark-colored guides. At last, chafing at so
many delays, she decided to make the expedition without her new friends.
She had made some experiments in riding upon a donkey, and found she was
seldom thrown, and could not be hurt by the slight fall.

And so, one day, Mrs. Peterkin sat alone in front of the Sphinx,--alone,
as far as her own family and friends were concerned, and yet not alone
indeed. A large crowd of guides sat around this strange lady who
proposed to spend the day in front of the Sphinx. Clad in long white
robes, with white turbans crowning their dark faces, they gazed into her
eyes with something of the questioning expression with which she herself
was looking into the eyes of the Sphinx.

There were other travellers wandering about. Just now her own party had
collected to eat their lunch together; but they were scattered again,
and she sat with a circle of Arabs about her, the watchful dragoman
lingering near.

Somehow the Eastern languor must have stolen upon her, or she could not
have sat so calmly, not knowing where a single member of her family was
at that moment. And she had dreaded Egypt so; had feared separation; had
even been a little afraid of the Sphinx, upon which she was now looking
as at a protecting angel. But they all were to meet at the Sphinx!

If only she could have seen where the different members of the family
were at that moment, she could not have sat so quietly. She little knew
that a tall form, not far away (following some guides down into the
lower halls of a lately excavated temple), with a blue veil wrapped
about a face shielded with smoke-colored spectacles, was that of
Elizabeth Eliza herself, from whom she had been separated two weeks
before.

She little knew that at this moment Solomon John was standing looking
over the edge of the Matterhorn, wishing he had not come up so high. But
such a gay young party had set off that morning from the hotel that he
had supposed it an easy thing to join them; and now he would fain go
back, but was tied to the rest of his party with their guide preceding
them, and he must keep on and crawl up behind them, still farther, on
hands and knees.

Agamemnon was at Mycenæ, looking down into an open pit.

Two of the little boys were roasting eggs in the crater of Mount
Vesuvius.

And she would have seen Mr. Peterkin comfortably reclining in a gondola,
with one of the little boys, in front of the palaces of Venice.

But none of this she saw; she only looked into the eyes of the Sphinx.




VII.

MRS. PETERKIN FAINTS ON THE GREAT PYRAMID.


"Meet at the Sphinx!" Yes; these were the words that the lady from
Philadelphia had sent in answer to the several telegrams that had
reached her from each member of the Peterkin family. She had received
these messages while staying in a remote country town, but she could
communicate with the cable line by means of the telegraph office at a
railway station. The intelligent operator, seeing the same date affixed
at the close of each message, "took in," as she afterward expressed it,
that it was the date of the day on which the message was sent; and as
this was always prefixed to every despatch, she did not add it to the
several messages. She afterward expressed herself as sorry for the
mistake, and declared it should not occur another time.

Elizabeth Eliza was the first at the appointed spot, as her route had
been somewhat shorter than the one her mother had taken. A wild joy had
seized her when she landed in Egypt, and saw the frequent and happy use
of the donkey as a beast of travel. She had never ventured to ride at
home, and had always shuddered at the daring of the women who rode at
the circuses, and closed her eyes at their performances. But as soon as
she saw the little Egyptian donkeys, a mania for riding possessed her.
She was so tall that she could scarcely, under any circumstances, fall
from them, while she could mount them with as much ease as she could the
arm of the sofa at home, and most of the animals seemed as harmless. It
is true, the donkey-boys gave her the wrong word to use when she might
wish to check the pace of her donkey, and mischievously taught her to
avoid the soothing phrase of _beschwesch_, giving her instead one
that should goad the beast she rode to its highest speed; but Elizabeth
Eliza was so delighted with the quick pace that she was continually
urging her donkey onward, to the surprise and delight of each fresh
attendant donkey-boy. He would run at a swift pace after her, stopping
sometimes to pick up a loose slipper, if it were shuffled off from his
foot in his quick run, but always bringing up even in the end.

Elizabeth Eliza's party had made a quick journey by the route from
Brindisi, and proceeding directly to Cairo, had stopped at a small
French hotel not very far from Mrs. Peterkin and her party. Every
morning at an early hour Elizabeth Eliza made her visit to the Sphinx,
arriving there always the first one of her own party, and spending the
rest of the day in explorations about the neighborhood.

[Illustration: Every morning at an early hour Elizabeth Eliza made her
visit to the Sphinx.]

Mrs. Peterkin, meanwhile, set out each day at a later hour, arriving
in time to take her noon lunch in front of the Sphinx, after which she
indulged in a comfortable nap and returned to the hotel before sunset.

A week--indeed, ten days--passed in this way. One morning, Mrs. Peterkin
and her party had taken the ferry-boat to cross the Nile. As they were
leaving the boat on the other side, in the usual crowd, Mrs. Peterkin's
attention was arrested by a familiar voice. She turned, to see a tall
young man who, though he wore a red fez upon his head and a scarlet wrap
around his neck, certainly resembled Agamemnon. But this Agamemnon was
talking Greek, with gesticulations. She was so excited that she turned
to follow him through the crowd, thus separating herself from the rest
of her party. At once she found herself surrounded by a mob of Arabs, in
every kind of costume, all screaming and yelling in the manner to which
she was becoming accustomed. Poor Mrs. Peterkin plaintively protested in
English, exclaiming, "I should prefer a donkey!" but the Arabs could not
understand her strange words. They had, however, struck the ear of the
young man in the red fez whom she had been following. He turned, and she
gazed at him. It was Agamemnon!

He, meanwhile, was separated from his party, and hardly knew how to
grapple with the urgent Arabs. His recently acquired Greek did not
assist him, and he was advising his mother to yield and mount one of the
steeds, while he followed on another, when, happily, the dragoman of her
party appeared. He administered a volley of rebukes to the persistent
Arabs, and bore Mrs. Peterkin to her donkey. She was thus carried away
from Agamemnon, who was also mounted upon a donkey by his companions.
But their destination was the same; and though they could hold no
conversation on the way, Agamemnon could join his mother as they
approached the Sphinx.

But he and his party were to ascend the pyramid before going on to the
Sphinx, and he advised his mother to do the same. He explained that it
was a perfectly easy thing to do. You had only to lift one of your feet
up quite high, as though you were going to step on the mantelpiece, and
an Arab on each side would lift you to the next step. Mrs. Peterkin was
sure she could not step up on their mantelpieces at home. She never had
done it,--she never had even tried to. But Agamemnon reminded her that
those in their own house were very high,--"old colonial;" and meanwhile
she found herself carried along with the rest of the party.

At first the ascent was delightful to her. It seemed as if she were
flying. The powerful Nubian guides, one on each side, lifted her
jauntily up, without her being conscious of motion. Having seen them
daily for some time past, she was now not much afraid of these handsome
athletes, with their polished black skins, set off by dazzling white
garments. She called out to Agamemnon, who had preceded her, that it was
charming; she was not at all afraid. Every now and then she stopped to
rest on the broad cornice made by each retreating step. Suddenly, when
she was about half-way up, as she leaned back against the step above,
she found herself panting and exhausted. A strange faintness came over
her. She was looking off over a beautiful scene: through the wide Libyan
desert the blue Nile wound between borders of green edging, while the
picturesque minarets of Cairo, on the opposite side of the river, and
the sand in the distance beyond, gleamed with a red and yellow light
beneath the rays of the noonday sun.

But the picture danced and wavered before her dizzy sight. She sat
there alone; for Agamemnon and the rest had passed on, thinking she was
stopping to rest. She seemed deserted, save by the speechless black
statues, one on either side, who, as she seemed to be fainting before
their eyes, were looking at her in some anxiety. She saw dimly these
wild men gazing at her. She thought of Mungo Park, dying with the
African women singing about him. How little she had ever dreamed, when
she read that account in her youth, and gazed at the savage African
faces in the picture, that she might be left to die in the same way
alone, in a strange land--and on the side of a pyramid! Her guides were
kindly. One of them took her shawl to wrap about her, as she seemed to
be shivering; and as a party coming down from the top had a jar of
water, one of her Nubians moistened a handkerchief with water and laid
it upon her head. Mrs. Peterkin had closed her eyes, but she opened them
again, to see the black figures in their white draperies still standing
by her. The travellers coming down paused a few minutes to wonder and
give counsel, then passed on, to make way for another party following
them. Again Mrs. Peterkin closed her eyes, but once more opened them at
hearing a well-known shout,--such a shout as only one of the Peterkin
family could give,--one of the little boys!

Yes, he stood before her, and Agamemnon was behind; they had met on top
of the pyramid.

The sight was indeed a welcome one to Mrs. Peterkin, and revived her so
that she even began to ask questions: "Where had he come from? Where
were the other little boys? Where was Mr. Peterkin?" No one could tell
where the other little boys were. And the sloping side of the pyramid,
with a fresh party waiting to pass up and the guides eager to go down,
was not just the place to explain the long, confused story. All that
Mrs. Peterkin could understand was that Mr. Peterkin was now, probably,
inside the pyramid, beneath her very feet! Agamemnon had found this
solitary "little boy" on top of the pyramid, accompanied by a guide and
one of the party that he and his father had joined on leaving Venice. At
the foot of the pyramid there had been some dispute in the party as to
whether they should first go up the pyramid, or down inside, and in the
altercation the party was divided; the little boy had been sure that his
father meant to go up first, and so he had joined the guide who went up.
But where was Mr. Peterkin? Probably in the innermost depths of the
pyramid below. As soon as Mrs. Peterkin understood this, she was eager
to go down, in spite of her late faintness; even to tumble down would
help her to meet Mr. Peterkin the sooner. She was lifted from stone to
stone by the careful Nubians. Agamemnon had already emptied his pocket
of coins, in supplying backsheesh to his guide, and all were anxious to
reach the foot of the pyramid and find the dragoman, who could answer
the demands of the others.

Breathless as she was, as soon as she had descended, Mrs. Peterkin was
anxious to make for the entrance to the inside. Before, she had declared
that nothing would induce her to go into the pyramid. She was afraid of
being lost in its stairways and shut up forever as a mummy. But now she
forgot all her terrors; she must find Mr. Peterkin at once!

She was the first to plunge down the narrow stairway after the guide,
and was grateful to find the steps so easy to descend. But they
presently came out into a large, open room, where no stairway was to be
seen. On the contrary, she was invited to mount the shoulders of a burly
Nubian, to reach a large hole half-way up the side-wall (higher than any
mantelpiece), and to crawl through this hole along the passage till she
should reach another stairway. Mrs. Peterkin paused. Could she trust
these men? Was not this a snare to entice her into one of these narrow
passages? Agamemnon was far behind. Could Mr. Peterkin have ventured
into this treacherous place?

At this moment a head appeared through the opening above, followed by a
body. It was that of one of the native guides. Voices were heard coming
through the passage: one voice had a twang to it that surely Mrs.
Peterkin had heard before. Another head appeared now, bound with a blue
veil, while the eyes were hidden by green goggles. Yet Mrs. Peterkin
could not be mistaken,--it was--yes, it was the head of Elizabeth Eliza!

It seemed as though that were all, it was so difficult to bring forward
any more of her. Mrs. Peterkin was screaming from below, asking if it
were indeed Elizabeth Eliza, while excitement at recognizing her mother
made it more difficult for Elizabeth Eliza to extricate herself. But
travellers below and behind urged her on, and with the assistance of the
guides, she pushed forward and almost fell into the arms of her mother.
Mrs. Peterkin was wild with joy as Agamemnon and his brother joined
them.

"But Mr. Peterkin!" at last exclaimed their mother. "Did you see
anything of your father?"

"He is behind," said Elizabeth Eliza. "I was looking for the body of
Chufu, the founder of the pyramid,--for I have longed to be the
discoverer of his mummy,--and I found instead--my father!"

Mrs. Peterkin looked up, and at that moment saw Mr. Peterkin emerging
from the passage above. He was carefully planting one foot on the
shoulder of a stalwart Nubian guide. He was very red in the face, from
recent exertion, but he was indeed Mr. Peterkin. On hearing the cry of
Mrs. Peterkin, he tottered, and would have fallen but for the support of
the faithful guide.

The narrow place was scarcely large enough to hold their joy. Mrs.
Peterkin was ready to faint again with her great excitement. She wanted
to know what had become of the other little boys, and if Mr. Peterkin
had heard from Solomon John. But the small space was becoming more and
more crowded. The dragomans from the different parties with which the
Peterkins were connected came to announce their several luncheons, and
insisted upon their leaving the pyramid.

Mrs. Peterkin's dragoman wanted her to go on directly to the Sphinx, and
she still clung to the belief that only then would there be a complete
reunion of the family. Yet she could not separate herself from the rest.
They could not let her go, and they were all hungry, and she herself
felt the need of food.

But with the confusion of so many luncheons, and so much explanation to
be gone through with, it was difficult to get an answer to her
questions.

Elizabeth and her father were involved in a discussion as to whether
they should have met if he had not gone into the queen's chamber in the
pyramid. For if he had not gone to the queen's chamber he would have
left the inside of the pyramid before Mrs. Peterkin reached it, and
would have missed her, as he was too fatigued to make the ascent. And
Elizabeth Eliza, if she had not met her father, had planned going back
to the king's chamber in another search for the body of Chufu, in which
case she would have been too late to meet her mother. Mrs. Peterkin was
not much interested in this discussion; it was enough that they had met.
But she could not get answers to what she considered more important
questions; while Elizabeth Eliza, though delighted to meet again her
father and mother and brothers, and though interested in the fate of the
missing ones, was absorbed in the Egyptian question; and the mingling of
all their interests made satisfactory intercourse impracticable.

Where was Solomon John? What had become of the body of Chufu? Had
Solomon John been telegraphed to? When had Elizabeth Eliza seen him
last? Was he Chufu or Shufu, and why Cheops? and where were the other
little boys?

Mr. Peterkin attempted to explain that he had taken a steamer from
Messina to the south of Italy, and a southern route to Brindisi. By
mistake he had taken the steamer from Alexandria, on its way to Venice,
instead of the one that was leaving Brindisi for Alexandria at the same
hour. Indeed, just as he had discovered his mistake, and had seen the
other boat steaming off by his side in the other direction, too late he
fancied he saw the form of Elizabeth Eliza on deck, leaning over the
taffrail (if it was a taffrail). It was a tall lady, with a blue veil
wound around her hat. Was it possible? Could he have been in time to
reach Elizabeth Eliza? His explanation only served to increase the
number of questions.

Mrs. Peterkin had many more. How had Agamemnon reached them? Had he
come to Bordeaux with them? But Agamemnon and Elizabeth Eliza were
now discussing with others the number of feet that the Great Pyramid
measured. The remaining members of all the parties, too, whose hunger
and thirst were now fully satisfied, were ready to proceed to the
Sphinx, which only Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza had visited.

Side by side on their donkeys, Mrs. Peterkin attempted to learn
something from Mr. Peterkin about the other little boys. But his donkey
proved restive: now it bore him on in swift flight from Mrs. Peterkin;
now it would linger behind. His words were jerked out only at intervals.
All that could be said was that they were separated; the little boys
wanted to go to Vesuvius, but Mr. Peterkin felt they must hurry to
Brindisi. At a station where the two trains parted--one for Naples, the
other for Brindisi--he found suddenly, too late, that they were not with
him; they must have gone on to Naples. But where were they now?




VIII.

THE LAST OF THE PETERKINS.


The expedition up the Nile had taken place successfully. The Peterkin
family had reached Cairo again,--at least, its scattered remnant was
there, and they were now to consider what next.

Mrs. Peterkin would like to spend her life in the dahabieh,[1] though
she could not pronounce its name, and she still felt the strangeness
of the scenes about her. However, she had only to look out upon the
mud villages on the bank to see that she was in the veritable "Africa"
she had seen pictured in the geography of her childhood. If further
corroboration were required, had she not, only the day before, when
accompanied by no one but a little donkey-boy, shuddered to meet a
strange Nubian, attired principally in hair that stood out from his
savage face in frizzes at least half a yard long?

[Footnote 1: A boat used for transportation on the Nile.]

But oh the comforts of no trouble in housekeeping on board the dahabieh!
Never to know what they were to have for dinner, nor to be asked what
they would like, and yet always to have a dinner you could ask chance
friends to, knowing all would be perfectly served! Some of the party
with whom they had engaged their dahabieh had even brought canned baked
beans from New England, which seemed to make their happiness complete.

"Though we see beans here," said Mrs. Peterkin, "they are not 'Boston
beans'!"

She had fancied she would have to live on stuffed ostrich (ostrich
stuffed with iron filings, that the books tell of), or fried
hippopotamus, or boiled rhinoceros. But she met with none of these, and
day after day was rejoiced to find her native turkey appearing on the
table, with pigeons and chickens (though the chickens, to be sure, were
scarcely larger than the pigeons), and lamb that was really not more
tough than that of New Hampshire and the White Mountains.

If they dined with the Arabs, there was indeed a kind of dark
molasses-gingerbread-looking cake, with curds in it, that she found it
hard to eat. "But _they_ like it," she said complacently.

The remaining little boy, too, smiled over his pile of ripe bananas, as
he thought of the quarter-of-a-dollar-a-half-dozen green ones at that
moment waiting at the corners of the streets at home. Indeed, it was a
land for boys. There were the dates, both fresh and dried,--far more
juicy than those learned at school; and there was the gingerbread-nut
tree, the dôm palm, that bore a nut tasting "like baker's gingerbread
that has been kept a few days in the shop," as the remaining little boy
remarked. And he wished for his brothers when the live dinner came on
board their boat, at the stopping-places, in the form of good-sized
sheep struggling on the shoulders of stout Arabs, or an armful of live
hens and pigeons.

All the family (or as much of it as was present) agreed with Mrs.
Peterkin's views. Amanda at home had seemed quite a blessing, but at
this distance her services, compared with the attentions of their
Maltese dragoman and the devotion of their Arab servants, seemed of
doubtful value, and even Mrs. Peterkin dreaded returning to her tender
mercies.

"Just imagine inviting the Russian Count to dinner at home--and Amanda!"
exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza.

"And he came to dinner at least three times a week on board the boat,"
said the remaining little boy.

"The Arabs are so convenient about carrying one's umbrellas and shawls,"
said Elizabeth Eliza. "How I should miss Hassan in picking up my blue
veil!"

The family recalled many anecdotes of the shortcomings of Amanda, as
Mrs. Peterkin leaned back upon her divan and wafted a fly-whisk. Mr.
Peterkin had expended large sums in telegrams from every point where he
found the telegraph in operation; but there was no reply from Solomon
John, and none from the two little boys.

By a succession of telegrams they had learned that no one had fallen
into the crater of Vesuvius in the course of the last six months, not
even a little boy. This was consoling.

By letters from the lady from Philadelphia, they learned that she had
received Solomon John's telegram from Geneva at the time she heard
from the rest of the family, and one signed "L. Boys" from Naples. But
neither of these telegrams gave an address for return answers, which
she had, however, sent to Geneva and Naples, with the fatal omission by
the operator (as she afterward learned) of the date, as in the other
telegrams.

Mrs. Peterkin therefore disliked to be long away from the Sphinx, and
their excursion up the Nile had been shortened on this account. All
the Nubian guides near the pyramids had been furnished with additional
backsheesh and elaborate explanations from Mr. Peterkin as to how they
should send him information if Solomon John and the little boys should
turn up at the Sphinx,--for all the family agreed they would probably
appear in Egypt together.

Mrs. Peterkin regretted not having any photographs to leave with the
guides; but Elizabeth Eliza, alas! had lost at Brindisi the hand-bag
that contained the family photograph-book.

Mrs. Peterkin would have liked to take up her residence near the Sphinx
for the rest of the year. But every one warned her that the heat of an
Egyptian summer would not allow her to stay at Cairo,--scarcely even on
the sea-shore, at Alexandria.

How thankful was Mrs. Peterkin, a few months after, when the war in
Egypt broke out, that her wishes had not been yielded to! For many
nights she could not sleep, picturing how they all might have been
massacred by the terrible mob in Alexandria.

Intelligence of Solomon John led them to take their departure.

One day, they were discussing at the _table d'hôte_ their letters
from the lady from Philadelphia, and how they showed that Solomon John
had been at Geneva.

"Ah, there was his mistake!" said Elizabeth Eliza. "The Doolittles left
Marseilles with us, and were to branch off for Geneva, and we kept on to
Genoa, and Solomon John was always mistaking Genoa for Geneva, as we
planned our route. I remember there was a great confusion when they got
off."

"I always mix up Geneva and Genoa," said Mrs. Peterkin. "I feel as if
they were the same."

"They are quite different," said Elizabeth Eliza; "and Genoa lay in our
route, while Geneva took him into Switzerland."

An English gentleman, on the opposite side of the table, then spoke to
Mr. Peterkin.

"I beg pardon," he said. "I think I met one of your name in Athens.
He attracted our attention because he went every day to the same spot,
and he told us he expected to meet his family there,--that he had an
appointment by telegraph--"

"In Athens!" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin.

"Was his name Solomon John?" asked Elizabeth Eliza.

"Were there two little boys?" inquired Mrs. Peterkin.

"His initials were the same as mine," replied the
Englishman,--"S.J.P.,--for some of his luggage came by mistake into my
room, and that is why I spoke of it."

"Is there a Sphinx in Athens?" Mrs. Peterkin inquired.

"There used to be one there," said Agamemnon.

"I beg your pardon," said the Englishman, "but that Sphinx never was in
Athens."

"But Solomon John may have made the mistake,--we all make our mistakes,"
said Mrs. Peterkin, tying her bonnet-strings, as if ready to go to meet
Solomon John at that moment.

"The Sphinx was at Thebes in the days of OEdipus," said the Englishman.
"No one would expect to find it anywhere in Greece at the present day."

"But was Solomon John inquiring for it?" asked Mr. Peterkin.

"Indeed, no!" answered the Englishman; "he went every day to the Pnyx, a
famous hill in Athens, where his telegram had warned him he should meet
his friends."

"The Pnyx!" exclaimed Mr. Peterkin; "and how do you spell it?"

"P-n-y-x!" cried Agamemnon,--"the same letters as in Sphinx!"

"All but the _s_ and the _h_ and the _y_" said Elizabeth Eliza.

"I often spell Sphinx with a _y_ myself," said Mr. Peterkin.

"And a telegraph-operator makes such mistakes!" said Agamemnon.

"His telegram had been forwarded to him from Switzerland," said the
Englishman; "it had followed him into the dolomite region, and must have
been translated many timed."

"And of course they could not all have been expected to keep the letters
in the right order," said Elizabeth Eliza.

"And were there two little boys with him?" repeated Mrs. Peterkin.

No; there were no little boys. But further inquiries satisfied the
family that Solomon John must be awaiting them in Athens. And how
natural the mistake! Mrs. Peterkin said that if she had known of a Pnyx,
she should surely have looked for the family there.

Should they then meet Solomon John at the Pnyx, or summon him to Egypt?
It seemed safer to go directly to Athens, especially as Mr. Peterkin and
Agamemnon were anxious to visit that city.

It was found that a steamer would leave Alexandria next day for Athens,
by way of Smyrna and Constantinople. This was a roundabout course;
but Mr. Peterkin was impatient to leave, and was glad to gain more
acquaintance with the world. Meanwhile they could telegraph their plans
to Solomon John, as the English gentleman could give them the address of
his hotel.

And Mrs. Peterkin did not now shrink from another voyage. Her experience
on the Nile had made her forget her sufferings in crossing the Atlantic,
and she no longer dreaded entering another steamboat. Their delight in
river navigation, indeed, had been so great that the whole family had
listened with interest to the descriptions given by their Russian
fellow-traveller of steamboat navigation on the Volga--"the most
beautiful river in the world," as he declared. Elizabeth Eliza and Mr.
Peterkin were eager to try it, and Agamemnon remarked that such a trip
would give them an opportunity to visit the renowned fair at
Nijninovgorod. Even Mrs. Peterkin had consented to this expedition,
provided they should meet Solomon John and the other little boys.

She started, therefore, on a fresh voyage without any dread, forgetting
that the Mediterranean, if not so wide as the Atlantic, is still a sea,
and often as tempestuous and uncomfortably "choppy." Alas! she was soon
to be awakened from her forgetfulness: the sea was the same old enemy.

As they passed up among the Ionian Isles, and she heard Agamemnon and
Elizabeth Eliza and their Russian friend (who was accompanying them to
Constantinople) talking of the old gods of Greece, she fancied that they
were living still, and that Neptune and the classic waves were wreaking
their vengeance on them, and pounding and punishing them for venturing
to rule them with steam. She was fairly terrified. As they entered
Smyrna she declared she would never enter any kind of a boat again, and
that Mr. Peterkin must find some way by which they could reach home by
land.

How delightful it was to draw near the shore, on a calm afternoon,--even
to trust herself to the charge of the boatmen in leaving the ship, and
to reach land once more and meet the tumult of voices and people! Here
were the screaming and shouting usual in the East, and the same bright
array of turbans and costumes in the crowd awaiting them. But a
well-known voice reached them, and from the crowd rose a well-known
face. Even before they reached the land they had recognized its owner.
With his American dress, he looked almost foreign in contrast to the
otherwise universal Eastern color. A tall figure on either side seemed,
also, each to have a familiar air.

Were there three Solomon Johns?

No; it was Solomon John and the two other little boys--but grown so that
they were no longer little boys. Even Mrs. Peterkin was unable to
recognize them at first. But the tones of their voices, their ways, were
as natural as ever. Each had a banana in his hand, and pockets stuffed
with oranges.

Questions and answers interrupted each other in a most confusing
manner:--

"Are you the little boys?"

"Where have you been?"

"Did you go to Vesuvius?"

"How did you get away?"

"Why didn't you come sooner?"

"Our India-rubber boots stuck in the hot lava."

"Have you been there all this time?"

"No; we left them there."

"Have you had fresh dates?"

"They are all gone now, but the dried ones are better than those
squeezed ones we have at home."

"How you have grown!"

"Why didn't you telegraph?"

"Why did you go to Vesuvius, when Papa said he couldn't?"

"Did you, too, think it was Pnyx?"

"Where have you been all winter?"

"Did you roast eggs in the crater?"

"When did you begin to grow?"

The little boys could not yet thoroughly explain themselves; they always
talked together and in foreign languages, interrupting each other, and
never agreeing as to dates.

Solomon John accounted for his appearance in Smyrna by explaining that
when he received his father's telegram in Athens, he decided to meet
them at Smyrna. He was tired of waiting at the Pnyx. He had but just
landed, and came near missing his family, and the little boys too, who
had reached Athens just as he was leaving it. None of the family wished
now to continue their journey to Athens, but they had the advice and
assistance of their Russian friend in planning to leave the steamer at
Constantinople; they would, by adopting this plan, be _en route_
for the proposed excursion to the Volga.

Mrs. Peterkin was overwhelmed with joy at having all her family together
once more; but with it a wave of homesickness surged over her. They were
all together; why not go home?

It was found that there was a sailing-vessel bound absolutely for Maine,
in which they might take passage. No more separation; no more mistakes;
no more tedious study of guide-books; no more weighing of baggage. Every
trunk and bag, every Peterkin, could be placed in the boat, and safely
landed on the shores of home. It was a temptation, and at one time Mrs.
Peterkin actually pleaded for it.

But there came a throbbing in her head, a swimming in her eyes, a
swaying of the very floor of the hotel. Could she bear it, day after
day, week after week? Would any of them be alive? And Constantinople not
seen, nor steam-navigation on the Volga!

And so new plans arose, and wonderful discoveries were made, and the
future of the Peterkin family was changed forever.

In the first place a strange stout gentleman in spectacles had followed
the Peterkin family to the hotel, had joined in the family councils, and
had rendered valuable service in negotiating with the officers of the
steamer for the cancellation of their through tickets to Athens. He
dined at the same table, and was consulted by the (formerly) little
boys.

Who was he?

They explained that he was their "preceptor." It appeared that after
they parted from their father, the little boys had become mixed up with
some pupils who were being taken by their preceptor to Vesuvius. For
some time he had not noticed that his party (consisting of boys of their
own age) had been enlarged; and after finding this out, he had concluded
they were the sons of an English family with whom he had been
corresponding. He was surprised that no further intelligence came with
them, and no extra baggage. They had, however, their hand-bags; and
after sending their telegram to the lady from Philadelphia, they assured
him that all would be right. But they were obliged to leave Naples the
very day of despatching the telegram, and left no address to which an
answer could be sent. The preceptor took them, with his pupils, directly
back to his institution in Gratz, Austria, from which he had taken them
on this little excursion.

It was not till the end of the winter that he discovered that his
youthful charges--whom he had been faithfully instructing, and who had
found the gymnasium and invigorating atmosphere so favorable to
growth--were not the sons of his English correspondent, whom he had
supposed, from their explanations, to be travelling in America.

He was, however, intending to take his pupils to Athens in the spring,
and by this time the little boys were able to explain themselves better
in his native language. They assured him they should meet their family
in the East, and the preceptor felt it safe to take them upon the track
proposed.

It was now that Mr. Peterkin prided himself upon the plan he had
insisted upon before leaving home. "Was it not well," he exclaimed,
"that I provided each of you with a bag of gold, for use in case of
emergency, hidden in the lining of your hand-bags?"

This had worked badly for Elizabeth Eliza, to be sure, who had left hers
at Brindisi; but the little boys had been able to pay some of their
expenses, which encouraged the preceptor to believe he might trust them
for the rest. So much pleased were all the family with the preceptor
that they decided that all three of the little boys should continue
under his instructions, and return with him to Gratz. This decision made
more easy the other plans of the family.

Both Agamemnon and Solomon John had decided they would like to be
foreign consuls. They did not much care where, and they would accept any
appointment; and both, it appeared, had written on the subject to the
Department at Washington. Agamemnon had put in a plea for a vacancy at
Madagascar, and Solomon John hoped for an opening at Rustchuk, Turkey;
if not there, at Aintab, Syria. Answers were expected, which were now
telegraphed for, to meet them in Constantinople.

Meanwhile Mr. Peterkin had been consulting the preceptor and the Russian
Count about a land-journey home. More and more Mrs. Peterkin determined
she could not and would not trust herself to another voyage, though she
consented to travel by steamer to Constantinople. If they went as far as
Nijninovgorod, which was now decided upon, why could they not persevere
through "Russia in Asia"?

Their Russian friend at first shook his head at this, but at last agreed
that it might be possible to go on from Novgorod comfortably to Tobolsk,
perhaps even from there to Yakoutsk, and then to Kamtschatka.

"And cross at Behring's Strait!" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin. "It looks so
narrow on the map."

"And then we are in Alaska," said Mr. Peterkin.

"And at home," exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, "and no more voyages."

But Elizabeth Eliza doubted about Kamtschatka and Behring's Strait, and
thought it would be very cold.

"But we can buy furs on our way," insisted Mrs. Peterkin.

"And if you do not find the journey agreeable," said their Russian
friend, "you can turn back from Yakoutsk, even from Tobolsk, and come to
visit us."

Yes--_us_! For Elizabeth Eliza was to marry the Russian Count!

He had been in a boat that was behind them on the Nile, had met them
often, had climbed the ruins with them, joined their excursions, and had
finally proposed at Edfu.

Elizabeth Eliza had then just written to consult the lady from
Philadelphia with regard to the offer of a German professor they had
met, and she could give no reply to the Count.

Now, however, it was necessary to make a decision. She had meanwhile
learned a few words of Russian. The Count spoke English moderately well,
made himself understood better than the Professor, and could understand
Elizabeth Eliza's French. Also the Count knew how to decide questions
readily, while the Professor had to consider both sides before he could
make up his mind.

Mrs. Peterkin objected strongly at first. She could not even pronounce
the Russian's name. "How should she be able to speak to him, or tell
anybody whom Elizabeth Eliza had married?" But finally the family all
gave their consent, won by the attention and devotion of Elizabeth
Eliza's last admirer.

The marriage took place in Constantinople, not at Santa Sophia, as
Elizabeth Eliza would have wished, as that was under a Mohammedan
dispensation. A number of American residents were present, and the
preceptor sent for his other pupils in Athens. Elizabeth Eliza wished
there was time to invite the lady from Philadelphia to be present, and
Ann Maria Bromwick. Would the name be spelled right in the newspapers?
All that could be done was to spell it by telegraph as accurately as
possible, as far as they themselves knew how, and then leave the papers
to do their best (or their worst) in their announcements of the wedding
"at the American Consulate, Constantinople, Turkey. No cards."

The last that was ever heard of the Peterkins, Agamemnon was on his way
to Madagascar, Solomon John was at Rustchuk, and the little boys at
Gratz; Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, in a comfortable sledge, were on their way
from Tobolsk to Yakoutsk; and Elizabeth Eliza was passing her honeymoon
in the neighborhood of Moscow.

       *       *       *       *       *




OTHERS OF THEIR KIN.

       *       *       *       *       *




IX.

LUCILLA'S DIARY.


MONDAY.--I spent some time this morning watching for the rag-man. I wish
I had taken down a note which day it was I saw him before. I remember it
was washing-day, for I had to take my hands out of the tub and wipe the
suds off when Johnnie came to tell me that the rag-man was on the
street. He was just turning the corner by the Wylies when I got to the
front gate. But whether we washed on Monday I can't think. It rained
that Monday, or the week before, and we had to wait till Tuesday; but
which it was I couldn't say. I was in such a whirl fitting Artemas off,
and much as ever I made him hear; and he wasn't the right man after all,
for he wouldn't give more than a cent and a half a pound for the papers,
and Mrs. Carruthers got two cents. She could not remember what was his
day for coming, but agreed to send him if she should see him again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Carruthers sent the rag-man to-day; but I can't say much for the
bargain, though he was a different man from the one that came Monday,
and it seems it was Monday. He agreed to give me the same he gave Mrs.
Carruthers,--two cents a pound. And I had a lot of newspapers,--all the
papers Artemas has been taking through the winter; for he doesn't like
me to take them for kindlings, says he would rather pay separate for
kindlings, as I might burn the wrong one. And there were the papers that
came around his underclothes and inside the packing boxes he has taken
away. So I expected to make something; but he gave me no more than
forty-five cents! He weighed them, and said himself there were thirty
pounds. That ought to have come to sixty cents at least, according
to my arithmetic. But he made out it was all right, and had them all
packed up, and went off, though I followed him out to the gate and told
him that it didn't amount to no more than I might have got from the
other man at a cent and a half. He said it was all they were worth; that
he wished he could get as much for them. Then I asked him why he took
the trouble to come for them, under the circumstances. But by that time
he was off and down the street.

       *       *       *       *       *

I was just sitting at the window this morning, and there were Mr. and
Mrs. Peebles walking down the street,--he on one side and she on the
other. I do wonder why they didn't go on the same side! If they hadn't
got so far past the gate, I'd have asked them. I never heard there was
any quarrel between them, and it was just as muddy this side of the
street as that. They have been spending their winters in the city
lately, and perhaps it's some new fashion.

I declare it's worth while to sit at the window now and then, and see
what is going on. I'm usually so busy at the back of the house, I don't
know. But now Lavinia has taken to going to school with the boys, and
they are willing to take care of her, half my work seems taken out of my
hands. Not that she was much in the way for a girl of four, but she
might slip out of the gate at any time, as there are so many of those
grinding organs around with their monkeys.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Carruthers was in yesterday afternoon, and she said the Peebles
were looking up the numbers on the doors to find the Wylies. They got
puzzled because the numbers go up one side of the street and down the
other, and they haven't but just been put on. And it seems that up in
the city they have them go across. It does appear to me shiftless in our
town officers, when they undertook to have the streets numbered as they
do elsewhere, that they didn't number them the same way. But I can't see
but our way is as good, and more sensible than having to cross a muddy
street to look up the next number.

       *       *       *       *       *

Artemas has been gone a whole week. I told him I would put down the most
important things in a diary, and then he can look at it, if he has time,
when he comes home. He thinks it is a more sensible way than writing
letters every week.

He expects to be up and down in Texas, and perhaps across the mountains;
and in those lawless countries letters would not stand much
chance,--maybe they wouldn't ever reach him, after I'd had the trouble
of writing them. There's the expense of stamps too,--not so very much
for one letter, but it counts up.

Nothing worries me more than getting a letter, unless it's having a
telegraph come,--and that does give one a start. But even that's sooner
over and quicker read; while for a letter, it's long, and it takes a
good while to get to the end. I feel it might be a kind of waste of time
to write in my diary; but not more than writing letters, and it saves
the envelopes and hunting them up. I'm not likely to find much time for
either, for the boys are fairly through their winter suits; if I can
only keep them along while the spring hangs off so.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Norris was in yesterday, just as I was writing about the boys'
suits, to know if I would let Martha off to work for her after the
washing is over. I told her I didn't like to disoblige, but I couldn't
see my way clear to get along without Martha. The boys ought to be
having their spring suits this very minute, and Martha was calculating
to make them this week; and they'd have to have their first wear of them
Sundays for a while before they start on them for school. I never was so
behindhand; but what with fitting off Artemas and the spring cleaning
being delayed, I didn't seem to know how to manage. Martha is good at
making over, and there are two very good coats of Artemas's that she
would do the right thing by; while there was a good many who could scrub
and clean as well as she,--there was that Nora that used to live at
Patty's. But Mrs. Norris did not take to Nora. The Wylies tried her, but
could make nothing out of her. I said I thought it would be hard to find
the person Mrs. Wylie could get on with. Not that I ever knew anything
about her till she came to live on our street last winter, but they do
say she's just as hard on her own family; for there's a story that she
won't let that pretty daughter of hers, Clara, marry Bob Prince's son,
Larkin.

Mrs. Norris said she didn't wonder, for Larkin Prince hadn't found
anything to do since he came home. I thought there was enough to live
upon in the Wylie family, even if Larkin didn't find something the first
minute he'd got his education.

       *       *       *       *       *

I can see that Mrs. Norris didn't take it well that I was not willing to
give up Martha; but I don't really see why I should be the one to give
up. But I must say I haven't got on as well with the work as I had
hoped, Lavinia's going with the boys so much keeps her clothes half torn
off her back, and I can't seem to see how to make her tidy. I was real
ashamed when I went to lift her out of a mud-puddle yesterday outside
the gate; and there was Clara Wylie looking as clean as a white lily,
and she stopped to help her out. It seemed that Lavinia had left her
boot in the last mud-puddle, and I would have liked to have gone through
the ground. I hope it will be a lesson to Lavinia, for Miss Wylie
oughtn't to have touched her with her hand. But she did, yellow gloves
and all, and said it was dreadful walking now, the frost so late coming
out of the ground, and she had quite envied Lavinia running across the
fields after the boys. But Lavinia has taken to envying Miss Wylie, and
wishes she could wear that kind of boots she has, with high heels that
keep her out of the mud-puddles.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am thinking of having my ruby cashmere colored over. I don't seem to
feel like ripping it all up, pleatings and all; but Mrs. Peebles says
it can be dipped just as well made up, and I needn't take out a seam.
I might have it a kind of dark olive, like Mrs. Carruthers' dress.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have had a start! It is a letter from Artemas; nothing particular
about himself, only I should say he was well. But he wants to take
out a young man farther west with him,--somebody with something of an
education, who understands chemicals or engineering, and he wants me to
pick out somebody. There's my brother Sam, of course. I thought of him
the first thing. But Artemas never took to Sam, though he is my brother.
Still, I dare say he would do right by him. And Sam don't seem to find
the work here that suits, and I hate to have him hanging round. But he
don't know more than I about chemicals, as much as even what they are,
though I dare say he could find out, for Sam is smart and always could
make out if he chose to lay his hands to anything. And I dare say
Artemas thought of Sam, and that is why he sent to me to give him a
chance. From what he says it must be a pretty good chance, exactly what
Sam would like if he knew anything about the business. I dare say he'd
do quite as well as half the fellows who might go. He can be steady if
he's a mind to.

But I can't but think of Larkin Prince; how he's taken all the pains to
get an education, and his father for him laying up money for the very
purpose, and that pretty Clara Wylie waiting to be married till he
should get something fit to do, and maybe her father wanting to marry
her off to some rich man while she's waiting, when her heart is set on
Larkin. And he'd be just the man for Artemas, seeing as he's been
studying just such things.

       *       *       *       *       *

It wasn't no use taking up the time writing in my diary, as Artemas must
have a telegraph before night, and the boys home from school to know if
they might go to the swamp after checkerberries, and Lavinia with them,
and I let her go, clean apron and all, and I put on my bonnet to go over
to Mrs. Prince's. It made my heart bump to think how much Sam would set
on having the situation, and Artemas kind of expecting him; but I said
to myself, if Larkin should be out of town, or anything, that would
settle the matter for Sam.

As it happened, who should I meet but Larkin just at the gate! and I
asked him if he would turn back and step in with me for a minute. He
looked kind of provoked, and I shouldn't wonder if he hadn't expected to
meet Clara Wylie coming out of her gate just below, as it's natural she
should at this time. But he came in, and I gave him Artemas's letter to
read, for there wasn't anything in it except particulars of the work. He
quite started as he read it, and then he looked at me inquiring, and I
asked him if he had the kind of knowledge Artemas wanted. I supposed he
might have it, as he'd been to the new schools. It told in the letter
about the expenses, and what the pay would be, and where he would find
the free pass, and that he'd have to telegraph right off, and perhaps he
noticed he'd have to start to-night. Well, I guess he needn't care even
to thank me; for that look in his face was enough, and I shan't forget
it. He wanted to know was it Artemas thought of him. But before I could
answer, he saw somebody out in the street, and went to rushing out, only
he gave me another of those looks as he went, and said he'd see me
before he sent the telegraph, and would take any message from me to
Artemas.

       *       *       *       *       *

I hadn't more than time to write this yesterday, when Mrs. Norris came
in to inquire about some garden seeds, but I guess she expected to find
out what Larkin Prince had been in for, for she was calling over at Mrs.
Carruthers'. I offered her some squash seeds, and took her out the back
way, through the garden, to show her how the squashes were likely to
spread. Last summer they were all over the garden. It seems the only
thing the boys let to grow.

She hadn't more than gone when Larkin came in. It was all settled, and
other things seemed to be settled too; for who should come in with him
but Clara Wylie, crying and smiling all at once. She had to come and
help Larkin to thank me because he had got the place. After he was gone
she came back for a little cry. She didn't seem to wonder that Larkin
was the one chosen, and supposed Artemas must have known all about him,
she said, as well as the company he is working for. They probably had
seen his name in the papers, she thought, when he graduated so honorably
from the school.

I didn't tell her that there wasn't any company; that Artemas never had
time to read that kind of thing in the newspapers, and would not have
noticed it if he had; and that he'd left it all to me.

I can't but say after it was all settled I had a kind of a turn myself,
to think that Sam might have gone just as well, and I had been standing
in his way.

       *       *       *       *       *

I shall have to let down Lavinia's gowns full two inches this summer.
Lucky I put tucks in them all last year. Mrs. Carruthers wanted me to
finish them off with a frill; lucky I didn't, it would have been up to
her ears this summer. As for the boys, I can take them in turn,--last
year's clothes for the next boy all the way down, and Cyrus can have his
father's. But it seems harder to fit out Lavinia. The ruby cashmere is
as good for me as new; it is dipped.

       *       *       *       *       *

I'm real sorry about the Jones's losing their cow; it comes hard for
them. It's better for our potato patch, particularly if they do not have
another. Cyrus ought to fence it in.

Sam came in last night. He had heard that Larkin Prince was summoned off
by a company out West, for work that would pay, and would set him up for
years, and he had a free pass, and old Wylie had given his consent to
his marrying Clara. Some people, he said, had luck come to them without
trying for it, just standing round. There was he himself had been
looking for just such work last year, and nobody had thought of him.

       *      *       *       *       *

I hope I wasn't hard on Sam. I couldn't help telling him if he'd gone up
to the schools, as Larkin Prince did, and he might have done, he could
have made himself fit for an engineer or a chemical agent. Well, it took
him kind of surprised, and I agreed to go round this evening, when
father is at home, and talk to father and mother about Sam's going to
some of them schools. At least he might try; and, anyhow, it would get
him out of the kind of company he's taken a fancy to.

I must say I didn't think of how he'd feel about Clara Wylie; but, of
course, her father would never have given Sam any encouragement more
than Larkin. And as for Clara Wylie--well, I saw her look at Larkin
that night.

       *       *       *       *       *

I don't know but I made a mistake in sending so many of his woollen
socks to Artemas by Larkin Prince. Perhaps I had better have sent more
of the cotton ones. Larkin said he would tell him we were all well, and
how he found us. Lavinia had gone up to bed, and was hollering to me
to come up to her, and Cyrus slung Silas's cap into the window, and it
most hit Larkin; Silas came in after it through the window, and the rest
of the boys were pounding on the barn door, where they were having a
militia meeting, or some kind of a parade, with half the boys in town.
So Artemas will know things goes on about as usual.

       *       *       *       *       *

An excellent sermon from Mr. Jenkins today. I can't seem to think what
it was about, to put it down; but we are all of us more and more pleased
with him as a minister. You can't expect all things of any man; and if
a minister preaches a good sermon twice a Sunday and perhaps at evening
meeting, and goes around among the people as much as Mr. Jenkins, and
holds meetings through the week, and Bible class every Friday evening,
and sits by the bedside of the sick and the dying, and gives a hand in
his own farming or a neighbor's, and stands on the committee for the
schools, I don't know as you can expect much more of him.

Mrs. Carruthers says there's a talk of the Peebles moving up to the city
for good and all. I should think they might as well go as careening back
and forth, spring and fall; though she says they will still go down to
the seashore or up to the mountains, summers. When I had a home, I will
say, I liked to stay in it.

There, now! I do believe that I have not mentioned in my diary that our
house is burned down, and much as ever we all got out alive, coming in
the night so. I suppose I ought to have put it in as being one of the
principal events; but somehow I have been so unsettled since the fire, I
haven't seemed to think to write it down. And, of course, Artemas would
see from the depot, the minute he arrived, that the house wasn't there,
and he wouldn't need to wait and read about it in my diary; and I have
been pretty busy getting set to rights again. Everything being burnt,
there 's all the summer clothes to be made over again, except a few
things I brought off in a bundle along with the diary. Still, it might
have been better than writing about my neighbors, as I did about the
Peebles.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Jenkins came in as I was writing. He says that diaries are good
things, and if you didn't put in only your thoughts in a sentimental
kind of way, they'd be useful for posterity. I told him I didn't write
for posterity, but for Artemas, instead of a letter. He was surprised
I hadn't written him about the fire, as the news might reach him
exaggerated. I could not help from laughing, for I don't see how it
could be made out much worse,--the house burnt down, and the barn with
the horse in it, and Cyrus's crop of squashes. Much as ever we got out
alive, and I had to come to rooms--two pair, back. I did bring the diary
out in my apron.

Mr. Jenkins spoke of the insurance, and maybe Artemas might have
something to say about that; but we talked it all over the night before
he went away, and he spoke of the insurance being out, and he didn't
think it worth while to renew; there never had been a fire, and it
wasn't likely there would be.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Carruthers came in to inquire when was a good time to try out soap.
I told her I managed generally to do it when Artemas wasn't at home, as
he was not partial to the smell in the house. But Mr. Carruthers never
does go away, and she doesn't believe he'd notice it. I don't know but
I'd rather have my husband coming and going like Artemas, instead of
sticking around not noticing, especially if he was Mr. Carruthers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Clara Wylie has been with letters in her hands, and it seems she wrote
to Larkin Prince all about our fire; how our boys dropped matches in the
hay, and the fire spread to the house from the barn, and how we were
waked up, and had to hurry out just as we were. I don't believe she told
how the Wylies took us in that night, and found us these rooms at their
aunt Marshall's till Artemas comes home. But it seems that Artemas has
told Larkin it ain't no kind of consequence, the house burning down,
because he never liked it facing the depot, and he'll be glad to build
again, and has money enough for it, and can satisfy the neighbors if
there's a complaint that our boys burned down all that side of the
street, with being careless with their matches. And there was a note
inclosed to me from Artemas. He says he'd had a kind of depressed time,
when things were going wrong, but matters began to look up when Larkin
Prince came, who had just the information needed. So it's just as well
I didn't write about the fire. I hope Artemas don't talk too large about
his earning so much; anyhow, I shall try to get along spending next to
nothing, and earning what I can making buttonholes.

       *       *       *       *       *

I've made over my ruby cashmere for Lavinia, and I'm sorry now that
I had it dyed over so dark, the olive is kind of dull for her; but I
can't seem to lay my hand on anything else for her, and she must have
something. Lucky it was lying on the chair, close by the door, so I
brought it off from the fire.

       *       *       *       *       *

Artemas has come home.




X.

JEDIDIAH'S NOAH'S ARK.

I.


"I don't see how we can ever get them back again," said Mr. Dyer.

"Why should not we ask the 'grateful people'?" asked Jedidiah.

To explain what Jedidiah and his father meant, I shall have to tell how
it was Jedidiah came to have a Noah's Ark, and all about it, for it was
a little odd.

Jedidiah was the son of poor parents. His father lived in a small, neat
house, and owned a little farm. It was not much of a place; but he
worked hard, and raised vegetables upon it, mostly potatoes. But Mrs.
Dyer liked string-beans and peas; so they had a few of these, and
pumpkins, when the time came; but we have nothing to do with them at
present. If I began to tell you what Mrs. Dyer liked, it would take a
great while, because there are marrow-squashes and cranberry-beans,
though she did not care so much for tomatoes; but vegetables do help
out, and don't cost as much as butcher's meat, if you don't keep sheep;
but hens Mrs. Dyer did keep. It was the potatoes that were most
successful, for it was one summer when everybody's potatoes had failed.
They had all kinds of diseases, especially at Spinville, near which Mr.
Dyer lived. Some were rotten in the middle, some had specks outside;
some were very large and bad, some were small and worse; and in many
fields there were none at all. But Mr. Dyer's patch flourished
marvellously. So, after he had taken in all he wanted for himself, he
told his wife he was going to ask the people of Spinville to come and
get what they wanted.

"Now, Mr. Dyer!" said his wife. She did not say much else; but what she
meant was, that if he had any potatoes to spare, he had better sell them
than give them away. Mr. Dyer was a poor man; why should not he make a
little money?

But Mr. Dyer replied that he had no cart and horse to take the potatoes
to Spinville with, and no time either. He had agreed to mow the deacon's
off-lot, and he was not going to disappoint the deacon, even if he
should get a couple of dollars by it; and he wasn't going to let his
potatoes rot, when all Spinville was in want of potatoes. So Mr. Dyer
set to work, and printed in large letters on a sheet of paper these
words: "All persons in want of potatoes, apply to J. Dyer, Cranberry
Lane, Wednesday, the fifteenth, after seven o'clock, A.M. Gratis."

The last word was added after Mr. Dyer had pasted the notice against the
town hall of Spinville; for so many people came up to bother him with
questions as to how much he was going to ask for his potatoes, that he
was obliged to add this by way of explanation, or he would never have
got to the deacon's off-lot Tuesday morning.

Wednesday morning, Mrs. Dyer sat by the front window, with her darning.
She had persuaded Mr. Dyer to wait till Wednesday; for as for having all
the people tramping through the yard when the clean clothes were out,
she couldn't think of it; and she might as well get through the ironing,
then she could have an eye on them. And how provoked they'd all be to
come down all that way to Cranberry Hollow, to find only a bin of
potatoes to divide among them all.

The little shed was full of potatoes, Mr. Dyer answered. And he had no
idea many people would come, just the poorer ones; and as long as he had
any potatoes to spare, he was willing they should take them.

But, sure enough, as Mrs. Dyer said, what a procession came! Poor Mrs.
Jones's little girl, with a bag; Tom Scraggs, with two baskets; the
minister's son, with a wheelbarrow; and even rich Mr. Jones, the
selectman, with a horse and cart. Boys and girls, and old women, and
middle-sized men, and every kind of a vehicle, from a tin tipcart to
Mrs. Stubbs's carry-all.

Well, let them come, thought Mrs. Dyer. It would just show Mr. Dyer she
was right, and he didn't often find that out. She should be disturbed by
them soon enough when they found out that there was not more than half a
potato apiece, and like enough, not that. Pretty business of Mr. Dyer,
to take to giving away, when he had not more than enough to put into his
own mouth, to say nothing of Jedidiah's! So she went on darning and
thinking. What was her surprise, all of a sudden, to hear only shouts
of joy as the people returned round the corner of the house! Poor Mrs.
Jones's little girl gave a scream of delight as she held up her bag full
of potatoes; the minister's son had hard work to push along his full
wheelbarrow; rich Mr. Jones was laughing from the top of his piled-up
cart; Tom Scraggs was trying to get help in carrying his baskets. Such
a laughing, such fun, was never heard in Spinville, which is a sober
place. And they all nodded to Mrs. Dyer, and gave shouts for Mr. Dyer,
and offered Jedidiah rides in all their carts, those that had them, and
asked Mrs. Dyer what they could do for her in Spinville. And Jedidiah
tried to tell his mother, through the open window, how the more they
took the potatoes out of the bin, the more there were left in it; and
how everybody had enough, and went away satisfied, and had filled their
pockets; and even one of the boys was planning a quill popgun for sliced
potato, such as the worst boys had not dreamed of all summer. He was a
bad boy from the Meadow.

"Well, Mr. Dyer!" said Mrs. Dyer, all day, and again when he came home
at night.

Of course the Spinville people thought a great deal from this time of
Mr. Dyer; and there was a town council held to consider what they should
do to express their feelings to him. He had declined six times being
made selectman, and he did not want to ring the bell as sexton. There
did not seem to be anything in the way of an office they could offer him
that he would accept.

At last Mr. Jones suggested that the best way to please the father was
to give something to the son. "Something for Jedidiah!" exclaimed Mr.
Jones. "The next time I go to New York, I'll go to a toy-shop; I'll buy
something for Jedidiah."

So he did. He came home with the Noah's Ark. It was a moderate-sized
ark, painted blue, as usual, with red streaks, and a slanting roof, held
down with a crooked wire. It was brought to Jedidiah, one evening, just
as he was going to bed; so the crooked wire was not lifted, for Mrs.
Dyer thought he had better go to bed at his time and get up early and
look at his ark. But he could not sleep well, thinking of his ark. It
stood by his bedside, and all night long he heard a great racket inside
of it. There was a roaring and a grunting and a squeaking,--all kinds of
strange noises. In the moonlight he thought he saw the roof move; if the
wire had not been so crooked it surely would have opened. But it didn't,
not till he took it downstairs, and Mrs. Dyer had got out her
ironing-board, that the animals might be spread out upon it; then
Jedidiah lifted the roof.

What a commotion there was then! The elephant on the top, and his trunk
stretched out; in a minute or two he would have unfastened the wire; the
giraffe's long neck was stretched out; one dove flew away directly, and
some crows sat on the eaves. Mr. and Mrs. Dyer and Jedidiah started
back, while the elephant with his trunk helped out some of the smaller
animals, who stepped into rows on the ironing-board as fast as they were
taken out.

The cows were mooing, the cats mewing, the dogs barking, the pigs
grunting. Presently Noah's head appeared, and he looked round for his
wife; and then came Shem and Ham and Japheth with their wives. They
helped out some of the birds,--white, with brown spots,--geese, and
ducks. It took the elephant and Noah and all his sons to get the horses
out, plunging and curvetting as they were. Some sly foxes got out of
themselves, leaping from the roof to the back of a kneeling camel.

Jedidiah's eyes sparkled with joy. Mrs. Dyer sat with folded hands, and
said, "Why, Mr. Dyer!" And Mr. Dyer occasionally helped a stray donkey,
whose legs were caught, or a turkey fluttering on the edge. At last a
great roaring and growling was heard at the bottom of the ark. The
elephant nodded his trunk to the giraffe; the camel was evidently
displeased; Noah and his sons stood together looking up at the roof.

"It's the wild animals," said Jedidiah.

"If they should get out," thought Mrs. Dyer; "all the wild tigers and
the lions loose in the house!" And she looked round to see if the closet
door were open for a place of retreat.

Mr. Dyer stepped up and shut the roof of the ark. It was in time; for a
large bear was standing on his hind legs on the back of a lion, and was
looking out. Noah and his family looked much pleased; the elephants
waved their trunks with joy; the camels stopped growling.

"I don't wonder they are glad to get out," said Jedidiah. "I do believe
they have been treading down those wild animals all night."

Mrs. Dyer wondered what they should do with the rest. Come Tuesday she
would want her ironing-board,--perhaps baking-day, to set the pies on.

"They ought to have some houses to live in, and barns," said Jedidiah.
Then it was Mr. Dyer had said they could never get them back into the
ark; and Jedidiah had said, "We might ask the 'grateful people,'"--for
this was the name the inhabitants of Spinville went by in the Dyer
family ever since the time of the potatoes.

The story of their coming for the potatoes had been told over and over
again; then how the "people" felt so grateful to Mr. Dyer. Mr. Dyer said
he was tired of hearing about it. Mrs. Dyer thought if they meant to do
anything to let Mr. Dyer see they were grateful, they had better not
talk so much about it. But Jedidiah called them the "grateful people;"
and it was he that caught the first glimpse of the procession when it
came up with the ark, Mr. Jones at the head. He had some faith in them;
so it was he that thought there ought to be a village built for Noah and
his family; and when Mr. Dyer had some doubts about building it he
suggested, "Let's ask the 'grateful people.'"

What they did will be told in another chapter.




II.

ABOUT THE GRATEFUL PEOPLE AND THE WILD BEASTS.


That very afternoon there was a great rush to see Jedidiah's Noah's Ark,
and there was immense enthusiasm about it. Some brave ones opened the
roof and looked in upon the growling wild animals. The girls liked the
lambs the best; the boys were delighted with the foxes that jumped on
the edge of the boat that formed the ark.

In a day or two there was a flourishing little village built on a smooth
place on the other side of Mr. Dyer's house. The minister's daughter had
brought a little toy village she had with red roofs, and one of the men
scooped out the houses, which were made of one block of wood, but could
now accommodate Noah and his family, and each one picked out a house to
match the color of his garments.

Tom Stubbs built a barn of wooden bricks for the larger animals, and
Lucy Miles brought a pewter bird-cage, with a door that would open and
shut, for the birds. The elephant knocked out a brick with his trunk as
soon as he went into the barn, but that made a good window for him to
look out of. Jedidiah himself made the loveliest coop for the hen; and
the boys had a nice time over a pond they dug in the mud, for the ducks.

Indeed, it occupied Spinville for some time; and Noah, Shem, and Ham
did not sit down much, but looked very busy. There was a fence built
round the whole village, high enough to keep in the elephants and the
giraffes, though they could look over. There was a bit of pasture-land
shut in for the cows, who fell to nibbling as soon as they were put in
it. A clover-leaf lasted one of the sheep two days. The tinman sent
some little tin dippers no bigger than a thimble, and the children were
delighted to see the animals drink. The boys handed one of the dippers
into the ark for the tigers. The giraffes found a bush just high enough
for them to eat from. The doves sat on the eaves of the ark, and
Agamemnon brought some pickled olives, as he had no olive-branch for
them.

The children were never tired of seeing the camels kneel and rise. They
made them carry little burdens,--stones that were to be cleared from the
field, chips from the henhouse. Sometimes the camels growled; then the
children took off a chip or two from their burdens,--the last ounce,
they thought.

The "grateful people" sent a large umbrella, used by the umbrella-maker
for a sign, that could be opened over the whole village in case of a
rain; and the toy-shop man sent a tin teapot, though Mrs. Dyer did not
venture to give Noah and his family any real tea; but it was a very
pretty teapot, with a red flower upon it. Mrs. Noah liked it, though it
was almost large enough for the whole family to get into.

All this was not the work of a day, by any means. First, all Spinville
had to come and look at the things, and then it had to discuss the whole
affair. Mrs. Dyer's knitting got on bravely, for so many of her friends
came in to sit in her best parlor, and talk it all over. Mrs. Dyer
agreed with them; she thought it was all very strange. She should be
thankful if only the tigers would never get out. She did not like having
tigers running in and out of the house, even if they were no bigger than
your thimble. She thought it quite likely some of the boys would let
them out some day; but it was no use looking forward. So, day by day,
the people came to look at the wonderful village. There was always
something new to see. At last, one of the deacons declared Jedidiah
ought to charge so much a sight. It was as good a show as the menagerie,
any day; and everybody was willing to give ten cents for that, children
half-price.

This made great talk. Should Jedidiah charge for the show, or not? Mr.
Dyer would have nothing to say about it. Mrs. Dyer thought they might as
well; then there would be fewer children in her front yard picking at
the currants. At last it was settled that Spinville should pay two cents
a sight, children half-price, and strangers could see the village for
nothing; but all those who had contributed anything towards the ark
should have a right to visit it with their families, without paying.
There was a great rush after this to see who was going to pay. It turned
out only the schoolmaster's and doctor's families had to buy tickets;
and when it came to that, Mr. Dyer said he would not let them pay
anything. So Jedidiah did not gain much by it; but he and a few of his
friends made some tickets, all the same, printing on them "Noah's Ark.
Admittance, two cents; children, half-price;" and a good many children
bought tickets for the fun of it.

At last there came a crash. One afternoon, Tim Stubbs, in setting up a
new pump, gave a knock to the ark, and sent the whole thing over. The
roof snapped open, and out came all the wild beasts. The hyenas laughed,
the lions roared, the bears growled, and the tigers leaped about to see
whom they could devour; Noah jumped up on top of the pump; the elephant
knocked out a side of the barn, to see what was the matter; all the
wives ran for the houses, and there was a general confusion. A leopard
seized a young chicken. Mrs. Dyer came out with a rolling-pin in her
hand. Tim and Tom Stubbs declared they would catch the animals, if
Jedidiah would only find something safe to put them in.

"If we only had a cave!" exclaimed Lucy Miles, who had hidden behind the
kitchen door.

Tim and Tom Stubbs caught one of the tigers, just as Jedidiah appeared
with his mother's bandbox. He had thrown his mother's caps and her
Sunday bonnet on the spare-room floor. They shut the tiger up in the
bandbox, then found one of the bears climbing up the pump after Noah.
Jedidiah brought a strong string, and tied him to a post. All the rest
of the boys ran away at first, but ventured to come back and join in the
search for the rest of the beasts.

The hunt grew quite exciting. One of the boys, who had read African
travels, prepared a leash of twine, and made a lasso, and with this he
succeeded in catching the two hyenas. Then no one knew if all the beasts
were caught or no. The boy who had read the travels could tell a long
list of wild animals that ought to be in the ark. There was the
rhinoceros, the hippopotamus, the jaguar; there was the leopard, the
panther, the ocelot. Mrs. Dyer put her hands up to her ears in dismay.
She could not bear to hear any more of their names; and to think she
might meet them any day, coming in at the wood-house door, or running
off with one of the chickens!

But the Stubbses thought very likely all these animals never were in
this ark at all, though they might have been in the original Noah's Ark.
This was only a play ark, after all, and you could not expect to find
every animal in it. The minister's wife said she did not know what you
should expect. The ark was quite a different one from any she had seen.
She had bought them for her children, year in and year out, and she had
never seen anything of the sort. You might expect a hippopotamus, or any
kind of beast. Those she had bought were always of wood, and the legs
broke off easily. You could mend them with Spalding's Glue; but even
Spalding was not as good as it used to be, and you could not depend
upon it.

Meanwhile the hunt went on. The Spinville people began to be sorry they
had ever bought a Noah's Ark. They had expected nothing of the sort. At
last the two leopards were found,--beautiful creatures, who lashed their
tails wildly; and before long, two hippopotami were discovered in the
duck-pond, wallowing in their native element. They were very fierce and
wild, and were caught with great difficulty. These were put in the
bandbox with the others. It was a strong, old-fashioned box; but it was
feared it would not last long for the wild beasts. Jedidiah tied it up
with some twine, and it was put for the present in the spare-room
closet.

Mrs. Dyer did not sleep well that night, though her doors had been shut
all day. She dreamed she heard lions all the night long, and was sure a
rhinoceros could get in at the window. Why had Mr. Dyer ever been so
generous with his potatoes? Why had he invited all the people to come?
Of what use had the Noah's Ark been? Jedidiah had got along without toys
before; now his head was turned. Better for him to amuse himself digging
potatoes, or seeing to the squashes, than meddling with the beasts.

And there were the Spinville boys round before breakfast. They were
there, indeed, and began again their search for the beasts. The girls
sat at the chamber windows, watching the chase. Under a cabbage-leaf,
fast asleep, the stray tiger was found. The boy learned in Natural
History went over the terrible list of all the fierce animals. "Yes,
there were ocelots and cougars and jaguars, peculiarly shy and
stealthy in approaching their prey," so the book said. "There was the
chibiguasu----" But Jedidiah said he didn't believe _his_ Noah
cared for such out-of-the-way beasts; they must have come in since his
ark. They had enough to do to catch the regular wild animals, and these
at last they found in some number. They were all seized, and with
difficulty put into a wooden lozenge-box. There was great delight; there
must be all; the ark surely could have held no more. Lions, tigers,
leopards, panthers, lynxes, wildcats,--all the animals necessary for
a respectable ark, all in twos.

But, oh horror! a jaguar was discovered, also, at the last moment just
before school. One jaguar, and there must be another somewhere. The one
found answered the description completely: "the body yellow, marked with
open black figures, considerable variety in the marking." A stray jaguar
in Spinville! so fierce a beast! No one could be sure of his footsteps.
Noah, his sons and their wives, had not been unmoved. Their satisfaction
had been great. They had carried water to the bears, and had looked much
pleased; and now they shook their heads at seeing only one jaguar.

"I think they must be all caught but that one jaguar," said Jedidiah.
"They look satisfied, and are going about their daily work; and it is
time we found some place for the wild beasts. They will come through
mother's bandbox before long."

The boys went to school. There was great consultation all that day,
which ended in Tom Stubbs bringing a squirrel-cage. It was just the
thing, for the wires were near enough to keep the animals in, and
everybody could have a look at them. But how were they to be got into
the squirrel-cage? There came a new question. Tim Stubbs remembered he
had often caught a butterfly under his hat, and a very handsome
butterfly, too, and he was sure he had him; but just as he lifted the
brim of the hat to show the other fellows that he was really there, the
butterfly would be off.

Happily there was no afternoon school, and a grand council of the
boys was held, assisted by some of the selectmen. The beasts in the
lozenge-box were easily disposed of, for it had a sliding cover, which
was dexterously raised high enough to let the beasts all into the
squirrel-cage. Then handy Tim Stubbs punched a hole in the bandbox
opposite to the entrance of the squirrel-cage, and one by one the
leopards and the rest were allowed to make their way into the wiry
prison. The tiger made a dash, but in vain; he was imprisoned like the
rest.

This is our last news from Spinville.

It is more than a month since the Spinville stage set out on its weekly
trip for that place. It was an old stage; the horses were old, the
harness was old, the driver was old. It is not then to be wondered
at that in crossing the bridge on the old road, which is so little
travelled that it is never kept in repair, the old wheel was caught in
a chink between the boards, the old coach tumbled over, the driver was
thrown from his seat and broke his leg, the horses fell on their knees,
and the whole concern was made a complete wreck.

Now, the stage-driver was the owner of the old coach and team. He had
always said the thing did not pay; he would give it all up. Indeed, he
only had driven to Spinville once a week to see the folks himself.
Nobody ever went there, and nobody ever came away, except once a year
Mr. Jones, and he had a team of his own. So there is no communication
with Spinville. That a jaguar is loose is the latest news.




XI.

CARRIE'S THREE WISHES.


Carrie Fraser was a great trouble to her mother, because she was always
wishing for something she had not got.

"The other girls always have things that I don't," she complained to her
mother. Her mother tried to explain to Carrie that she had a great many
things the other girls didn't have.

"But they are not always wishing for my things, just as I wish for
theirs."

"That is because they are not such 'teasers' as you are," her mother
would reply. "You do not hear them from morning till night teasing for
things they have not got."

Another thing in Carrie troubled her mother very much. She used a
great many extravagant phrases. She was not satisfied with saying even
"perfectly lovely," "splendid," "excruciatingly jolly." Her mother might
have permitted these terms, and was used to hearing the other girls use
them; but Carrie got hold of the strangest expressions and phrases, I am
afraid to put them into this story; for every boy and girl is perhaps
already too familiar with such, and I might only spread the use of them.

I will mention that "bang-up" and "bumptious," and that class of
expressions were her favorites, and the best-educated boy or girl will
be able to imagine the rest. This story will show how a careless use of
words brought Carrie to grief, and taught her a severe lesson.

One day, as usual, she had been complaining, and wishing she could have
everything she wanted. Her mother said: "You remember the old story of
the old couple who had their three wishes granted, and how they never
got any good from it."

"But that was because they acted like such geese," exclaimed Carrie. "I
could never have been so elephantinely idiotic! First, they wasted one
wish, for a black pudding."

"That is a sausage," said her mother.

"Yes, they asked for a common, every-day sausage to come down the
chimney; then they got into a fight, and wished it would settle on one
of their noses; and then they had to waste their last wish, by wishing
it off again! It is too bad to have such luck come to such out-and-out
idiots."

Mrs. Fraser was just setting out for the village street, to order the
dinner. The Governor was expected to pass through the place, and was to
be met at the Town Hall. Jimmy, the only son in the family, had gone off
to see the show.

"Now, if he were a real, genuine governor," said Carrie, "like a prince
in a fairytale, you would go and beseech him to grant your wishes. You
would fall on your knees, or something, and he would beg you to rise,
and your lovely daughter should have all that she wished."

"I am afraid you are very foolish," sighed Mrs. Fraser; "but I will see
the Governor. Perhaps he can advise what is best."

It seemed to Carrie as if her mother were gone a great while. "She might
have got six dinners!" she exclaimed to herself. "How tiresome! I wish I
had gone down myself, anyway. All the girls and boys have gone, and I
might have seen the Governor."

But she passed the time in rocking backward and forward in a
rocking-chair; for to her other faults Carrie added that of laziness,
and when the other girls had gone down town, and had urged her to go
with them, she had been quite too lazy to go for her hat or to hunt up
her boot button-hook.

"It seems as if Jimmy might have come back to tell about things," she
went on. "Oh dear me! if I had only a chariot and four to go down with,
and somebody to dress me and find my boots and my hat and my gloves,
then it would have been worth while to go. I mean to make out a list of
wishes, in case somebody should grant me the power to have them."

She took out a little blank-book from her pocket, and began to write
down:--

"1. A chariot and four, man to drive, striped afghan, etc.

"2. Maid to find and put on hat, boots, etc.

"3. Plenty of hats, boots, and gloves for the maid to put on, and so
that they could be found when wanted."

"That would be bully!" said Carrie, interrupting herself. "If I had
gloves in every drawer and on every shelf, I should not have to be
looking for them. I might have a hat on every peg in the house except
what Jimmy uses. I might have a sack over the back of every chair, and
gloves in the pockets of each. The boots could be in each corner of the
room and on all the top shelves. But boot-hooks! there's the stunner!
Where could one find boot-buttoners enough? They do get out of the way
so! I should have six in every drawer, one in each pocket, half a dozen
in Mamma's basket, a row on the mantelpiece--on all the mantelpieces.
Then perhaps I could do without a maid; at least, save her up till I
grow older. Let's see. That makes three wishes. They generally have
three. If I strike out the maid, I can think of something else. Suppose
I say something to eat, then. Chocolate creams! I never had enough yet."

At this moment Mrs. Fraser returned, looking quite heated and
breathless. She had to fling herself into a chair by the window to
recover strength enough to speak, and then her words came out in gasps.

Carrie did leave her rocking-chair and tried fanning her mother, for she
saw she had something to say.

"What is it? What have you seen? Have you got something slam-bang for
me? Is the Governor coming here? Couldn't you raise any dinner?"

Carrie's questions came out so fast that her mother never could have
answered them, even with the breath of a Corliss engine; much less,
panting as she was now.

"Yes, I saw him; I managed to see him," she gasped out. "The guns were
firing, the cannon were booming, the bells were ringing----"

"Oh! I dare say! I dare say!" cried Carrie, eager to hear more. "I could
hear them up here. That was not worth going to town for. What did the
Governor say?"

"My dear! my dear!" panted Mrs. Fraser, "he said you could have your
three wishes."

"What! The chariot and four (that means horses), the maid, and the
boot-hooks,--no, the maid was scratched out,--not the chocolates?" asked
Carrie, in wonder.

"No, no! I don't know what you mean!" said Mrs. Fraser; "but you can
have three wishes; and I have hurried home, for they are to be told as
the clock strikes twelve,--one to-day, one to-morrow, one the next
day,--the moment the clock strikes, and I am only just in time. You are
to wish, and you will have just what you wish."

Both Carrie and her mother looked at the clock. The hand was just
approaching twelve. Carrie could hear a little "click" that always came
from inside the clock before it struck.

"I have written out my wishes," she hurried to say; "but I don't want
the chariot yet, because everybody is coming back from town. And I don't
want any more hats and boots just now. But, oh! I do want some chocolate
creams, and I wish this room was 'chock full of them.'"

As she spoke the clock struck; and when it stopped she could speak no
more, for the room was as full of chocolate creams as it could hold.
They came rattling down upon her head, filling in all the crannies of
the room. They crowded into her half-open mouth; they filled her
clutching hands. Luckily, Mrs. Fraser was sitting near the open window,
and the chocolate creams pushed her forward upon the sill. There were
two windows looking upon the piazza. One was made of glass doors that
were shut; the other, fortunately, was quite low; and Mrs. Fraser seated
herself on the edge, and succeeded in passing her feet over to the other
side, a torrent of chocolate creams following her as she came. She then
turned to see if she could help Carrie. Carrie was trying to eat her way
toward the window, and stretched out her arms to her mother, who seized
her, and with all her strength pulled her through the window.

"They are bully!" exclaimed Carrie, as soon as she was free. "They are
the freshest I ever ate. Golumptious!"

"Oh, Carrie," said her mother, mournfully, "how can you use such
expressions now, when you have wasted your opportunity in such an
extravagant wish?"

"What! A whole roomful of chocolate creams do you consider a waste?"
exclaimed Carrie. "Why, we shall be envied of all our neighbors; and,
Mamma, you have been sighing over our expenses, and wishing that Jimmy
and I could support you. Do not you see that we can make our fortune
with chocolate creams? First, let us eat all we want before telling
anybody; then let us give some to choice friends, and we will sell the
rest."

All the time she was talking Carrie was putting in her hand for
chocolate creams and cramming one after another. Mrs. Fraser, too, did
not refuse to taste them. How could they ever get into the parlor again,
unless they were eaten up?

"I am sure we can make quite a fortune," Carrie went on. "As soon as
Jimmy comes home we can calculate how much it will be. The last time I
was in Boston I gave fifteen cents for a quarter of a pound, and there
were just thirteen chocolate creams. Now, see. In my two hands I can
hold fourteen; now, how many times that do you suppose there are in the
room?"

Mrs. Fraser could not think. Carrie was triumphant.

"Jimmy will know how to calculate, for he knows how many feet and inches
there are in the room. If not, he can measure by the piazza; and we can
row the chocolate creams out, and see how many go to a foot, and then we
can easily find out. Of course, we shall sell them cheaper than they do
in Boston, and so there will be a rush for them. It will be bully!"

"I am glad we happened to take this rocking-chair out on the piazza this
morning," said Mrs. Fraser, languidly seating herself. "I don't see how
we shall ever get into the parlor again."

"Jimmy and I will eat our way in fast enough," said Carrie, laughing;
and Jimmy at that moment appeared with two boy friends, whom he had
brought home to dinner.

They were all delighted when they understood the situation, and had soon
eaten a little place by the window, inside the room.

"I quite forgot to buy any dinner," exclaimed Mrs. Fraser, starting up.
"I meant to have ordered a leg of mutton as I went down, and now it is
too late; and eggs for a pudding. Jimmy will have to go down----"

"Oh, the chocolate creams will do!" exclaimed Carrie. "Don't you see,
there's our first saving, and my wish does not turn out so extravagant,
after all. The boys will be glad to have chocolate creams for dinner,
I'm sure."

The boys all said they would, as far as they could, when their mouths
were so full.

"We must put out an advertisement," said Carrie, at last, as soon as she
could stop to speak: "'Chocolate creams sold cheap!' I guess we won't
give any away. We may as well make all we can. It will be geminy!
Suppose we look up some boxes and baskets, Jimmy, to sell them in; and
you boys can go to the gate and tell people there are chocolate creams
for sale."

But all the boxes and baskets were soon filled, and only a little space
made in the room. Jimmy pulled out the other rocking-chair that Carrie
had been sitting in, and she rested herself for a while.

"I declare, I never thought before I could eat enough chocolate creams;
but they are a trifle cloying."

"My dear," said Mrs. Fraser, "if you had not said 'chock full;' if you
had said 'a great many,' or 'a trunkful,' or something of that sort."

"But I meant 'chock full,'" insisted Carrie.

"I did not mean quite up to the ceiling. I didn't suppose that was what
'chock' meant. Now we know."

A great shouting was heard. All the boys of the town were gathering, and
quite a crowd of people seemed coming near.

Mrs. Fraser was a widow, and there was no man in the house. Jimmy was
the nearest approach to a man that she could depend upon; and here he
was, leading a band of boys! She sent one of the boys she knew the best
for Mr. Stetson, the neighboring policeman, who came quickly, having
already seen the crowd of boys flocking to the house.

Carrie was trying to sell off her boxes for fifteen, ten, even five
cents; but the crowd could not be easily appeased, for the boys could
see across the windows the chocolate creams closely packed. "The room is
chock full!" they exclaimed.

Mr. Stetson examined the premises. "You'll find it hard work to get
them chocolates out in a week, even if you set all the boys on them. I'd
advise letting them in one by one to fill their pockets, each to pay
a cent."

Even Carrie assented to this, and a line was formed, and boys let in
through the window. They ate a way to the door that led into the entry,
so that it could be opened and the room could be entered that way. The
boys now went in at the window and came out at the door, eating as they
went and filling their pockets. Carrie could not but sigh at thought of
the Boston chocolates, more than a cent apiece! But the boys ate, and
then the girls came and ate; but with night all had to leave, at last.
It was possible to shut the window and lock it, and shut the door for
the night, after they had gone.

"I don't see why the chocolates should not stay on there weeks and
weeks," said Carrie to her mother. "Of course, they won't be so fresh,
day after day; but they will be fresher than some in the shops. I'm
awfully tired of eating them now, and feel as if I never wanted to see
a chocolate cream again; but I suppose I shall feel different after a
night's sleep, and I think Mr. Stetson is wrong in advising us to sell
them so low."

Mrs. Fraser suggested she should like to go in the parlor to sit.

"But to-morrow is the day of the picnic," said Carrie, "and we shall be
out-of-doors anyhow. I will take chocolate creams for my share. But,
dear me! my dress is on the sofa,--my best dress. You were putting the
ruffles in!"

"I told you, my dear, one of the last things, to take it upstairs," said
Mrs. Fraser.

"And there it is, in the furthest corner of the room," exclaimed Carrie,
"with all those chocolates scrouching on it. I'll tell you. I'll get Ben
Sykes in early. He eats faster than any of the other boys, and he shall
eat up toward my dress. He made a great hole in the chocolates this
afternoon. I will have him come in early, and we don't go to the picnic
till after twelve o'clock."

"And at twelve o'clock you have your second wish," said Mrs. Fraser.

"Yes, Mamma," said Carrie; "and I have already decided what it shall
be,--a chariot and four. It will come just in time to take me to the
picnic."

"Oh, my dear Carrie," said her mother, "do think what you are planning!
Where would you keep your chariot and the four horses?"

"Oh! there will be a man to take care of them," said Carrie; "but I will
think about it all night carefully----"

At that very moment she went to sleep.

The next morning early, Carrie was downstairs. She found she could eat
a few more chocolate creams, and Jimmy was in the same condition. She
proposed to him her plan of keeping the chocolates still for sale, but
eating a way to the sofa in the corner, to her best dress.

Ben Sykes came early, and a few of the other boys. The rest were kept at
home, because it turned out they had eaten too many and their parents
would not let them come.

A good many of the older people came with baskets and boxes, and bought
some to carry away, they were so delicious and fresh.

Meanwhile Ben Sykes was eating his way toward the corner. It was very
hard making any passage, for as fast as he ate out a place others came
tumbling in from the top. Carrie and Jimmy invented "a kind of a tunnel"
of chairs and ironing-boards, to keep open the passage; and other boys
helped eat, as they were not expected to pay.

But the morning passed on. Mrs. Fraser tried to persuade Carrie to wear
another dress; but she had set her mind on this. She had a broad blue
sash to wear with it, and the sash would not go with any other dress.

She watched the clock, she watched Ben; she went in under the
ironing-boards, to help him eat, although she had begun to loathe the
taste of the chocolate creams.

Ben was splendid. He seemed to enjoy more the more he ate. Carrie
watched him, as he licked them and ate with glowing eyes.

"Oh, Ben," Carrie suddenly exclaimed, "you can't seem to eat them fast
enough. I wish your throat were as long as from one end of this room to
the other."

At this moment the clock was striking.

Carrie was ready to scream out her second wish; but she felt herself
pushed in a strange way. Ben was on all fours in front of her, and now
he pushed her back, back. His neck was so long that while his head was
still among the chocolates, at the far corner of the room, his feet were
now out of the door.

Carrie stood speechless. She had lost her wish by her foolish
exclamation. The faithful Ben, meanwhile, was flinging something through
the opening. It was her dress, and she hurried away to put it on.

When she came down, everybody was looking at Ben. At first he enjoyed
his long neck very much. He could stand on the doorstep and put his head
far out up in the cherry trees and nip off cherries, which pleased both
the boys and himself.

[Illustration: He enjoyed his long neck very much.]

Instead of a chariot and four, Carrie went off in an open wagon, with
the rest of the girls. It made her feel so to see Ben, with his long
neck, that she got her mother's permission to spend the night with the
friend in whose grounds the picnic was to be held.

She carried baskets of chocolate creams, and she found numbers of the
girls, who had not eaten any, who were delighted with them, and promised
to come the next day, to buy and carry away any amount of them. She
began to grow more cheerful, though she felt no appetite, and instead
of eating everything, as she always did at picnics, she could not even
touch Mattie Somers's cream-pie nor Julia Dale's doughnuts. She stayed
as late as she could at her friend Mattie's; but she felt she must get
home in time for her third wish, at twelve o'clock.

Would it be necessary for her to wish that Ben Sykes's neck should be
made shorter? She hoped she might find that it had grown shorter in the
night; then she could do as she pleased about her third wish.

She still clung to the desire for the chariot and four. If she had it,
she and her mother and Jimmy could get into it and drive far away from
everybody,--from Ben Sykes and his long neck, if he still had it,--and
never see any of them any more. Still, she would like to show the
chariot and four to her friends; and perhaps Ben Sykes would not mind
his long neck, and would be glad to keep it and earn money by showing
himself at a circus.

So she reached home in the middle of the morning, and found the whole
Sykes family there, and Ben, still with his long neck. It seems it had
given him great trouble in the night. He had to sleep with his head in
the opposite house, because there was not room enough on one floor at
home. Mrs. Sykes had not slept a wink, and her husband had been up
watching, to see that nobody stepped on Ben's neck. Ben himself appeared
in good spirits; but was glad to sit in a high room, where he could
support his head.

Carrie suggested her plan that Ben should exhibit himself. He, no doubt,
could earn a large sum. But his mother broke out against this. He never
could earn enough to pay for what he ate, now his throat was so long.
Even before this he could swallow more oatmeal than all the rest of the
family put together, and she was sure that now even Mr. Barnum himself
could not supply him with food enough. Then she burst into a flood of
tears, and said she had always hoped Ben would be her stay and support;
and now he could never sleep at home, and everybody looking after him
when he went out, and the breakfast he had eaten that very morning was
enough for six peoples' dinners.

They were all in the parlor, where the chocolate creams were partially
cleared away. They were in a serried mass on two sides of the room,
meeting near the centre, with the underground passage, through which Ben
had worked his way to Carrie's dress. Mrs. Fraser had organized a band
to fill pasteboard boxes, which she had obtained from the village, and
she and her friends were filling them, to send away to be sold, as all
the inhabitants of the town were now glutted with chocolate creams.

At this moment Carrie heard a click in the clock. She looked at her
mother, and as the clock struck she said steadily, "I wish that Ben's
neck was all right again."

Nobody heard her, for at that moment Ben Sykes started up, saying: "I'm
all right, and I have had enough. Come along home!" And he dragged his
family away with him.

Carrie fell into her mother's arms. "I'll never say 'chock full' again!"
she cried; "and I'll always be satisfied with what I have got, for I can
never forget what I suffered in seeing Ben's long neck!"




XII.

"WHERE CAN THOSE BOYS BE?"


This was the cry in the Wilson family as they sat down to dinner.

"It is odd," said Aunt Harriet. "I have noticed they are usually ready
for their dinner. They may be out of the way at other times, but they
always turn up at their meals."

"They were here at breakfast," said Jane, the eldest daughter.

"I helped Jack about his Latin before he went to school," said the
mother of the family.

"They are probably at the Pentzes'," said Gertrude. "If our boys are not
there, the Pentzes are here; and as long as the Pentzes are not here, I
suppose our boys are there."

"I should say they were not likely to get so good a dinner at the
Pentzes' as we have here," said Aunt Harriet, as a plate was set before
her containing her special choice of rare-done beef, mashed potato,
stewed celery, and apple-sauce.

"Who are the Pentzes?" said Mr. Wilson, looking round the table to see
if everybody was helped.

"He is a painter and glazier," said Aunt Harriet, "and the mother takes
in washing."

"They are good boys," said Mrs. Wilson. "Jonas Pentz stands high in his
class, and is a great help to our Sam. Don't you remember him? He is the
boy that came and spent a night with Sam a week ago. They have their
first lesson in 'Cæsar' this afternoon; perhaps they are studying up."

"Jack always has to go where Sam does," said Gertrude.

This was the talk at the Wilsons' table. The subject was much the same
at the Pentzes'. There was a large family at the Wilsons'; so there was
at the Pentzes'. Mrs. Pentz was ladling out some boiled apple-pudding to
a hungry circle round her. But she missed two.

"Where are Jonas and Dick?" she asked.

A clamor of answers came up.

"I saw Jonas and Dick go off with Sam Wilson after school, and Jack
Wilson, and John Stebbins," said Will, one of the small boys.

"You don't think Jonas and Dick both went to dine at the Wilsons'?" said
Mrs. Pentz. "I should not like that."

"I dare say they did," said Mary Pentz. "You know the Wilson boys are
here half the time, and the other half our boys are at the Wilsons'."

"Still, I don't like their going there for meal-times," said Mrs. Pentz,
anxiously.

"Jonas had a new lesson in 'Cæsar,'" said Mary Pentz. "I don't believe
they planned to spend much time at dinner."

But at supper-time no boys appeared at the Wilsons'. Mrs. Wilson was
anxious. George, the youngest boy of all, said the boys had been home
since afternoon school; he had seen Jack in the kitchen with John
Stebbins.

"Jack came to me for gingerbread," said Jane, "and I asked him where
they had been, and John Stebbins said, with the Pentz boys. He said
something about to-morrow being a holiday, and preparing for a lark."

"I don't like their getting all their meals at the Pentzes'," said Mrs.
Wilson, "and I don't much like John Stebbins."

Again at the Pentzes' the talk was much the same.

Mary Pentz reported the boys went through their 'Cæsar' recitation
well; she had a nod of triumph from Jonas as he walked off with Sam
Wilson. "They had their books, so I suppose they are off for study
again."

"I don't like their taking two meals a day at the Wilsons'," said Mrs.
Pentz.

"There's no school to-morrow," said Mary, "because the new furnace is to
be put in. But I dare say the boys, Sam and Jonas, will be studying all
the same."

"I hope he won't be out late," said Mrs. Pentz.

"He's more likely to spend the night at the Wilsons'," said Mary. "You
know he did a week ago."

"The boys were round here for a candle," said Will.

"Then they do mean to study late," said Mrs. Pentz. "I shall tell him
never to do it again; and with Dick, too!"

Mr. Wilson came hurrying home for a late supper, and announced he must
go to New York by a late train.

"A good chance for you," he said to his wife, "to go and see your
sister. You won't have more than a day with her, for I shall have to
take the night train back, but it will give you a day's talk."

Mrs. Wilson would like to go, but she felt anxious about the boys. "They
have not been home for dinner or supper."

"But they came home for gingerbread," said Aunt Harriet. "I suppose they
didn't have too hearty a dinner at the Pentzes'."

"Joanna says they went off with a basket packed up for to-morrow," said
Gertrude.

"If the Pentzes did not live so far off, I would send up," said Mrs.
Wilson.

"They will be in by the time we are off, or soon after," said Mr.
Wilson. "It looks like rain, but it won't hurt us."

Mrs. Wilson and he went, but no boys appeared all the evening.

Aunt Harriet, who had not been long in the family, concluded this was
the way boys acted.

Jane sat up some time finishing a novel, and hurried off to bed,
startled to find it so late, and waking up Gertrude to say, "It is odd
those boys have not come home!"

Why hadn't they?

They couldn't.

This is what happened.

Wednesday afternoon, after school, the younger boys had gone to play
at the old Wilson house, far away at the other end of the Main Street,
beyond the Pentzes'. This was an old deserted mansion, where the Wilsons
themselves had lived once upon a time. But it had taken a fortune and
two furnaces to warm it in winter, and half a dozen men to keep the
garden in order in summer, and it had grown now more fashionable to live
at the other end of the town; so the Wilson family had moved down years
ago, where the girls could see "the passing" and Mr. Wilson would be
near his business. Of late years he had not been able to let the house,
and it had been closely shut to keep it from the tramps. The boys had
often begged the keys of their father, for they thought it would be such
fun to take possession of the old house. But Mr. Wilson said, "No; if a
parcel of boys found their way in, all the tramps in the neighborhood
would learn how to get in too." Still, it continued the object of the
boys' ambition to get into the house, and they were fond of going up to
play in the broad grassy space by the side of the house; and they kept
good oversight of the apple crop there.

On this Wednesday afternoon they were playing ball there, and lost the
ball. It had gone through a ventilation hole into the cellar part of the
house.

Now, everybody knows that if a boy loses a ball it must be recovered,
especially if he knows where it is. There is not even a woman so
stony-hearted but she will let in a troop of muddy-shoed boys through
her entry (just washed) if they come to look for a ball, even if it
has broken a pane of glass on its way. So the boys got a ladder from
the Pentzes', and put it up at one of the windows where the blind was
broken. Jack went up the ladder. The slat was off, but not in the right
place to open the window. There could not be any harm in breaking off
another; then he could reach the middle of the sash and pull up the
window. No; it was fastened inside. John Stebbins tried, but it was of
no use.

"It would not help if we broke the window by the fastening," said John;
"for the shutters are closed inside with old-fashioned inside shutters."

Here was the time to ask for the key. They must have the key to find
that ball, and the boys trudged back to meet Sam just going home from
the Pentzes'.

But Sam refused to ask for the key again, He didn't want to bother his
father so soon, and he didn't want the bother himself. He had his new
"Cæsar" lesson to study; to-morrow, after school, he and Jonas would
look round at the house, and find some way to recover the ball, for even
the stern and studious Sam knew the value of a ball.

So Thursday noon the boys all hurried up to the Wilson house,--Sam,
Jonas, and all. They examined it on every side. They came back to the
hole where the ball was lost.

"There's the cold-air box," said Jonas. "Could not Dick crawl in?"

Now, Dick was a very small pattern of a boy, indeed, to be still a boy.
Really he might crawl into the cold-air box. He tried it! He did get in!
He had to squeeze through one part, but worked his way down fairly into
the cellar, and screamed out with triumph that he had found the ball
close by the hole! But how was Dick to get out again? He declared he
could never scramble up. He slipped back as fast as he tried. He would
look for the cellar stairs, only it was awful dark except just by the
hole. He had a match in his pocket. Jack ran to the Pentzes' and got a
candle, and they rolled it in to Dick, and waited anxiously to see where
he would turn up next. They heard him, before long, pounding at a door
round the corner of the house. He had found the cellar stairs, and a
door with bolts and a great rusty key, which he succeeded in turning.
The boys pulled at the door and it opened; and there stood Dick with the
ball in one hand, picking up the candle with the other!

What a chance to enter the house! Down the cellar stairs, up into the
attics! Strange echoes in the great halls, and dark inside; for all the
windows were closed and barred,--all but in one room upstairs that
opened on a back veranda. It was a warm late-autumn day, and the sun
poured down pleasantly upon a seat in the corner of the veranda, where
a creeper was shedding its last gay leaves.

"What a place to study!" exclaimed Sam.

"Let's come and spend to-morrow," said John Stebbins; "there's no
school."

"No school Friday, on account of the furnace!" exclaimed Jack. "Let's
bring a lot of provisions and stay the whole day here."

"We might lay it in to-night," said John Stebbins; "we'll come up after
school this afternoon!"

"And I'll tell father about the key this evening," said Sam; "he won't
mind, if he finds we have got one."

"Jack and I will see to the provisions," said John Stebbins, "if the
rest of you boys will come here as soon as school is over."

It was all so interesting that they were too late for dinners, and had
to content themselves with gingerbread as they hurried to school.

"Be sure you tell mother," was Sam's last warning to Jack and John
Stebbins, as they parted for their separate schoolrooms.

After school the party hastened to the old house. Sam took the entry key
from his pocket and opened the door, leaving Dick to wait for Jack and
John Stebbins. They appeared before long with a basket of provisions,
and were ready for a feast directly, but delayed for a further
examination of the house. It was dark soon, and Sam would not let them
stay long in any one room. They must just take a look, and then go
home,--no waiting for a feast.

"I'll talk to father this evening, and ask him if we may have it if we
keep the whole thing secret."

They fumbled their way down to the lower back door, but could not get it
open. It was locked!

"We left the key in the door outside," said Dick, in a low whisper.

"You ninnies!" exclaimed Sam, "somebody saw you and has locked us in."

"Some of the boys, to plague us," said John Stebbins.

"Mighty great secrecy, now," said Sam, "if half the boys in town know we
are here. It all comes of that great basket of provisions you saw fit to
bring round."

"You'll be glad enough of it," said John Stebbins, "if we have to spend
the night here."

"Let's have it now," said Jack.

"We may as well occupy ourselves that way," said Sam, in a resigned
tone, "till they choose to let us out."

"Suppose we go up to the room with the bed and the sofa," said John
Stebbins; "and we've got a surprise for you. There's a pie,--let's eat
that."

They stumbled their way back. The provident John Stebbins had laid in
more candles, and they found an old table and had a merry feast.

Sam and Jonas had their books. When Sam had hold of a fresh Latin book
he could not keep away from it. Jonas's mind was busy with a new
invention. The boys thought he would make his fortune by it. He was
determined to invent some use for coal ashes. They were the only things
that were not put to some use by his mother in their establishment. He
thought he should render a service to mankind if he could do something
useful with coal ashes. So he had studied all the chemistry books, and
had one or two in his pockets now, and drew out a paper with H O, and
other strange letters and figures on it. The other boys after supper
busied themselves with arranging the room for a night's sleep.

"It's awful jolly," said Dick. "This bed will hold four of us. I'll
sleep across the foot, and Sam shall have the sofa."

But Sam rose up from his study. "I've no notion of spending the night
here. The door must be open by this time."

He went to the window that looked out on the veranda. There was a heavy
rain-storm; it was pouring hard. It was hard work getting down to the
door in the dark. The candle kept going out; and they found the door
still locked when they reached it.

"Why not spend the night?" said Jonas. "They'll have got over their
worries at home by this time."

"Nobody could come up here to see after us in this rain," said Sam.
"I suppose they think that as we have made our bed we may as well sleep
in it."

Sleep they did until a late hour in the morning. All the windows but the
one upon the veranda closed with shutters. They woke up to find snow and
rain together. They went all over the house to find some way of getting
out, but doors and windows were well closed.

"It's no use, boys," said Sam. "We've tried it often enough from outside
to get in, and now it is as hard to get out. I was always disgusted that
the windows were so high from the ground. Anyhow, father or some of the
folks will be after us sometime. What was it you told mother?" Sam
asked.

John Stebbins had to confess that he had not seen Mrs. Wilson, and
indeed had been vague with the information he had left with Jane. "I
told them we were with the Pentz boys," he said; "I thought it just as
well to keep dark."

"Mighty dark we all of us are!" said Sam, in a rage. He was so angry
that John Stebbins began to think he had made Jane understand where they
were, and he tried to calm Sam down. Jonas proposed that Dick should be
put through the cold-air box again. With a little squeezing from behind
he must be able to get through. Everybody but Dick thought it such a
nice plan that he was obliged to agree. But what was their horror when
they reached the place to find some boards nailed across the outside!

"A regular siege!" said Sam. "Well, if they can stand it I guess we
can." His mettle was up. "We'll stay till relief forces come. It is some
trick of the boys. Lucky there's no school. They can't hold out long."

"A state of siege! What fun!" cried the boys.

"I only wish we had brought two pies," said John Stebbins. "But there's
plenty of gingerbread."

Now they would ransack the house at their leisure. There was light
enough in the attics to explore the treasures hidden there. They found
old coal-hods for helmets, and warming-pans for fiery steeds, and they
had tournaments in the huge halls. They piled up carpets for their
comfort in their bedroom,--bits of old carpet,--and Jonas and Sam
discovered a pile of old worm-eaten books. The day seemed too short,
and the provender lasted well.

The night, however, was not so happy. The candles were growing short
and matches fewer. Sam and Jonas had to economize in reading, and told
stories instead, and the stories had a tendency to ghosts. Dick and Jack
murmured to John Stebbins it was not such fun after all; when, lo! their
own talk was interrupted by noises below! A sound of quarrelling voices
came from the rooms beneath. Voices of men! They went on tiptoe to the
head of the stairs to listen.

Tramps, indeed!

How had they got in? Was it they who had locked the door? Did they come
in that way?

"Suppose we go down," said Sam, in a whisper. But John Stebbins and the
little boys would not think of it. The men were swearing at each other;
there was a jingle of bottles and sound of drinking.

"It's my opinion we had better keep quiet," said Jonas. "It is a poor
set, and I don't know what they would do to us if they saw we had found
them out and would be likely to tell of them."

So they crept back noiselessly. In a state of siege, indeed! John
Stebbins, with help of the others, lifted the sofa across the door and
begged Sam to sleep on it. But that night there was not much sleep! The
storm continued, snow, hail, and rain, and wind howling against the
windows. Toward morning they did fall asleep. It was at a late hour they
waked up and went to peer out from the veranda window. There was a
policeman passing round the house!

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile there had been great anxiety at the Wilsons'.

"If it were not for the storm," said Aunt Harriet, "I should send up to
the Pentzes' to inquire about those boys."

"I suppose it's the storm that keeps them," said Jane.

"If it were not for the storm," Mrs. Pentz was saying to Mary, "I should
like you to go down to the Wilsons' and see what those boys are about."

As to Mrs. Stebbins, John was so seldom at home it did not occur to her
to wonder where he was.

But when Saturday morning came, and no boys, Aunt Harriet said, "There's
a little lull in the storm. I can't stand it any longer, Jane. I am
going to put on my waterproof and go up to the Pentzes'."

"I will go too," said Jane; and Gertrude and George joined the party.

Half-way up the long street they met the Pentz family coming down to
make the same inquiries,--Mr. and Mrs. Pentz, Mary, Sophy, Will, and the
rest.

"Where are the boys?" was the exclamation as they met half-way between
the two houses.

Mr. Johnson, one of the leading men of the town, crossed the street to
ask what was the commotion in the two families. "Our boys are missing,"
said Mr. Pentz. "Five boys!"

"We haven't seen them since Thursday morning," said Aunt Harriet.

"They were at home Thursday afternoon," said Mary Pentz.

"I must speak to the police," said Mr. Pentz.

"He is up at the Wilson House," said Mr. Johnson. "There were tramps in
the house there last night, and the police came very near catching them.
He found the door unlocked night before last. The tramps kept off that
night, but turned up last night in the storm. They have got off,
however. There is only one policeman, but we've sworn in a special to
keep guard on the house."

"I'll go up and see him," said Mr. Pentz.

"We'll all go up," said Harriet.

"Perhaps the tramps have gone off with the boys," said Gertrude.

Quite a crowd had collected with the party as they moved up the street,
and all together came to the front of the house. The policeman was just
disappearing round the other side. They turned to the back to meet him,
and reached the corner where the veranda looked down upon the yard.

At this moment Mr. and Mrs. Wilson appeared. They had arrived at the
station from New York, and heard there the story of the disappearance of
the boys, and of tramps in the house. They hastened to the scene, Mrs.
Wilson almost distracted, and now stood with the rest of the Wilsons and
the Pentzes awaiting the policeman. They heard a cry from above, and
looked up to the veranda.

There were all the boys in a row.




XIII.

A PLACE FOR OSCAR.


"I don't like tiresome fables," said Jack, throwing down an old book in
which he had been trying to read; "it is so ridiculous making the beasts
talk. Of course they never do talk that way, and if they did talk, they
would not be giving that kind of advice But then they never did talk.
Did you ever hear of a beast talking, Ernest, except in a fable?"

Ernest looked up from his book.

"Why, yes," he said decidedly; "the horses of Achilles talked, don't you
remember?"

"Well, that was a kind of fable," said Jack. "Our horses never talked.
Bruno comes near it sometimes. But, Hester, don't you think fables are
tiresome? They always have a moral tagged on!" he continued, appealing
to his older sister; for Ernest proved a poor listener, and was deep in
his book again.

"I will tell you a fable about a boy," said Hester, sitting down with
her work, "and you shall see."

"But don't let the beasts speak," said Jack, "and don't let the boy give
advice!"

"He won't even think of it," said Hester; and she went on.

"Once there was a boy, and his name was Oscar, and he went to a very
good school, where he learned to spell and read very well, and do a few
sums. But when he had learned about as much as that, he took up a new
accomplishment. This was to fling up balls, two at a time, and catch
them in his hands. This he could do wonderfully well; but then a great
many other boys could. He, however, did it at home; he did it on the
sidewalk; he could do it sitting on the very top of a board fence; but
he was most proud of doing it in school hours while the teacher was not
looking. This grew to be his great ambition. He succeeded once or twice,
when she was very busy with a younger class, and once while her back was
turned, and she was at the door receiving a visitor.

"But that did not satisfy him: he wanted to be able to do it when she
was sitting on her regular seat in front of the platform; and every day
he practised, sometimes with one ball and sometimes with another. It
took a great deal of his time and all of his attention; and often some
of the other boys were marked for laughing when he succeeded. And he had
succeeded so well that the teacher had not the slightest idea what they
were laughing at.

"All this was very satisfactory to him; but it was not so well for him
at the end of the year, because it turned out he was behind-hand in all
his studies, and he had to be put down into a lower room. But coming
into another room with a fresh teacher, he had to learn his favorite
accomplishment all over again. It was difficult, for she was a very
rigid teacher, and seemed to have eyes in every hair of her head; and
he sat at the other side of the room, so that he had to change hands
somehow in throwing the balls and getting them into his desk quick
without being seen. But there were a number of younger boys in the
room who enjoyed it all very much, so that he was a real hero, and
felt himself quite a favorite. He did manage to keep up better in his
arithmetic, too, in spite of his having so little time for his books.
Perhaps from having to watch the teacher so much, he did learn the
things that he heard her repeat over and over again; and then he picked
up some knowledge from the other boys. Still, all through his school
term, he was sent about more or less from one room to another. The
teachers could not quite understand why such a bright-looking boy, who
seemed to be always busy with his lessons, was not farther on in his
studies.

"So it happened, when they all left school, Oscar was himself surprised
to find that the boys of his age were ahead of him in various ways. A
large class went on to the high school; but Oscar, as it proved, was not
at all fitted.

"And his father took him round from one place to another to try to get
some occupation for him. He looked so bright that he was taken for an
office-boy here and there; but he never stayed. The fact was, the only
thing he could do well was to fling balls up in the air and catch them
in turn, without letting them drop to the ground; and this he could
only do best on the sly, behind somebody's back. Now this, though
entertaining to those who saw it for a little while, did not help on his
employers, who wondered why they did not get more work out of Oscar.

"A certain Mr. Spenser, a friend of Oscar's father, asked him to bring
his boy round to his office, and he would employ him. 'He will have to
do a little drudgery at first, but I think we can promote him soon, if
he is faithful.'

"So Oscar went with his father to Mr. Spenser's office. Mr. Spenser
started a little when he saw Oscar; but after talking awhile, he went to
his table, and took from a drawer two balls. 'My little boy left these
here this morning,' he said. 'How long do you think,' turning to Oscar,
'you could keep them up in the air without letting them drop?'

"Oscar was much pleased. Here was his chance; at this office the kind of
thing he could do was wanted. So he dexterously took the balls, and
flung them up and down, and might have kept at it all the morning but
that Mr. Spenser said at last, 'That will do, and it is more than
enough.' He said, turning to Oscar's father: 'As soon as I saw your boy
I thought I recognized him as a boy I saw one day in the school flinging
balls up in the air on the sly behind his teacher's back. I'm sorry to
see that he keeps up the art still. But I felt pretty sure that day that
he couldn't have learned much else. I should be afraid to take him into
my office with a propensity to do things on the sly, for I have other
boys that must learn to be busy. Perhaps you can find some other place
for Oscar.'

"But Oscar could not find the kind of place.

"His friend, Seth Clayton, had been fond of collecting insects all
through his school years. Oscar used to laugh at his boxes full of bugs.
But Seth used to study them over, and talk about them with his teacher,
who told him all she knew, and helped him to find books about them. And
it was when she was leaning over a beautiful specimen of a night-moth
that Oscar had performed his most remarkable feat of keeping three balls
in the air for a second and a half. This was in their last school year.

"And now, after some years more of study, Seth was appointed to join an
expedition to go to South America and look up insects along the Amazon
and in Brazil.

"'Just what I should like to do,' said Oscar; for he had studied a
little about the geography of South America, and thought it would be fun
catching cocoanuts with the help of the monkeys, and have a salary too.
'That is something I really could do,' said Oscar to Seth. But Seth
went, and Oscar was left behind.

"Will Leigh had the best chance, perhaps. He used to be a great crony of
Oscar. He went through the Latin School, and then to Harvard College.
'He was always burrowing into Latin and Greek,' said Oscar; 'much as
ever you could do to get an English word out of him.'

"Well, he was wanted as professor in a Western college; so they sent him
for three years to a German university to study up his Hebrew. But he
was to travel about Europe first.

"'I wish they would send me,' said Oscar. 'Travelling about Europe is
just what I should like, and just what I could do. It is a queer thing
that just these fellows that can work hard, and like to work too, get
the easiest places, where they have only to lie back and do nothing!'

"Even some of the boys who were behind him in school and below him in
lower classes came out ahead. Sol Smith, whom Oscar always thought a
stupid dunce, had the place in Mr. Spenser's office that he would have
liked.

"'Mr. Spenser took Sol out to his country place in the mountains,' Oscar
complained, 'where he has boats and plenty of fishing. I know I could
have caught a lot of trout. It is just what I can do. But that stupid
Sol, if he looked at a trout, he probably frightened it away.'

"It was just so all along through life. Oscar could not find exactly the
place he was fitted for. One of his friends, Tracy, went out West as
engineer. 'I could have done that,' said Oscar; 'I could have carried
the chain as easy as not. It is a little hard that all the rest of the
fellows tumble into these easy places. There's Tracy making money hand
over hand.'

"The next he heard of him Tracy was in the legislature. 'That I could
do,' said Oscar. 'It is easy enough to go and sit in the legislature,
with your hands in your pockets, and vote when your turn comes; or you
needn't be there all the time if you don't choose.'

"So they put Oscar up for the legislature; but he lost the vote, because
he forgot to sign his name to an important note, in answer to one of his
'constituents.' He tried for Congress, too, but without success. He
talked round among his friends about running for President. There was
the great White House to live in. He would be willing to stay all
summer. He felt he should be the right person, as he had never done
anything, and would offend no party.

"But even for President something more is needed than catching
half-a-dozen balls without letting them fall to the ground.

"Once, indeed, he had thought of joining a circus; but he could not
equal the Chinese juggler with the balls, and it tired him to jump up
and down. His father got him the place of janitor at an art building;
but he made mistakes in making change for tickets, and put wrong checks
on the umbrellas and parasols, so that nobody got the right umbrella. He
was really glad when they dismissed him, it tired him so. It was harder
work than flinging balls----"

"Look at here, you need not go on," said Jack, interrupting his sister.
"I never did it but just once in school, and that was when you happened
to come in and speak to Miss Eaton. I was real ashamed that you caught
me at it then, and I have never had the balls at school since, or
thought of them."

"The beast has spoken," said Ernest, looking up from his book.

Jack made a rush at his brother. "Oh! stop," said Ernest; "let us find
out what became of Oscar."

"He has married," said Hester, "and his wife supports him."




XIV.

THE FIRST NEEDLE.


  "Have you heard the new invention, my dears,
  That a man has invented?" said she.
  "It's a stick with an eye,
  Through which you can tie
  A thread so long, it acts like a thong;
  And the men have such fun
  To see the thing run!
  A firm, strong thread, through that eye at the head,
  Is pulled over the edges most craftily,
  And makes a beautiful seam to see!"

  "What! instead of those wearisome thorns, my dear,
  Those wearisome thorns?" cried they.
  "The seam we pin,
  Driving them in;
  But where are they, by the end of the day,
  With dancing and jumping and leaps by the sea?
  For wintry weather
  They won't hold together,
  Seal-skins and bear-skins all dropping round,
  Off from our shoulders down to the ground.
  The thorns, the tiresome thorns, will prick,
  But none of them ever consented to stick!
  Oh, won't the men let us this new thing use?
  If we mend their clothes, they can't refuse.
  Ah, to sew up a seam for them to see,--
  What a treat, a delightful treat, 't will be!"

  "Yes, a nice thing, too, for the babies, my dears,--
  But, alas, there is but one!" cried she.
  "I saw them passing it round, and then
  They said it was only fit for men!
  What woman would know
  How to make the thing go?
  There was not a man so foolish to dream
  That any woman could sew up a seam!"

  Oh, then there was babbling and screaming, my dears!
  "At least they might let us do that!" cried they.
  "Let them shout and fight
  And kill bears day and night;
  We'll leave them their spears and hatchets of stone
  If they'll give us this thing for our very own.
  It will be like a joy above all we could scheme,
  To sit up all night and sew such a seam!"

  "Beware! take care!" cried an aged old crone,
  "Take care what you promise!" said she.
  "At first 't will be fun,
  But, in the long run,
  You'll wish that the men had let the thing be.
  Through this stick with an eye
  I look and espy
  That for ages and ages you'll sit and you'll sew,
  And longer and longer the seams will grow,
  And you'll wish you never had asked to sew.
  But nought that I say.
  Can keep back the day;
  For the men will return to their hunting and rowing.
  And leave to the women forever the sewing."

  Ah! what are the words of an aged crone,
  For all have left her muttering alone;
  And the needle and thread they got with such pains.
  They forever must keep as dagger and chains.






