The Last of the Peterkins by Lucretia P. Hale

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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 sucree_, 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
encyclopaedias? 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.

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