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Peterkin Papers, The

<h2> MRS. PETERKIN'S TEA-PARTY. </h2> TWAS important to have a tea-party, as they had all been invited by everybody,—the Bromwicks, the Tremletts, and the Gibbonses. It would be such a good chance to pay off some of their old debts, now that the lady from Philadelphia was back again, and her two daughters, who would be sure to make it all go off well. But as soon as they began to make out the list, they saw there were too many to have at once, for there were but twelve cups and saucers in the best set. "There are seven of us, to begin with," said Mr. Peterkin. "We need not all drink tea," said Mrs. Peterkin. "I never do," said Solomon John. The little boys never did. "And we could have coffee, too," suggested Elizabeth Eliza. "That would take as many cups," objected Agamemnon. "We could use the every-day set for the coffee," answered Elizabeth Eliza; "they are the right shape. Besides," she went on, "they would not all come. Mr. and Mrs. Bromwick, for instance; they never go out." "There are but six cups in the every-day set," said Mrs. Peterkin. The little boys said there were plenty of saucers; and Mr. Peterkin agreed with Elizabeth Eliza that all would not come. Old Mr. Jeffers never went out. "There are three of the Tremletts," said Elizabeth Eliza; "they never go out together. One of them, if not two, will be sure to have the headache. Ann Maria Bromwick would come, and the three Gibbons boys, and their sister Juliana; but the other sisters are out West, and there is but one Osborne." It really did seem safe to ask "everybody." They would be sorry, after it was over, that they had not asked more. "We have the cow," said Mrs. Peterkin, "so there will be as much cream and milk as we shall need." "And our own pig," said Agamemnon. "I am glad we had it salted; so we can have plenty of sandwiches." "I will buy a chest of tea," exclaimed Mr. Peterkin. "I have been thinking of a chest for some time." Mrs. Peterkin thought a whole chest would not be needed: it was as well to buy the tea and coffee by the pound. But Mr. Peterkin determined on a chest of tea and a bag of coffee. So they decided to give the invitations to all. It might be a stormy evening and some would be prevented. The lady from Philadelphia and her daughters accepted. And it turned out a fair day, and more came than were expected. Ann Maria Bromwick had a friend staying with her, and brought her over, for the Bromwicks were opposite neighbors. And the Tremletts had a niece, and Mary Osborne an aunt, that they took the liberty to bring. The little boys were at the door, to show in the guests, and as each set came to the front gate, they ran back to tell their mother that more were coming. Mrs. Peterkin had grown dizzy with counting those who had come, and trying to calculate how many were to come, and wondering why there were always more and never less, and whether the cups would go round. The three Tremletts all came, with their niece. They all had had their headaches the day before, and were having that banged feeling you always have after a headache; so they all sat at the same side of the room on the long sofa. All the Jefferses came, though they had sent uncertain answers. Old Mr. Jeffers had to be helped in, with his cane, by Mr. Peterkin. The Gibbons boys came, and would stand just outside the parlor door. And Juliana appeared afterward, with the two other sisters, unexpectedly home from the West. "Got home this morning!" they said. "And so glad to be in time to see everybody,—a little tired, to be sure, after forty-eight hours in a sleeping-car!" "Forty-eight!" repeated Mrs. Peterkin; and wondered if there were forty-eight people, and why they were all so glad to come, and whether all could sit down. Old Mr. and Mrs. Bromwick came. They thought it would not be neighborly to stay away. They insisted on getting into the most uncomfortable seats. Yet there seemed to be seats enough while the Gibbons boys preferred to stand. But they never could sit round a tea-table. Elizabeth Eliza had thought they all might have room at the table, and Solomon John and the little boys could help in the waiting. It was a great moment when the lady from Philadelphia arrived with her daughters. Mr. Peterkin was talking to Mr. Bromwick, who was a little deaf. The Gibbons boys retreated a little farther behind the parlor door. Mrs. Peterkin hastened forward to shake hands with the lady from Philadelphia, saying:—"Four Gibbons girls and Mary Osborne's aunt,—that makes nineteen; and now"—It made no difference what she said; for there was such a murmuring of talk that any words suited. And the lady from Philadelphia wanted to be introduced to the Bromwicks. It was delightful for the little boys. They came to Elizabeth Eliza, and asked:— "Can't we go and ask more? Can't we fetch the Larkins?" "Oh, dear, no!" answered Elizabeth Eliza. "I can't even count them." Mrs. Peterkin found time to meet Elizabeth Eliza in the side entry, to ask if there were going to be cups enough. "I have set Agamemnon in the front entry to count," said Elizabeth Eliza, putting her hand to her head. The little boys came to say that the Maberlys were coming. "The Maberlys!" exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza. "I never asked them." "It is your father's doing," cried Mrs. Peterkin. "I do believe he asked everybody he saw!" And she hurried back to her guests. "What if father really has asked everybody?" Elizabeth Eliza said to herself, pressing her head again with her hand. There were the cow and the pig. But if they all took tea or coffee, or both, the cups could not go round. Agamemnon returned in the midst of her agony. He had not been able to count the guests, they moved about so, they talked so; and it would not look well to appear to count. "What shall we do?" exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza. "We are not a family for an emergency," said Agamemnon. "What do you suppose they did in Philadelphia at the Exhibition, when there were more people than cups and saucers?" asked Elizabeth Eliza. "Could not you go and inquire? I know the lady from Philadelphia is talking about the Exhibition, and telling how she stayed at home to receive friends. And they must have had trouble there! Could not you go in and ask, just as if you wanted to know?" Agamemnon looked into the room, but there were too many talking with the lady from Philadelphia. "If we could only look into some book," he said,—"the encyclopaedia or the dictionary, they are such a help sometimes!" At this moment he thought of his "Great Triumphs of Great Men," that he was reading just now. He had not reached the lives of the Stephensons, or any of the men of modern times. He might skip over to them,—he knew they were men for emergencies. He ran up to his room, and met Solomon John coming down with chairs. "That is a good thought," said Agamemnon. "I will bring down more upstairs chairs." "No," said Solomon John; "here are all that can come down; the rest of the bedroom chairs match bureaus, and they never will do!" Agamemnon kept on to his own room, to consult his books. If only he could invent something on the spur of the moment,—a set of bedroom furniture, that in an emergency could be turned into parlor chairs! It seemed an idea; and he sat himself down to his table and pencils, when he was interrupted by the little boys, who came to tell him that Elizabeth Eliza wanted him. The little boys had been busy thinking. They proposed that the tea-table, with all the things on, should be pushed into the front room, where the company were; and those could take cups who could find cups. But Elizabeth Eliza feared it would not be safe to push so large a table; it might upset, and break what china they had. Agamemnon came down to find her pouring out tea, in the back room. She called to him:—"Agamemnon, you must bring Mary Osborne to help, and perhaps one of the Gibbons boys would carry round some of the cups." And so she began to pour out and to send round the sandwiches, and the tea, and the coffee. Let things go as far as they would! The little boys took the sugar and cream. "As soon as they have done drinking bring back the cups and saucers to be washed," she said to the Gibbons boys and the little boys. This was an idea of Mary Osborne's. But what was their surprise, that the more they poured out, the more cups they seemed to have! Elizabeth Eliza took the coffee, and Mary Osborne the tea. Amanda brought fresh cups from the kitchen. "I can't understand it," Elizabeth Eliza said to Amanda. "Do they come back to you, round through the piazza? Surely there are more cups than there were!" Her surprise was greater when some of them proved to be coffee-cups that matched the set! And they never had had coffee-cups. Solomon John came in at this moment, breathless with triumph. "Solomon John!" Elizabeth Eliza exclaimed; "I cannot understand the cups!" "It is my doing," said Solomon John, with an elevated air. "I went to the lady from Philadelphia, in the midst of her talk. 'What do you do in Philadelphia, when you haven't enough cups?' 'Borrow of my neighbors,' she answered, as quick as she could." "She must have guessed," interrupted Elizabeth Eliza. "That may be," said Solomon John. "But I whispered to Ann Maria Bromwick,—she was standing by,—and she took me straight over into their closet, and old Mr. Bromwick bought this set just where we bought ours. And they had a coffee-set, too"—"You mean where our father and mother bought them. We were not born," said Elizabeth Eliza. "It is all the same," said Solomon John. "They match exactly." So they did, and more and more came in. Elizabeth Eliza exclaimed: "And Agamemnon says we are not a family for emergencies!" "Ann Maria was very good about it," said Solomon John; "and quick, too. And old Mrs. Bromwick has kept all her set of two dozen coffee and tea cups!" Elizabeth Eliza was ready to faint with delight and relief. She told the Gibbons boys, by mistake, instead of Agamemnon, and the little boys. She almost let fall the cups and saucers she took in her hand. "No trouble now!" She thought of the cow, and she thought of the pig, and she poured on. No trouble, except about the chairs. She looked into the room; all seemed to be sitting down, even her mother. No, her father was standing, talking to Mr. Jeffers. But he was drinking coffee, and the Gibbons boys were handing things around. The daughters of the lady from Philadelphia were sitting on shawls on the edge of the window that opened upon the piazza. It was a soft, warm evening, and some of the young people were on the piazza. Everybody was talking and laughing, except those who were listening. Mr. Peterkin broke away, to bring back his cup and another for more coffee. "It's a great success, Elizabeth Eliza," he whispered. "The coffee is admirable, and plenty of cups. We asked none too many. I should not mind having a tea-party every week." Elizabeth Eliza sighed with relief as she filled his cup. It was going off well. There were cups enough, but she was not sure she could live over another such hour of anxiety; and what was to be done after tea? <h2> THE PETERKINS TOO LATE FOR THE EXHIBITION. </h2> Dramatis Person�.—Amanda (friend of Elizabeth Eliza), Amanda's mother, girls of the graduating class, Mrs. Peterkin, Elizabeth Eliza. AMANDA [coming in with a few graduates ]. MOTHER, the exhibition is over, and I have brought the whole class home to the collation. MOTHER.—The whole class! I But I only expected a few. AMANDA.—The rest are coming. I brought Julie, and Clara, and Sophie with me. [A voice is heard. ] Here are the rest. MOTHER.—Why, no. It is Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza! AMANDA.—Too late for the exhibition. Such a shame! But in time for the collation. MOTHER [to herself ].—If the ice-cream will go round. AMANDA.—But what made you so late? Did you miss the train? This is Elizabeth Eliza, girls—you have heard me speak of her. What a pity you were too late! MRS. PETERKIN.—We tried to come; we did our best. MOTHER.—Did you miss the train? Didn't you get my postal-card? MRS. PETERKIN.—We had nothing to do with the train. AMANDA.—You don't mean you walked? MRS. PETERKIN.—O no, indeed! ELIZABETH ELIZA.—We came in a horse and carryall. JULIA.—I always wondered how anybody could come in a horse! AMANDA.—You are too foolish, Julia. They came in the carryall part. But didn't you start in time? MRS. PETERKIN.—It all comes from the carryall being so hard to turn. I told Mr. Peterkin we should get into trouble with one of those carryalls that don't turn easy. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—They turn easy enough in the stable, so you can't tell. MRS. PETERKIN.—Yes; we started with the little boys and Solomon John on the back seat, and Elizabeth Eliza on the front. She was to drive, and I was to see to the driving. But the horse was not faced toward Boston. MOTHER.—And you tipped over in turning round! Oh, what an accident! AMANDA.—And the little boys—where are they? Are they killed? ELIZABETH ELIZA.—The little boys are all safe. We left them at the Pringles', with Solomon John. MOTHER.—But what did happen? MRS. PETERKIN.—We started the wrong way. MOTHER.—You lost your way, after all? ELIZABETH ELIZA.—No; we knew the way well enough. AMANDA.—It's as plain as a pikestaff! MRS. PETERKIN.—No; we had the horse faced in the wrong direction,—toward Providence. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—And mother was afraid to have me turn, and we kept on and on till we should reach a wide place. MRS. PETERKIN.—I thought we should come to a road that would veer off to the right or left, and bring us back to the right direction. MOTHER.—Could not you all get out and turn the thing round? MRS. PETERKIN.—Why, no; if it had broken down we should not have been in anything, and could not have gone anywhere. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—Yes, I have always heard it was best to stay in the carriage, whatever happens. JULIA.—But nothing seemed to happen. MRS. PETERKIN.—O yes; we met one man after another, and we asked the way to Boston. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—And all they would say was, "Turn right round—you are on the road to Providence." MRS. PETERKIN.—As if we could turn right round! That was just what we couldn't. MOTHER.—You don't mean you kept on all the way to Providence? ELIZABETH ELIZA.—O dear, no! We kept on and on, till we met a man with a black hand-bag—black leather I should say. JULIA.—He must have been a book-agent. MRS. PETERKIN.—I dare say he was; his bag seemed heavy. He set it on a stone. MOTHER.—I dare say it was the same one that came here the other day. He wanted me to buy the "History of the Aborigines, Brought up from Earliest Times to the Present Date," in four volumes. I told him I hadn't time to read so much. He said that was no matter, few did, and it wasn't much worth it—they bought books for the look of the thing. AMANDA.—Now, that was illiterate; he never could have graduated. I hope, Elizabeth Eliza, you had nothing to do with that man. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—Very likely it was not the same one. MOTHER.—Did he have a kind of pepper-and-salt suit, with one of the buttons worn? MRS. PETERKIN.—I noticed one of the buttons was off. AMANDA.—We're off the subject. Did you buy his book? ELIZABETH ELIZA.—He never offered us his book. MRS. PETERKIN.—He told us the same story,—we were going to Providence; if we wanted to go to Boston, we must turn directly round. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I told him I couldn't; but he took the horse's head, and the first thing I knew—AMANDA.—He had yanked you round! MRS. PETERKIN.—I screamed; I couldn't help it! ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I was glad when it was over! MOTHER.—Well, well; it shows the disadvantage of starting wrong. MRS. PETERKIN.—Yes, we came straight enough when the horse was headed right; but we lost time. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I am sorry enough I lost the exhibition, and seeing you take the diploma, Amanda. I never got the diploma myself. I came near it. MRS. PETERKIN.—Somehow, Elizabeth Eliza never succeeded. I think there was partiality about the promotions. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I never was good about remembering things. I studied well enough, but, when I came to say off my lesson, I couldn't think what it was. Yet I could have answered some of the other girls' questions. JULIA.—It's odd how the other girls always have the easiest questions. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I never could remember poetry There was only one thing I could repeat. AMANDA.—Oh, do let us have it now; and then we'll recite to you some of our exhibition pieces. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I'll try. MRS. PETERKIN.—Yes, Elizabeth Eliza, do what you can to help entertain Amanda's friends. [All stand looking at ELIZABETH ELIZA, who remains silent and thoughtful. ] ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I'm trying to think what it is about. You all know it. You remember, Amanda,—the name is rather long. AMANDA.—It can't be Nebuchadnezzar, can it?—that is one of the longest names I know. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—O dear, no! JULIA.—Perhaps it's Cleopatra. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—It does begin with a "C"—only he was a boy. AMANDA.—That's a pity, for it might be "We are seven," only that is a girl. Some of them were boys. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—It begins about a boy—if I could only think where he was. I can't remember. AMANDA.—Perhaps he "stood upon the burning deck?" ELIZABETH ELIZA.—That's just it; I knew he stood somewhere. AMANDA.—Casablanca! Now begin—go ahead. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—"The boy stood on the burning deck, When—When—" I can't think who stood there with him. JULIA.—If the deck was burning, it must have been on fire. I guess the rest ran away, or jumped into boats. AMANDA.—That's just it:—"Whence all but him had fled." ELIZABETH ELIZA.—I think I can say it now. "The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled—-" [She hesitates. ] Then I think he went— JULIA.—Of course, he fled after the rest. AMANDA.—Dear, no! That's the point. He didn't. "The flames rolled on, he would not go Without his father's word." ELIZABETH ELIZA.—O yes. Now I can say it. "The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flames rolled on, he would not go Without his father's word." But it used to rhyme. I don't know what has happened to it. MRS. PETERKIN.—Elizabeth Eliza is very particular about the rhymes. ELIZABETH ELIZA.—It must be "without his father's head," or, perhaps, "without his father said" he should. JULIA.—I think you must have omitted something. AMANDA.—She has left out ever so much! MOTHER.—Perhaps it's as well to omit some, for the ice-cream has come, and you must all come down. AMANDA.—And here are the rest of the girls; and let us all unite in a song! [Exeunt omnes, singing. ] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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