 CHAPTER XIX of the Peterkin Papers by Lucretia P. Hale Agamemnon's career. There had apparently been some mistake in Agamemnon's education. He had been to a number of colleges, indeed, but he had never completed his course in any one. He had continually fallen into some difficulty with the authorities. It was singular, for he was of an inquiring mind, and had always tried to figure out what would be expected of him, but had never hit upon the right thing. Solomon John thought the trouble might be in what they called the elective system, where you were to choose what study you might take. This had always bewildered Agamemnon a great deal. And how was a feller to tell, Solomon John had asked? Whether he wanted to study a thing before he had tried it, it might turn out awful hard. Agamemnon had always been fond of reading from his childhood up. He was at his book all day long. As his Peterkin had imagined he would come out a great scholar, but she could never get him away from his books. And so it was in his colleges. He was always to be found in the library, reading and reading, but they were always the wrong books. For instance, the class were required to prepare themselves on the Spartan War. This turned Agamemnon's attention to the Fenians, and to study the subject he read up on Charles O'Malley and Harry Lorakwer, and some later novels of that sort which did not help him on the subject required, yet took up all his time, so that he found himself unfitted for anything else when the examinations came. In consequence he was requested to leave. Agamemnon always missed in his recitations, for the same reason that Elizabeth Eliza did not get on in school, because he was always asked the questions he did not know. It seemed provoking, if the professors had only asked something else. But they always hit upon the very things he had not studied up. Mrs. Peterkin felt this was encouraging, for Agamemnon knew the things they did not know in college. In colleges they were willing to take for students only those who already knew certain things. She thought Agamemnon might be a professor in a college for those students who didn't know those things. I suppose these professors could not have known a great deal, she added, or they would not have asked you so many questions, they would have told you something. Agamemnon had left another college on account of a mistake he had made with some of his classmates. They had taken a great deal of trouble to bring some wood from a distant woodpile to make a bonfire with, under one of the professor's windows. Agamemnon had felt it would be a compliment to the professor. It was with bonfires that heroes had been greeted on their return from successful wars. In this way beacon lights had been kindled upon lofty heights that had inspired mariners seeking their homes after distant adventures. As he plotted back and forward he imagined himself some hero of antiquity. He was reading Plutarch's Lives with deep interest. Plutarch had been recommended at a former college, and he was now taking it up in the midst of his French course. He fancied even that some future Plutarch was growing up in Lynn, perhaps, who would write of this night of suffering and glorify its heroes. For himself he took a severe cold and suffered from chill-blanes and consequence of going back and forward through the snow carrying the wood, but the flames of the bonfire caught the blinds of the professor's room and set fire to the building and came near burning up the whole institution. Agamemnon regretted the result as much as his predecessor, who gave him his name, must have regretted that other bonfire on the shores of Allis that deprived him of a daughter. The result for Agamemnon was that he was requested to leave after having been in the institution but a few months. He left another college in consequence of a misunderstanding about the hour for mourning prayers. He went every day regularly at ten o'clock but found afterward that he should have gone at half-past six. This hour seemed to him and to Mrs. Peterkin unseasonable at a time of year when the sun was not up, and he would have been obliged to go to the expense of candles. Agamemnon was always willing to try another college wherever he might be admitted. He only wanted to attain knowledge, however it might be found, but after going to five and leaving each before the year was out, he gave up. He determined to lay out the money that would have been expended in a college at education and buying the encyclopedia, the most complete that he could find and to spend his life studying it systematically. He would not content himself with merely reading it, but he would study into each subject as it came up, and perfect himself in that subject. By the time then that he had finished the encyclopedia he should have embraced all knowledge and have experienced much of it. The family were much interested in this plan of making practice of every subject that came up. He did not, of course, get on very fast in this way. In the second column of the very first page he met with A. as a note in music. This led him to the study of music. He bought a flute, and took some lessons, and attempted to accompany Elizabeth Eliza on the piano. This, of course, distracted him from his work on the encyclopedia, but he did not wish to return to A until he felt perfect in music. This required a long time. Then in the same paragraph a reference was made. In it he was requested to see keys. It was necessary then to turn to keys. This was about the same time the family were moving, which we have mentioned, when the difficult subject of keys came up, that suggested to him his own simple invention, and the hope of getting a patent for it. This led him astray, as inventions before have done with master minds, so that he was drawn aside from his regular study. The family, however, were perfectly satisfied with the career Agamemnon had chosen. It would help them all, in any path of life, if he should master the encyclopedia in a thorough way. Mr. Peter can agreed it would be, in the end, not as expensive as a college course, even if Agamemnon should buy all the different encyclopedias that appeared. There would be no spreads involved, no expensive receiving friends at entertainment, in college. He could live at home, so that it would not be necessary to fit up another room as at college. At all the times of his leaving he had sold out favorably to other occupants. Solomon John's destiny was more uncertain. He was looking forward to being a doctor some time, but he had not decided whether to be an allopathic or homeopathic, or whether he could not better invent his own pills, and he could not understand how to obtain his doctor's degree. For a few weeks he acted as a clerk in a druggist's store, but he could serve only in the toothbrush and soap department, because it was found he was not familiar enough with the Latin language to compound the drugs. He agreed to spend his evenings in studying the Latin grammar, but his course was interrupted by his being dismissed for treating the little boys too frequently to soda. The little boys were going through the schools regularly, the family had been much exercised with regard to their education. Elizabeth Eliza felt that everything should be expected from them. They ought to take advantage from the family mistakes. Every new method that came up was tried upon the little boys. They had been taught spelling by all different systems and were just able to read when Mr. Peterkin learned that it was now considered best that children should not be taught to read until they were ten years old. Mrs. Peterkin was in despair. Perhaps if their books were taken from them, even then they might forget what they had learned. But no, the evil was done. The brain had received certain impressions that could not be blurred over. This was long ago, however. The little boys had since entered the public schools. They went also to a gymnasium, and a whittling school, and joined a class in music, and another in dancing. They went to some afternoon lectures for children when there was no other school, and belonged to a walking club. Still Mr. Peterkin was dissatisfied by the slowness of their progress. He visited the schools himself, and found that they did not lead their classes. It seemed to him a great deal of time was spent in things that were not instructive, such as putting on and taking off their India rubber boots. Elizabeth Eliza proposed that they should be taken from school and taught by Agamemnon from the Encyclopedia. The rest of the family might help in the education at all hours of the day. Solomon John could take up the Latin grammar, and she could give lessons in French. The little boys were enchanted with the plan, only they did not want to have the study hours all the time. Mrs. Peterkin, however, had a magnificent idea that they should make their life one grand object lesson. They should begin at breakfast and study everything put upon the table, the material of which it was made and where it came from. In the study of the letter A Agamemnon had embraced the study of music, and from one meal they might gain instruction enough for a day. We shall have the assistance, said Mr. Peterkin, of Agamemnon with his Encyclopedia. Agamemnon modestly suggested that he had not yet got out of A, and in their first breakfast everything would therefore have to begin with A. That would not be impossible, said Mr. Peterkin. There is Amanda, who will wait upon the table to start with. We could have Am and Eggs suggested Solomon John. Mrs. Peterkin was distressed. It was hard enough to think of anything for breakfast and impossible if it all had to begin with one letter. Elizabeth Eliza thought it would not be necessary. All they were to do was to ask questions, as in examination papers, and find their answers as they could. They could still apply to the Encyclopedia even if it were not in Agamemnon's alphabetical course. Mr. Peterkin suggested a great variety. One day they would study the botany of the breakfast table. Another day it's natural history. The study of butter would include that of the cow, even that of the butter-dish would bring in geology. The little boys were charmed at the idea of learning pottery from the cream jug, and they were promised a potter's wheel directly. You see, my dear, said Mr. Peterkin, to his wife, before many weeks we shall be drinking our milk from jugs made by our children. Elizabeth Eliza hoped for a thorough study. Yes, said Mr. Peterkin, we might begin with botany. That would be near to Agamemnon alphabetically. We ought to find out the botany of butter. On what does the cow feed? The little boys were eager to go out and see. If she eats clover, said Mr. Peterkin, we shall expect the botany of clover. The little boys insisted that if they were to begin the next day, that very evening they should go out and study the cow. Mrs. Peterkin sighed and decided she would order a simple breakfast. The little boys took their notebooks and pencils and clambered upon the fence, where they seated themselves in a row. For there were three little boys. So it was now supposed. They were always coming in or going out, and it had been difficult to count them, and nobody was very sure how many there were. There they sat, however, on the fence looking at the cow. She looked at them with large eyes. She won't eat, they cried, while we are looking at her. So they turned about and pretended to look into the street, and seated themselves that way, turning their heads back from time to time to see the cow. Now she is nibbling a clover. No! That is a bit of sorrel. It's a whole handful of grass. What kind of grass? They exclaimed. It was very hard sitting with their backs to the cow and pretending to the cow that they were looking into the street, and yet to be looking at the cow all the time, and finding out what she was eating, and the upper rail of the fence was narrow and a little sharp. It was very high, too, for some additional rails had been put up to prevent the cow from jumping into the garden or street. Suddenly looking out into the hazy twilight, Elizabeth Eliza saw six legs and six India rubber boots in the air, and the little boys disappeared. They are tossed by the cow. The little boys are tossed by the cow. Mrs. Peterkin rushed for the window, but fainted on the way. Solomon, John, and Elizabeth Eliza were hurrying to the door, but stopped, not knowing what to do. Next! Mrs. Peterkin recovered herself with supreme effort, and sent them out to the rescue. But what could they do? The fence had been made so high to keep the cow out, and nobody could get in. The boy that did the milking had gone off with the key of the outer gate and perhaps with the key of the shed door. Even if that were not locked, before Agamemnon could get round by the woodshed and cow shed, the little boys might be gored through and through. Elizabeth Eliza ran to the neighbors, Solomon, John to the druggist for plasters, while Agamemnon made his way through the dining-room to the woodshed and outer shed door. Mr. Peterkin mounted the outside of the fence, while Mrs. Peterkin begged him not to put himself into danger. He climbed high enough to view the scene. He held the corner post and reported what he saw. They were not gored. The cow was at the other end of the lot. One of the little boys were lying in a bunch of dark leaves. He was moving. The cow glared but did not stir. Another little boy was pulling his India rubber boots out of the mud. The cow still looked at him. And another was feeling the top of his head. The cow began to crop the grass, still looking at him. Agamemnon had reached and opened the shed door. The little boys were next seen running toward it. A crowd of neighbors with pitchforks had returned, meanwhile, with Elizabeth Eliza. Solomon, John had brought the four druggist. But by the time they had reached the house, the three little boys were safe in the arms of their mother. This is too dangerous, a form of education, she cried. I had no idea. But rather they went to school. No, they bravely cried. They were still willing to try the other way. End of CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 The Educational Breakfast Mrs. Peterkin's nerves were so shaken by the excitement of the fall of the three little boys, into the enclosure where the cow was kept, that the educational breakfast was long postponed. The little boys continued at school as before, and the conversation dwelt as little as possible upon the subject of education. Mrs. Peterkin's spirits, however, gradually recovered. The little boys were allowed to watch the cow at her feed. A series of strings were arranged by Agamemnon and Solomon, John, by which the little boys could be pulled up, if they should again fall down into the enclosure. These were planned to be something like curtain cords, and Solomon, John frequently amused himself by pulling one of the little boys up, or letting him down. Some conversation did again fall upon the old difficulty of questions. Elizabeth, he lies, declared that it was not always necessary to answer, that many, who could, did not answer questions, the conductors of the railroads, for instance, who probably knew the names of all the stations on a road, but were seldom able to tell them. Yes, said Agamemnon, one might be a conductor, without even knowing the names of the stations, because you can't understand them when they do tell them. I never know, said Elizabeth Eliza, whether it is ignorance in them or unwillingness that prevents them from telling you how soon one station is coming, or how long you are to stop, even if one asks ever so many times, it would be useful if they would tell. Mrs. Peterkin thought this was carried too far in the horse cars in Boston. The conductors had always left you as far as possible from the place where you wanted to stop. But it seemed a little too much to have the alderman take it up, and put a notice in the cars ordering the conductors to stop at the farthest crossing. Mrs. Peterkin was indeed recovering her spirits. She had been carrying on a brisk correspondence with Philadelphia, that she had imparted to no one, and at last she announced, as a result, that she was ready for a breakfast on educational principles. A breakfast indeed, when it appeared, Mrs. Peterkin had mistaken the alphabetical suggestion, and had grasped the idea that the whole alphabet must be represented in one breakfast. This therefore was the bill of fair, applesauce, bread and butter, coffee, cream, donuts, eggs, fish balls, griddles, ham, ice, jam, kraut, sour, lamb chops, morning newspapers, oatmeal, pepper, quince, marmalade, rolls, salt, tea-earn, veal-pie, waffles, yeast, biscuit. Mr. Peterkin was proud and astonished. Excellent, he cried. Every letter represented except Z. Mrs. Peterkin drew from her pocket a letter from the lady from Philadelphia. She thought you would call it excellent for X, and she tells us she read that if you come with a zest you will bring the Z. Mr. Peterkin was enchanted. He only felt that he ought to invite the children in the primary schools to such a breakfast. What a zest indeed it would give to the study of their letters! It was decided to begin with applesauce. How happy, exclaimed Mr. Peterkin, that this should come first of all a child might be brought up on applesauce till he had mastered the first letter of the alphabet and could go on to the more involved subjects hidden in bread, butter, baked beans, etc. Agamemnon thought his father hardly knew how much was hidden in the apple. There was the story of William Tell and the Swiss independence. The little boys were wild to act, William Tell, but Mrs. Peterkin was afraid of the arrows. Mrs. Peterkin proposed they should begin by eating the applesauce, then discussing it, first botanically, next historically, or perhaps first historically, beginning with Adam and Eve, and the first apple. Mrs. Peterkin feared the coffee would be getting cold, and the griddles were waiting. For herself she declared she felt more at home on the marmalade, because the quints came from her grandfathers. And she had seen them planted, and she remembered all about it, and now the bush came up to the sitting-room window. She seemed to have heard him tell that the town of Quincy, where the granite came from, was named from them, and she never quite recollected why, except they were so hard, as hard as stone. And it took you almost the whole day to stew them, and then you might as well set them on again. Mr. Peterkin was glad to be reminded of the old place at grandfather's, in order to know thoroughly about apples they ought to understand the making of cider. Now they might some time drive up to grandfather's, scarcely twelve miles away, and see the cider made. Why, indeed, should not the family go this very day up to grandfather's, and continue the education of the breakfast? Why not, indeed, exclaimed the little boys, a day at grandfather's would give them the whole process of the apple, from the orchard to the cider mill. In this way they could widen the field of study, even to follow in time the cup of coffee, to java. It was suggested, too, that at grandfather's they might study the processes of maple syrup as involved in the griddle-cakes. Agamemnon pointed out the connection between the two subjects. They were both the products of trees, the apple tree and the maple. Mr. Peterkin proposed that the lesson for the day should be considered the study of trees, and on the way they could look at other trees. Why not, indeed, go this very day? There was no time like the present. Their breakfast had been so copious they would scarcely be in a hurry for dinner, and would therefore have the whole day before them. Mrs. Peterkin could put up the remains of the breakfast for luncheon. But how should they go? The cariol, in spite of its name, could hardly take the whole family, though they might squeeze in, six, as the little boys did not take up much room. Elizabeth Eliza suggested that she could spend the night at grandfather's. Indeed, she had been planning a visit there, and would not object to staying some days. This would make it easier about coming home. But it did not settle the difficulty in getting there. Why not ride and tie? The little boys were fond of walking. So was Mr. Peterkin, and Agamemnon and Solomon John did not object to their turn. Mrs. Peterkin could sit in the carriage when it was waiting for the pedestrians to come up, or, she said, she did not object to a little turn of walking. Mr. Peterkin would start with Solomon John and the little boys, before the rest, and Agamemnon should drive his mother and Elizabeth Eliza to the first stopping-place. Then came up another question, of Elizabeth Eliza's trunk. If she stayed a few days, she would need to carry something. It might be hot, and it might be cold. Just as soon as she carried her thin things she would need her heaviest wraps. You never could depend upon the weather. Even probabilities got you no farther than to-day. In an inspired moment Elizabeth Eliza bethought herself of the expressman. She would send her trunk by the express, and she left the table directly to go and pack it. Mrs. Peterkin busied herself with Amanda over the remains of the breakfast. Mr. Peterkin and Agamemnon went to order the horse and the expressman, and Solomon John and the little boys prepared themselves for a pedestrian excursion. Elizabeth Eliza found it difficult to pack in a hurry. There were so many things she might want, and then again she might not. She must put up her music, because her grandfather had a piano. And then she bethought herself of Agamemnon's flute, and decided to pick out a volume or two of the encyclopedia. But it was hard to decide all by herself whether to take G for griddle-cakes, or M for maple syrup, or T for tree. She would take as many as she could. She put up her work-box and two extra work-maskets, and she must take some French books. She had never yet found time to read. This involved taking her French dictionary, as she doubted if her grandfather had one. She ought to put in a botany, if they were to study trees, but she could not tell which. So she would take all there were. She might as well take all of her dresses, and it was no harm if one had too many wraps. When she had her trunk packed, she found it over full. It was difficult to shut it. She had heard Solomon John set out from the front door with his father and the little boys, and Agamemnon was busy holding the horse at the side door, so there was no use in calling for help. She got upon the trunk. She jumped upon it. She sat down upon it. And, leaning over, found she could lock it. Yes, it was really locked. But, on getting down from the trunk, she found her dress had been caught in the lid. She could not move away from it. What was worse, she was so fastened to the trunk that she could not lean forward far enough to turn the key back, to unlock the trunk, and release herself. The lock had slipped easily, but she could not now get hold of the key in the right way to turn it back. She tried to pull her dress away. No, it was caught too firmly. She called for help to her mother or Amanda to come and open the trunk. But her door was shut. Nobody near enough to hear her. She tried to pull the trunk toward the door to open it and to make herself heard. But it was so heavy that, in her constrained position, she could not stir it. In her agony she would have been willing to have torn her dress. But it was her traveling dress and too stout to tear. She might cut it carefully, alas, she had packed her scissors and her knife. She had it lent to the little boys the day before. She called again. What silence there was in the house, her voice seemed to echo through the room. At length, as she listened, she heard the sound of wheels. Was it the carriage rolling away from the side door? Did she hear the front door shut? She remembered then that Amanda was to have the day. But she, Elizabeth Eliza, was to have spoken to Amanda, to explain to her to wait for the expressmen. She was to have told her as she went downstairs. But she had not been able to go downstairs, and Amanda must have supposed that all the family had left, and she, too, must have gone, knowing of the expressmen. Yes, she heard the wheels. She heard the front door shut. But could they have gone without her? Then she recalled that she had proposed walking on a little way with Solomon John and her father, to be picked up by Mrs. Peterkin, if she should have finished her packing in time. Her mother must have supposed that she had done so. That she had spoken to Amanda and started with rest. Well, she would soon discover her mistake. She would overtake the walking party and, not finding Elizabeth Eliza, would return for her. Patience only was needed. She had looked around for something to read, but she had packed up all her books. She had packed her knitting. How quiet and still it was! She tried to imagine where her mother would meet the rest of the family. They were good walkers, and they might have reached the two-mile bridge. But suppose they should stop for water beneath the arch of the bridge, as they often did, and the carry-all pass over it without seeing them. Her mother would not know. But she was with them. And suppose her mother should decide to leave the horse at the place proposed for stopping and waiting for the first pedestrian party and her self-walk on. No one would be left to tell the rest when they should come up to the carry-all. They might go on so through the whole journey without meeting, and she might not be missed till they should reach her grandfathers. Horrible thought! She would be left here all day. The expressman would come, but the expressman would go, for he would not be able to get into the house. She thought of the terrible story of Geneva, of the bride who was shut up in her trunk and for ever. She was shut up on hers, and knew not when she should be released. She had acted once in the ballad of the mistletoe bow. She had been one of the guests, who had sung, O, the mistletoe bow, and had looked up at it, and she had seen, at the side scenes, how the bride had laughingly stepped into the trunk. But the trunk was then only a make-believe of some boards in front of a sofa. And this was a stern reality. She would be late now, before her family would reach her grandfathers. Perhaps they would decide to spend the night. Perhaps they would fancy she was coming by express. She gave another tremendous effort to move the trunk toward the door. In vain. All was still. Meanwhile Mrs. Peterkin sat some time at the door, wondering why Elizabeth Eliza did not come down. Mr. Peterkin had started on with Solomon John and all the little boys. Agamemnon had packed the things into the carriage, a basket of lunch, a change of shoes for Mr. Peterkin, and some extra wraps. Everything Mrs. Peterkin could think of for the family comfort. Still Elizabeth Eliza did not come. I think she must have walked on with your father, she said at last. You had better get in. Agamemnon now got in. I should think. She would have mentioned it, she continued, but we may as well start on and pick her up. They started off. I hope Elizabeth Eliza thought to speak to Amanda, but we must ask her when we come up with her. But they did not come up with Elizabeth Eliza. At the turn beyond the village they found an envelope stuck up in an inviting manner against a tree. In this way they had agreed to leave missives for each other as they passed on. This note informed them that the walking party was going to take the shortcut across the meadow, and would still be in front of them. They saw the party at last just beyond the shortcut. But Mr. Peterkin was explaining the character of the oak tree to his children as they stood around a large specimen. I suppose he is telling them that it is some kind of a quirkus, said Agamemnon thoughtfully. Mrs. Peterkin thought Mr. Peterkin would scarcely use such an expression, but she could see nothing of Elizabeth Eliza. Some of the party, however, were behind the tree, some were in front, and Elizabeth Eliza might be behind the tree. They were too far off to be shouted at. Mrs. Peterkin was calmed and went on to the stopping-place agreed upon, which they reached before long. This had been appointed near Farmer Gordon's barn, that there might be somebody at hand whom they knew in case there should be any difficulty in untying the horse. The plan had been that Mrs. Peterkin should always sit in the carriage, while the others should take turns for walking, and Agamemnon tied the horse to a fence, and left her comfortably arranged with her knitting. Indeed she had risen so early to prepare for the alphabetical breakfast, and had since been so tired with preparations that she was quite sleepy, and would not object to a nap in the shade by the soothing sound of the buzzing of the flies. But she called Agamemnon back as he started off for his solitary walk with a perplexing question. Suppose the rest all should arrive. How could they now be accommodated in the carry-all? It would be too much for the horse. Why had Elizabeth Eliza gone with the rest without counting up? Of course they must have expected that she, Mrs. Peterkin, would walk on to the next stopping-place. She decided there was no way but for her to walk on. When the rest passed her they might make a change. So she put up the knitting cheerfully. It was a little joggy in the carriage. She had already found, and the horse was restless from the flies, and she did not like being left alone. She walked on then with Agamemnon. It was very pleasant at first, but the sun became hot, and it was not long before she was fatigued. When they reached a hay-field she proposed going in to rest upon one of the hay-cocks. The largest and most shady was at the other end of the field, and they were seated there when the carry-all passed them in the road. Mrs. Peterkin waved parasol and hat, and the party in the carry-all returned their greetings, but they were too far apart to hear each other. Mrs. Peterkin and Agamemnon slowly resumed their walk. Well, we shall find Elizabeth Eliza in the carry-all, she said, and that will explain all. But it took them an hour or two to reach the carry-all with frequent stoppings for rest when they reached it. No one was in it. A note was pinned up in the vehicle to say they had all walked on. It was prime fun! In this way the parties continued to dodge each other for Mrs. Peterkin felt that she must walk on from the next station, and the carry-all missed her again while she and Agamemnon stopped in a house to rest and for a glass of water. She reached the carry-all to find again that no one was in it. The party had passed on for the last station where it had been decided all should meet at the foot of Grandfather's Hill that they might all arrive at the house together. Mrs. Peterkin and Agamemnon looked out eagerly for the party all the way, as Elizabeth Eliza must be tired by this time. But Mrs. Peterkin's last walk had been so slow that the other party was far in advance, and reached the stopping-place before them. The little boys were all rowed out on the stone fence, awaiting them, full of delight at having reached Grandfather's. Mr. Peterkin came forward to meet them, and at the same moment with Mrs. Peterkin exclaimed, Where is Elizabeth Eliza? Each party looked eagerly at the other. No Elizabeth Eliza was to be seen. Where was she? What was to be done? Was she left behind? Mrs. Peterkin was convinced she must have somehow got to Grandfather's. They hurried up the hill. Grandfather and all the family came out to greet them, for they had been seen approaching. There was great questioning, but no Elizabeth Eliza. It was sunset, the view was wide and fine. Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin stood and looked out from the north to the south. Was it too late to send back for Elizabeth Eliza? Where was she? Meanwhile the little boys had been informing the family of the object of their visit, and while Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin were looking up and down the road, and Agamemnon and Solomon John were explaining to each other the details of their journeys, they had discovered some facts. We shall have to go back, they exclaimed. We are too late. The maple syrup was all made last spring. We are too early. We shall have to stay two or three months. The cider is not made till October. The expedition was a failure. They could study the making of neither maple syrup nor cider, and Elizabeth Eliza was lost perhaps forever. The sun went down and Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin still stood to look up and down the road. Elizabeth Eliza, meanwhile, had sat upon her trunk. As it seemed for ages, she recalled all the terrible stories of prisoners, how they had watched the growth of flowers through cracks in the pavement. She wondered how long she could live without eating, how thankful she was for her abundant breakfast. At length she heard the doorbell. But who could go to the door to answer it? In vain did she make another effort to escape. It was impossible. How singular! There were footsteps. Someone must be going to the door. Someone had opened it. There must be burglars. Well, perhaps that was a better fate to be gagged by burglars, and the neighbors informed, than to be forever locked on her trunk. The steps approached the door. It opened, and Amanda ushered in the expressmen. Amanda had not gone. She had gathered, while waiting at the breakfast-table, that there was to be an expressman whom she must receive. Elizabeth Eliza explained the situation. The expressmen turned the key of her trunk, and she was released. What should she do next, so long a time had elapsed? She had given up all hope of her family returning for her. But how could she reach them? She hastily prevailed upon the expressman to take her along until she could come up with some of the family. At least she would fall in with either the walking-party or the carry-all, or she would meet them if they were on their return. She mounted the seat with the expressmen, and slowly they took their way, stopping for occasional parcels as they left the village. But much to Elizabeth Eliza's dismay, they turned off from the main road on leaving the village. She remonstrated, but the driver insisted he must go round by the Millicons to leave a bed-stead. They went round by Millicons, and then had further turns to make. Elizabeth Eliza explained that in this way it would be impossible for her to find her parents and family, and at last he proposed to take her all the way with her trunk. She remembered with a shutter that when she had first asked about her trunk he had promised it should certainly be delivered the next morning. Suppose they should have to be out all night. Where did Expresscart spin the night? She thought of herself in a lone wood, in an express wagon. She could hardly bring herself to ask, before ascending, when he should arrive. He guessed he could bring up before night. And so it happened that as Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin in the late sunset were looking down the hill, wondering what they should do about the lost Elizabeth Eliza, they saw an express wagon approaching, a female form set upon the front seat. She has decided to come by express at Mrs. Peterkin. It is Elizabeth Eliza. The Peterkins at the Carnival of Authors in Boston The Peterkins were in quite a muddle, for them, about the Carnival of Authors to be given in Boston, as soon as it was announced their interest were excited and they determined that all the family should go. But they conceived a wrong idea of the entertainment as they supposed that everyone must go in costume. Elizabeth Eliza thought their lessons in the foreign languages would help them much in conversing in character. As the Carnival was announced early, Solomon John thought there would be time to read up everything written by all the authors, in order to be acquainted with the characters they introduced. Mrs. Peterkin did not wish to begin too early upon the reading, for she was sure she would forget all the different authors had written before the day came. But Elizabeth Eliza declared that she should hardly have time enough, as it was, to be acquainted with all the authors. She had given up her French lessons after taking six for want of time, and had indeed concluded she had learned in them all she should need to know of that language. She could repeat one or two pages of phrases, and she was astonished to find how much. She could understand already of what the French teacher said to her, and he assured her that when she went to Paris she could at least ask the price of gloves, or of some other things she would need, and he taught her, too, how to pronounce garçon in calling for more. Agamemnon thought that different members of the family might make themselves familiar with different authors. The little boys were already acquainted with Mother Goose. Mr. Peterkin had read the Pickwick papers, and Solomon John had actually seen Mr. Longfellow getting into a horse-car. Elizabeth Eliza suggested that they might ask the Turk to give lectures upon the Arabian nights. Everybody else was planning something of the sort, to raise funds for some purpose, and she was sure they ought not to be behind. Mrs. Peterkin approved of this. It would be excellent if they could raise funds enough to pay for their own tickets to the carnival. Then they could go every night. Elizabeth Eliza was uncertain. She thought it was usual to use the funds for some object. Mr. Peterkin said that if they gained funds enough they might arrange a booth of their own to sit in it and take the carnival comfortably. But Agamemnon reminded him that none of the family were authors, and only authors had booths. Solomon John indeed had once started upon writing a book, but he was not able to think of anything to put in it, and nothing had occurred to him yet. Mr. Peterkin urged him to make one more effort if his book could come out before the carnival he could go as an author, and might have a booth of his own, and take his family. But Agamemnon declared it would take years to become an author. You might indeed publish something, but you had to make sure that it would be read. Mrs. Peterkin, on the other hand, was certain that libraries were filled with books that never were read, yet authors had written them. For herself she had not read half the books in their own library, and she was glad there was to be a carnival of authors that she might know who they were. Mr. Peterkin did not understand why they called them a carnival, but he supposed they should find out when they went to it. Mrs. Peterkin still felt uncertain about costumes. She proposed looking over the old trunks in the garret. They would find some suitable dresses there, and these would suggest what characters they should take. Elizabeth Eliza was pleased with this thought. She remembered an old turban of white, maul, muslin, in an old band box, and why should not her mother wear it? Mrs. Peterkin supposed that she should then go as her own grandmother. Agamemnon did not approve of this. Turbans are now worn in the east, and Mrs. Peterkin could go in some eastern character. Solomon John thought she might be Cleopatra, and this was determined on. Among the treasures found were some old bonnets of large size with waving plumes. Elizabeth Eliza decided upon the largest of these. She was tempted to appear as Mrs. Columbus, as Solomon John was to take the character of Christopher Columbus, but he was planning to enter upon the stage in a boat, and Elizabeth Eliza was a little afraid of seasickness, as he had arranged to be a great while finding the shore. Solomon John had been led to take this character by discovering a coal-hod that would answer for a helmet. Then as Christopher Columbus was born in Genoa, he could use the phrase as an Italian he had lately learned of his teacher. As the day approached the family had their costumes prepared. Mr. Peterkin decided to be Peter the Great. It seemed to him a happy thought, for the few words of Russian he had learned would come in play, and he was quite sure that his own family name made him kin to that of the Great Tsar. He studied up the life, and the encyclopedia, and decided to take the costume of a shipbuilder. He visited the Navy Yard and some of the docks, but none of them gave him the true idea of dress for shipbuilding in Holland or St. Petersburg. But he found a picture of Peter the Great representing him in a broad-brimmed hat. So he assumed one that he found at a costumers, and with Elizabeth Eliza's black waterproof was satisfied with his own appearance. Elizabeth Eliza wondered if she could not go with her father in some Russian character. She would have to lay aside her large bonnet, but she had seen pictures of Russian ladies with fur muffs on their heads, and she might wear her own muff. Mrs. Peterkin, as Cleopatra, wore the turban, with a little row of false curls in the front, and a white embroidered muslin shawl crossed over her black silk dress. The little boy thought she looked much like the picture of their great-grandmother. But doubtless Cleopatra resembled this picture, as it was all so long ago. So the rest of the family decided. Agamemnon determined to go as Noah. The costume, as represented in one of the little boy's arcs, was simple. His father's red-lined dressing gown turned inside out, permitted it easily. Elizabeth Eliza was now anxious to be Mrs. Shem and make a long dress of yellow flannel, and appear with Agamemnon and the little boys, for the little boys were to represent two doves and a raven. There were feather-dusters enough in the family for their costumes, which would then be complete with their India rubber boots. Solomon John carried out in detail his idea of Christopher Columbus. He had a number of eggs boiled hard to take in his pocket, proposing to repeat, through the evening, the scene of setting the egg on its end. He gave up the plan of a boat, as it must be difficult to carry one into town. So he contented himself by practicing the motion of landing by stepping up on a chair. But what scene should Elizabeth Eliza carry out? If they had an arc, as Mrs. Shem she might crawl in and out of the roof constantly, if it were not too high. But Mr. Peterkin thought it is difficult to take an arc into town as Solomon John's boat. The evening came, but with all their preparations, they got to the hall late. The entrance was filled with a crowd of people, and as they stopped at the cloakroom to leave their wraps they found themselves entangled with a number of people in costume coming out from the dressing room below. Mr. Peterkin was much encouraged. They were thus joining the performers. The band was playing the wedding march, as they went upstairs to a door of the hall which opened upon the side of the stage. Here a procession was marching up to the steps of the stage all in costume and entering behind the scenes. We are just in the right time, whispered Mr. Peterkin to his family. They are going upon the stage. We must fall into line. The little boys had their feather dusters ready. Some words from one of the managers made Peterkin understand the situation. We are going to be introduced to Mr. Dickens. He said, I thought he was dead! exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin, trembling. Authors live for ever! said Agamemnon in her ear. At this moment they were ushered upon the stage. The stage manager glared at them, as he awaited their names for the introduction while they came up all unannounced. A part of the program not expected, but he uttered the words upon his lips, great expectations, and the Peterkin family swept across the stage with the rest. Mr. Peterkin costumed, as Peter the Great, Mrs. Peterkin as Cleopatra, Agamemnon as Noah, Solomon John as Christopher Columbus, Elizabeth Eliza in Yellow Flannel as Mrs. Shem, with a large old-fashioned bonnet on her head, as Mrs. Columbus, and the little boys behind as two doves and a raven. Across the stage, in face of all the assembled people, then following the rest down the stairs on the other side, in among the audience they went, but into an audience not dressed in costume. There were Anne Maria Bromwick and the Osburns, all the neighbors, all as natural as though they were walking the streets at home, though Anne Maria did wear white gloves. I had no idea you were to appear in character, said Anne Maria, to Elizabeth Eliza, to what booth do you belong? We are no particular author, said Mr. Peterkin. I see a sort of variety's booth, said Mr. Osburn. What is your character? asked Anne Maria of Elizabeth Eliza. I am not quite decided, said Elizabeth Eliza. I thought I should find out after I came here. The Marshal called us great expectations. Mrs. Peterkin was at the summit of bliss. I have shaken hands with Dickens, she exclaimed, but she looked round to ask the little boys if they too had shaken hands with the great man, but not a little boy could she find. They had been swept off in Mother Goose's train, which had lingered on the steps to see the Dickens' reception, with which the procession of characters and costume had closed. At this moment they were dancing round the mulberry bush in the corner of the balcony in Mother Goose's quarters, their feather-dusters gaily waving in the air. But Mrs. Peterkin, far below, could not see this, and consoled herself with a thought. They should all meet on the stage in the grand closing tableau. She was bewildered by the crowds which swept her hither and thither, at last she found herself in the wittier booth, and sat a long time calmly there. As Cleopatra she seemed out of place, but has her own grandmother she answered well with its New England scenery. Solomon John wondered about, landing in America whenever he found a chance to enter a booth. Once before an admiring audience he set up his egg in the center of the Guta Booth, which had been deserted by its committee for the larger stage. Acha-Memnon frequently stood in the background of scenes in the Arabian Nights. It was with difficulty that the family could be repressed from going on the stage whenever the bugle sounded for the different groups represented there. Elizabeth Eliza came near appearing in the dream of fair women at its most culminating point. Mr. Peterkin found himself with the cricket on the hearth in the Dickens Booth. He explained that he was Peter the Great, but always in Russian language which was never understood. Elizabeth Eliza found herself in turn in all the booths. Every manager was puzzled by her appearance and would send her to some other, and she passed along always trying to explain that she had not yet decided upon her character. Mr. Peterkin came and took Cleopatra from the Whittier Booth. I cannot understand, he said, why none of our friends are dressed in costume, and why we are. I rather like it, said Elizabeth Eliza, though I should be better pleased if I could form a group with someone. The strains of the minuet began. Mrs. Peterkin was anxious to join the performers. It was the dance of her youth, but she was delayed by one of the managers on the steps that led to the stage. I cannot understand this company, he said distractedly. They cannot find their booth, said another. That is the case, said Mr. Peterkin, relieved to have it stated. Perhaps you would better pass into the corridor, said a polite marshal. They did this and walking across bound themselves in the refreshment room. This is the booth for us, said Mr. Peterkin. Indeed it is, said Mrs. Peterkin, sinking into a chair, exhausted. At this moment two doves and a raven appeared, the little boys, who had been dancing eagerly in Mother Goose's establishment, and now came down for ice cream. I hardly know how to sit down, said Elizabeth Eliza, for I am sure Mrs. Shim never could. Still, as I do not know if I am Mrs. Shim, I will venture it. Happily seats were to be found for all, and they were soon arranged in a row, calmly eating ice cream. I think the truth is, said Mr. Peterkin, that we represent historical people, and we ought to have been fictitious characters and books. That is, I observe what the others are. We shall know better another time. If we only ever get home, said Mrs. Peterkin, I shall not wish to come again. It seems like being on the stage, sitting in a booth, and it is so bewildering. Elizabeth Eliza not knowing who she is, and going round and round in this way. I am afraid we shall never reach home, said Agamemnon, who had been silent for some time. We may have to spend the night here. I find I have lost our checks for our clothes in the cloakroom. Spend the night in a booth in Cleopatra's Turban, exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin. We should like to come every night, cried the little boys. But to spend the night, repeated Mrs. Peterkin. I conclude the carnival keeps up all night, said Mr. Peterkin, but never to recover our cloaks, said Mrs. Peterkin, could not the little boys look round for the checks on the floors? She began to enumerate the many valuable things that they might never see again. She had worn her large fur cape of Stone Martin, her grandmothers, that Elizabeth Eliza had been urging her to have made into a foot-rug. Now she wished she had. And there were Mr. Peterkin's new overshoes, and Agamemnon had brought an umbrella, and the little boys had their mittens, their India rubber boots, fortunately they had on, and the character of birds. But Solomon John had worn a fur cap, and Elizabeth Eliza a muff. Should they lose all these valuables entirely, and go home in cold weather without them? No! It would be better to wait till everybody had gone, and then look carefully over the floors for the checks, if only the little boys could know where Agamemnon had been. They were willing to look. Mr. Peterkin was not sure, as they would have time to reach the train. Still they would need something to wear, and he could not tell the time. He had not brought his watch. It was a waltime watch, and he thought it would not be in character for Peter the Great to wear it. At this moment the strains of home, sweet home, were heard from the band, and people were preparing to go. All can go home, but we must stay, said Mrs. Peterkin gloomily, as the well-known strains floated in from the larger hall. A number of marshals came to the refreshment room, looked at them, whispered to each other as the Peterkin sat in a row. Can we do anything for you? asked one at last. Would you not like to go? He seemed eager they should leave the room. Mr. Peterkin explained that they could not go, as they had lost the checks for their wraps, and hoped to find their checks on the floor when everybody was gone. The marshals asked if they could not describe what they had worn, in which case the loss of the checks was not so important, as the crowds had now almost left, and it would not be difficult to identify their wraps. Mrs. Peterkin eagerly declared she could describe every article. It was astonishing how the marshals hurried them through the quickly deserted corridors, how gladly they recovered their garments. Mrs. Peterkin indeed was disturbed by the eagerness of the marshals. She feared they had some pretext for getting the family out of the hall. Mrs. Peterkin was one of those who never consented to be forced to anything. She would not be compelled to go home, even with the strains of music. She whispered her suspicions to Mr. Peterkin, but Agamemnon came hastily up to announce the time which she had learned from the old clock in the large hall. They must leave directly if they wish to catch the latest train, as there was barely time to reach it. Then indeed was Mrs. Peterkin ready to leave if they should miss the train. If she should have to pass the night in the streets and her turban, she was the first to lead the way in painting the family followed her, just in time to take the train as it was leaving the station. The excitement was not over yet. They found in the train many of their friends and neighbors returning also from the carnival, so they had many questions put to them which they were unable to answer. Still Mrs. Peterkin's turban was much admired, and indeed the whole appearance of the family, so they felt themselves much repaid for their exertions. But more adventures awaited them. They left the train with their friends, but as Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza were very tired they walked very slowly, and Solomon John and the little boys were sent on with the pass key to open the door. They soon returned with startling intelligence that it was not the right key, and they could not get in. It was Mr. Peterkin's office key. He had taken it by mistake, or he might have dropped the house key in the cloakroom of the carnival. Must we go back? sighed Mrs. Peterkin in an exhausted voice, more than ever did Elizabeth Eliza regret that Agamemnon's invention in keys had failed to secure a patent. It was impossible to get into the house, for Amanda had been allowed to go and spend the night with a friend, so there was no use in ringing, though the little boys had tried it. We can return to the station, said Mr. Peterkin. The rooms will be warm on account of the midnight train. We can at least think what we shall do next. At the station was one of their neighbors proposing to take the New York midnight train, for it was now after eleven. And the train went through at half-past. I saw lights at the locksmiths over the way. As I passed, he said, Why do you not send over to the young man there? He can get your door open for you. I never would spend the night here. Solomon John went over to the young man, who agreed to go up to the house, as soon as he had closed the shop, fit a key and opened the door, and come back to them on his way home. Solomon John came back to the station, for it was now cold and windy in the deserted streets. The family made themselves as comfortable as possible by the stove, sending Solomon John out occasionally to look for the young man. But somehow Solomon John missed him. The lights were out in the locksmith's shop, so he followed along to the house, hoping to find him there. But he was not there. He came back to report. Perhaps the young man had opened the door and gone on home. Solomon John and Agamemnon went back together, but they could not get in. Where was the young man? He had lately come to town, and nobody knew where he lived, for on the return of Solomon John and Agamemnon it had been proposed to go to the house of the young man. The night was wearing on. The midnight train had come and gone. The passengers who came and went looked with wonder at Mrs. Peterkin, nodding in her turban as she sat by the stove on a corner of a long bench. At last the station master had to leave. For a short rest he felt obliged to lock up the station. But he promised to return at an early hour to release them. Of what use, said Elizabeth Eliza, if we cannot even then get into our own house? Mr. Peterkin thought the matter appeared bad if the locksmith had left town. He feared the young man might have gone in and helped himself to the spoons and left. Only they should have seen him if he had taken the midnight train. Solomon John thought he appeared honest. Mr. Peterkin only ventured to whisper his suspicions, as he did not wish to arouse Mrs. Peterkin, who was still nodding in the corner of the long bench. Morning did come at last. The family decided to go to their home, perhaps by some effort in the early daylight. They might make an entrance. On the way they met with the night policeman returning from his beat. He stopped when he saw the family. Ah, that accounts, he said. You were all out last night, and the burglars took occasion to make a raid on your house. I caught a lively young man in the very act, box of tools in his hand. If he had been a minute late he would have made his way in. The family then tried to interrupt, to explain. Where is he? exclaimed Mr. Peterkin. Safe in the lock-up, answered the policeman. But he is the locksmith, interrupted Solomon John. We have no key, said Elizabeth Eliza, if you have locked up. The locksmith, we will never get in. The policeman looked from one to the other, smiling slightly when he understood the case. The locksmith, he exclaimed, he is a new fellow, and I did not recognize him and arrested him. Very well I will go and let him out that he may let you in, and he hurried away, surprising the Peterkin family with what seemed like insulting screams of laughter. It seems to me a more serious case than it appears to him, said Mr. Peterkin. Mrs. Peterkin did not understand it at all. Had burglars entered the house, did the policemen say they had taken the spoons? And why did he appear so pleased? She was sure the old silver teapot was locked up in the closet of their room. Slowly the family walked towards the house, and almost as soon as they the policeman appeared with the released locksmith and a few boys from the street who happened to be out early. The locksmith was not in a very good humor, and took ill the jokes of the policemen. Mr. Peterkin fearing he might not consent to open the door pressed into his hand a large sum of money. The door flew open and the family could go in. Amanda arrived at the same moment. There was hope of breakfast. Mrs. Peterkin staggered toward the stairs. I shall never go to another carnival! she exclaimed. Chapter 22 Yes, at last they had reached the seaside, after much talking and deliberation, and summer after summer the journey had been constantly postponed. But here they were at last, at the old farm so called, where seaside attractions had been praised in all the advertisements, and here they were to meet the Sylvesters, who knew all about the place. Cousins of Ann Maria Bromwick. Elizabeth Eliza was astonished not to find them there, though she had not expected Ann Maria to join them till the very next day. Their preparations had been so elaborate that at one time the whole thing had seemed hopeless. Yet here they all were. Their trunks, to be sure, had not arrived, but the wagon was to be sent back for them, and, wonderful to tell, they had all their hand baggage safe. Agamemnon had brought his portable electrical machine and apparatus, and the volumes of the encyclopedia that might tell him how to manage it. And Solomon John had his photograph camera. The little boys had used their India rubber boots as portmanteaux, filling them to the brim, and carrying one in each hand, a very convenient way for travelling, they considered it. But they found on arriving, when they wanted to put their boots directly on for exploration around the house, that it was somewhat inconvenient to have to begin to unpack directly, and scarcely room enough could be found for all the contents in the small chamber allotted to them. There was no room in the house for the electrical machine and camera. Elizabeth Eliza thought that the other borders were afraid of the machine going off. So an out-house was found for them, where Agamemnon and Solomon John could arrange them. Mr. Peterkin was much pleased with the old-fashioned porch and low-studded rooms, though the sleeping-room seemed a little stuffy at first. Mr. Peterkin was delighted with the admirable order in which the farm was evidently kept. From the first moment he arrived he gave himself to examining the well-stocked stables and barns, and the fields and the vegetable gardens, which were shown to him by a highly intelligent person, Mr. Atwood, who devoted himself to explaining to Mr. Peterkin all the details of methods in the farming. The rest of the family were disturbed at being so far from the sea, when they found it would take nearly all the afternoon to reach the beach. The advertisements had surely stated that the old farm was directly on the shore, and that sea-bathing would be exceedingly convenient, which was hardly the case if it took you an hour and a half to walk to it. Mr. Peterkin declared there were always such discrepancies between the advertisements of seaside places and the actual facts, but he was more than satisfied with the farm part and was glad to remain and admire it, while the rest of the family went to find the beach, starting off in a wagon large enough to accommodate them, Agamemnon driving the one horse. Solomon John had depended upon taking the photographs of the family in a row on the beach, but he decided not to take his camera out the first afternoon. This was well, as the sun was already setting when they reached the beach. If this wagon were not so shaky, said Mrs. Peterkin, we might drive over every morning for our bath. The road is very straight, and I suppose Agamemnon can turn on the beach. We should have spent the whole day about it, said Solomon John, in a discouraged tone, unless we can have a quicker horse. Perhaps we should prefer that, said Elizabeth Eliza a little gloomily, to staying at the house. She had become a little disturbed to find there were not more elegant and fashionable looking borders at the farm, and she was disappointed that the Sylvesters had not arrived. Who would understand the ways of the place? Yet again she was somewhat relieved, for if their trunks did not come until the next day, as was feared, she would have nothing but her travelling dress to wear, which would certainly answer for tonight. She had been busy all the early summer in preparing her dresses for this very watering place, and as far as appeared she would hardly need them, and was disappointed to have no chance to display them. But of course when the Sylvesters and Dan Maria came all would be different, but they would surely be wasted on the two old ladies she had seen and on the old man who had lounged about the porch. There were surely not a gentleman among them. Agamemnon assured her she could not tell at the seaside, as gentlemen wore their exercise-dress, and took a pride in going around in shocking hats and flannel suits. Doubtless they would be dressed for dinner on their return. On their arrival they had been shown to a room to have their meals by themselves, and could not decide whether they were eating dinner or lunch. There was a variety of meat, vegetables, and pie that might come under either name. But Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin were well pleased. I had no idea we should have really farmed fair, Mrs. Peterkin said. I have not drunk such a tumbler of milk since I was young. Elizabeth Eliza concluded they ought not to judge from a first meal, as evidently their arrival had not been fully prepared for in spite of the numerous letters that had been exchanged. The little boys were, however, perfectly satisfied from the moment of their arrival, and one of them had stayed at the farm, declining to go to the beach, as he wished to admire the pigs, cows, and horses. And all the way over to the beach the other little boys were hopping in and out of the wagon, which never went too fast, to pick long mullen stalks, for whips to urge on the reluctant horse-width, or to gather huckleberries, with which they were rejoiced to find the fields were filled, although as yet the berries were very green. They wanted to stay longer on the beach when they finally reached it, but Mrs. Peterkin and Elizabeth Eliza insisted upon turning directly back, as it was not fair to be late to dinner the very first night. On the whole the party came back cheerful, yet hungry. They found the same old men in the same costume standing against the porch. A little seedy, I should say, said Solomon John. Smoking pipes, said Agamemnon. I believe that is the latest style. The smell of their tobacco is not very agreeable, Mrs. Peterkin was forced to say. There seemed the same uncertainty on their arrival, as to where they were to be put, and as to their meals. Elizabeth Eliza tried to get into conversation with the old ladies, who were wandering in and out of a small sitting-room, but one of them was very deaf, and the other seemed to be a foreigner. She discovered from a moderately tidy maid, by the name of Martha, who seemed a sort of factotum, that there were other ladies in their rooms, too much of invalids to appear. Regular bed-ridden, Martha had described them, which Elizabeth Eliza did not consider respectful. Mr. Peterkin appeared to come down the slope of the hill behind the house, very cheerful. He had made the tour of the farm and found it in admirable order. Elizabeth Eliza felt it was time to ask Martha about the next meal, and ventured to call it supper, as a sort of compromise between dinner and tea. If dinner were expected, she might offend by taking it for granted that it was to be tea, and if they were unused to a late dinner, they might be disturbed if they had only provided a tea. So she asked what was the usual hour for supper, and was surprised when Martha replied, The lady must say, nodding to Mrs. Peterkin, she can have it just when she wants, and just what she wants. This was an unexpected courtesy. Elizabeth Eliza asked when the others had their supper. Oh, they took it a long time ago, Martha answered. If the lady will go out into the kitchen, she can tell what she wants. Bring us in what you have, said Mr. Peterkin, himself quite hungry. If you could cook us a fresh slice of beef steak, that would be well. Perhaps some eggs, murmured Mrs. Peterkin, scrambled, cried one of the little boys. Fried potatoes would not be bad, suggested Agamemnon. Couldn't we have some onions, asked the little boy, who had stayed at home, and had noticed the odor of onions when the others had their supper. A pie would come in well, said Solomon John. And some stewed cherries, said the other little boy. Martha fell to laying the table, and the family was much pleased when in the course of time all the dishes they had recommended appeared. Their appetites were admirable, and they pronounced the food the same. This is true. Hospitality, said Mr. Peterkin, as he cut his juicy beef steak. I know it, said Elizabeth Eliza, whose spirits began to rise. We have not even seen the host and hostess. She would indeed have been glad to find someone to tell her when the Sylvesters were expected, and why they had not arrived. Her room was in the wing, far from that of Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, and near the aged deaf and foreign ladies, and she was kept awake for some time by perplexed thoughts. She was sure the lady from Philadelphia under such circumstances would have written to somebody. But ought she to write to Anne Maria or the Sylvesters, and if she did write, which had she better write to? She fully determined to write the first thing in the morning to both parties. But how should she address her letters? Would there be any use in sending to the Sylvester's usual address, which she knew well by this time merely to say they had not come? Of course the Sylvesters would know they had not come. It would not be the same with Anne Maria. She might indeed enclose her letters to their several postmasters. Postmasters were always so obliging and always knew where people were going to and where to send their letters. She might at least write two letters to say that the Peterkins had arrived and were disappointed not to find the Sylvesters, and she could add that their trunks had not arrived and perhaps their friends might look out for them on their way. It really seemed a good plan to write. Yet another question came up as how she would get her letters to the post office, as she had already learned it was quite a distance, and in a different direction from the station, where they were to send the next day for their trunks. She went over and over these same questions, kept awake by the coughing and talking of her neighbors, the other side of the thin partition. She was scarcely sorry to be aroused from her uncomfortable sleep by the morning sounds of guinea hens, peacocks, and every other kind of foul. Mrs. Peterkin expressed her satisfaction at the early breakfast and declared she was delighted with such genuine farm sounds. They passed the day much as the afternoon before, reaching the beach only in time to turn round to come back for their dinner, which was the appointed time at noon. Mrs. Peterkin was quite satisfied, such a straight road, and the beach such a safe place to turn around upon. Elizabeth Eliza was not so well pleased. A wagon had been sent to the station for their trunks, which could not be found. They were probably left at the Boston station, or Mr. Atwood suggested might have been switched off upon one of the White Mountain trains. There was no use to write any letters, as there was no way to send them. Elizabeth Eliza now almost hoped the Sylvesters would not come, for what should she do if the trunks did not come in all of her new dresses? On her way over to the beach she had been thinking what she should do with her new fulard and cream-colored sarah, if the Sylvesters did not come, and if their time was spent in only driving to the beach and back. But now she would prefer that the Sylvesters would not come until the dresses and the trunks did. All she could find out from inquiry on returning was that another lot was expected on Saturday, the next day she suggested. Suppose we take our dinner with us to the beach and spend the day. The Sylvesters and Anne-Marie then would find them on the beach, where her traveling dress would be quite appropriate. I am a little tired, she added, of going back and forward over the same road, but when the rest come we can vary it. The plan was agreed to, but Mr. Peterkin and the little boys remained to go over the farm again. They had an excellent picnic on the beach under the shadow of a ledge of sand. They were just putting up their things when they saw a party of people approaching from the other end of the beach. I am glad to see some pleasant-looking people at last, said Elizabeth Eliza, and they all turned to walk toward them. As the other party drew near she recognized Anne-Marie Abramwick, and with her were the Sylvesters, so they proved to be, for she had never seen them before. What? You have come in our absence, exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza, and we have been wondering what had become of you, cried Anne-Marie. I thought you would be at the farm before us, said Elizabeth Eliza, to Mr. Sylvester, to whom she was introduced. We have been looking for you at the farm, he was saying to her, but we are at the farm, said Elizabeth Eliza, and so are we, said Anne-Marie. We have been there two days, said Mrs. Peterkin, and so have we at the old farm, just at the end of the beach, said Anne-Marie. Our farm is old enough, said Solomon John. Whereabouts are you? asked Mr. Sylvester. Elizabeth Eliza pointed to the road they had come. A smile came over Mr. Sylvester's face. He knew the country well. You mean the farmhouse behind the hill? At the end of the road, he asked, the Peterkins all nodded affirmatively. Anne-Marie could not restrain herself as broad smiles came over the faces of all the party. Why, that is the poor house, she exclaimed. The town farm, Mr. Sylvester explained. The Peterkins were silent for a while. The Sylvesters tried not to laugh. There certainly were some disagreeable old men and women there, said Elizabeth Eliza at last, but we have surely been made very comfortable, Mrs. Peterkin declared. A very simple mistake, said Mr. Sylvester, continuing his amusement. Your trunks arrived all right at the old farm, two days ago. Let us go back directly, said Elizabeth Eliza, as directly as our horse will allow, said Agamemnon. Mr. Sylvester helped them into the wagon. Your rooms are awaiting you, he said. Why not come with us? We went to find Mr. Peterkin before we do anything else, said Mrs. Peterkin. They rode back in silence, till Elizabeth Eliza said. Do you suppose they took us for paupers? We have not seen any they, said Solomon John, except Mr. Atwood. At the entrance of the farmyard Mr. Peterkin's met them. I have been looking for you, he said, I have just made a discovery. We have made it too, said Elizabeth Eliza. We are in the poor house. How did you find out? Mrs. Peterkin asked of Mr. Peterkin. Mr. Atwood came to me puzzled with a telegram that had been brought to him from the station, which he ought to have got two days ago. It came from a Mr. Peters, whom they were expecting here this week, with his wife and boys, to take charge of the establishment. He telegraphed to say he cannot come till Friday. Now Mr. Atwood had supposed we were the Peters, whom he had sent for the day we arrived, not having received this telegram. Oh! I see, I see! said Mrs. Peterkin. We did get into a model at the station. Mr. Atwood met them at the porch. I beg pardon. He said, I hope you have found it comfortable here, and shall be glad to have you stay till Mr. Peters' family comes. At this moment, wills were heard, Mr. Sylvester had arrived with an open wagon to take the Peterkins to the old farm. Martha was waiting within the door, and said to Elizabeth Eliza, beg pardon, miss, for thinking you was one of the inmates and putting you in that room. We thought it so kind of, Mrs. Peters, to take you off every day with the other gentleman that looks so wandering. Elizabeth Eliza did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Mr. Peterkin and the little boys decided to stay at the farm till Friday, but Agamemnon and Solomon John preferred to leave with Mr. Sylvester and to take their electrical machine and camera when they came for Mr. Peterkin. Mrs. Peterkin was tempted to stay another night, to be wakened once more by the guinea hens. But Elizabeth Eliza bore her off. There was not much packing to be done. She shouted good-bye into the ears of the deaf old lady, and waved her hand to the foreign ones, and glad to bid farewell to the old men with their pipes leaning against the porch. This time she said it is not our trunks that were lost. But we, as a family, said Mrs. Peterkin. End of The Peterkin Papers by Lucretia P. Hale