The Betsy-Tacy Treasury

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  Betsy gobbled her peach pie and gulped her milk.

  “It’s Julia’s turn to wipe the dishes. ’xcuse me?” she asked, jumping up.

  Her braids flew out behind her as she vanished through the door. She and Tacy took hold of hands and ran down Hill Street.

  As fast as they had been, Tib and Freddie were in the basement before them.

  “We have to hurry,” Tib explained, “for a man is coming at four o’clock to pile this wood.”

  “And we won’t have a house any more,” Freddie said, as though he didn’t like it.

  “It’s a long time ’til four o’clock,” Betsy said.

  “Where’d you get the carpet?” Tacy asked.

  “Our mamma gave it to us,” Tib and Freddie answered proudly.

  It was a beautiful carpet. It was red with yellow roses in it. They spread it down inside their house and placed chunks of wood for chairs.

  When they had finished they sat down inside their house. There was room for all, although it was crowded. Tib didn’t mind if Freddie put his feet in her lap. Betsy and Tacy didn’t mind being squeezed against each other.

  “Has your funny paper come?” Betsy asked.

  Tib’s father’s paper came all the way from Milwaukee. There was a Sunday edition, and that had a funny paper in it.

  “Yes, it came today,” said Tib, and she ran upstairs to get it.

  They squeezed into their little house again, and Betsy read the funny paper out loud, all about Buster Brown and Alphonse and Gaston and the Katzenjammer Kids. Matilda came down to visit them, bringing some coffee cake. (Butter and sugar and cinnamon were pleasantly mixed on the top.)

  It was fun to eat coffee cake and read the funny paper in their own crowded little house.

  “I wish it would never get to be four o’clock,” said Freddie. Betsy and Tacy and Tib wished so too.

  But bye and bye it got to be four o’clock.

  A strange man came down the stairs in his shirt sleeves, and behind him came Mr. Muller. He had come down to see the house, he said. The children all scrambled out so that he could see it better, and he walked around it smiling.

  “That’s a good little house,” he said, patting Freddie on the shoulder. “Freddie, when he grows up, shall be an architect like Papa.”

  “What about me, Papa? Will I be an architect too?” asked Tib.

  “Nein, you will be a little housewife,” said her father.

  Betsy and Tacy thought that was strange, for Tib had done as much as Freddie toward building the house. But it didn’t matter much, for in their hearts they were sure that Tib was going to be a dancer.

  “And now,” said Mr. Muller, “we must take this nice house down.”

  Nobody answered, and Mr. Muller looked around the circle. Betsy’s face was very red, Tacy was hanging her head and Tib’s round blue eyes were fixed on her father pleadingly. Freddie walked over to a corner of the basement. He pretended to be hunting for something.

  Mr. Muller rubbed his mustache.

  “Do you remember,” he asked after a moment, “the story of the three little pigs?”

  “Oh, yes,” cried Betsy and Tacy and Tib.

  “They built three little houses,” said Tib’s father, “and the Wolf knocked them down.”

  “That’s right,” said Betsy and Tacy and Tib all together.

  “Very good,” said Mr. Muller. “Well, you, Betsy and Tacy and Tib, are three little pigs. Only you have built just one house between you, just one little house, and this is it. And you, Freddie, are the Wolf, and you must knock it down.”

  “All right,” cried Freddie, running back, forgetting to cry.

  “I’m Whitey!” cried Tib, ruffling up her curls.

  “I’m Blackie!” cried Betsy.

  “I’m Reddie!” cried Tacy. (She couldn’t be Brownie, because her hair was red.)

  They rushed back inside the little house and started pretending they were pigs.

  Freddie came loping up to the doorway. He made his voice very sweet and soft.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me come in.”

  Betsy and Tacy and Tib roared together.

  “Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.”

  Freddie roared back in the loudest voice he could find.

  “Then I’ll puff, and I’ll huff, and I’ll blow your house in.”

  He jumped around outside the little house, puffing and huffing, and Betsy and Tacy and Tib clung to each other and screamed.

  “Watch out!” cried Mr. Muller. “Don’t get hurt, anyone!”

  Freddie puffed, and he huffed, and he huffed, and he puffed. At last he jumped straight into the little house and down it fell in chunks of wood around Betsy and Tacy and Tib. And he chased them through the basement, and he chased them up the stairs, and he chased them out to the knoll on the back lawn which was one of their favorite places to play. There they all fell down laughing underneath the oak tree.

  But after they got rested they went on with the game. They pretended to do all the things the three little pigs in the story had done. They hunted for turnips, and they hunted for apples, and they went to the Fair.

  It was a lovely game, and it lasted all afternoon. It lasted until Julia and Katie came hunting for Betsy and Tacy.

  5

  Everything Pudding

  HEN SCHOOL began Betsy and Tacy stopped every morning to call for Tib. At noon they all walked home together. And after dinner, when they went back to school, Betsy and Tacy called for Tib again. And after school at night they walked home together. But then they did not separate and go to their own homes; they usually went to one house to play.

  Sometimes it was Tib’s house, and sometimes it was Tacy’s, and sometimes it was Betsy’s. The place they went depended upon several things … upon the weather, upon whether they were playing outside or in, upon what the game required and upon what their mothers were doing. If a mother was cleaning house or having company, another mother’s house was a better place to play. There wasn’t any special invitation given. Not usually, that is.

  But one day Betsy’s mother said:

  “Betsy, will you ask Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Muller whether Tacy and Tib may come to play with you tomorrow after school? I am going to a party and I wish that Tacy and Tib could come and help you keep house.”

  “Will Julia be here?” asked Betsy.

  “No,” said her mother. “Julia will be taking her music lesson, and she is going to stay late to practise for the recital. Aunt Eva is going to look after Margaret for me, and Julia, Margaret and I will all come home with Papa.”

  “What time?” asked Betsy.

  “About half-past five,” said Mrs. Ray.

  Betsy rushed out of the house to ask Mrs. Kelly if Tacy might come. Mrs. Kelly said she might. Then Betsy rushed to ask Mrs. Muller if Tib might come. Mrs. Muller said she might. Betsy and Tacy and Tib thought it would be glorious to keep house all alone. They could hardly wait for the next day to come.

  Next day after school Betsy came home alone, for Tacy and Tib … feeling something very special about the occasion … went home to clean up. They arrived about ten minutes later, by way of the front door, ringing the bell as though they were company.

  Mrs. Ray was waiting for them, smelling of violet perfume. She was wearing a new tan dress with a high collar and wide yoke of brown velvet and bands of brown velvet around the billowy skirt. Her big hat was trimmed with brown velvet roses. She looked pretty.

  “Now children,” she said, “you know that you are not to touch the fires.”

  Of course they knew that; they had known that since they were babies.

  “The back parlor stove and the kitchen range have both been fixed for the afternoon,” she said. “Don’t open a door or lift a lid.”

  They promised that they wouldn’t.

  “I’ve made some cocoa for you,” Mrs. Ray said. “You’ll find the pan on the back of the range. Just heat it up when you get hungry. There’s a plateful of cupcakes t
o go with it. You may have a little party.”

  And Mrs. Ray put on her coat and her fur boa. (That smelled of violets too.) She kissed Betsy and said good-by to Tacy and Tib and went smiling out the door.

  When the door had closed behind her the house seemed very still. It was so still that they felt they wanted to tiptoe when they walked. Tacy tiptoed to the piano and touched it. And Tib tiptoed over to Lady Jane Grey, the cat, and picked her up. And Betsy tiptoed to the window to look out.

  It was snowing, and that made keeping house together all the nicer. Fleecy curtains of snow shut them into their warm, neat, quiet nest.

  “What shall we do?” asked Tib.

  “I think,” said Betsy, “that we had better have our party.”

  Tacy and Tib thought so too.

  They went out to the kitchen and Tib pulled the pan with cocoa in it to the warmest part of the stove. The fire was making small sociable noises. The tall clock on the kitchen shelf was ticking cheerfully. The table was set with a blue and white cloth and three blue and white napkins.

  When the cocoa was hot they filled their cups and sat down at the table. They sipped their cocoa and ate their cupcakes with beautiful manners.

  “We’re getting pretty old when we can be left alone like this,” Betsy said.

  “And warm up our own cocoa,” said Tacy.

  “Of course,” said Tib, “I could have made the cocoa myself if your mamma had wanted me to. I know how to cook. I like to cook.”

  “I don’t know how to cook,” said Betsy. “But I think it’s time I learned.” She looked around the kitchen. “Do you know what I’d like to cook first?” she asked.

  “What?” asked Tacy and Tib.

  “It’s called Everything,” said Betsy. “It’s called Everything because it’s got everything in it.” Tacy and Tib looked puzzled and Betsy explained. “A little bit of everything there is, cooked up in one pan. I think it would be delicious.”

  “I think it would be queer,” said Tib.

  “It sounds queer,” said Tacy. “What would it be like, I wonder?”

  “Well,” said Betsy, looking at the ceiling. “I’ve never tasted it, of course. Nobody’s ever tasted it, because nobody ever cooked it. We’re inventing it right now. But I imagine that it would taste like everything good mixed together. Ice cream and blueberry pie and chicken with dumplings and lemonade and coffee cake…”

  “Coffee cake is baked,” said Tib.

  “This wouldn’t be baked,” said Betsy, “because Mamma said we weren’t to open the oven door. But we could mix it in a pan and heat it on top of the stove the way we did the cocoa.”

  Tacy’s blue eyes were sparkling.

  “Why don’t we?” she asked.

  “Let’s!” said Betsy.

  So they put on aprons. Each one tied one of Betsy’s mother’s aprons around her neck, and Betsy got out a frying pan, the biggest one she could find.

  “Now we mustn’t put in much of any one thing,” she warned. “Or else there won’t be room. For we’re going to put in some of every thing, absolutely everything there is. What shall we put in first?” she asked. She had never cooked before, and she didn’t know how to begin.

  “Bacon grease would be good,” answered Tib. “Lots of things begin with bacon grease.”

  “Bacon grease then,” said Betsy.

  Tib went to the ice box and got a spoonful of bacon grease. It melted in the pan. Betsy added some sugar and Tacy poured in milk. They stirred it together well. Then Tib brought an egg and boldly broke it. Betsy and Tacy stared with admiration as it sloshed into the pan. Tacy put in flour and Betsy got some raisins.

  “They ought to be washed first,” said Tib. So Betsy washed them carefully and dropped them in.

  Beside the big can of flour stood the cans of coffee and tea.

  “Coffee ought to be boiled in a pot,” objected Tib as Betsy approached them.

  “Everything goes in together,” said Betsy firmly. “Everything.”

  So coffee and tea were dumped into the pan.

  “Here’s tapioca,” cried Tacy from the cupboard.

  “Fine! Put it in!” cried Betsy.

  “And cornstarch.”

  “Put it in.”

  “And gelatine. Gelatine’s good,” said Tacy.

  “This is going to be good too, you bet,” said Betsy, stirring.

  “It doesn’t look good yet,” said Tib. “I believe it needs some soda.” So she put in some soda.

  They took turns stirring, and all three of them rummaged. Betsy put in cinnamon, and while the spices were out Tacy added ginger and allspice and cloves.

  “Nutmeg needs to be grated,” said Tib, so she grated nutmeg and sprinkled it in.

  Tacy put in salt, and Tib put in pepper, and Betsy put in red pepper.

  “I didn’t know red pepper … kerchew!… made you sneeze so much … kerchew! kerchew!…” said Betsy, sneezing.

  “I didn’t know molasses was so sticky,” said Tacy, pouring.

  “I’ll put in some bay leaves,” said Tib. “Matilda often uses bay leaves.”

  The bay leaves floated strangely on the surface of the sticky mass.

  They found the cruets of vinegar and olive oil. Betsy poured in vinegar and Tacy poured in olive oil. Tib added mustard and they stirred again.

  They put in oatmeal, and cornmeal, and farina.

  Tib was enjoying herself now. She was up on a chair poking into the upper shelves.

  “Here’s cocoanut. That’s good.”

  “Hand it down,” said Tacy.

  “And chocolate and cocoa.”

  “Chocolate and cocoa,” said Betsy, “is just what this needs.”

  They added butter and lard and an onion.

  “My mother says an onion improves anything,” said Betsy as she tossed it in.

  They put in syrup and saleratus and baking powder. They put in rice and macaroni and citron. At last Tib said:

  “Now it’s time for flavoring, because we’ve put in everything there is, and flavoring always comes at the end. What kind shall we use?”

  “Why, every kind,” said Betsy. “Every kind there is.”

  “But Betsy, nobody uses more than one kind of flavoring.”

  “Nobody ever made this recipe before,” said Betsy.

  “What’s the name of it?” asked Tib.

  “Oh, its name is … let’s see …” said Betsy.

  “Everything Pudding would be good,” said Tacy.

  “That’s right,” said Betsy. “Its name is Everything Pudding.”

  And somehow that sounded like the first line of a song, and she began to hum it. She added a second line, and Tacy added a third, and Betsy chimed in with a fourth, and so on. They hummed it together, while Tib poured in the flavorings … vanilla and lemon and almond and rose. And Tib began to hum while she stirred, and pretty soon they were all singing together. The song went like this:

  “Oh, its name is Everything Pudding,

  Its name is Everything Stew,

  Its name is Everything Cake or Pie,

  ’Most any old name will do.

  It’s better than strawberry shortcake,

  It’s better than apple pie,

  It’s better than chicken or ice cream or dumplings,

  We’ll eat it bye and bye.”

  They liked that song. And while the mixture simmered on the stove, and Tib stirred, they sang it lustily:

  “Oh, its name is Everything Pudding,

  Its name is Everything Stew…”

  And when they came to the part where they named the things it was better than, they put in all the things they liked best … peach cobbler and sauerkraut and gingerbread and potato salad … but they always left apple pie at the end of one line for the sake of the rhyme.

  They sang so loud that Lady Jane Grey began to yowl. She wasn’t a very musical cat. Then Tib who was sniffing at the mixture said, “I’m sure it’s done.” And Betsy said, “All right. We’ll eat.” She brou
ght three plates, and Tib spooned out some of the Everything Pudding (if that was what it was). And they sat down to eat it.

  Betsy took a generous mouthful.

  “It’s perfectly delicious,” she said. But she made a queer face.

  Tacy took a mouthful, and when she had swallowed it she said, “It’s lovely. But we put in just a little too much of something. Don’t you think so, Betsy?”

  “Yes,” said Betsy. “I do.”

  Tib didn’t say a thing. But before they had half finished what was on their plates, she put down her spoon and said, “I’m not going to eat any more.”

  “I don’t care for any more either,” said Betsy. “Let’s give it to Lady Jane Grey.”

  The cat had been mewing and brushing against their legs, and she purred loudly as they put the Everything Pudding down on the floor. But when she had smelled it delicately, she walked away.

  “Oh, well,” said Betsy. “We’ll just throw it out.”

  And she went out through the woodshed and scraped the Everything Something or Other into the pail.

  “Now,” said Tib, “we must clean up.” And she took charge of things, for she was good at house work.

  First she washed all the dishes, and Betsy and Tacy wiped them. Then she washed the pan and scrubbed off the stove and table. She even swept the floor. The broom was taller than Tib but she knew how to use it. She swept into every nook and corner.

  It was growing dark and the kitchen looked as clean, almost, as it had been when they began.

  The front door opened and Mr. and Mrs. Ray and Julia and Margaret came in. Mrs. Ray was smiling and looked pretty; she smelled of violet perfume.

  “Did you have a good time, darlings?” she asked.

  “Yes ma’am, we did,” said Betsy, Tacy and Tib.

  “Did you warm up your cocoa?” asked Julia, putting down her music roll.

  “Yes, we did, and we ate up the cupcakes,” Betsy answered.