Betsy-Tacy Treasury

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  “Just going on a trip,” said Betsy. “Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”

  “Sure,” said Tom. “I’d like to go to St. Paul. I went there once. Stayed at a hotel. And a man gave me a nickel. We went to St. Paul on a train though. Do you think that horse could make it?” he stared at the empty shafts.

  “This is a fine horse,” said Betsy. “And you may drive because you’re company.”

  So she and Tacy didn’t get to Milwaukee that day, after all. But they had a good time in St. Paul. They stayed in St. Paul until Julia and Katie came to tell them that there were lemonade and cookies for the children under the butternut tree.

  12

  Margaret

  HAT SUMMER Julia and Betsy went for a visit to Uncle Edward’s farm. They had a good time too. They saw the cows milked and they helped to gather eggs and they played with chicks and ducklings and they rode on the big farm wagons. But at last the time came to go home, and Betsy was glad. She wanted to tell Tacy all about it.

  Betsy’s father didn’t come to get them. Uncle Edward drove them home. They drove into town and up Hill Street and up to the very end of Hill Street. Betsy was looking everywhere for Tacy; she wanted to tell her all about the farm.

  But before she could find Tacy she saw her father. He was standing on the porch waving to them.

  “Hurry!” he called. “I’ve got a surprise.” And Uncle Edward began to laugh, and stopped the horse. And Julia and Betsy scrambled over the wheel and out of the buggy and ran up the steps of the little yellow cottage, to the porch where their father was waiting.

  He was smiling all over his face, and he hugged them and kissed them and said, “Guess what’s waiting for you inside the house.”

  Betsy thought and thought. And she knew they had a cat, so she was going to say, “A dog!” But Julia cried out, “Robert Ray Junior!”

  Her father laughed out loud at that, and he gave her a squeeze. “Guess again,” he said. And Julia said, “A little sister!” And Betsy’s father said, “That’s right. A little sister! And we can’t very well call a girl Robert, so you and Betsy have to find a name for her. You can name her all by yourselves.”

  Betsy’s father led the way into the house. For some reason he went on tiptoe. And he led the way into the parlor and into the back parlor and into the new downstairs bedroom, and there was Betsy’s mother lying in bed. And resting on her arm was a little red-faced baby. A woman wearing a white apron stood beside the bed.

  “Julia! Betsy!” cried their mother. “Come here and kiss me, and see your baby sister.”

  Julia and Betsy tiptoed toward the bed.

  The room smelled of medicine, and the woman with the white apron was strange, and Betsy felt strange, too. And she didn’t at all like the looks of her baby sister! But her mother was gazing at them with such shining eyes… Betsy couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings. So she didn’t say a word.

  Julia actually liked the baby. You could tell that she did. She “Oh-ed” and she “Ah-ed” and she said, “Oh, let me hold her. May I hold her, Papa?” And she lifted up one of the tiny hands and cried, “Isn’t she darling?”

  Betsy was disgusted with Julia. Julia never did have much sense, she thought to herself. When nobody was looking she slipped into the kitchen and out the back kitchen door.

  She had thought that the first thing she would do when she got home would be to run over to Tacy’s, but she didn’t want to go to Tacy’s now. She wanted to get away where nobody could see her, and for a very special reason. She went out past the backyard maple and through the garden and the little orchard and past the buggy shed and into the barn. Old Mag was there munching hay. And Betsy went into a corner of the barn and sat down and began to cry.

  She didn’t know why she was crying except that everything was so queer. Her mamma in bed, a strange woman around, the room smelling of medicine and that unnecessary baby.

  “It’s a perfectly unnecessary baby,” Betsy said aloud. “I’m the baby.” And the more she thought that, the harder she cried, and the farther she scrunched away into a corner of the barn.

  Bye and bye Tacy came in. Tacy hadn’t seen Betsy go into the barn. She just seemed to know that Betsy was in that barn, as Betsy had known that Tacy would come outdoors early the morning after Baby Bee’s funeral. Tacy came in, and she came straight over to the corner where Betsy was sitting, and she sat down beside her and put her arm around her. She held Betsy tight. Betsy went “sniff, sniff,” “sniff, sniff,” every two sniffs farther apart, until at last she wasn’t crying any more. She was just sitting still inside Tacy’s arm.

  Then Tacy said, “Most everybody has babies, you know.”

  “Do they?” asked Betsy.

  “Yes. Look at our house,” said Tacy. “First I was the baby, and then Paul came. And then Paul was the baby, and then Bee came. And then Bee died so now Paul’s the baby again. But I expect there’ll be another baby most any time.

  “You can’t keep on being the baby forever,” Tacy said, finishing up.

  Somehow that made Betsy feel better, to know that Tacy used to be the baby and now wasn’t the baby any more. Tacy got along all right. And if this was something that happened to everybody, having a new baby come to the house now and then, why it just had to happen to her.

  “Our baby’s funny looking,” she said in a low voice.

  “All babies are at first,” said Tacy. “They get pretty after a while.”

  “My mamma seems to think it’s pretty right now,” Betsy said.

  “Of course,” said Tacy. “Mammas always do.”

  “Julia,” said Betsy slowly, “didn’t mind at all. She liked the baby right away.”

  “Well, but she’s the oldest,” said Tacy. “The oldest is always different.”

  Betsy rubbed her fists into her eyes to dry them. She leaned back against Tacy’s arm and smelled the smell of the barn.

  All of a sudden she thought how odd it was that Tacy should be talking like this. Usually she herself did most of the talking. But now Tacy was doing the talking. She was trying to comfort Betsy just as Betsy had comforted her after little Bee died. And she had comforted her. All the sore hurt feeling was gone.

  “I’ll help you wheel that baby out in the carriage,” Tacy said. “We’ll wheel her to the chocolate-colored house.”

  Betsy sat up happily. “That will be fun,” she said. “And my papa said that Julia and I could name her.”

  “Name the baby?” cried Tacy.

  “That’s what he said,” said Betsy proudly.

  “Why, I never named a baby in my life!” said Tacy. “What will you name her?” she asked.

  Betsy thought a moment. “Rosy would be a nice name,” she said. “Come on, let’s find Papa and tell him.”

  So Betsy and Tacy took hold of hands and skipped down to the house.

  Mr. Ray was looking for Betsy. “I was wondering where you had gone to,” he said. “Come on in, we’ve got to name the baby.”

  “Tacy and I have thought of a name. It’s Rosy,” Betsy said.

  “Rosy!” said Betsy’s father. “Rosy! It’s certainly a beautiful name.”

  And later he and Betsy and Julia sat down in the kitchen. They drew their chairs into a circle and talked importantly in whispers. But the baby wasn’t named Rosy after all. For Julia wanted to call her Ginivra.

  Betsy wouldn’t have Ginivra, and Julia wouldn’t have Rosy. Julia wouldn’t have Rosy Ginivra, and Betsy wouldn’t have Ginivra Rosy.

  “See here,” said Betsy’s father. “How about Margaret?”

  Betsy liked Margaret better than Rosy. Julia liked Margaret better than Ginivra. They all thought that Margaret was a beautiful name. So they named the baby Margaret.

  And Tacy was right about the baby getting pretty. She grew prettier every day.

  13

  Mrs. Muller Comes to Call

  OON AFTER Baby Margaret was born, two things happened to Betsy and Tacy. The first one was: they climbed the Big Hill,
all the way to the white house which stood on the top. The second one was:… well, that comes after the first.

  It was a late summer day. Goldenrod and asters were coloring the hill. The days were growing short, the birds were gathering in flocks, and there was a feeling in the air that school would be starting soon.

  Betsy and Tacy were sitting in the backyard maple, and suddenly Betsy said, “Let’s climb the Big Hill, all the way to the top.”

  “Let’s,” Tacy said.

  So they ran and asked their mothers.

  “All right,” said Betsy’s mother. “But you’d better take a picnic.”

  “All right,” said Tacy’s mother. “What a good thing it is that I was just baking a cake!”

  So they took along a picnic. And this was the first time that they had taken a picnic in a basket. They packed their picnic in a brown wicker basket, and they both took hold of the handle, and they climbed the Big Hill.

  They climbed to the ridge where wild roses grew in June. They had gone that far before. They passed the tree where they had left the egg for Bee in a nest at the very top. They passed the thorn apple tree where they had planned to make a house. There was a pasture on one side, and a cow and a calf were in that pasture; on the other side the country was open and free. They turned to look back, there, but they kept on climbing. They climbed and they climbed, and they came to the top of the hill.

  The land was as flat as a plate, and there were oak trees scattered about, and the white house stood there … the one the sun came up behind in the morning. They went to the white house and they peeked all around it. They almost expected to find the sun in a pocket behind that house. But there was only a deep ravine, with the sound of water gurgling, and another hill beyond.

  “Goodness!” said Betsy. “The world is big.”

  They had thought they would be satisfied when once they had climbed the Big Hill. But now they wanted to go down in the ravine, and see this water which sounded so merry, and climb the next hill.

  “We will some day, too,” Betsy said.

  But they thought that for one day they had done enough. So they sat down on the rim of the Big Hill and ate their lunch.

  They sat on the rim overlooking Hill Street. And they could look down, along the road they had come, into the maples of Hill Street and down on the roofs of their homes. They could see the trees in the vacant lot. They could see the tower of the chocolate-colored house. They could see the red brick schoolhouse where they went to school.

  And they could see farther than that for they could see down to Front Street, where Tacy’s father had his office and Betsy’s father his store. They could see the towering chimneys of the Big Mill where the whistles blew for morning, noon and night. They could see Page Park with the white fence around it. And beyond that, down in the valley, they could see a silver ribbon. They knew that was the river.

  “Mercy!” said Tacy. “There are lots of places to go.”

  They ate their sandwiches and the cake Tacy’s mother had made and started down the hill.

  And when they reached Betsy’s house a great surprise awaited them. Betsy’s mother was sitting on the porch, rocking the baby. She was laughing, and she looked very young and pretty, with her red hair (like Tacy’s) flying around her face and the baby in her arms.

  “You two little rascals, come here!” she said.

  Betsy and Tacy came there.

  “Do you remember the day I let you take my cardcase?” Betsy’s mother asked.

  Betsy and Tacy nodded. Of course they remembered.

  “Well, what do you mean by leaving my cards at strange houses?”

  “Strange houses?” asked Betsy.

  “The houses of people we don’t know.”

  As Betsy and Tacy did not answer, she went on: “You must have left a card at that big new house on the corner of Pleasant Street.”

  “Why, yes,” said Betsy. “We did.” But she wondered how her mother knew. She and Tacy had kept that visit a secret.

  “The people had gone away,” Tacy said. But she didn’t say where.

  “Well, here is what happened,” said Mrs. Ray, still laughing. And Julia and Katie, who were standing by the porch, laughed too.

  “This afternoon I was sitting here on the porch, and a carriage drove up. A lady got out, and she came up the steps of the porch and said, ‘Mrs. Ray? I am Mrs. Muller. It was so kind of you to call.’ And then she explained that she and her husband had moved here from Milwaukee. They had bought that house and settled it, she said, and then they had gone back to Milwaukee. But now they have come here to stay and get their little girl in school.”

  “Their little girl!” cried Betsy and Tacy together. “Is there a little girl?”

  “Of course. Didn’t I tell you that the little girl was with her? Julia and Katie entertained her, for I couldn’t find you two. But she’s just about your age.”

  “What’s she like?” asked Betsy and Tacy breathlessly.

  “Oh, she’s darling,” said Julia and Katie. “She’s perfectly sweet.”

  “She has little yellow curls,” said Julia. “Short ones. Like this.”

  “And big blue eyes,” said Katie.

  “She wore the prettiest dress,” said Julia. “White lace with bows of blue ribbon all over.”

  “And she dances,” said Katie. “She danced for us. All by herself.”

  Betsy and Tacy looked at each other.

  “What’s her name?” asked Betsy.

  “Her name is Tib.” “It’s short for Thelma.” Julia and Katie explained.

  Betsy and Tacy didn’t say a word. They started down Hill Street. “Do you suppose we’ll like her?” they asked … but silently. Down in their hearts they thought they wouldn’t.

  They took hold of hands when they reached the vacant lot. They walked as though they were walking into danger. The tall trees and the bushes and the brush seemed to wait in breathless excitement as Betsy and Tacy approached the chocolate-colored house.

  14

  Tib

  HEY APPROACHED the chocolate-colored house from the rear for it faced on Pleasant Street. On the back lawn was an oak tree which stood on a small knoll. On the knoll they saw what looked like a clothes pin, standing prongs up. It was a little girl standing on her head.

  She righted herself when they came near and stood on her bare feet. She was dainty and small. Her arms, legs and face were tanned, which made her blue eyes look even bluer than they were and her short fluff of yellow hair look very yellow. She stared at them silently out of her round blue eyes.

  “What were you doing?” asked Betsy.

  “Standing on my head.”

  “What were you doing that for?”

  “I was practicing.”

  “It must be hard,” said Betsy.

  “Oh, no, it isn’t.” The little girl looked surprised.

  Tacy didn’t say a word. She was bashful.

  Betsy stared back at the little girl. It was certainly Tib. “But my sister said you had a white lace dress on,” she said at last.

  “I took it off when I came home,” Tib answered. “I’m not allowed to play in my best dress.”

  “Neither am I,” said Betsy. “Neither is Tacy. I wish we could see your dress, though,” she added after a moment.

  “Do you?” asked Tib, looking surprised again. “I’ll show it to you.”

  She led the way into the chocolate-colored house.

  They went in by the back door. “Wipe your feet,” said Tib, pausing on the doormat. The kitchen was so clean … it shone like a polished pan. It smelled good, of something baking. A hired girl was standing by the stove.

  There was a swinging door which led into the dining room and another door which led into a pantry full of glittery china and glass. The third door led up some narrow stairs and up these they followed Tib.

  Upstairs was a long hall with doors admitting to the bedrooms. Tib took them into one of these, and hanging in a closet was the white lace dre
ss.

  “It’s a beautiful dress,” said Betsy.

  Tacy touched one of the pale blue satin bows.

  Tib led them down the hall. There were front stairs as well as back stairs! They went down the front stairs, and just as the steps turned at a little landing, they came in view of the pane of colored glass. The afternoon sunlight, streaming through it, turned it to ruby red.

  “Tacy and I like that colored glass,” said Betsy.

  “What colored glass?” asked Tib.

  “That colored glass over your door.”

  “Do you. Why?” asked Tib. She looked at it as though she had never noticed it before.

  “We like your tower too,” said Betsy.

  “What tower?” asked Tib. “Do you mean the round room? That’s our front parlor.”

  They crossed the hall and entered it.

  It was round and beautiful. Hanging over the piano was a picture of an old man giving a little girl a music lesson. The chairs and sofa were covered with blue velvet and there was a bamboo table draped with a blue silk scarf. The table held two little china dolls, a shepherd and a shepherdess.

  Tib led them through blue velvet curtains into the back parlor. This had a window seat from which you could see the red brick schoolhouse. A lady sat there sewing. She was short and chunky and had yellow hair like Tib’s and earrings in her ears.

  “Is this the little Ray girl?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” answered Betsy. “I’m Betsy and this is Tacy.”

  Tacy held her head down and covered her face with her curls.

  “Well, I hope you children will all be good friends,” Tib’s mother said, smiling.

  “Mamma,” said Tib. “May we have some coffee cake?”

  “Yes,” said the lady. “Matilda will give you some. But eat it out on the knoll.”

  So Matilda—she was the hired girl—gave them some coffee cake. It was hot out of the oven. And they sat down to eat it on the knoll.