Betsy-Tacy Treasury

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  Rushing ahead of Tib the dog reached the gate first. He barked so angrily that Tib did not dare to touch the latch.

  “Climb!” she cried, heading for the fence at the left of the gate. She was carrying the basket and she threw it over. Then she caught at the crosswise bar and pulled herself up.

  Betsy and Tacy tried to do the same. They did it! They got to the top with the dog at their heels and slid down the outer side. But Betsy’s dress and petticoats caught on the spikes. She hung like a scarecrow.

  Tacy and Tib would have rescued her in time but they did not have to try. The man who had been chopping wood ran across the street. He lifted her down in a twinkling and set her on the ground. Tacy and Tib helped to smooth down her skirts. They were not too badly torn.

  “Th-th-thank you!” said Betsy.

  “You’re welcome. Don’t mention it,” the young man answered. His speech had a foreign twist but they could understand him. He had thick black hair like a cap, and a dark merry face.

  “What are you three little girls doing here?” he asked.

  “We’re out for votes,” said Tib.

  “Votes? For what?”

  “For queen,” said Tib. She found the basket, pulled out the list and handed it to him.

  The young man looked perplexed. He glanced at the paper.

  “Tib?” he said. “Which one is Tib?”

  “I am,” said Tib, looking at him with a smile.

  “And is one of you Bett-see? And one Ta-cee?” he asked.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  Striding across the narrow street, he called loudly, “Naifi!” He turned back, smiling. “I am Naifi’s father,” he said. “And I am very glad to meet the three little girls who were so kind to her.”

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib were gladder than he was.

  A little girl ran out of the house. At first they did not think it was Naifi, for she wore quite an ordinary short dress like their own and ordinary shoes and stockings. But she had Naifi’s earrings, and her long dancing braids, and her dancing eyes, and her dimples.

  Naifi stood smiling at them, and they at her. Her father had never stopped smiling. The place where they stood in the road was warm with smiles.

  Naifi’s father spoke first in Syrian, then in English. “These are your friends, my heart, my eyes?” he ended.

  Naifi answered in Syrian.

  “Speak English,” he said. “You know you can speak it a little. And you are learning fast.

  “She is now a little American girl,” he said to Betsy, Tacy, and Tib. “She does not wear any more the old country clothes to be teased by bad boys. If she had a mother, she might have changed them quicker. But I am only a father. I am stupid. When her mother died, I came here from Syria and left Naifi behind. I and my father came, and Naifi stayed with my mother. But this year when we earned money enough, we sent for them.”

  Pushing Naifi gently he said, “Take your friends inside to your grandmother, my little love, my eyes.”

  Betsy whispered to Tacy, ‘“My eyes!’ Isn’t that a funny pet name?”

  “Well,” said Tacy thoughtfully, “there is nothing more important than your eyes. And I guess that’s what he means when he gives that pet name to Naifi.”

  They followed Naifi across the narrow porch and entered the parlor of her house. It had chairs, a table, a carpet, and a lamp hanging by chains from the ceiling. It was almost like any other parlor. And yet not quite.

  A low bench with pillows on it ran around the walls. And a bony old man, wearing a round red cap with a tassel, sat on the floor, cross-legged, smoking a pipe. It was a curious looking pipe. It stood on the floor, more than a foot high; a long tube led away from it, ending in the old man’s mouth.

  “That is a narghile,” said Naifi’s father, noticing their interest. “He draws the smoke through water, and it makes the sound you hear. You Americans call it a hubble-bubble pipe.”

  It was, in fact, making a sound like hubble bubble.

  “He is Naifi’s grandfather,” Naifi’s father said.

  The old man took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “How you do?” and smiled. He had strong white teeth, as though he were not old at all.

  Naifi led them on to the kitchen which was just behind the parlor. And here an old lady was sitting on the floor! She was sitting in front of a hollowed-out block of marble in which she was pounding something with a mallet.

  “She is making kibbee,” explained Naifi’s father. “That is meat she is pounding; it is good lean lamb. She is Naifi’s grandmother,” he said.

  He spoke to the grandmother in Syrian, and she got to her feet. She was a tiny old lady with a brown withered face like a nut. She wore earrings, and the same sort of long full-skirted dress that Naifi had worn the first time they saw her. She could not say even “How you do?” in English, but she made them welcome with excited gestures.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib looked with all their eyes.

  Naifi led them out of the kitchen into the sunny back yard. The goat was tethered there.

  “Goat!” said Naifi. “Goat! Goat!”

  She laughed, and they all laughed, remembering the English lesson. The goat looked at them with wise, mischievous eyes. He seemed to remember he had stolen their basket.

  The grandmother came hurrying out with a glass jar in her hand. She opened it and passed it about. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib helped themselves to raisins.

  “Raisin,” said Naifi, holding one aloft.

  Then the grandfather appeared. Standing, he was even more amazing than sitting, for he was very tall. He wore full trousers, gathered at the ankles, and he had not doffed his red be-tasseled cap. He shouted loudly, and the grandmother ran into the house. She came back with a second glass jar which she opened and passed. This one was full of dried figs.

  “Figs,” said Naifi proudly, smiling.

  The grandfather looked pleased, and so did the grandmother. So did Naifi’s father who joined them, and so did Naifi. When they had finished eating raisins and figs Naifi’s father said, “Now tell me about this paper you have brought. What is it you want?”

  Betsy explained about the election, and he listened seriously.

  “I do not think,” he said, “that queens are good to have. But Tib is my Naifi’s friend. If she wants my vote, here it is.”

  Taking the pencil he wrote his name carefully. He wrote from right to left.

  He explained the matter in Syrian to the grandfather, the grandmother and Naifi. And the grandfather signed the list; the grandmother signed the list; and Naifi signed the list. They all wrote from right to left.

  Afterward Naifi’s father talked a long time in Syrian. He talked in a loud harsh voice, but not an angry one, waving his arms. The grandfather, the grandmother, and Naifi all talked too. All of them waved their arms and acted excited.

  There was a pause; then Naifi’s father smiled at Betsy, Tacy, and Tib and said in English, “Naifi will take you to all our friends and neighbors. All of them will sign … those who can write. You three little girls were kind to my little girl, and the Syrians will sign your paper.”

  It was an adventure, getting the votes. With Naifi guiding them, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib went to every one of the little Syrian houses. They went into parlors, kitchens, gardens. They saw people drinking coffee, poured from long-handled copper pots into tiny cups. They saw women baking flat round loaves of bread such as Naifi had eaten the day they picnicked together, and other women making embroidery, and men playing cards. They saw a boy playing a long reed flute … a munjaira, Naifi said it was. They saw everything there was to be seen and they met everyone and everyone signed. Most of them wrote from right to left.

  “I wonder why they write from right to left,” said Tib.

  “That is Arabic writing,” one of the Syrians explained. “The Syrian language is Arabic.”

  Most of them spoke and understood English, but some of them did not. There was much loud harsh talk, but now Betsy and Tacy and Tib understood
that that was just the sound of the Syrian language. There was much excited gesturing, stamping, and running about, but now they understood that that was only the Syrian way.

  The houses were crowded, for sometimes more than one family lived in a house. There were many children in every family too. The paper was soon filled with names. They had to use the extra paper. Betsy was glad she had brought it.

  At last all the people in the settlement had signed. It was time to go home.

  Betsy and Tacy and Tib were ready to start. They had said good-by to Naifi’s tall grandfather and her tiny wrinkled grandmother, to her merry father with his black hair like a cap, to Naifi and the goat. They had said “thank you” for the raisins and figs and were just stepping off the porch when they heard cries up the street.

  Looking in that direction they saw Syrian children scrambling out of the road. They saw a cloud of dust and heard the thud of hoofs. A team of glossy white horses flashed into view. They were driven by a coachman who wore a plug hat like a coachman in a parade. A glittering open carriage swayed along the narrow street. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib glimpsed a white beard … a black veil. Here were Mr. Meecham and his daughter!

  The carriage stopped at Mr. Meecham’s gate, and the coachman sprang down. He unlatched the gate and was about to ascend to his seat when Tib darted forward.

  “Please, Mr. Meecham,” she said, “will you sign my petition so I can be queen?”

  “Eh? What?” asked Mr. Meecham. He sounded as though he could not believe his ears.

  His bearded face was stern and scornful. His daughter did not lift her veil, but she leaned forward curiously.

  Tib stood in the road beside the carriage, the sun on her yellow curls.

  “I want to be queen,” she said, handing him the paper.

  Mr. Meecham read the petition. He looked at Tib, and at Betsy and Tacy; and above the snowy Niagara of his beard a smile began to form.

  Mr. Meecham took out a gold pencil.

  “I’ll sign with the greatest of pleasure,” he said.

  And he signed. And so did his daughter. And so did his coachman.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib climbed the hill in a glow of satisfaction.

  “Wasn’t it lovely!” Betsy sighed.

  “Wasn’t it nice!” said Tacy.

  “I like Little Syria,” said Tib. “I always said I…”

  She stopped without finishing her sentence. She whirled around and looked toward the valley.

  “Where,” she demanded, “was Old Bushara?”

  Where, indeed!

  They looked down on the thirteen rooftops over which the sun of afternoon was extending long golden arms. They had been in every one of those thirteen little houses and had met with nothing but gaiety and kindness. They had not seen a sign of Old Bushara and his knife.

  “He must live in a den somewhere,” said Betsy.

  “I wonder where,” said Tacy, looking behind her.

  “He must have been out peddling,” said Tib.

  “That’s what most of the Syrians do for a living. They go out with horses and buggies or take satchels on their backs.”

  Of course that was where he was!

  “Oh well,” said Tib, “we have votes enough already.”

  “Votes enough!” said Betsy. “If you’re not queen, I’d like to know the reason why.”

  “Won’t Julia and Katie be mad!” said Tacy.

  They climbed triumphantly, thinking how mad Julia and Katie would be.

  9

  The Quarrel Again

  ULIA AND KATIE were mad all right.

  It was now that the quarrel began to get so serious that all of them were sorry it had started. They wanted to end it, but they didn’t know how. It was just as if the five of them were piled in a cart which was rattling down Hill Street lickety split, and no one could stop it. It was the worst quarrel they had ever had, and they never had another like it.

  When Betsy, Tacy, and Tib came down the Big Hill, Julia and Katie were still sitting on the Rays’ side lawn, working on their decorations. They had worked all day, just stopping for dinner. They were tired, but they looked happy.

  They had decided not to have a Maypole since it wasn’t May any more, but they were going to decorate one of the side lawn maples. They were going to twist it with green and pink streamers up to the lowest branch, and from there they were going to stretch ribbons and garlands to either side of the throne. Of course they were not putting up these decorations yet, for fear it might rain before the celebration, but they had them ready.

  Tired and triumphant, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib came down through the orchard and kitchen garden. When they saw the beautiful streamers piled around Julia and Katie, they felt queer for a moment.

  Tib said quickly, “We’ve got the most votes. Let’s give in. I can wear my accordion-pleated dress and be a flower girl.”

  Tacy looked at Betsy, but Betsy got stubborn sometimes. And when Betsy got stubborn, Tacy was stubborn too because she didn’t like to go back on Betsy.

  “No, sir,” Betsy said.

  “We planned it first,” said Tacy.

  They walked down the side lawn where Julia and Katie were sitting.

  “Lookee here, lookee here, lookee here,” they cried, waving their petition.

  Julia and Julia and Katie looked up and amazement spread over their faces. They could see at once that the petition had two pages. They could see that it was black with names.

  “Where have you been?” asked Katie sharply.

  “Don’t you wish you knew!”

  “There aren’t that many Ekstroms up on the Big Hill,” Julia cried.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib danced about, acting exasperating.

  But they couldn’t resist telling where they had been, so in just a minute they shouted, “We’ve been to Little Syria, that’s where!”

  “You haven’t!” cried Julia and Katie in dazed unbelief.

  “How did you get there?”

  “We walked there.”

  “But you’re not allowed…”

  “No one ever told us not to. And it’s not on the other side of Lincoln Park either. So don’t say it is.”

  Julia and Katie did not try to say it was.

  They looked at each other, and their great disappointment seemed to fill the air. But Katie spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “There’s no need to fight. We’ll count votes like we said we would. Where’s our list, Julia?”

  They got out the list and Betsy, Tacy, and Tib flung their list down beside it. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib knew that they had the most votes, but they didn’t enjoy having them as much as they had expected.

  Julia and Katie began grimly to read.

  In a moment anger flared out like a flame from gray ashes.

  “What’s this?” cried Julia.

  “What under the sun!” cried Katie. “You don’t expect us to count this gibberish, I hope.”

  “What gibberish?” demanded Betsy.

  “This!”

  Julia and Katie pointed with trembling furious fingers to that writing which ran from right to left.

  “It’s all right,” said Betsy. “It’s Arabic.”

  “Arabic!” cried Julia and Katie.

  “You might have just scrawled it yourselves for all we know,” said Julia.

  “You might have let a chicken run over the paper,” said Katie.

  “Well, we didn’t!” said Betsy indignantly. “Every single one is a name.”

  “Every single one of what?” asked Julia.

  When Betsy looked she wasn’t sure herself. You couldn’t tell where one word stopped and another began. Only Mr. Meecham’s signature, and his daughter’s, and his coachman’s looked right.

  “I know how you can count it,” said Tib. “There were thirteen houses down there, and about ten people in a family…”

  “As if we could count that way!” scoffed Katie.

  “No, sir! You have to throw out these names that aren’t in English.
”

  “We won’t!”

  “You must!”

  “We won’t!”

  “You’ve got to!”

  “We won’t!”

  Their voices were so loud now that Margaret came scrambling up the terrace from the Riverses’ lawn where she had been playing with the Rivers children. The Rivers children came too; and Paul and Freddie who had been playing on the Kellys’ lawn; and Paul’s dog and some other dogs and children.

  The quarrel began to get bad. In a moment the Rays’ side lawn looked as though a cyclone had struck it. Arms and legs were flying in all directions, and lists were flying, and pink and green streamers were flying. Margaret was shouting and Paul’s dog was barking.

  Mrs. Ray came to the kitchen door.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” she asked.

  “They won’t count our Arabic votes!” cried Betsy, leaping frantically about.

  “Your what?”

  “Our Arabic votes that we got in Little Syria.”

  “In Little Syria!” said Mrs. Ray. Her tone was so astounded that Betsy, Tacy, and Tib shrank into silence. Tacy sniffed back her tears and looked at Betsy. Tib looked at Betsy too. After all, this was Betsy’s mother, standing so tall and stern.

  “Have you three been to Little Syria?” asked Mrs. Ray.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Betsy.

  “Who said you could go there?”

  “Nobody. But nobody said we couldn’t.”

  “Papa told you not to go beyond Lincoln Park.”

  “This isn’t beyond Lincoln Park,” said Betsy. “This is in the other direction.”

  Mrs. Ray looked nonplussed. But she was never nonplussed long. She spoke with vigor.

  “Whether or not you did wrong to go to Little Syria can be decided later. But this quarreling must be stopped right now. Papa suggested a plan and you all agreed to it. You all agreed that the one who got the most votes should be queen. And you promised too that the losers would be good sports. So count your votes and let’s decide the matter.”

  “But that’s what we’ve been trying to do,” cried Julia desperately.

  “We can’t read the names,” said Katie. “Look at the writing, Mrs. Ray!”