Betsy-Tacy Treasury

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  She thrust the list with its strange scratchings into Mrs. Ray’s hands.

  “See?” said Julia. “They ought not to be allowed to count them.”

  “We will too count them!” shouted Betsy, Tacy, and Tib.

  “You won’t!”

  “We will!”

  “You won’t!”

  “We will!”

  Julia burst out in a shaking voice, “Never mind! I wish I’d never thought about being a queen. Everything’s spoiled! Everything! Everything!”

  Her voice broke, and she bent to pick up streamers in order to conceal her quivering lips. She looked ready to cry, but Julia never cried, not even when she was spanked.

  She didn’t cry now, but Tib did. Tib cried good and hard.

  “I wish I’d never thought about it too,” wailed Tib.

  Mrs. Ray knew how to be cross when children were naughty. But she wasn’t cross now. She spoke gently.

  “I won’t try to settle this,” she said. “It was Papa’s plan. And he’ll be at his lodge meeting tonight and won’t be home until late. You children come over in the morning and we’ll straighten everything out. Julia, Betsy, it’s time to clean up for supper.”

  Katie and Tacy went home, but they didn’t go together. Katie stalked ahead, and Tacy went behind with her face in her sleeve. Tib ran down the hill and her tears ran faster than her feet. All the children and dogs went home.

  Julia and Betsy went into the house, with Margaret following them. Margaret stared from one to the other with her round, black-lashed eyes. Margaret had never seen such a quarrel before. She was pretty surprised.

  Betsy kept remembering how Julia had looked when she said, “Everything’s spoiled! Everything! Everything!” Betsy didn’t want to remember it. She couldn’t help it.

  She glanced guiltily toward Julia now, but Julia looked poised and icy. She had washed her face and combed her hair, and was reading a book. She didn’t look at Betsy or speak to her. She acted as though Betsy weren’t there.

  Betsy washed her face and combed her hair too. She crossed her braids in back and tied the ribbons the best she could. (Usually Julia tied them.) She asked Margaret if she didn’t want to play with blocks. And Margaret said she did. So Betsy made her a big block house and laughed and made jokes and looked at Julia now and then. But Julia did not look their way at all.

  They had supper without their father, and that seemed odd. Julia talked to her mother in a cool grown-up way. Betsy talked to her too, and both of them talked to Margaret. But they didn’t talk to each other.

  When the games started in the street Julia didn’t go outdoors. She kept on reading her book. Betsy went out, but the games weren’t any fun. They weren’t any fun at all that night.

  “How’s Katie?” asked Betsy. For Katie wasn’t there. Neither was Tib.

  “Bad,” said Tacy. “She feels pretty bad.”

  “So does Julia,” said Betsy. After a moment she said, “They ought to feel bad too. Not wanting to count our votes, after that long trip we took and everything.”

  “Um-hum,” said Tacy. She sounded doubtful.

  “I don’t like to have Katie feel quite so bad though,” she said. “She’s pretty good to me sometimes.”

  “Julia’s all right too,” said Betsy.

  She knew that Tacy was hoping she would say, “Let’s give in.” But she couldn’t quite say it. Betsy was stubborn sometimes.

  When she went into the house she glanced at Julia, but Julia didn’t even look up. She kept on reading her book.

  Their mother said it was bedtime and Julia and Betsy went upstairs. They undressed and put on their night gowns in silence. They said their prayers and climbed into bed and lay there without speaking.

  Mrs. Ray came upstairs to tuck them in. She always did. She sat down beside them, looking worried.

  “In this family,” she said, “we have a rule. We never go to sleep angry. Sometimes during the day we get angry and do wrong things and say things we don’t mean. Everyone does. But before we go to sleep we always say we are sorry. We always make up. Always.”

  After a moment Julia said stiffly, “I’m sorry, Betsy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Betsy answered.

  They kissed each other.

  Their mother looked closely into their faces. She didn’t seem satisfied. Maybe she thought they hadn’t sounded sorry; at least, not sorry enough. But presently she leaned down and kissed them, first Julia and then Betsy. She took the lamp and went downstairs.

  “Good night,” she called.

  “Good night,” called Julia and Betsy.

  But they didn’t go to sleep.

  The street lamp at the corner made a glow on the sloping walls. Sweet summer smells came in the open window with the loving chirping of birds. Betsy felt terrible. She could not forget that look on Julia’s face when she had said, “Everything’s spoiled.” First she would remember how happy Julia had looked with her pink and green streamers piled around her; and then she would remember her pale strained face when she said, “Everything’s spoiled.”

  Betsy lay still and thought about Julia. She thought how proud she was of her when she sang, and played, and gave her recitations. Julia was different from all the other children. There was nobody like her.

  She thought how good Julia was to her sometimes. How she tied her hair ribbons. How she helped her with arithmetic. How she never would let anybody pick on her.

  “You leave my little sister alone!” Julia always said.

  She thought of the fun they had together when they went out on family picnics. She and Julia always sat in the back seat of the surrey and played games. She thought what fun they had on vacations at Uncle Edward’s farm. Even when Julia was playing with Katie, and Betsy was playing with Tacy and Tib, they had fun. The quarrels had been fun up to now.

  Betsy began to cry, but softly, so that Julia would not hear her. Julia on her side of the bed had not moved or stirred. Betsy was determined that Julia should not hear her cry. She cried too easily anyhow, and Julia never cried. Betsy pressed her fist against her mouth, but tears trickled down her cheeks and down her chin and even down her neck inside the collar of her night gown.

  Then from the other side of the bed she heard a sound. It was a sob, a perfectly gigantic sob.

  “Betsy!” cried Julia, and she came rolling over and hugged Betsy tight. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Betsy wept.

  “I don’t want to be queen,” Julia sobbed. “I want Tib to be queen.”

  “But Tib doesn’t want to be queen,” wept Betsy. “And Tacy doesn’t want her to be queen, if it makes you and Katie feel bad. I’m the mean one. I’m the stubborn one.”

  “I’m meaner than you are,” said Julia. “I always was.”

  She cried so that her tears ran down Betsy’s face. Their wet cheeks pressed together.

  “I’ve been feeling terrible,” said Julia, “about your going down to Little Syria. It was mean of us to go to that Ice Cream Social and get so many votes. Why, I’m your big sister. I’m supposed to take care of you. And here I practically drove you down to Little Syria. You might have been killed. That awful place…”

  Betsy sat bolt upright.

  “Why, Julia!” she cried. “It isn’t awful at all. It’s a lovely place.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Julia, blowing her nose.

  “I mean just what I say. The people gave us raisins and figs. They’re lovely people.”

  Julia gave Betsy her handkerchief, and Betsy blew her nose too. They both stopped crying, and Betsy told Julia all about the trip to Little Syria.

  They talked and talked, but in whispers for they weren’t supposed to be talking. They were supposed to be asleep. Betsy told her about the hubble-bubble pipe, the red cap with a tassel, the kibbee, the goat. Julia was fascinated.

  They talked so late that their father came home from his lodge meeting. They heard their mother talking with him; she was telling him about the
quarrel. They heard their mother come upstairs to tuck in Margaret who slept in the back bedroom. She looked in on them too, but they pretended they were asleep. After that the house was very quiet.

  “It’s the latest we’ve ever been awake,” said Julia.

  “It’s tomorrow, I imagine,” Betsy said.

  “I suppose,” said Julia, “we’d better go to sleep.”

  And they kissed each other good night.

  Julia rolled over, and Betsy tucked in cozily behind her. They didn’t go to sleep right away, but they didn’t talk any more.

  Betsy felt happy, delicious, emptied of trouble. Only one small perplexity remained.

  If Julia wouldn’t be queen, and Tib wouldn’t be queen, who would be queen?

  “We just have to use those streamers,” Betsy thought as she slipped through a gray mist into sleep.

  10

  A Princess

  N THE MORNING they were happy. They smiled at each other as they washed and dressed. Julia tied Betsy’s hair ribbons. Then she hurried down to the kitchen.

  “Mamma,” she said. “I want Tib to be queen. I really mean it. I’ve told Betsy so.”

  Betsy was close behind her.

  “No, sir,” she said. “Julia’s going to be queen. Tacy and Tib and I are going to be flower girls.”

  Mrs. Ray was making coffee. She put the coffee pot down and put her arms around them; they had a big hug. Mr. Ray was shaving at the kitchen basin. He looked around, with his face covered with lather, and smiled broadly.

  “Katie and Tacy and Tib are out on the hitching block,” he said. “Go and ask them what they have to say about all this. Then bring them in here because I have something to say. I have plenty to say.”

  Betsy wondered whether it concerned Little Syria. And Julia, evidently, had the same thought.

  “It really wasn’t Betsy’s fault about Little Syria, Papa,” she said. “Katie and I got so many votes at that Ice Cream Social that Betsy and Tacy and Tib just had to do something to catch up. And she says it’s a very nice place. The people were lovely to them.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Ray, “I heard quite a lot about Little Syria yesterday. Mr. Meecham and his daughter came into the store to buy shoes.”

  “That’s where they were coming from when we saw them!” Betsy thought. She wished her father would say more, but he didn’t. Her mother spoke briskly.

  “Run out to see what the children want,” she said. “Then bring them in here, so Papa can have his say.”

  Julia and Betsy ran out.

  Katie was the first one off the hitching block.

  “Julia,” she said, “let’s let Tib be queen. I sort of worried last night, thinking about those kids going down to Little Syria all alone.”

  Tib interrupted.

  “But I’ve decided not to be queen,” she said. “I want Julia to be queen.”

  “I’d just as soon let Julia be queen. Wouldn’t you, Betsy?” asked Tacy.

  “Yes, I would,” said Betsy. “I was coming out to tell you.”

  “Well, I won’t be!” said Julia. “I feel just as Katie does. I think Tib ought to be queen.”

  At the same moment all of them saw how funny it was to be talking that way, and they all began to laugh.

  “Come in the house a minute,” Julia said. “Papa has something he wants to say to us. But I warn you right now that I will not be queen.”

  “And neither will I,” said Tib.

  They marched into the kitchen where the coffee was bubbling, and Mrs. Ray was pouring glasses of milk and stirring oatmeal and turning sausage and making toast all at the same time. Mr. Ray had finished shaving. He had put on his collar and tie, and he looked nice. He was tying Margaret’s napkin around her neck.

  The five little girls came in, laughing.

  “We’re still fighting, Papa,” said Julia. “But now it’s not about being queen. It’s about not being queen.”

  “Well, for Pete’s sake!” said Mr. Ray.

  “You see,” said Julia, “I won’t be queen…”

  “And neither will I,” said Tib.

  “No matter how many votes I have,” continued Julia. “And I’m sure I don’t have enough.”

  “But we’ll throw out the Arabic votes,” said Betsy.

  “No you won’t!” said Julia. “Syrian votes are just as good as any other votes.”

  “Where are their wings?” asked Mrs. Ray gaily. “Feel for their wings, Margaret. They’re white feathery things and they crop out near shoulders.”

  Margaret jumped up and started feeling for wings. Everyone started feeling for wings, and it tickled, and things grew lively.

  “Let’s have the coronation soon,” said Mrs. Ray, “while we’re feeling so happy.”

  “And while the weather’s so fine,” said Mr. Ray.

  “No telling how long it will last,” said Mrs. Ray.

  “The fine weather?” asked Mr. Ray, winking at her.

  Julia and Katie, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib were bewildered by this talk.

  “But Papa!” cried Julia. “How can we have a coronation without a queen?”

  “That’s what I have to talk to you about,” said Mr. Ray. He sat down and crossed his legs and looked from one to another. “I heard something yesterday,” he said, “that will interest you very much.” He paused, then spoke impressively:

  “There’s a real princess in town.”

  “A real princess!” came an astonished chorus.

  “A real princess,” Mr. Ray repeated.

  “Someone from the old country?” asked Tib.

  “Someone from the old country.”

  “Is she of the blood royal?” asked Betsy.

  “She’s of the blood royal.”

  “Is she down at the Melborn Hotel?” asked Julia.

  “No. She isn’t. But she’s here in Deep Valley. How would you like to go to see her and ask her to be queen?”

  “Oh, we’d like it! We’d like it!” The kitchen resounded.

  “Do you suppose she’ll consent?” asked Julia.

  “Where is she?” asked Katie.

  “You never could guess, so I’ll tell you. She’s in Little Syria. Imagine,” he said to Betsy, Tacy, and Tib, “having a princess right under your nose and not recognizing her!”

  “Oh, I’m sure we didn’t see her, Papa,” cried Betsy. And Tacy and Tib nodded vigorous agreement.

  “Did you see the old man called Old Bushara?”

  “No, we didn’t. He was out peddling or something.”

  “Well, this girl is Old Bushara’s granddaughter.”

  Old Bushara’s granddaughter!

  “And she’s not away peddling, for Mr. Meecham saw her yesterday. Pour yourself some coffee, Jule,” he said to Mrs. Ray, “and sit down while I’m telling the story.

  “Mr. Meecham and I,” he began, “started talking about his neighbors. He’s interested in them, and no wonder. They come from a very interesting country. You can read about their country in the Bible. The Deep Valley Syrians are Christians, but most Syrians are Mohammedans. Syria is under the control of the Turks, and the Turks are Mohammedans too. A good many of the Christian Syrians are coming to America these days. And they come for much the same reason that our Pilgrim fathers came. They want to be free from oppression and religious persecution. We ought to honor them for it.

  “Most of them come from the Lebanon district,” Mr. Ray went on. “You’ve heard about Lebanon, I’m sure. King Solomon’s temple was built from the cedars of Lebanon. Cedars still grow on those wild Lebanon hills; and in the ravines and valleys some brave groups of people still keep their loyalty to their native Syrian princes … in spite of the Turks. Emeers, these princes are called, and their daughters and granddaughters are emeeras or princesses. This Old Bushara is an emeer of Lebanon, and his granddaughter is an emeera.”

  “Mr. Ray,” said Tib, “is that why Old Bushara gets so mad and chases boys when they yell ‘dago’ at him?”

  “It prob
ably is,” said Mr. Ray. “An emeer of Lebanon is a very proud man, and he should be. He’s an ancient prince of a very ancient race.”

  A dazzled silence filled the kitchen.

  Mr. Ray looked from Betsy, to Tacy, to Tib.

  “It was wrong of you to go to Little Syria yesterday without permission,” he said. “But it’s quite all right to go there with permission. If Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Muller are willing, you and Julia and Katie may go there and ask Old Bushara’s granddaughter to come and be your queen.”

  “Why don’t you go today,” suggested Mrs. Ray, “and have your coronation tomorrow?”

  “Before the weather changes,” put in Mr. Ray.

  Mr. and Mrs. Ray smiled at each other.

  Katie and Tacy and Tib ran home to breakfast, and they came back saying that they could go to Little Syria. So the five of them went that very afternoon.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib led the way up the Big Hill. They stopped to invite Mrs. Ekstrom to the coronation.

  “Kings and queens! Kings and queens!” said Mrs. Ekstrom, throwing up her hands.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Ekstrom,” said Julia. “There isn’t going to be a king.”

  “That’s a wonder,” Mrs. Ekstrom answered.

  But she said she would come to the coronation. She wouldn’t miss it, she said.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib took Julia and Katie through the Secret Lane, and past the Mystery House, and down through a fold of the hill and up again. They stood hand in hand on the high rocky point looking down on their discovered valley. Betsy and Tacy and Tib pointed out and explained. Julia and Katie listened and asked questions. It was pleasant for Betsy and Tacy and Tib to know more than Julia and Katie knew, for once.

  They went down the hill, running sometimes and walking sometimes, picking columbines and yellow bells and Jacks-in-the-pulpit and daisies to make a bouquet for the princess.

  “I wonder why you didn’t see her yesterday,” said Julia.

  “I suppose,” said Betsy, “they sort of keep a princess hidden.”

  “I wonder which house she’s in,” said Tacy.

  “Let’s go straight to Naifi’s and ask,” Tib suggested. “Her father speaks English, you know.”

  They had reached the path which ran down to the settlement and the thirteen little ramshackle houses came into view. Loud harsh talk rose from the vegetable gardens, but no one felt nervous.