Betsy-Tacy Treasury

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  “That’s just the way Syrians talk,” Betsy explained.

  They did not go around behind Mr. Meecham’s house today. They skipped straight down the little dusty street, calling “hello” right and left to the many friends they had there.

  They heard someone playing a flute.

  “That’s a munjaira,” Tacy said off-handedly.

  “And Naifi’s grandfather,” said Tib, “will likely be smoking a hubble-bubble pipe.”

  As a matter of fact, he was, when they entered Naifi’s house.

  The little grandmother answered their knock; and they knew from her smiling hospitable motions that she was inviting them in. They came in, and there sat the grandfather, cross-legged, smoking his pipe.

  He took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled at them. And the grandmother ran to the back door and called loudly. Naifi’s father and Naifi came hurrying in from the garden.

  “Today you are five,” said Naifi’s father merrily.

  “Five,” laughed Naifi.

  “Five,” chuckled the grandfather. He held five fingers up to the grandmother and pointed to the children and chuckled. She chuckled too.

  Betsy introduced Julia and Katie.

  “They are our sisters,” she said. And the grandmother ran for the jars of raisins and figs. They all sat down on that low divan which ran around the room and ate raisins and figs.

  Julia and Katie waited politely for Betsy or Tacy or Tib to state their errand. Tacy and Tib waited for Betsy. So after a moment Betsy said, “We came to ask you a question. Will you tell us, please, which is Bushara’s house?”

  “Bushara’s house?” asked Naifi’s father, looking startled.

  “Where does Old Bushara live?” asked Tib.

  “And his granddaughter?” added Tacy. Tacy was shy with people she didn’t know very well. But she was so eager to find the princess that she forgot to be shy.

  Naifi’s father stared at them. He threw back his black head and laughed. He spoke rapidly in Syrian, and the grandfather, the grandmother, and Naifi all laughed too.

  The visitors looked at one another in surprise. They could not imagine what had been said that was funny.

  The old man stood up, tall in his red tasseled cap. He put his hand across his breast.

  “Here, here is Bushara!” he said.

  He flung his arms about.

  “Bushara’s house!” he cried.

  He pointed to Naifi.

  “Bushara’s grand … daughter,” he ended.

  Julia and Katie, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib sat as if stunned.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib turned timid faces toward Naifi. Naifi was the princess! Naifi with whom they had picnicked on the hill, Naifi with whom they had tramped from end to end of Little Syria, Naifi at whom rough boys had shouted “Dago!”

  Seeing her sister struck dumb with amazement, Julia told Naifi’s father why they had come. She talked prettily, just as though she were reciting. She told him that they had heard about the Syrian emeera; she told him that they were crowning a Queen of Summer tomorrow and wanted Naifi to be queen.

  “We will come to get her, and my father will drive her home. Mr. Meecham can tell you all about us. We do hope she can come.”

  Julia talked so nicely that the children were surprised to see Naifi’s father’s merry face grow dark.

  Naifi looked anxiously from the strange little girl to her father. She did not understand very much of what was being said, but she could see that her father did not like it. She listened attentively as he spoke in an earnest voice.

  “It is true,” he said, “that my father was an emeer of Lebanon. And that is an honor for which respect is due him, more respect than he receives sometimes, perhaps. But he is also an American. He is trying to get the citizenship and so am I. And that will be a greater honor, to be Americans.

  “No, no,” he continued, shaking his head, “I do not want my Naifi to play the Syrian emeera. She is forgetting about such things. She is an American now. Are you not, my heart, my eyes?”

  Naifi nodded until her braids swung up and down. She stood very straight, and her eyes were bright.

  “American!” she said.

  “American!” said the emeer of Lebanon, striking his breast again.

  “American!” said his wife. For even the old grandmother knew the word “American.”

  Something in the way they said “American” gave Betsy an idea. She jumped from her seat.

  “Of course,” she cried. “But this is to be an American celebration. It’s an American queen we want Naifi to be.”

  “It is?” asked Naifi’s father, looking puzzled.

  Tacy followed Betsy’s lead like lightning.

  “We’re going to have a big flag up, red, white, and blue, Mr. Bushara,” she said.

  Julia and Katie fell into line.

  “I’m going to sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’” said Julia. “And Katie maybe is going to recite Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.”

  “It’s almost the Fourth of July, you know,” Katie put in.

  Tib looked from one to another in surprise. “When did you plan all this?” she began. But Betsy kicked her.

  “It’s lovely,” Tib said hastily.

  Naifi’s father translated all they had said. He and his family talked in Syrian excitedly, waving their arms. Smiles broke over their faces, and Naifi’s father put his hand on Naifi’s head.

  “She may go,” he said. “I will bring her myself. I start tomorrow on a trip with my horse and buggy selling the linens and laces. But first I will bring her to your house, to be your American queen.”

  So it was decided! And Julia and Katie, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib were enormously elated. They didn’t stay much longer. There was too much to be done on Hill Street for the morrow’s celebration. But of course Julia and Katie took time to call on the goat.

  The grandmother, meanwhile, was whispering to the grandfather, and giving him little nudges. Naifi started whispering to him too, and at last he rose as though offended and went into a room and shut the door.

  Just as the visitors were ready to leave, he reappeared.

  He had changed his garments and wore long flowing robes gathered slightly at the ankles. His red fez was wound with folds of white which hung down to his shoulders, framing his brown seamed face. His manner was grave, his bearing was majestic. The children knew without being told that this was his garb of an emeer.

  “It’s wonderful, Mr. Bushara,” said Julia. “Thank you for putting it on.”

  “Thank you,” murmured the others, gazing with shining eyes.

  Betsy whispered to Julia.

  “Maybe,” said Julia quickly, “Naifi could wear her emeera clothes tomorrow?”

  Naifi’s father smiled. He did not answer.

  The old man was not listening. He was looking up at the hills, those green gentle slopes which rose around the valley in which he had found a new home.

  “Those hills,” he said haltingly, “they not the hills of Lebanon. And Bushara, not an emeer of Lebanon. Not now. Not any longer. Bushara, an American now.”

  Julia and Katie, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib said good-by and started toward home. After they had climbed awhile without speaking, Julia said soberly, “They think a lot of being Americans; don’t they?”

  “They certainly do,” Katie answered.

  “Boys like Sam ought to know more about them,” said Tib. Tib sometimes said very sensible things.

  “Let’s give Naifi a fine celebration,” said Betsy.

  “A real American celebration,” said Tacy, and everyone agreed.

  All the way home they made plans for crowning an American queen.

  11

  A Queen

  AIFI WAS CROWNED queen next day. She was crowned on the Rays’ side lawn under one of the two young maples which Betsy’s father had set out; it was just the right size.

  Pink and green streamers were wound around the tree up to the lowest branch, and from that point chains of flo
wers ran to either side of Mr. Ray’s armchair. It was a big leather armchair. It made a fine throne.

  A large American flag overhung all, and small American flags were stuck into the ground in a half circle behind the throne. Flags which were ordinarily stored away in closets and brought out only on patriotic holidays had been produced by dozens to make Naifi’s coronation strictly American.

  Paul and Freddie borrowed flags all up and down Hill Street while Margaret and Hobbie and the Rivers children picked flowers on the hill and Betsy and Tacy and Tib wove garlands and Julia and Katie decorated. Everything was done without the smallest disagreement. Everyone was kind to everyone else. And the mothers were so pleased that Mrs. Ray made lemonade, and Mrs. Kelly baked a cake, and Matilda baked cookies. Even a coronation needs refreshments.

  When the decorating was finished, the children went out to invite people. Julia and Katie, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib skipped down to Pleasant Street to tell Dorothy and Alice what time to come. All the neighbors were invited, and many of them came. By half past two o’clock the lawn was full of people.

  Mrs. Ekstrom came all the way down the Big Hill. And Mrs. Benson came, and Mrs. Rivers and the children. Mrs. Hunt who was deaf and dumb came, bringing her crowing baby. Mrs. Granger came, and Miss Williams, and Ben, and the boy named Tom.

  Julia and Betsy and Margaret and Katie and Tacy all wore their best Sunday dresses. When they stood together they made a bouquet of light summer tints. Tib wore the accordion-pleated dress. Dorothy, who had dark curls, wore a red dress; it was silk. And Alice’s dress was blue, of thin nun’s veiling.

  Grown-ups sat on the lawn in chairs but the children kept racing to the Rays’ front steps to look down Hill Street. They were pretty worked up about a princess coming. At last they saw an unfamiliar horse, a buggy loaded with satchels. It was Mr. Bushara, bringing Naifi.

  He stopped at the hitching block and jumped out and pulled off his hat. The sun shone on his glistening cap of hair. He lifted Naifi out of the buggy, and his face was as proud as it was merry.

  “Look at that, my heart!” he said, pointing to the big American flag.

  The children swooped down upon them.

  Naifi was a princess out of the Arabian Nights. Betsy could not have invented one more lovely. A cloud of chiffon floated about her face. Her mouth was hidden, but her dark eyes were sparkling. They were rimmed with sooty black.

  Her dress was long and full-skirted, like the one she had worn the day they saw her first. But this one was of soft rich cashmere, purple in color and embroidered in gold. The short jacket was gold-embroidered too. Bloomers were tied at her ankles above little slippers of gold.

  She was laden with jewelry … bracelets, rings, earrings…

  “Naifi! You’re wonderful! You’re beautiful!” cried the children.

  “Hel-lo,” said Naifi. “Hel-lo, hel-lo, hel-lo.”

  Mrs. Ray asked her father to stay, but he said that he had to go. He returned to his buggy and drove down Hill Street with a proud smiling face.

  The children hurried Naifi into the Rays’ parlor. There the parade assembled. Mrs. Ray was going to play the piano for it; Tom was going to play the violin.

  On the lawn the other mothers and the guests waited expectantly. The sun shone down, and the air smelled of roses.

  “No more queens, I hope,” Mrs. Muller said to Mrs. Kelly.

  “It will be something else next week,” Mrs. Kelly answered.

  Mrs. Ray played a rousing march. It was named “Pomp and Circumstance.” She played it with spirit and Tom played it with her on his violin. The procession streamed out of the door to the porch, down the porch steps, and over the lawn.

  First came Margaret and Hobbie waving flags. They waved them in time to the music.

  Next came Paul and Freddie in their best suits. They were pages. Pages walked straight and tried not to smile.

  Then came Betsy and Tacy, Tib and Alice. They scattered flowers as gracefully as they knew how. They scattered the flowers picked that morning on the hill, columbines and daisies and the scarlet Indian paintbrush.

  Treading on the flowers came Naifi, dimples flashing. And just behind walked Dorothy, holding the edge of Naifi’s dress. Julia and Katie came last of all, bearing a pillow with a crown upon it.

  Betsy’s mother played three or four crashing chords. Naifi seated herself on the throne. Two of the royal party darted indoors. The rest seated themselves on the grass.

  Dorothy rose and swept her brown curls almost to the ground in a curtsey.

  “Your majesty,” she said in her sweet voice, “we will now endeavor to entertain you.”

  Mrs. Ray began to play the Baby Dance. Tib jumped up, picked her skirt up by the edges and made a pirouette.

  After the Baby Dance, which was loudly applauded, two black cats capered out on the lawn. Mrs. Ray played the Cat Duet and Betsy and Tacy sang it. They were loudly applauded too.

  Katie recited the Gettysburg Address. She despised reciting but she was too patriotic to refuse. When she had finished, she and Julia knelt before the Queen. They held the cushion high and Dorothy lifted the crown.

  As she put it on Naifi’s head, Mrs. Ray, inside the house, began to play “Hearts and Flowers.”

  Julia went up and stood on the porch steps, looking solemn. Paul and Freddie handed out flags. Mrs. Ray switched to “The Star Spangled Banner.” Everyone stood up, of course, and Julia sang.

  She sang as only Julia could. Betsy thought about George Washington. She thought about Abraham Lincoln. She thought about Theodore Roosevelt, the President. She thought about Old Bushara saying that he was an American now.

  At the end of a verse Julia smiled suddenly and asked everyone to sing. Everyone sang “The Star Spangled Banner” and waved flags. Naifi’s eyes were something to watch then. Bright as diamonds, they looked about the lawn at the tossing banners.

  After that it was just a party with plenty of lemonade, cookies, and cake.

  In the midst of all the gaiety no one noticed Mr. Goode, the postman. He had trudged up Hill Street on his usual afternoon round and arrived at the Rays’ front steps. He paused to look around, holding a letter in his hand.

  “Hey, there!” he said to Mrs. Ray who was passing a tray full of glasses.

  She stopped and came toward him.

  “Hello, Mr. Goode. Won’t you have some lemonade?”

  “Don’t care if I do,” he said. He slipped off his bag to rest his shoulder, but still he held the letter in his hand.

  “Something for us?” asked Mrs. Ray.

  “For Betsy and Tacy and Tib.”

  “All three of them?”

  “All three of them. And if you ask me,” he said, “it’s pretty important.” He handed it to her.

  The envelope was large and square. It bore an unfamiliar stamp. Turning it over, Mrs. Ray saw an official-looking seal.

  “Betsy! Tacy! Tib! Come here!” she said. And Betsy, Tacy, and Tib came running, for there was something compelling in her voice. Other children crowded behind them, grown-ups too.

  “It’s a letter from Spain,” said Mr. Goode. “Do you know anybody in Spain?”

  Betsy and Tacy and Tib felt for one another’s hands. They didn’t speak for a moment.

  Tib whispered desperately to Betsy, “What shall I do if he wants to marry me? I don’t want to marry him. I want to be an American like Naifi.”

  Tacy whispered to Betsy too. “Do you suppose it’s against the law to write to a king?”

  Mrs. Ray noticed the whispers, the frightened faces.

  “Do you want me to open it?” she asked. “I can’t imagine what it can be, but it’s certainly nothing to be afraid of.”

  Betsy swallowed a burr in her throat.

  “Yes. Open it,” she said.

  She knew that Julia and Katie were there; she could see their curious faces. There was a crowd of people, and teasing could be very hard. But this was serious. If it was against the law to write to kings and they were
going to be sent to jail, their mothers might as well know it. Their fathers would have to get them out.

  Betsy and Tacy and Tib waited in frozen panic.

  Mrs. Ray opened the envelope. She unfolded a rich creamy paper.

  “Heavens and earth!” she said. And then, “Children! Children!”

  Betsy and Tacy and Tib did not speak. They squeezed one another’s hands.

  “What did you do?” demanded Betsy’s mother.

  They did not answer.

  “This letter,” said Mrs. Ray, “comes from the King of Spain. At least it comes from his Palace. It seems to be written by a secretary. I can’t pronounce his name.”

  “What does he say?” asked Tib in a trembling voice.

  “He says that His Majesty thanks you for the sentiments expressed in your letter.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all. Isn’t it enough?”

  It was quite enough.

  With a common impulse Betsy, Tacy, and Tib flung their arms about each other. They jumped up and down shouting in a glad release from fear.

  “How did you happen to write to him?” asked three mothers at once.

  “Oh,” said Betsy vaguely. “It was his birthday.”

  Tacy remembered something.

  “But how did our letter get mailed?”

  “That’s so,” said Tib. “We lost it.”

  They looked around the agitated circle. One face stood out above all others. It was red from suppressed laughter.

  “On the hill you lost it,” Mrs. Ekstrom said.

  Mrs. Ekstrom had mailed it!

  The letter passed from hand to hand. And Betsy, Tacy, and Tib felt mighty proud now that they knew they hadn’t done anything wrong or stepped into trouble.

  Getting a letter from a king was a perfect ending to an afternoon in which a queen was crowned.

  The fathers came home in time for some remnants of cake and to see Naifi’s regal costume. Betsy’s father took Naifi home. She left with many smiles and nods of thanks. Everyone went home … the grown-ups, the children … except Tacy and Tib. They sat on the hitching block with Betsy in the long golden rays of the sun.