Betsy and Tacy Go Over the Big Hill

  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

  IN 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 granddaug
hter 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 probably 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.

  “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.