The Betsy-Tacy Treasury

  Mr. Ray winked at Mrs. Ray.

  “See!” his wink seemed to say, “I straightened everything out!”

  “You must be almost ready to stop and count votes,” he said.

  “Oh no, Papa!” cried Betsy.

  “But you must have called on everyone you know?”

  “Why, Papa!” said Julia. “We haven’t been to School Street yet. Some of my best friends live on School Street.”

  “Well, I don’t want you to go too far away,” said Mrs. Ray. “How far do you think they should be allowed to go, Bob?”

  “Not beyond Lincoln Park,” said Mr. Ray.

  Lincoln Park was a pie-shaped wedge of lawn with a giant elm tree and a fountain on it. Hill Street turned into Broad Street there. It was the end of the neighborhood.

  “Lincoln Park, then,” said Mrs. Ray. “But before you start out, I want you to wash and wipe the dishes. I have to frost the cake I’m sending to the Ice Cream Social.”

  Julia’s eyes widened.

  “Where is the Social, Mamma?”

  “It’s on the Humphreys’ lawn,” said Mrs. Ray. “They’re raising money for the Ladies Aid.”

  She had made a layer cake with lemon filling, and she frosted it with thick white frosting while Julia and Betsy washed the dishes. By the time they were finished, Katie and Tacy and Tib were yoo-hooing from the hitching block.

  The two parties started out again.

  Unlike Julia and Katie, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib had no friends on School Street, but they went there just the same. They wanted to keep Julia and Katie in sight. They could see them, on the opposite side of the street, running busily from house to house.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib went from house to house too. And this was a different business from calling at the houses on Hill Street. It was fascinating, delicious, to knock at the doors of houses whose out-sides they had known for years but whose insides were unknown and mysterious.

  There was the red brick house with limestone trimmings where they had always imagined very wealthy people lived; there was the house with pebbles-set in plaster above the door; the house with an iron deer on the lawn; the house where bleeding hearts grew in the spring.

  Some of these houses they had always loved; some they had almost feared. They had never expected such luck as to see inside them all. Opening doors gave glimpses of strange faces, of banisters leading mysteriously upstairs, of an organ, of a hired girl in a cap.

  A few ladies slammed doors or said they were busy, but most of them signed the paper, voting for Tib. One told the children to wait and brought cookies. Another, a plump young woman, said she had just made fudge; she gave them some.

  “I like going out for votes,” said Tib, happily eating her fudge.

  They were enjoying themselves so much that they did not notice when Julia and Katie dropped out of sight. But all at once they realized that their rivals were nowhere to be seen.

  “They’ve cut through lots somewhere,” said Betsy.

  “They’ve lost us on purpose, I’ll bet,” Tacy said. “Where do you suppose they’ve gone?”

  “I don’t know,” said Betsy. “But I think we’d better go around this corner and keep on as far as Lincoln Park.”

  That was what they did. But now the ladies in the houses at which they called said that Julia and Katie had been there.

  “May we sign your list too?” they asked.

  “No, ma’am. We have an agreement.”

  They were growing warm. They were a little tired too, and more than a little dirty.

  Lincoln Park came into sight, cool and green under its elm, the waters of its fountain sparkling.

  “Let’s stop and rest before we go home,” said Betsy.

  “Look there!” Tib cried. “What’s going on at the Humphreys’ house?”

  “It must be a wedding or a funeral,” said Tacy. Betsy remembered.

  “It’s the Ice Cream Social. They’re raising money for the Ladies Aid. Mamma baked a cake for them.”

  They stared at the Humphreys’ house, a large yellow stone house that overlooked the Park. The road before it was crowded with carriages and the lawn was crowded with tables. Ladies in light summer dresses trailed over the grass.

  “It looks pretty,” said Betsy.

  “I wish we had money to buy some ice cream,” said Tacy.

  It was Tib this time who had an idea.

  “We could get votes there,” she said. “Lots and lots of votes. Enough to win.”

  Betsy and Tacy paid her idea the tribute of enraptured silence.

  “Just pass the paper around,” Tib explained, thinking that they did not understand.

  “Tib!” cried Betsy then.“That’s a wonderful plan!”

  “Julia and Katie will be frantic,” Tacy cried.

  “You’re the one to do it, Tib,” said Betsy. “You’re so little and cute.”

  “I’m dirty though,” said Tib. And she certainly was. There was chocolate on her face, chocolate on her hands, and chocolate on the front of her dress.

  “We’ll go over to the Park,” said Betsy, “and you can wash up in the fountain.”

  They ran across the street to Lincoln Park, and Tib washed her face and hands in the fountain. Betsy and Tacy picked a bouquet of clovers and pinned it over the chocolate spot on the front of her dress.

  “Now,” they said. “You look fine.”

  Tib took the paper and pencil and ran lightly across to the Social.

  She was pleased to be going. People made a fuss over Tib because she was little and cute. She wasn’t conceited about it but she liked it. She was certain now, and so were Betsy and Tacy, that she would come back with the signature of every single person at the Social.

  Betsy and Tacy lay down beneath the elm. They stretched their tired bodies on the turf and gazed into the remote green branches. They did not speak, but they shared a great content.

  This was shattered almost immediately and most unexpectedly by Tib’s return. She arrived at a run, very red of face.

  “You come with me!” she said. “Just come with me!”

  Betsy and Tacy jumped to their feet and followed her back across the street.

  “Look there!” said Tib, pointing to the Humphreys’ lawn.

  They followed her indignant finger.

  A nearby table was covered with a snowy cloth. There was a big bouquet of roses in the center. Sitting at the table looking very grown-up, eating ice cream and helping themselves freely to cake, were Julia and Katie.

  Their paper and pencil lay on the table between them.

  Catching sight of Betsy, Tacy, and Tib, Julia lifted the paper and waved it.

  “Don’t bother to come in,” she said. “We’ve got all the names.”

  “And Mrs. Humphreys just insisted,” said Katie, “that we have some ice cream.”

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried Betsy, Tacy, and Tib. They rushed furiously away.

  They did not return to the Park. That cool greenness did not suit their rising temper. They began the long hot plod up Hill Street, raging.

  “That’s why they ducked us.”

  “I knew they were trying to.”

  “Julia asked Mamma this noon where the Social was going to be held.”

  “She was planning it then.”

  “It’s the meanest thing I ever heard of.”

  “Of course,” said Tib, “we were going to do the same thing ourselves.”

  Betsy and Tacy closed their ears to that remark. (It was just like Tib to make it.)

  “They must have gotten a hundred names,” said Betsy.

  “We can never, never, never catch up.”

  “Gee whiz! Gee whitakers! We’ve got to.”

  “But there aren’t any more names to get. We can’t go beyond Lincoln Park,” Tib reminded.

  This time Betsy had the idea. She stopped still, planting her feet hard.

  “We can’t go beyond Lincoln Park,” she said. “All right! We’ll turn around and go back. And we’ll ju
st keep on going.”

  “But Betsy,” said Tib. “There’s no sense in that. We’ll come to the hills.”

  “And we’ll just keep on going,” Betsy repeated.

  Tacy did not speak at once. Her eyes began to sparkle.

  Tib tried to puzzle it out.

  “Of course there’s the Ekstroms’ house, up on the Big Hill. But there wouldn’t be many votes there.”

  “You mean we should go to Little Syria!” said Tacy.

  “Little Syria?” cried Tib.

  Betsy nodded, her face tight with glee.

  “I’ve always wanted to go there,” Tib cried joyfully. “I’m not afraid of Old Bushara.”

  “We’ll see Naifi too.”

  “And think of the votes! I’ll bet there are more votes in Little Syria than there are at any old Ice Cream Social.”

  “It will serve Julia and Katie just right.”

  “We’ll have to keep it a secret from them that we’re going though.”

  “We’d better keep it a secret from everybody,” said Betsy. “Of course we’ve never been forbidden to go. But then, nobody ever thought we would go.”

  “We’d better just go,” said Tib. “Tomorrow morning! Take a picnic!”

  They walked briskly, smiling, up Hill Street.

  That night at supper Mr. Ray asked who was ahead in the queen-race.

  “Julia, I think,” said Betsy, as though it didn’t matter much.

  “Are you ready to count votes and decide?” asked Mr. Ray.

  “Not quite,” said Betsy. “But Julia’s certainly ahead. She’s got a big long list.”

  Mr. Ray looked at Mrs. Ray proudly. His lips formed the words, “Good sport!”

  Julia looked at Betsy sharply. Betsy’s face was innocently bright.

  8

  Little Syria

  HEN BETSY, TACY, AND TIB started out next morning, Julia and Katie were sitting on the Rays’ side lawn making streamers. It was a shining morning. The rose bush under the dining-room window was covered with yellow roses which gave out a spicy smell. Julia and Katie were having a good time, twisting pink and green paper and making plans for Julia’s coronation. They were very good natured for they were sure that Julia had won.

  “Going for a picnic?” Julia called kindly as Betsy, Tacy, and Tib went past with their basket.

  “Might as well,” Betsy answered, trying to sound glum.

  “You can get the Ekstroms’ votes while you’re up on the Big Hill,” reminded Katie.

  “That’s so,” Tacy replied.

  “Try to make your backs look discouraged!” Betsy whispered. And she and Tacy and Tib all let their shoulders sag. Tib gave a loud sniff as though she were crying. Tacy put her arm around Tib’s shoulder.

  Julia and Katie looked after the three forlorn figures, and suspicion arose in their faces.

  “They’re up to something,” Katie said firmly.

  “Never mind,” said Julia. “They couldn’t get enough votes. Nobody lives up on the Big Hill except the Ekstroms.”

  “That’s right,” Katie said.

  She and Julia went back to twisting streamers.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib trudged on up the hill.

  Their backs drooped in sadness, but their faces were wide with smiles.

  “They’ll be plenty surprised when we come home,” said Tacy as they climbed past the ridge where wild roses were in bloom. The air was freshly sweet with the smell of these blossoms. Flat, pink and golden-centered they clambered everywhere.

  The grass was full of country cousins of the flowers down in Hill Street gardens. There were wild geraniums and wild sweet peas and wild morning glories. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib picked bouquets and gave them to Mrs. Ekstrom when they offered her their petition.

  Mrs. Ekstrom put on her spectacles to read it.

  “Queens, eh?” she said. “How do you get so interested in kings and queens? I thought we left kings and queens behind in the old country.”

  But in spite of her teasing, she signed her name. She signed it with pen and ink.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib went on, through the shadowy Secret Lane, past the Mystery House, down through a fold in the hills and up again. They came out as usual on the high rocky point which overlooked the now familiar valley.

  They felt as though it belonged to them, this wide green hammock stretching from sky to sky. They gazed on it with pride for never had it looked so lovely as it looked now clothed in summer green. Thickly leaved trees almost concealed Mr. Meecham’s Mansion and the row of little houses. But the rooftops were visible.

  Tib counted them.

  “There are thirteen,” she said. “Is our paper long enough, Betsy, for all the names we’ll get?”

  “I brought an extra sheet,” said Betsy. “Just to be sure.”

  They ate their picnic quickly, tucked their petition and pencil into the empty basket, and started down the slope.

  They descended boldly, yet with fast-beating hearts. Well they knew they were not supposed to be going to Little Syria, alone, on foot! They passed the clump of wild plum trees where they had picnicked with Naifi and looked about for the goat, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m glad Naifi lives there,” said Tacy. It was good to think of a friend awaiting them in the strange place to which they were going.

  “I wonder whether she’s learned to speak English yet,” said Tib.

  “Probably a little by this time,” said Betsy. “Papa says it’s wonderful how the Syrians get ahead.”

  Their feet were now on the path leading down to the settlement. It was just a row of small houses facing that eastern hill which Betsy, Tacy, and Tib were cautiously descending. They were ramshackle houses, much in need of paint. Here were no well-tended lawns or flower gardens as on Hill Street. Just sun-baked dirt yards, and morning glories twining over a few of the porches.

  There were vegetable gardens, however. People were working in them, and their voices rose, loud and harsh, speaking in a foreign tongue.

  “I wonder which house Old Bushara lives in,” said Tacy nervously.

  “Let’s go first to Mr. Meecham’s. He can speak English,” Betsy said.

  They left the path and walked along the hillside parallel to the street. Mr. Meecham’s Mansion faced west, so they came upon it from the rear.

  It did not look hospitable. The buildings and grounds were enclosed in a high iron fence with spikes along the top. Moreover it was studded with signs which said bluntly, “No trespassing!” “Keep out!”

  The fence was freshly painted and in excellent repair. Inside it, however, everything looked shabby and untidy. The big white barn with lightning rod atop, the carriage house, and woodshed needed paint as badly as the Syrian houses did. A broken wagon and some rusted tools lay in the barnyard.

  “Mr. Meecham doesn’t seem to take much interest in anything but his fence,” said Tib, peeking through the narrow iron bars.

  “I wish we could see his white horses,” said Tacy.

  “I don’t believe they’re there,” said Betsy. “The carriage-house door is open and there’s no carriage inside.”

  “Let’s go around to the front gate,” said Tib.

  They followed the high iron fence around to the street.

  The empty sunlit valley stretched away to the south. And the dusty street of little houses stretched away to the north. No one was in sight except some children playing and a young man who was chopping wood near the small house opposite.

  Betsy, Tacy, and Tib stared at Mr. Meecham’s gate. It was closed and looked forbidding. Within, through a weedy overgrown lawn, an avenue of evergreen trees led the way to the house.

  “Those evergreens,” said Tacy, “remind me of a cemetery.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t bother with Mr. Meecham’s vote,” suggested Betsy.

  “Why not?” asked Tib.

  “Well, there are some more of those ‘No Trespassing’ signs.”

  “We’re not trespassers. We’re caller
s,” said Tib. And swinging her body lightly, as she did when she was gathering courage, she lifted the latch. It opened, and she stepped inside. Betsy and Tacy followed. But none of them liked it when the gate with a loud clang shut behind them.

  The avenue of evergreen trees was like a tunnel. As Betsy, Tacy, and Tib walked slowly into its aromatic darkness they seemed to leave behind all the brightness of the sweet June day.

  “I wonder,” said Tacy, “whether Mr. Meecham really cares who’s queen.”

  “Probably,” said Betsy, “he doesn’t care a bit.”

  “Well, we care,” said Tib.

  They kept on going forward.

  The gray brick house had tall arched windows which looked like suspicious eyes. It was shabby and unkempt. Ragged clumps of honeysuckle fell over the doorway but its penetrating sweetness seemed to be wasted. The windows were all closed and the shades pulled down.

  Betsy and Tacy looked at each other, but before either one could think of an excuse for turning back, Tib had tripped up to the door. She pulled the rusty iron bell. A peal resounded hollowly within.

  “Nobody’s home. We might as well go away,” said Betsy after a quarter of a second.

  “Maybe somebody’s home,” said Tib, and pulled the bell again.

  “Don’t bother to ring,” said Tacy hastily. “I’m sure nobody’s home.”

  But somebody was at home.

  At that moment a large, dirty, ugly-looking dog swept around the house. Barking furiously, he took his stand in the driveway.

  Even Tib looked dismayed for a moment. Tacy stepped forward, for she liked dogs and they usually liked her.

  “Here, doggie! Good doggie! Nice doggie!” said Tacy. But the dog did not seem to like being called doggie. He stood on stiff angry legs, his head out-thrust, looking as big as a horse. He showed his fangs and barked louder than ever.

  “We’d better run,” said Tib.

  They took to their heels and the dog ran in pursuit. Never had sunlight looked so welcome as that bright arch which showed the end of the avenue of evergreens.