Susan called her pageant “The Home of the Brave and the Land of the Free.” To tease her George called it “The Home of the Braves and the Land of the Freeze.” Susan didn’t really mind what George called it, but poor Mademoiselle was quite confused by everything.
“Why is it zat you call your play like zat?” she asked.
“Why, Mademoiselle,” explained Susan, “that’s just an elegant way of saying the United States.”
“Ah, I see,” said Mademoiselle. “So! Ze United States, she is ze home of ze braves and land of ze big freeze. I see.”
Then they began to make their costumes, and Mademoiselle was puzzled again. “But zeese are all zee costume of Indians,” said Mademoiselle. “How come, oh boy?”
“Well, you see,” explained Susan, “the only characters in the pageant are going to be Indians. The reason for this is because there are only three of us, and it would take too long for us to change costumes for each scene, even if we had that many costumes.”
“And we had to be Indians,” said George, “because we like to do Indian dances better than Pilgrims going to church.”
“And Anne Marie Fleurette Deschamps gave us an old feather duster, which is better for Indian costumes than for Columbus,” said Dumpling.
“I see,” said Mademoiselle, but, perhaps because she remembered the Halloween party, she looked a little apprehensive.
The children said, “This will be very nice. To make you thankful, Mademoiselle.”
“Zat is good,” Mademoiselle said. When she understood about sewing the duster feathers onto headbands she was very good at helping with the costumes.
“I’m afraid it’s a rather silly pageant,” Susan said apologetically, “but it’s really hard for three children to do American history in France all by themselves. But anyway, the dates are correct and it’s all in poetry, and that’s something. If you think it’s easy to write a pageant in poetry, just try it sometime. I even had to say ‘gorn’ for ‘gone’ to make it rhyme with ‘corn,’ but don’t pay any attention to that, please.”
“We won’t,” said George.
“I’m really too old for this sort of thing, anyway,” Susan continued.
“Oh, pish-tosh,” said George, “you’re just getting stage fright or author’s cramps or something. It’s the best pageant I ever saw—with nothing but Indians in it!”
“Yippy-yi-yi-yi,” said Dumpling, practicing her dance.
Luncheon was as usual in the Grand Hotel and So Forth and So Forth, but nobody minded the usualness of it, for dinner was going to be different. Even Father had agreed to that. In the meantime there was to be the tea party, and since Mother had undertaken to furnish the tea-party refreshments, they were sure to be edible.
At three-thirty the guests began to arrive. The Princess Adelaide Louisa von Mettnock-Hohenwürtzel arrived first, and Dumpling, remembering Grandma Ridgeway no doubt, put her arms around the princess and kissed her. They had all secretly hoped that the princess might wear one of the little coronets, like those they had seen in the royal photographs, or at least a diamond necklace, such as Mother wrote about in her mystery stories. But the princess wore a modest and rather shabby gray dress without even a locket around her neck for ornament.
“But we can remedy that,” said Susan softly to herself. She began to feel very happy.
Next came Anne Marie Fleurette Deschamps, who had been invited because of the feather duster and also because they were very fond of her, and right behind her was Jean Marie Pernod, who had been invited because he was their favorite waiter and also because he, too, was very fond of Anne Marie Fleurette and they always spent their afternoons off in each other’s company. This being their afternoon off, here they were. And what the princess lacked in style was more than made up for by the elegance of the waiter and the chambermaid. Anne Marie Fleurette wore a very tight and shiny black satin dress, a hat with a feather, and a string of imitation pearls which was almost as good as a diamond necklace. And Jean Marie wore his full-dress suit with tails, but without a white apron. They were both young and handsome and could easily have passed for a duke and duchess—at least so Susan thought, and later wrote down in her diary.
Mother and Father had been unnecessarily nervous about inviting guests from such very different walks of life as the princess and the chambermaid and waiter. But the children had felt confident that to really nice people these differences were not of great importance. And so it proved to be, for the princess was very friendly and cordial, and, after a moment or two of embarrassed silence, Anne Marie and Jean Marie began to feel at ease and to enjoy themselves, too.
Mademoiselle was in a terrible flutter, for she had never been at a party with a princess before. She seemed to worry more about it than the maid and the waiter did. Her eyeglasses kept falling off her nose and trembling on the end of their chain, and she was all mixed up between her English, her German, and her French, so that in the end all she could manage to murmur was, “Boy, oh boy, oh, baby,” and “Supaire-dupaire!”
When everybody was seated, Susan came out in the costume of an Indian princess and said, “This is going to be a pageant, and I’m really not very proud of it, but it’s the first one I ever wrote and I had a perfectly awful time making everything rhyme. There are three scenes: Columbus Discovering America; The Pilgrims Landing at Plymouth Rock; and The Boston Tea Party. The dates are real, but all the scenes and characters will look alike to you, so please use your imaginations as much as you can. The dancers are George Ridgeway and Dump—I mean, Irene Ridgeway. The narrator and author is Susan Ridgeway. Thank you very much.”
George and Dumpling now came out, dressed as two Indian braves, and sat cross-legged on the floor behind Susan.
Susan began to recite.
“In fourteen-hundred-ninety-two
Columbus discovered the United States but didn’t mean to.
Most people thought the world was flat,
But Columbus was too smart to fall for that.
His sailors were afraid and got out of hand,
But then they saw leaves that came from land.
They thought it was India they had found
So they named the people Indians they saw around.
The Indians like to dance in any old weathers,
Dressed all up in smiles and feathers.”
At this point in the narration, George and Dumpling jumped up with whoops and began to dance. Susan beat time for them on an improvised tom-tom made out of a small bureau drawer turned upside down. It worked very well. When the audience was exhausted with laughter and applause, and George and Dumpling with dancing, Susan stood up and recited the next scene of the pageant.
“On December twenty-one, sixteen-twenty,
The Mayflower landed, in trouble, plenty.
It was very cold at Plymouth Rock,
And the Pilgrims must have had a shock
Because there wasn’t anything to eat
And no houses to warm their feet.
But the Indians showed them how to plant corn,
So in a few years their troubles were gorn,
And they had their first Thanksgiving Day
With turkey to eat and cran-ber-ray.
They invited the Indians who had been good,
And the Indians danced in the snowy wood.”
Here George and Dumpling danced another dance which showed how the Indians planted and harvested the corn and ate up the Thanksgiving dinner. More applause.
Now Susan went on with the narration.
“Sometime later, in seventeen-seventy-three
The people of Boston had a party over tea.
This had something to do with taxes
So people dressed up with battle axes.
They weren’t real Indians but pretended to be,
And into the ocean they dumped all the tea.
So that is why there was a revolution
That America won after quite a commotion,
And the Indians d
anced with very much glee,
And everyone was thankful as thankful as could be.
We hope you are, too, and so are we.”
This was followed by a dance in which small paper bags marked “T” were thrown out of the window, to the complete astonishment of the gardener, who was working down below.
When the applause had subsided, Susan recited her final lines.
“Now we’ve done our best to show you American history,
And we hope Daddy won’t be too hard on us and it will give
Mother an idea for a mystery.
And now we invite you to a real tea party with food,
And because Mother’s planning it, we expect it will be good.
Happy Thanksgiving!”
Then Anne Marie Fleurette and Jean Marie slipped out of the door into the hall and returned bearing tea trays, just as if they didn’t have their best clothes on. Besides tea and milk, the trays were loaded with those wonderful little French tarts and cakes that always made the children’s mouths water when they saw them through the bakers’ windows.
Now everybody talked at once and said what a good pageant it had been. Father complimented Susan on having her dates right, and Mother said it was very clever to make use of the same scene and actors to express so many different periods, and maybe she could use this idea in a novel sometime. The princess said that she had always longed to see Indians dance, and now she felt that she had done so. Anne Marie Fleurette Deschamps said she had never known that history could be so interesting.
But the best part of the whole affair was after they had eaten all the little cakes. Susan went to her bedroom and came back with her hands behind her. She stood in front of the princess, and George and Dumpling stood on either side of her.
“What? Is there yet more pageant?” asked the princess.
“We would like to show you something,” Susan said. “We found it, and we think you will know what it is.”
“I?” said the princess. “Why should I know?”
“Because of the clues,” said Susan.
“We found it with the rocks in the grotto,” said Dumpling.
“We saw it in the portrait,” said George. “And it has your initials on it, we think.”
Susan laid the locket in the princess’s hands.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” cried the princess. “Grüss Gott! Mein Medaillon! My locket!” They had never seen her so excited. She got quite pink in the face, and opened the locket quickly to see what was inside it. “Even the hair,” she said. “It was a lock of hair belonging to Meine Mutter, my beloved mother.”
She laughed a little and cried a little. Then she kissed each one of the children—even George, although this was really more than he ought to have had to endure. And she cried, “Oh, how can I tell you? You have made me very happy.”
“Thankful,” Dumpling prompted.
“Yes, yes! Thankful also, and that is well, is it not? Since this your day of Thanksgiving is.”
Of course they had to tell her how they had happened to find the locket, and about Susan’s detective work, and it was all very wonderful.
Then, after the guests had gone, although they were still quite well filled with little tarts and cakes, the Ridgeways put on their hats and jackets and went out for Thanksgiving dinner. They went down the street past all the interesting shops until they came to the one that sold American food. And for Thanksgiving dinner they had:
ALPHABET SOUP
CORNFLAKES
HAMBURGER BUNS
WAFFLES AND MAPLE SYRUP
AND
ICE CREAM!
Yes, it was a different kind of Thanksgiving, and one they would never forget. Dumpling said the blessing. “We thank Thee for cornflakes and alphabet soup, and we thank Thee for our home with a tower in Midwest City, and that there are so many lucky people in the United States eating turkey and mince pie, and for my doll Irene, and that we are all here together having a good time. Amen.”
“Dumpling,” George and Susan said, “isn’t this nice?”
And Dumpling said, “Yes, this is nice, but home is better.”
The Sorrows of Departure
The time was drawing near when the Ridgeway family was to leave the south of France and go up to Paris, where Father would be working and studying at the university.
One morning at breakfast Professor Ridgeway said, “This morning, when Mademoiselle comes, I intend to have a conference with her.”
“Why, Daddy?” asked the children in alarm.
“I wish to find out how much she has taught you,” their father said. “If it seems that you are learning a great deal, I’ll think very seriously of taking her with us to Paris, so that you may continue your studies.”
“Why don’t you ask us, Daddy?” suggested Susan.
“Well, to tell you the truth,” Professor Ridgeway said, “what you have learned doesn’t exactly stick out on you. It doesn’t show in your faces or ooze out of your ears. But I am willing to give Mademoiselle the benefit of the doubt. I shall let her tell me what she has accomplished and what she plans for your future instruction. If I am satisfied, I shall invite her to go with us.”
“And if not, Daddy?” asked the children anxiously.
“If not,” said Professor Ridgeway, “we’ll have to put you into school in Paris, and see if you can learn things in the way the French boys and girls do.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Dumpling said, “I love dear Mademoiselle!”
“Love is one thing,” Father said. “Getting an education is something else.”
“Yes, Daddy,” the children said.
“I’ll be in the salon,” Professor Ridgeway said. “Send her in to me as soon as she comes, please.”
“I would rather have Mademoiselle than go to some strange school where they speak only French,” Susan said later, when she and George and Dumpling were alone.
“We’d better warn her,” George said.
“Maybe we should,” said Susan, “so she can put her best foot forward.”
“Which is her best foot?” Dumpling wanted to know.
“Her right one, of course,” said George.
“We can tell her,” said Susan, “that it is very important for her to say the right thing and give a good impression.”
“Okay,” said George. “What are we waiting for?”
They met Mademoiselle at the foot of the stairs, and, since the ascenseur was not “marching,” they had plenty of time to talk to her while climbing up the four flights. Dumpling held her hand and kept saying, “Dear Mademoiselle, we want you to go with us. You’ll try, won’t you?”
“It will be a little bit like an examination, I’m afraid,” Susan said. “And please, Mademoiselle, we hope you will pass it. You really must say the right thing to Father, so he’ll know how much we’ve learned.”
“Give him the works,” said George.
“Stick your right foot out as far as you can,” said Dumpling.
“Don’t let us down, please,” said Susan. “We’re counting on you.”
Poor Mademoiselle was utterly confused and terrified. The only thing she was sure of was that she must make a good impression on the children’s father. She tried to get her English arranged neatly and to remember all the new things she had learned so that she would appear as intelligent as possible.
“An examination?” she said faintly.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Susan, “but remember all we have taught you, and make a good impression.”
“He’s in the salon,” George said. “He said to send you right in.”
“Remember to do your best,” said Susan.
“Abyssinia,” said George.
“Dear, darling Mademoiselle,” said Dumpling.
They opened the salon door and gave Mademoiselle a little push of encouragement.
Professor Ridgeway was sitting behind a small table with his spectacles on. He had been working on his history papers and for the moment he had quite forgotten
what he wanted with Mademoiselle. “Harrumph! Ahem!” he said, clearing his throat. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Is there something I can do for you?”
Mademoiselle put her right foot firmly in front of her. “I have come to give you ze works, Monsieur Ridgeway,” she said
“The works?” said the professor. “Ah yes, it is about the work of the children. Yes, yes. Mademoiselle, I wish to find out how much the children have learned.”
“Oh, it is supaire-dupaire what zey learn,” said Mademoiselle. “It is formidable—zat is to say, okay. Boyoboy, zey learn okay.” Mademoiselle’s eyeglasses dropped off the end of her nose in her agitation, but she was determined to do her best.
Professor Ridgeway’s mouth slowly opened as he listened in astonishment. “But, Mademoiselle—” he murmured.
“I teach zem pretty darn good and don’t let zem down because zey count on me,” Mademoiselle said hurriedly. “I get zem marzi-malos and potirons for to carve ze funny face. I make zem ze feather costumes for ze pageant. It is very important what I teach zese infants from ze home of ze braves and ze land of ze freeze. I tell zem, ‘Look! You find yourselves now in France, keeds. We learn now ze French language.’ If Shorsh says, ‘Phooey!’ I say to him, ‘Shorsh, shut up. Shut up,’ I say, and Shorsh, he do shut up.”
“Why—why—why!” stammered Professor Ridgeway, speechless with horror and astonishment. “Why, Mademoiselle, you forget yourself.”
“No, I beg, my dear sir, I remember myself very well, and it is zese dear little children of yours, monsieur, who have taught me.”