“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 just 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
WHEN 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 evergre
ens,” 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 callers,” 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.
Rushing ahead of Tib the dog reached the gate first. He barked so angrily that Tib did not dare to touch the latch.
“Climb!” she cried, heading for the fence at the left of the gate. She was carrying the basket and she threw it over. Then she caught at the crosswise bar and pulled herself up.
Betsy and Tacy tried to do the same. They did it! They got to the top with the dog at their heels and slid down the outer side. But Betsy’s dress and petticoats caught on the spikes. She hung like a scarecrow.
Tacy and Tib would have rescued her in time but they did not have to try. The man who had been chopping wood ran across the street. He lifted her down in a twinkling and set her on the ground. Tacy and Tib helped to smooth down her skirts. They were not too badly torn.
“Th-th-thank you!” said Betsy.
“You’re welcome. Don’t mention it,” the young man answered. His speech had a foreign twist but they could understand him. He had thick black hair like a cap, and a dark merry face.
“What are you three little girls doing here?” he asked.
“We’re out for votes,” said Tib.
“Votes? For what?”
“For queen,” said Tib. She found the basket, pulled out the list and handed it to him.
The young man looked perplexed. He glanced at the paper.
“Tib?” he said. “Which one is Tib?”
“I am,” said Tib, looking at him with a smile.
“And is one of you Bett-see? And one Ta-cee?” he asked.
“Yes. How did you know?”
Striding across the narrow street, he called loudly, “Naifi!” He turned back, smiling. “I am Naifi’s father,” he said. “And I am very glad to meet the three little girls who were so kind to her.”
Betsy, Tacy, and Tib were gladder than he was.
A little girl ran out of the house. At first they did not think it was Naifi, for she wore quite an ordinary short dress like their own and ordinary shoes and stockings. But she had Naifi’s earrings, and her long dancing braids, and her dancing eyes, and her dimples.
Naifi stood smiling at them, and they at her. Her father had never stopped smiling. The place where they stood in the road was warm with smiles.
Naifi’s father spoke first in Syrian, then in English. “These are your friends, my heart, my eyes?” he ended.
Naifi answered in Syrian.
“Speak English,” he said. “You know you can speak it a little. And you are learning fast.
“She is now a little American girl,” he said to Betsy, Tacy, and Tib. “She does not wear any more the old country clothes to be teased by bad boys. If she had a mother, she might have changed them quicker. But I am only a father. I am stupid. When her mother died, I came here from Syria and left Naifi behind. I and my father came, and Naifi stayed with my mother. But this year when we earned money enough, we sent for them.”
Pushing Naifi gently he said, “Take your friends inside to your grandmother, my little love, my eyes.”
Betsy whispered to Tacy, “‘My eyes!’ Isn’t that a funny pet name?”
“Well,” said Tacy thoughtfully, “there is nothing more important than your eyes. And I guess that’s what he means when he gives that pet name to Naifi.”
They followed Naifi across the narrow porch and entered the parlor of her house. It had chairs, a table, a carpet, and a lamp hanging by chains from the ceiling. It was almost like any other parlor. And yet not quite.
A low bench with pillows on it ran around the walls. And a bony old man, wearing a round red cap with a tassel, sat on the floor, cross-legged, smoking a pipe. It was a curious looking pipe. It stood on the floor, more than a foot high; a long tube led away from it, ending in the old man’s mouth.
“That is a narghile,” said Naifi’s father, noticing their interest. “He draws the smoke through water, and it makes the sound you hear. You Americans call it a hubble-bubble pipe.”
It was, in fact, making a sound like hubble bubble.
“He is Naifi’s grandfather,” Naifi’s father said.
The old man took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “How you do?” and smiled. He had strong white teeth, as though he were not old at all.
Naifi led them on to the kitchen which was just behind the parlor. And here an old lady was sitting on the floor! She was sitting in front of a hollowed-out block of marble in which she was pounding something with a mallet.
“She is making kibbee,” explained Naifi’s father. “That is meat she is pounding; it is good lean lamb. She is Naifi’s grandmother,” he said.
He spoke to the grandmother in Syrian, and she got to her feet. She was a tiny old lady with a brown withered face like a nut. She wore earrings, and the same sort of long full-skirted dress that Naifi had worn the first time they saw her. She could not say even “How you do?” in English, but she made them welcome with excited gestures.
Betsy, Tacy, and Tib looked with all their eyes.
Naifi led them out of the kitchen into the sunny back yard. The goat was tethered there.
“Goat!” said Naifi. “Goat! Goat!”
She laughed, and they all laughed, remembering the English lesson. The goat looked at them with wise, mischievous eyes. He seemed to remember he had stolen their basket.
The grandmother came hurrying out with a glass jar in her hand. She opened it and passed it about. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib helped themselves to raisins.
“Raisin,” said Naifi, holding one aloft.
Then the grandfather appeared. Standing, he was even more amazing than sitting, for he was very tall. He wore full trousers, gathered at the ankles, a
nd he had not doffed his red be-tasseled cap. He shouted loudly, and the grandmother ran into the house. She came back with a second glass jar which she opened and passed. This one was full of dried figs.
“Figs,” said Naifi proudly, smiling.
The grandfather looked pleased, and so did the grandmother. So did Naifi’s father who joined them, and so did Naifi. When they had finished eating raisins and figs Naifi’s father said, “Now tell me about this paper you have brought. What is it you want?”
Betsy explained about the election, and he listened seriously.
“I do not think,” he said, “that queens are good to have. But Tib is my Naifi’s friend. If she wants my vote, here it is.”
Taking the pencil he wrote his name carefully. He wrote from right to left.
He explained the matter in Syrian to the grandfather, the grandmother and Naifi. And the grandfather signed the list; the grandmother signed the list; and Naifi signed the list. They all wrote from right to left.
Afterward Naifi’s father talked a long time in Syrian. He talked in a loud harsh voice, but not an angry one, waving his arms. The grandfather, the grandmother, and Naifi all talked too. All of them waved their arms and acted excited.
There was a pause; then Naifi’s father smiled at Betsy, Tacy, and Tib and said in English, “Naifi will take you to all our friends and neighbors. All of them will sign … those who can write. You three little girls were kind to my little girl, and the Syrians will sign your paper.”
It was an adventure, getting the votes. With Naifi guiding them, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib went to every one of the little Syrian houses. They went into parlors, kitchens, gardens. They saw people drinking coffee, poured from long-handled copper pots into tiny cups. They saw women baking flat round loaves of bread such as Naifi had eaten the day they picnicked together, and other women making embroidery, and men playing cards. They saw a boy playing a long reed flute … a munjaira, Naifi said it was. They saw everything there was to be seen and they met everyone and everyone signed. Most of them wrote from right to left.
“I wonder why they write from right to left,” said Tib.