“That is Arabic writing,” one of the Syrians explained. “The Syrian language is Arabic.”
Most of them spoke and understood English, but some of them did not. There was much loud harsh talk, but now Betsy and Tacy and Tib understood that that was just the sound of the Syrian language. There was much excited gesturing, stamping, and running about, but now they understood that that was only the Syrian way.
The houses were crowded, for sometimes more than one family lived in a house. There were many children in every family too. The paper was soon filled with names. They had to use the extra paper. Betsy was glad she had brought it.
At last all the people in the settlement had signed. It was time to go home.
Betsy and Tacy and Tib were ready to start. They had said good-by to Naifi’s tall grandfather and her tiny wrinkled grandmother, to her merry father with his black hair like a cap, to Naifi and the goat. They had said “thank you” for the raisins and figs and were just stepping off the porch when they heard cries up the street.
Looking in that direction they saw Syrian children scrambling out of the road. They saw a cloud of dust and heard the thud of hoofs. A team of glossy white horses flashed into view. They were driven by a coachman who wore a plug hat like a coachman in a parade. A glittering open carriage swayed along the narrow street. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib glimpsed a white beard … a black veil. Here were Mr. Meecham and his daughter!
The carriage stopped at Mr. Meecham’s gate, and the coachman sprang down. He unlatched the gate and was about to ascend to his seat when Tib darted forward.
“Please, Mr. Meecham,” she said, “will you sign my petition so I can be queen?”
“Eh? What?” asked Mr. Meecham. He sounded as though he could not believe his ears.
His bearded face was stern and scornful. His daughter did not lift her veil, but she leaned forward curiously.
Tib stood in the road beside the carriage, the sun on her yellow curls.
“I want to be queen,” she said, handing him the paper.
Mr. Meecham read the petition. He looked at Tib, and at Betsy and Tacy; and above the snowy Niagara of his beard a smile began to form.
Mr. Meecham took out a gold pencil.
“I’ll sign with the greatest of pleasure,” he said.
And he signed. And so did his daughter. And so did his coachman.
Betsy, Tacy, and Tib climbed the hill in a glow of satisfaction.
“Wasn’t it lovely!” Betsy sighed.
“Wasn’t it nice!” said Tacy.
“I like Little Syria,” said Tib. “I always said I …”
She stopped without finishing her sentence. She whirled around and looked toward the valley.
“Where,” she demanded, “was Old Bushara?”
Where, indeed!
They looked down on the thirteen rooftops over which the sun of afternoon was extending long golden arms. They had been in every one of those thirteen little houses and had met with nothing but gaiety and kindness. They had not seen a sign of Old Bushara and his knife.
“He must live in a den somewhere,” said Betsy.
“I wonder where,” said Tacy, looking behind her. “He must have been out peddling,” said Tib. “That’s what most of the Syrians do for a living. They go out with horses and buggies or take satchels on their backs.”
Of course that was where he was! “Oh well,” said Tib, “we have votes enough already.”
“Votes enough!” said Betsy. “If you’re not queen, I’d like to know the reason why.”
“Won’t Julia and Katie be mad!” said Tacy. They climbed triumphantly, thinking how mad Julia and Katie would be.
9
The Quarrel Again
JULIA AND KATIE were mad all right. It was now that the quarrel began to get so serious that all of them were sorry it had started. They wanted to end it, but they didn’t know how. It was just as if the five of them were piled in a cart which was rattling down Hill Street lickety split, and no one could stop it. It was the worst quarrel they had ever had, and they never had another like it.
When Betsy, Tacy, and Tib came down the Big Hill, Julia and Katie were still sitting on the Rays’ side lawn, working on their decorations. They had worked all day, just stopping for dinner. They were tired, but they looked happy.
They had decided not to have a Maypole since it wasn’t May any more, but they were going to decorate one of the side lawn maples. They were going to twist it with green and pink streamers up to the lowest branch, and from there they were going to stretch ribbons and garlands to either side of the throne. Of course they were not putting up these decorations yet, for fear it might rain before the celebration, but they had them ready.
Tired and triumphant, Betsy, Tacy, and Tib came down through the orchard and kitchen garden. When they saw the beautiful streamers piled around Julia and Katie, they felt queer for a moment.
Tib said quickly, “We’ve got the most votes. Let’s give in. I can wear my accordion-pleated dress and be a flower girl.”
Tacy looked at Betsy, but Betsy got stubborn sometimes. And when Betsy got stubborn, Tacy was stubborn too because she didn’t like to go back on Betsy.
“No, sir,” Betsy said.
“We planned it first,” said Tacy.
They walked down the side lawn where Julia and Katie were sitting.
“Lookee here, lookee here, lookee here,” they cried, waving their petition.
Julia and Katie looked up and amazement spread over their faces. They could see at once that the petition had two pages. They could see that it was black with names.
“Where have you been?” asked Katie sharply.
“Don’t you wish you knew!”
“There aren’t that many Ekstroms up on the Big Hill,” Julia cried.
Betsy, Tacy, and Tib danced about, acting exasperating.
But they couldn’t resist telling where they had been, so in just a minute they shouted, “We’ve been to Little Syria, that’s where!”
“You haven’t!” cried Julia and Katie in dazed unbelief.
“How did you get there?”
“We walked there.”
“But you’re not allowed …”
“No one ever told us not to. And it’s not on the other side of Lincoln Park either. So don’t say it is.”
Julia and Katie did not try to say it was.
They looked at each other, and their great disappointment seemed to fill the air. But Katie spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.
“There’s no need to fight. We’ll count votes like we said we would. Where’s our list, Julia?”
They got out the list and Betsy, Tacy, and Tib flung their list down beside it. Betsy, Tacy, and Tib knew that they had the most votes, but they didn’t enjoy having them as much as they had expected.
Julia and Katie began grimly to read.
In a moment anger flared out like a flame from gray ashes.
“What’s this?” cried Julia.
“What under the sun!” cried Katie. “You don’t expect us to count this gibberish, I hope.”
“What gibberish?” demanded Betsy.
“This!”
Julia and Katie pointed with trembling furious fingers to that writing which ran from right to left.
“It’s all right,” said Betsy. “It’s Arabic.”
“Arabic!” cried Julia and Katie.
“You might have just scrawled it yourselves for all we know,” said Julia.
“You might have let a chicken run over the paper,” said Katie.
“Well, we didn’t!” said Betsy indignantly. “Every single one is a name.”
“Every single one of what?” asked Julia.
When Betsy looked she wasn’t sure herself. You couldn’t tell where one word stopped and another began. Only Mr. Meecham’s signature, and his daughter’s, and his coachman’s looked right.
“I know how you can count it,” said Tib. “There were thirteen houses down there, and about ten people in a family …”
>
“As if we could count that way!” scoffed Katie.
“No, sir! You have to throw out these names that aren’t in English.”
“We won’t!”
“You must!”
“We won’t!”
“You’ve got to!”
“We won’t!”
Their voices were so loud now that Margaret came scrambling up the terrace from the Riverses’ lawn where she had been playing with the Rivers children. The Rivers children came too; and Paul and Freddie who had been playing on the Kellys’ lawn; and Paul’s dog and some other dogs and children.
The quarrel began to get bad. In a moment the Rays’ side lawn looked as though a cyclone had struck it. Arms and legs were flying in all directions, and lists were flying, and pink and green streamers were flying. Margaret was shouting and Paul’s dog was barking.
Mrs. Ray came to the kitchen door.
“What’s this? What’s this?” she asked.
“They won’t count our Arabic votes!” cried Betsy, leaping frantically about.
“Your what?”
“Our Arabic votes that we got in Little Syria.”
“In Little Syria!” said Mrs. Ray. Her tone was so astounded that Betsy, Tacy, and Tib shrank into silence. Tacy sniffed back her tears and looked at Betsy. Tib looked at Betsy too. After all, this was Betsy’s mother, standing so tall and stern.
“Have you three been to Little Syria?” asked Mrs. Ray.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Betsy.
“Who said you could go there?”
“Nobody. But nobody said we couldn’t.”
“Papa told you not to go beyond Lincoln Park.”
“This isn’t beyond Lincoln Park,” said Betsy. “This is in the other direction.”
Mrs. Ray looked nonplussed. But she was never nonplussed long. She spoke with vigor.
“Whether or not you did wrong to go to Little Syria can be decided later. But this quarreling must be stopped right now. Papa suggested a plan and you all agreed to it. You all agreed that the one who got the most votes should be queen. And you promised too that the losers would be good sports. So count your votes and let’s decide the matter.”
“But that’s what we’ve been trying to do,” cried Julia desperately.
“We can’t read the names,” said Katie. “Look at the writing, Mrs. Ray!”
She thrust the list with its strange scratchings into Mrs. Ray’s hands.
“See?” said Julia. “They ought not to be allowed to count them.”
“We will too count them!” shouted Betsy, Tacy, and Tib.
“You won’t!”
“We will!”
“You won’t!”
“We will!”
Julia burst out in a shaking voice, “Never mind! I wish I’d never thought about being a queen. Everything’s spoiled! Everything! Everything!”
Her voice broke, and she bent to pick up streamers in order to conceal her quivering lips. She looked ready to cry, but Julia never cried, not even when she was spanked.
She didn’t cry now, but Tib did. Tib cried good and hard.
“I wish I’d never thought about it too,” wailed Tib.
Mrs. Ray knew how to be cross when children were naughty. But she wasn’t cross now. She spoke gently.
“I won’t try to settle this,” she said. “It was Papa’s plan. And he’ll be at his lodge meeting tonight and won’t be home until late. You children come over in the morning and we’ll straighten everything out. Julia, Betsy, it’s time to clean up for supper.”
Katie and Tacy went home, but they didn’t go together. Katie stalked ahead, and Tacy went behind with her face in her sleeve. Tib ran down the hill and her tears ran faster than her feet. All the children and dogs went home.
Julia and Betsy went into the house, with Margaret following them. Margaret stared from one to the other with her round, black-lashed eyes. Margaret had never seen such a quarrel before. She was pretty surprised.
Betsy kept remembering how Julia had looked when she said, “Everything’s spoiled! Everything! Everything!” Betsy didn’t want to remember it. She couldn’t help it.
She glanced guiltily toward Julia now, but Julia looked poised and icy. She had washed her face and combed her hair, and was reading a book. She didn’t look at Betsy or speak to her. She acted as though Betsy weren’t there.
Betsy washed her face and combed her hair too. She crossed her braids in back and tied the ribbons the best she could. (Usually Julia tied them.) She asked Margaret if she didn’t want to play with blocks. And Margaret said she did. So Betsy made her a big block house and laughed and made jokes and looked at Julia now and then. But Julia did not look their way at all.
They had supper without their father, and that seemed odd. Julia talked to her mother in a cool grown-up way. Betsy talked to her too, and both of them talked to Margaret. But they didn’t talk to each other.
When the games started in the street Julia didn’t go outdoors. She kept on reading her book. Betsy went out, but the games weren’t any fun. They weren’t any fun at all that night.
“How’s Katie?” asked Betsy. For Katie wasn’t there. Neither was Tib.
“Bad,” said Tacy. “She feels pretty bad.”
“So does Julia,” said Betsy. After a moment she said, “They ought to feel bad too. Not wanting to count our votes, after that long trip we took and everything.”
“Um-hum,” said Tacy. She sounded doubtful.
“I don’t like to have Katie feel quite so bad though,” she said. “She’s pretty good to me sometimes.”
“Julia’s all right too,” said Betsy.
She knew that Tacy was hoping she would say, “Let’s give in.” But she couldn’t quite say it. Betsy was stubborn sometimes.
When she went into the house she glanced at Julia, but Julia didn’t even look up. She kept on reading her book.
Their mother said it was bedtime and Julia and Betsy went upstairs. They undressed and put on their night gowns in silence. They said their prayers and climbed into bed and lay there without speaking.
Mrs. Ray came upstairs to tuck them in. She always did. She sat down beside them, looking worried.
“In this family,” she said, “we have a rule. We never go to sleep angry. Sometimes during the day we get angry and do wrong things and say things we don’t mean. Everyone does. But before we go to sleep we always say we are sorry. We always make up. Always.”
After a moment Julia said stiffly, “I’m sorry, Betsy.”
“I’m sorry,” Betsy answered.
They kissed each other.
Their mother looked closely into their faces. She didn’t seem satisfied. Maybe she thought they hadn’t sounded sorry; at least, not sorry enough. But presently she leaned down and kissed them, first Julia and then Betsy. She took the lamp and went downstairs.
“Good night,” she called.
“Good night,” called Julia and Betsy.
But they didn’t go to sleep.
The street lamp at the corner made a glow on the sloping walls. Sweet summer smells came in the open window with the loving chirping of birds. Betsy felt terrible. She could not forget that look on Julia’s face when she had said, “Everything’s spoiled.” First she would remember how happy Julia had looked with her pink and green streamers piled around her; and then she would remember her pale strained face when she said, “Everything’s spoiled.”
Betsy lay still and thought about Julia. She thought how proud she was of her when she sang, and played, and gave her recitations. Julia was different from all the other children. There was nobody like her.
She thought how good Julia was to her sometimes. How she tied her hair ribbons. How she helped her with arithmetic. How she never would let anybody pick on her.
“You leave my little sister alone!” Julia always said.
She thought of the fun they had together when they went out on family picnics. She and Julia always sat in the back seat of the surrey and
played games. She thought what fun they had on vacations at Uncle Edward’s farm. Even when Julia was playing with Katie, and Betsy was playing with Tacy and Tib, they had fun. The quarrels had been fun up to now.
Betsy began to cry, but softly, so that Julia would not hear her. Julia on her side of the bed had not moved or stirred. Betsy was determined that Julia should not hear her cry. She cried too easily anyhow, and Julia never cried. Betsy pressed her fist against her mouth, but tears trickled down her cheeks and down her chin and even down her neck inside the collar of her night gown.
Then from the other side of the bed she heard a sound. It was a sob, a perfectly gigantic sob.
“Betsy!” cried Julia, and she came rolling over and hugged Betsy tight. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” Betsy wept.
“I don’t want to be queen,” Julia sobbed. “I want Tib to be queen.”
“But Tib doesn’t want to be queen,” wept Betsy. “And Tacy doesn’t want her to be queen, if it makes you and Katie feel bad. I’m the mean one. I’m the stubborn one.”
“I’m meaner than you are,” said Julia. “I always was.”
She cried so that her tears ran down Betsy’s face. Their wet cheeks pressed together.
“I’ve been feeling terrible,” said Julia, “about your going down to Little Syria. It was mean of us to go to that Ice Cream Social and get so many votes. Why, I’m your big sister. I’m supposed to take care of you. And here I practically drove you down to Little Syria. You might have been killed. That awful place….”
Betsy sat bolt upright.
“Why, Julia!” she cried. “It isn’t awful at all. It’s a lovely place.”
“What do you mean?” asked Julia, blowing her nose.
“I mean just what I say. The people gave us raisins and figs. They’re lovely people.”
Julia gave Betsy her handkerchief, and Betsy blew her nose too. They both stopped crying, and Betsy told Julia all about the trip to Little Syria.
They talked and talked, but in whispers for they weren’t supposed to be talking. They were supposed to be asleep. Betsy told her about the hubble-bubble pipe, the red cap with a tassel, the kibbee, the goat. Julia was fascinated.