Betsy-Tacy (2 page)

T
HE TIME in between was lost because of bad weather. It was filled with snowing and blowing, raining and sleeting. It seemed as though spring never would come. But up in the hills pasque flowers were lifting their purple heads; and down in the valley beside the frozen river, the willow twigs were yellow. Birds were back
from the south, shivering red-winged blackbirds and bluebirds and robins. Betsy and Tacy peeped out their windows at them, and if they saw each other they made faces and pulled down the blinds.

However, when it came time to make out the list for Betsy's birthday party, Betsy's mother included Tacy.

“Of course we'll invite the little girl from across the street,” she said. And she spoke to Julia. “Will you find out what her name is?”

For Julia, who was eight years old and went to school, was acquainted now with Tacy's older sister. Katie was her name; she was eight, too.

Julia came home next day at noon and said, “Her name is Tacy.”

“Tacy!” said Betsy. “Tacy!”

She felt herself growing warm. She knew then for the first time that Tacy hadn't been calling names when she put her head around the storm shed door, but had meant to say that she wanted to be friends after all.

“It's an odd name,” said Mrs. Ray. “What does it stand for?”

“Anastacia. She's Anna Anastacia.”

So Mrs. Ray wrote out the invitation, inviting Tacy to Betsy's birthday party. She invited Katie, too, to be company for Julia. She invited fifteen
boys and girls in all.

“I hope to goodness it will be nice weather,” said Betsy's mother. “Then they can play out of doors.”

For the Ray house was small. But the sloping lawn was big, with maples and a butternut tree in front of the house, and behind it fruit trees and berry bushes and a garden, and Old Mag's barn, and the shed where the carriage was kept.

It would be much more fun if they could play out of doors, Betsy thought.

She was excited about the party, for she had never had one before. And she was to wear her first silk dress. It was checked tan and pink, with lace around the neck and sleeves. Her mother had promised to take her hair out of braids for the party. She had promised to dress it in curls.

Sure enough, on the night before the party, after Julia and Betsy had had their baths in the tub set out before the kitchen fire, Betsy's hair was rolled up on rags. There were curl-making bumps all over her head. And either because of the bumps or because the party was getting so near, Betsy could hardly sleep at all. She would wake up and think, “There's going to be ice cream!” And then she'd go to sleep again. And then she'd wake up and think, “I wonder if Tacy will come.” And so it went, all night long. When she woke up finally it was
morning, and the sun was shining so brightly that it had quite dried off the lawn, which had been free of snow for several days.

Betsy flew downstairs to breakfast.

“Dear me,” said her father, shaking his head when he saw her. “Betsy can't have a party. She's sick. Look how red her cheeks are! Look at those bumps that have come out on her head.”

Betsy's father loved to joke. Of course there were bumps on her head, because the curls hadn't been unwrapped. They weren't unwrapped for hours, not until almost time for the party. Betsy's hair didn't take kindly to curls.

But her hair was good and curly when the rags were removed. It stood out in a soft brown fluff about her face, which was round with very red cheeks and a smile which showed teeth parted in the middle.

“When Betsy is happy,” her mother said, “she is happier than anyone else in the world.” Then she added, “And she's almost always happy.”

She was happy today…although she had little shivers inside her for fear that Tacy wouldn't come. The silk dress rustled beautifully over two starched petticoats which were buttoned to a muslin underwaist over woolen underwear. The legs of the underwear were folded tightly under her white
party stockings and into the tops of her shoes. They made her legs look even chunkier than they were. She and Julia had hoped that their winter underwear would come off for the party. But their mother had said, “In April? Certainly not!”

At one minute after half-past two, the children started coming. Each one brought a birthday present which he gave to Betsy at the door. Each one said, “Happy birthday!” and Betsy said, “Thank you!” And one little boy who was named Tom said, “Let'th thppeak pietheth.” (He meant to say, “Let's speak pieces,” but he couldn't, because he had lost two teeth and the new ones weren't in yet.)

Betsy kept waiting for Tacy to come. At last she saw her crossing the street, hanging on to Katie's hand. Tacy held her head down, so that her long red ringlets almost covered her face. You could hardly see what she looked like.

She handed Betsy a package, looking down all the while. The present was a little glass pitcher with a gold painted rim. She wouldn't look up when Betsy thanked her. She wouldn't say, “Happy birthday!”

“She's bashful,” Katie explained.

She certainly was bashful. She hung on to Katie's hand as though she were afraid she would be drowned if she let go. She wouldn't join in any of
the games. She wouldn't even try to pin the tail on the donkey.

The sun shone warmly so that they could play their games on the lawn. Betsy's mother gave prizes. To please the little boy named Tom she let them all speak pieces. He knew a piece…that was why he had been so anxious to have them spoken.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little thtar,” he said, his eyes shining like big brown stars.

But all the while Tacy kept her head snuggled against Katie's arm.

At last Julia formed the children in a line. Betsy's mother would play a march on the piano, she explained. Betsy, because she was the birthday child, could choose a partner and lead the line. They would march into the house for their refreshments.

The music started, and when Tacy heard the music she tossed back her curls a little. Betsy was sorry she had made that mistake about saying, “Don't call names!” so she chose Tacy for her partner. And Betsy and Tacy took hold of hands and marched at the head of the line.

They marched around and around the house and in and out of the parlor and the back parlor. Betsy's mother loved to play the piano; she came down hard and joyously on the keys. Every once in a
while Tacy would look at Betsy sidewise through her curls. Her bright blue eyes were dancing in her little freckled face, as though to say, “Isn't this fun?” They marched and they marched, and at last they were told to lead the way to the dining room. There the cake was shining with all its five candles, and a dish of ice cream was set out for every child.

Betsy kept hold of Tacy's hand, and they sat down side by side. From that time on, at almost every party, you found Betsy and Tacy side by side.

Betsy was given beautiful presents at that fifth birthday party. Besides the little glass pitcher, she got colored cups and saucers, a small silk handkerchief embroidered with forget-me-nots, pencils and puzzles and balls. But the nicest present she received was not the usual kind of present. It was the present of a friend. It was Tacy.

T
HAT SUMMER they started having picnics. At first the picnics were not real picnics; not the kind you take out in a basket. Betsy's father, serving the plates at the head of the table, would fill Betsy's plate with scrambled eggs and bread and butter and strawberries, or whatever they had for supper. Tacy's father would do the same. Holding the plate in one hand and a
glass of milk in the other, each little girl would walk carefully out of her house and down the porch steps and out to the middle of the road. Then they would walk up the hill to that bench where Tacy had stood the first night she came. And there they would eat supper together.

Betsy always liked what she saw on Tacy's plate. In particular she liked the fresh unfrosted cake which Tacy's mother often stirred up for supper for her big family. Tacy knew that Betsy liked that cake, and she always divided her piece. And if baked beans or corn bread or something that Tacy liked lay on Betsy's plate, Betsy divided that too.

While they ate they watched the sun setting behind Tacy's house. Sometimes the west showed clouds like tiny pink feathers; sometimes it showed purple mountains and green lakes; sometimes the clouds were scarlet with gold around the edges. Betsy liked to make up stories, so she made up stories about the sunset. When she couldn't think what to say next, Tacy helped her.

Betsy always put herself and Tacy in the stories. Like this:

One night two little girls named Betsy and Tacy were eating their supper on the hill. The hill was covered with flowers. They smelled sweet and were
pink like the sky. The sky was covered with little pink feathers.

“I wish,” said Tacy, “that I had a feather for my hat.”

“Do you really?” asked Betsy.

“Certainly I do,” said Tacy.

“I'll get you one,” said Betsy.

She stood up on the bench. They were through eating their suppers and had put their plates down in the grass. Betsy stood up on the bench and reached her hand out for a feather.

Tacy said, “You can't reach that feather. It's way over our house.”

Betsy said, “I can so.”

She reached and she reached; and the first thing she knew one of the feathers had come near enough for her to touch it. But when she took hold of it, instead of coming down, it began pulling her up.

Tacy saw what was happening, and she took hold of Betsy's feet. She was just in time too. In another minute Betsy would have been gone. Up, up, up they went on the feather into the sky.

They floated over Tacy's house. The smoke was coming out of the chimney where her mother had cooked supper. Far below were Tacy's pump and barn and buggy shed. They looked strange and small.

Betsy and Tacy could see Betsy's house too. They could look all the way down Hill Street. They could see Mr. Williams milking his cow. And Mr. Benson driving home late to supper.

Betsy said, “Wouldn't our fathers and mothers be surprised, if they could look up here and see us sitting on a feather?” For by this time they had climbed up on the feather and were sitting on it side by side. They put their arms around each other so that they wouldn't fall. It was fun sitting up there.

“I wish Julia and Katie could see us,” said Tacy. Julia and Katie were like most big sisters. They were bossy. Of course they were eight, but even if they were eight, they weren't so smart. They didn't know how to float off on a feather like Betsy and Tacy were doing.

“We'd better not let anyone see us, though,” Betsy decided. “They'd think it was dangerous. They wouldn't let us do it again, and I'd like to do it every night.”

“So would I,” said Tacy. “Tomorrow night, let's float down over the town and see Front Street where the stores are.”

“And the river,” said Betsy.

“And the park,” said Tacy. “Page Park with the white fence around it and the picnic benches and the swings.”

“We may even go there to eat our supper some night,” Betsy said. “Let's go some night when your mother has baked cake.”

“Do you suppose we could hold on to our plates?” asked Tacy. “When we were riding on this feather?”

“We'd have to hold tight,” Betsy said, and they looked down. It made them dizzy to look down, they were so high up.

Tacy began to laugh. “We'd have to be careful not to spill our milk,” she said.

“We might spill our milk on Julia and Katie,” Betsy cried.

“I wouldn't care if we did.”

“It would make them mad, though.”

And at the thought of spilling milk on Julia and Katie and making them mad, they laughed so hard that they tipped their feather over. It went over quick like a paper boat, and they started falling, falling, falling. But they didn't fall too fast. It was delicious the way they fell…like a swallow sinking down, down, down…to the very bench where they had been sitting.

Only now the sunset had dimmed a little and the grass was cold with dew and down in their dooryards Betsy's mother and one or two of Tacy's brothers and sisters were calling, “Betsy!” “Tacy!” “Betsy!” “Tacy!”

Betsy and Tacy looked at each other with shining eyes.

“Don't forget it's a secret,” Betsy said, “that we can go floating off whenever we like.”

“I won't forget,” said Tacy.

“Tomorrow night we'd better bring jackets, if we're going down to Front Street. I felt a little cold sitting up on that feather, didn't you?”

“Yes,” said Tacy, wriggling her bare toes. “I wished I was wearing my shoes.”

“Betsy!” called Betsy's mother.

“Tacy!” called four or five of Tacy's brothers and sisters.

“We're coming,” called Betsy and Tacy, and they picked up their plates and glasses and came slowly down the hill.

That was the kind of picnic they went on at first. Later, when they grew older, they packed their picnics in baskets.