The Betsy-Tacy Treasury by Maud Hart Lovelace
“I like to do it,” said Tib. “I’m getting a little tired of it though. I wish I knew a new dance.”
“Do you?” Mrs. Poppy cried. “I could easily teach you one, if your mother would like me to. I know quite a lot of steps.”
Winona played a tune, and Mrs. Poppy lifted her peony-pink skirts. Her feet were small and dainty in slippers the color of her dress. In spite of her weight Mrs. Poppy danced lightly, with a skill which fascinated Tib.
When the maid knocked, Mrs. Poppy cried, “Mercy me! I haven’t even set the table.”
They all helped her spread the white embroidered cloth and put out the hand-painted cups and saucers and plates. The maid came in smiling, and there was ice cream today, in addition to the frosted cakes and the pot of hot chocolate and the bowl of whipped cream.
They had a gay time eating the refreshments.
Mrs. Poppy asked them how the man in the drug store had happened to know what kinds of perfume they wanted. They told her about their Christmas shopping, and she laughed and laughed, and so did they. They told her all about their Christmases, too.
Now and then Betsy looked out to the river, white and still in its blanket of snow. She wondered whether Mrs. Poppy missed its restless journeying down to St. Paul to meet the Mississippi. She thought about Mrs. Poppy’s journeyings and her acting and her singing. She thought about Uncle Keith.
She was glad when Mrs. Poppy sent Tacy and Tib and Winona out to ride in the elevator, and said in a lowered voice:
“Betsy, I want to talk with you a minute. I want you to know that I’m trying to find your uncle. I’m making inquiries and looking for his name in the casts of all the plays Mr. Poppy books. Don’t mention it to your mother yet. I don’t want her to be disappointed if I haven’t any luck.”
“Mrs. Poppy!” cried Betsy. “How kind of you! Mamma would be so glad.”
She wished she could say that her mother was coming soon to get acquainted but she knew she couldn’t. She did repeat, though, what Julia had said about wanting to meet her.
“She’s the one who sings?” asked Mrs. Poppy with vivid interest. “Why, I’d love to have her come! Maybe I could help her.”
Her blue eyes suddenly misted over.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Betsy,” she said, “if I could help here in Deep Valley? Help children like Tib and your sister with the things I know how to do? I’ve studied with good masters. I know how to dance, and something about music. It would make me feel I belonged if I could be of use here.”
Betsy did not answer. She was a talker, her family always said, but sometimes when she most wanted to talk she couldn’t say a word.
She looked out at the river, fixed in ice, bedded under snow. She looked at the brave gay Christmas tree, and thought of the doll beside Mrs. Poppy’s bed.
She turned abruptly and gave Mrs. Poppy a big hug and a kiss.
Mrs. Poppy hugged her back. Betsy felt a wet cheek touching her own.
“Betsy!” cried Mrs. Poppy. “Betsy! Why, you’ve given me a Christmas present!”
And that was the very thing Betsy had wanted to do.
12
Three Telephone Calls
NE DAY soon after Mrs. Poppy’s party, the telephone at the Ray house rang three times. The last time was the most important of all.
The first time it was for Julia.
She came into the back parlor where Mrs. Ray was sewing and Margaret was playing paper dolls and Betsy was reading Huckleberry Finn, a book that Miss Sparrow had picked out for her.
“Mamma,” said Julia, looking very pleased. “It’s Jerry. The play of Rip Van Winkle is coming to town. There’s going to be a matinee next Saturday afternoon, and he wants me to go.”
“I think that would be lovely,” said Mrs. Ray. “That’s a wonderful play. Papa and I saw Joseph Jefferson in it, years ago.” She seemed as pleased as Julia.
Betsy closed her book, jumped up and went to the back-parlor closet where outdoor wraps were kept.
“Where are you going, Betsy?” asked Mrs. Ray as Julia returned to the telephone.
“To see Winona,” said Betsy. “I think she’ll want to take Tacy and Tib and me to that matinee.” She pulled on her coat with a determined air.
Margaret ran to her mother.
“I wish I could go too, Mamma,” she said.
“Maybe you can,” said Mrs. Ray. “I’ve half a notion,” she added, “to ask Papa to take me. I’ve never forgotten that play.”
Julia came back from the telephone, and while Betsy strapped on her overshoes and hunted for her mittens, Mrs. Ray told them about Rip Van Winkle. Julia and Betsy knew the story, of course; they had read it in school. But they liked hearing their mother tell about the lovable ne’er-do-well, who played at bowls with a strange ghostly crew in the Kaatskills, and drank from their flagon, and slept for twenty years.
Mrs. Ray was describing Rip’s awakening to find his dog gone, his gun old and rusty and himself with a long white beard, when the telephone rang again. This time it was for Betsy. She returned to the back parlor, dancing.
“It’s Winona,” she cried. “And she does want us to go. Tacy and Tib and me. She has ‘comps.’”
“That settles it,” said Mrs. Ray to Margaret. “You and I are going too.”
As soon as Betsy had finished talking to Winona, Mrs. Ray went to the telephone and gave Central the number of Ray’s Shoe Store. Julia and Betsy and Margaret hugged and shouted.
Then Betsy ran out the front door and over to Tacy’s. Mrs. Kelly said that Tacy could go; and Betsy and Tacy ran down Hill Street and through the snow-covered vacant lot to Tib’s house. Mrs. Muller said that Tib could go; and they all ran on to Winona’s.
It had started to snow now, and the whirling, dancing flakes seemed as happy as they were.
Winona had on her wraps when they arrived.
“Let’s go look at the billboards,” she said.
There were billboards at the end of School Street, a full half-block of them, concealing the slough. The children visited them often, to taste Deep Valley’s dramatic fare. Many plays had come to the Opera House since Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but this was the first matinee.
The bill poster had just finished pasting the large gaudy sheets which announced that the beautiful legendary drama of Rip Van Winkle would be shown at the Opera House on Saturday afternoon and evening. They showed pictures of Young Rip, tattered and smiling, with a troop of children at his heels, and Old Rip, waking in the Kaatskills with the white beard Betsy’s mother had described; Young Rip with his little daughter, a wee girl wearing a quaint Dutch cap, and that same daughter grown to young womanhood, standing with her sailor lover.
“How can the same actress play first a little girl and then a young lady?” Tib wanted to know.
“A child plays one part, and a woman the other,” Winona explained.
“Let’s follow that little girl home from the Opera House like we did Little Eva,” cried Tacy.
“Let’s!” “Let’s!”
They were reminded by this of the magic of the other matinee, and they talked about it all the way back to Winona’s. It was snowing hard now, and too wet to play out, so they went into Winona’s house and played a game of authors.
Tacy and Tib and Winona played; Betsy didn’t want to. She asked Winona for a pencil and a piece of paper and sat in a window seat in Winona’s father’s library. The snow was a spotted veil, concealing trees and houses, but Betsy would not have seen trees and houses anyway. Looking out into the snow-storm, she saw the inside of the Opera House at that dim expectant moment when the curtain went up.
“I’ve written a poem,” she said, returning to the parlor where the game of authors was in progress. “Want to hear it?”
“Sure,” said Tacy. She and Tib and Winona were used to listening to what Betsy wrote.
“It’s called, The Curtain Goes Up,” said Betsy.
She read it in a dreamy singsong.
“The lights are tu
The violins sing,
A feeling of waiting is
On everything.
Winona and Tib,
And Tacy and me,
We sit very still
In the mystery.
The Opera House feels
Like a big empty cup,
And then something happens,
The curtain goes up.
The curtain goes up,
The curtain goes up,
It’s a wonderful moment,
When the curtain goes up.
It’s like Christmas morning,
Stealing down stairs,
It’s like being frightened,
And saying your prayers,
It’s like being hungry
And ready to sup,
It’s a wonderful moment,
When the curtain goes up.”
“Betsy!” cried Winona. “I like that poem.”
Tacy and Tib said that they did too.
“The things you write ought to be published!” Winona declared.
Betsy and Tacy and Tib looked away from one another. The story Tib had printed so neatly on the sheet of pink stationery had never been heard from. As the days went by, they became sadly certain that it never would be heard from.
They were glad now that they had decided not to tell Winona about it.
“Some day they’ll be published, maybe,” said Betsy in a tone so lacking in her usual soaring confidence that Winona was moved to express unaccustomed praise.
“Some day, nothing!” she exclaimed. “That’s as good as the poems in our school reader. I like the part about me. May I have a copy of it, Betsy?”
“You may have the whole thing,” said Betsy. “Oh, kids! Isn’t it grand about Saturday? Let’s talk about Saturday.”
Making a dive for the game of authors, she swept it to the carpet. They began to throw cards.
Winona’s mother came in and asked them if they didn’t want to make fudge. Perhaps she thought that was a good way to quiet them down. They made fudge, but it was slow hardening, and of course they had to wait for it to harden. Then they had to wait to eat the rich chocolatey squares. It was late when Betsy, Tacy, and Tib started for home.
Just as they left Winona’s house they heard the telephone ring.
“That’s Mamma wanting to know what’s become of me,” said Betsy.
She did not stop at Tacy’s house or Tib’s, but hurried through the snowy dark. When she reached home she saw that the dining-room lamp had been lighted. Her father was at home.
She pushed open the kitchen door. The smell of frying ham greeted her first. Right behind that delicious aroma came Margaret.
“Betsy! Betsy!” she cried. “Who do you think telephoned?”
“Wait, Margaret!” Mrs. Ray said. “I want to tell her. Unless you’ve heard already, Betsy, from Mrs. Muller or Mrs. Kelly?”
“I didn’t see them,” said Betsy. “What is it?”
“It’s something wonderful,” cried Julia. She seized Betsy and spun her around the room.
“Me and Margaret, we’re going to be in the front row,” cried Rena. “I wouldn’t miss seeing you, Betsy…”
“Sh-sh, Rena,” said Julia, and Margaret ran to put her hand over Rena’s mouth,
“Of course,” said Betsy’s father, “I have to give my consent.” His eyes were twinkling as he stood with his hands in his pockets.
“Mamma! Julia! What is it?” cried Betsy. “Hurry and tell me, please!”
“It’s this,” said Mrs. Ray. “You and Tacy and Tib and Winona are all going to act in Rip Van Winkle Saturday. Both afternoon and evening. Tib will take the part of Meenie, Rip Van Winkle’s little girl, and the rest of you are going to be village children.”
“What?” cried Betsy. “On the stage?”
“On the stage,” her mother answered. “Behind the footlights.”
“You’ll wear a costume, have grease paint on,” babbled Julia.
“I’m taking Margaret,” Rena explained.
“Papa and I are coming in the evening,” Mrs. Ray added.
Betsy thought she must be dreaming. The kitchen was whirling. The lamp made a yellow track.
“But why? How did it happen?” she asked.
“Sit down, and I’ll tell you,” her mother said.
Mrs. Poppy, it developed, had telephoned that afternoon. She and Mr. Poppy had received a letter from Minneapolis where the Rip Van Winkle company was playing. The manager had said that the little girl who took the part of Meenie, Rip’s daughter, had been called back to New York. She was leaving the company when it left the Twin Cities, and the new little Meenie would join them in Omaha.
For the Deep Valley engagement, the manager had asked Mrs. Poppy to find a Deep Valley child. Mrs. Poppy had thought at once of Tib who, although she was twelve years old, was small enough to look much younger.
“She knew Tib could do the part,” Mrs. Ray said. “For her dancing has made her accustomed to performing on the stage.”
“Oh, Tib will be darling!” cried Betsy. She thought of Tib with her fluffy yellow curls, wearing a little Dutch cap like the child in the billboard picture. “But how do Tacy and Winona and I happen to be in it?”
“There are village children needed in the play,” Mrs. Ray explained, “and it is the custom of the company to get local children for those parts. They haven’t any lines to say; they just follow at Rip Van Winkle’s heels.”
“I know,” said Betsy. “I saw us on the billboards.”
“Mrs. Poppy thought it might be fun for you to do it.”
Betsy felt a wave of love for Mrs. Poppy.
“Tib’s part is quite hard,” Mrs. Ray went on. “But Mrs. Poppy will teach her. I’ve talked with the mothers, and all of us think that you children will enjoy the experience.”
The kitchen had stopped whirling now. The lamp was fast in its bracket, and its glow was no brighter than the glow on Betsy’s face.
Before she ate supper, she telephoned to Winona. That telephone ring they had heard, Winona said, had been Betsy’s mother telling the news.
After supper Betsy ran over to Tacy’s. Tacy was blissfully scared. In view of the unusual circumstances, she and Betsy were allowed to pay an evening call on Tib.
Tib was calm at the prospect of playing a part on the stage, but she was happy.
“I can do it,” she said. “I’ll like to do it.”
Back at home Betsy sat in front of the hard-coal heater, her arms around her knees. Inside herself she was saying over and over her poem, The Curtain Goes Up.
“The curtain goes up,
The curtain goes up.
It’s a wonderful moment,
When the curtain goes up…”
“When I wrote that poem,” she thought, “I didn’t know where I’d be when the curtain went up.”
She had a vision of the great curtain rising, and herself with Tacy and Tib and Winona, looking out at the dark crowded house from the golden glory of the stage.
13
Rip Van Winkle
ETSY, TACY, and Tib made many trips downtown that winter but none equaled or even approached in excitement the one they made on Saturday to act in Rip Van Winkle.
They walked as far as Winona’s house. From there they were driven down in Winona’s father’s cutter. It had been arranged that Mr. Root would drive them all down. After the matinee each father was to take charge of getting his own child home for supper and back to the Opera House for the evening performance.
Tib had been at the Opera House all morning, rehearsing with the cast. Mrs. Poppy had taught her the part in the several days preceding. New Years had come and gone almost unnoticed, so great was the agitation aroused by Tib’s daily visit to the Melborn Hotel.
Tib was not what is called “a quick study”; on the contrary, she was slow. But having learned the part she would not forget it. There was no danger of stage fright or nervousness throwing her off. She would do exactly as she h
“What does he look like?” Winona asked, as the cutter slipped gaily along the polished streets.
“He wears a silk hat, and a diamond ring, and a big gold watch chain. He looks important, and he is important, too. I’m supposed to step back and let him cross in front of me. That’s one thing I mustn’t forget.”
“It will seem strange,” said Betsy, “to hang on to the coat tails of such an important person.”
She and Winona had been told by Mrs. Poppy that they would make their entrance hanging to Rip’s coat tails.
“Oh, he’s kind,” said Tib. “And he likes children. But he’s important. Don’t forget that.”
“Did you try on your costume?” Winona asked.
“Yes. I’m wearing a little Dutch cap like the one we saw in the picture. You all are, I think. And our skirts come down to our ankles. Girls must have dressed that way in Colonial times.
“I ought to look nice,” she added. “Mamma washed my hair. And they’re going to paint my cheeks.”
“We’ll all be painted!” Betsy bounced with joy.
“All the kids in our class are coming,” said Winona. “Herbert… Tom…”
“I’m getting scared,” said Tacy. Her cheeks didn’t need any paint; they were flaming.
“You’ll be all right,” Betsy assured her. “Just stay close to me.”
Mr. Root stopped his horse in front of the Melborn Hotel. They had planned to meet Mrs. Poppy in the lobby there. But she was waiting out in front, walking up and down, more nervous than they had ever seen her.
“I’m as worked up as though I were playing myself,” she said when Mr. Root had wished them all luck and driven away.
She put her arm around Tib.
“Girls,” she said, “you’re going to be proud of Tib today.”
“We know it!” shouted Betsy and Tacy. It wasn’t the first time they had been proud of Tib.
Winona shouted too. They surrounded Tib like a loyal bodyguard on the walk to the Opera House.
Mrs. Poppy walked bulkily in their midst. She was wearing her sealskin coat and cap; and her yellow hair and the diamonds in her ears gleamed against the fur. She was smiling, but now and then she looked at Betsy with an urgent, almost worried look.