Understood Betsy - Dorothy Canfield Fisher (autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

tapped Elizabeth Ann on the shoulder, and

nodded toward the sofa. His eyes were twinkling, and as for Aunt Abigail

she began to laugh silently, shaking all over, her napkin at her mouth

to stifle the sound. Elizabeth Ann turned wonderingly and saw the old

dog cautiously and noiselessly letting himself down from the sofa, one

ear cocked rigidly in the direction of Cousin Ann’s voice in the next

room. “The old tyke!” said Uncle Henry. “He always sneaks up to the

table to be fed if Ann goes out for a minute. Here, Betsy, you’re

nearest, give him this piece of skin from the chicken neck.” The big dog

padded forward across the room, evidently in such a state of terror

about Cousin Ann that Elizabeth Ann felt for him. She had a fellow-feeling about that relative of hers. Also it was impossible to be afraid

of so abjectly meek and guilty an animal. As old Shep came up to her,

poking his nose inquiringly on her lap, she shrinkingly held out the big

piece of skin, and though she jumped back at the sudden snap and

gobbling gulp with which the old dog greeted the tidbit, she could not

but sympathize with his evident enjoyment of it. He waved his bushy tail

gratefully, cocked his head on one side, and, his ears standing up at

attention, his eyes glistening greedily, he gave a little, begging

whine. “Oh, he’s asking for more!” cried Elizabeth Ann, surprised to see

how plainly she could understand dog-talk. “Quick, Uncle Henry, give me

another piece!”

 

Uncle Henry rapidly transferred to her plate a wing-bone from his own,

and Aunt Abigail, with one deft swoop, contributed the neck from the

platter. As fast as she could, Elizabeth Ann fed these to Shep, who

woofed them down at top speed, the bones crunching loudly under his

strong, white teeth. How he did enjoy it! It did your heart good to see

his gusto!

 

[Illustration: “Oh, he’s asking for more’” cried Elizabeth Ann]

 

There was the sound of the telephone receiver being hung up in the next

room—and everybody acted at once. Aunt Abigail began drinking

innocently out of her coffee-cup, only her laughing old eyes showing

over the rim; Uncle Henry buttered a slice of bread with a grave face,

as though he were deep in conjectures about who would be the next

President; and as for old Shep, he made one plunge across the room, his

toe-nails clicking rapidly on the bare floor, sprang up on the couch,

and when Cousin Ann opened the door and came in he was lying in exactly

the position in which she had left him, his paw stretched out, his head

laid on it, his brown eyes turned up meekly so that the whites showed.

 

I’ve told you what these three did, but I haven’t told you yet what

Elizabeth Ann did. And it is worth telling. As Cousin Ann stepped in,

glancing suspiciously from her sober-faced and abstracted parents to the

lamb-like innocence of old Shep, little Elizabeth Ann burst into a shout

of laughter. It’s worth telling about, because, so far as I know, that

was the first time she had ever laughed out heartily in all her life.

For my part, I’m half surprised to know that she knew how.

 

Of course, when she laughed, Aunt Abigail had to laugh too, setting down

her coffee-cup and showing all the funny wrinkles in her face screwed up

hard with fun; and that made Uncle Henry laugh, and then Cousin Ann

laughed and said, as she sat down, “You are bad children, the whole four

of you!” And old Shep, seeing the state of things, stopped pretending to

be meek, jumped down, and came lumbering over to the table, wagging his

tail and laughing too; you know that good, wide dog-smile! He put his

head on Elizabeth Ann’s lap again and she patted it and lifted up one of

his big black ears. She had quite forgotten that she was terribly afraid

of big dogs.

 

After dinner Cousin Ann looked up at the clock and said: “My goodness!

Betsy’ll be late for school if she doesn’t start right off.” She

explained to the child, aghast at this sudden thunderclap, “I let you

sleep this morning as long as you wanted to, because you were so tired

from your journey. But of course there’s no reason for missing the

afternoon session.”

 

As Elizabeth Ann continued sitting perfectly still, frozen with alarm,

Cousin Ann jumped up briskly, got the little coat and cap, helped her

up, and began inserting the child’s arms into the sleeves. She pulled

the cap well down over Elizabeth Ann’s ears, felt in the pocket and

pulled out the mittens. “There,” she said, holding them out, “you’d

better put them on before you go out, for it’s a real cold day.” As she

led the stupefied little girl along toward the door Aunt Abigail came

after them and put a big sugar-cookie into the child’s hand. “Maybe

you’ll like to eat that for your recess time,” she said. “I always did

when I went to school.”

 

Elizabeth Ann’s hand closed automatically about the cookie, but she

scarcely heard what was said. She felt herself to be in a bad dream.

Aunt Frances had never, no NEVER, let her go to school alone, and on the

first day of the year always took her to the new teacher and introduced

her and told the teacher how sensitive she was and how hard to

understand; and then she stayed there for an hour or two till Elizabeth

Ann got used to things! She could not face a whole new school all alone—

oh, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t! She couldn’t! Horrors! Here she was in

the front hall—she was on the porch! Cousin Ann was saying: “Now run

along, child. Straight down the road till the first turn to the left,

and there in the cross-roads, there you are.” And now the front door

closed behind her, the path stretched before her to the road, and the

road led down the hill the way Cousin Ann had pointed. Elizabeth Ann’s

feet began to move forward and carried her down the path, although she

was still crying out to herself, “I can’t! I won’t! I can’t!”

 

Are you wondering why Elizabeth Ann didn’t turn right around, open the

front door, walk in, and say, “I can’t! I won’t! I can’t!” to Cousin

Ann?

 

The answer to that question is that she didn’t do it because Cousin Ann

was Cousin Ann. And there’s more in that than you think! In fact, there

is a mystery in it that nobody has ever solved, not even the greatest

scientists and philosophers, although, like all scientists and

philosophers, they think they have gone a long way toward explaining

something they don’t understand by calling it a long name. The long name

is “personality,” and what it means nobody knows, but it is perhaps the

very most important thing in the world for all that. And yet we know

only one or two things about it. We know that anybody’s personality is

made up of the sum total of all the actions and thoughts and desires of

his life. And we know that though there aren’t any words or any figures

in any language to set down that sum total accurately, still it is one

of the first things that everybody knows about anybody else. And that is

really all we know!

 

So I can’t tell you why Elizabeth Ann did not go back and cry and sob

and say she couldn’t and she wouldn’t and she couldn’t, as she would

certainly have done at Aunt Harriet’s. You remember that I could not

even tell you why it was that, as the little fatherless and motherless

girl lay in bed looking at Aunt Abigail’s old face, she should feel so

comforted and protected that she must needs break out crying. No, all I

can say is that it was because Aunt Abigail was Aunt Abigail. But

perhaps it may occur to you that it’s rather a good idea to keep a sharp

eye on your “personality,” whatever that is! It might be very handy, you

know, to have a personality like Cousin Ann’s which sent Elizabeth Ann’s

feet down the path; or perhaps you would prefer one like Aunt Abigail’s.

Well, take your choice.

 

You must not, of course, think for a moment that Elizabeth Ann had the

slightest INTENTION of obeying Cousin Ann. No indeed! Nothing was

farther from her mind as her feet carried her along the path and into

the road. In her mind was nothing but rebellion and fear and anger and

oh, such hurt feelings! She turned sick at the very thought of facing

all the staring, curious faces in the playground turned on the new

scholar as she had seen them at home! She would never, never do it! She

would walk around all the afternoon, and then go back and tell Cousin

Ann that she couldn’t! She would EXPLAIN to her how Aunt Frances never

let her go out of doors without a loving hand to cling to. She would

EXPLAIN to her how Aunt Frances always took care of her! … it was easier

to think about what she would say and do and explain, away from Cousin

Ann, than it was to say and do it before those black eyes. Aunt

Frances’s eyes were soft, light blue.

 

Oh, how she wanted Aunt Frances to take care of her! Nobody cared a

thing about her! Nobody UNDERSTOOD her but Aunt Frances! She wouldn’t go

back at all to Putney Farm. She would just walk on and on till she was

lost, and the night would come and she would lie down and freeze to

death, and then wouldn’t Cousin Ann feel … Someone called to her,

“Isn’t this Betsy?”

 

She looked up astonished. A young girl in a gingham dress and a white

apron like those at Putney Farm stood in front of a tiny, square

building, like a toy house. “Isn’t this Betsy?” asked the young girl

again. “Your Cousin Ann said you were coming to school today and I’ve

been looking out for you. But I saw you going right by, and I ran out to

stop you.”

 

“Why, where IS the school?” asked Betsy, staring around for a big brick,

four-story building.

 

The young girl laughed and held out her hand. “This is the school,” she

said, “and I am the teacher, and you’d better come right in, for it’s

time to begin.”

 

She led Betsy into a low-ceilinged room with geraniums at the windows,

where about a dozen children of different ages sat behind their desks.

At the first sight of them Betsy blushed crimson with fright and

shyness, and hung down her head; but, looking out the corners of her

eyes, she saw that they, too, were all very red-faced and scared-looking

and hung down their heads, looking at her shyly out of the corners of

their eyes. She was so surprised by this that she forgot all about

herself and looked inquiringly at the teacher.

 

“They don’t see many strangers,” the teacher explained, “and they feel

very shy and scared when a new scholar comes, especially one from the

city.”

 

“Is this my grade?” asked Elizabeth, thinking it the very smallest grade

she had ever seen.

 

“This is the whole school,” said the teacher. “There are only two or

three in each class. You’ll probably have three in yours. Miss Ann said

you were in the third grade. There, that’s your seat.”

 

Elizabeth sat down before a very old desk, much battered and hacked up

with knife marks. There was a big H. P. carved just over the inkwell,