L. Frank Baum - Oz 17

by The Cowardly Lion Of Oz

  “What is courage? Does it grow Like potatoes in a row? Don’t ask me for I don’t know!”

  shouted Scraps, the Patchwork Girl, diving suddenly from the tree top and bouncing upon the Doubtful Dromedary. Being stuffed with cotton made Scraps very daring.

  “I’ve a hunch,” began the Comfortable Camel, very much relieved that the Patchwork Girl had fallen on his friend.

  “Where? On your back?” screamed Scraps, flinging her arms about his neck.

  “I’ve a hunch,” continued the camel calmly, paying no attention at all to the Patchwork Girl, “that courage isn’t the way you feel, but the way you act. As you always act bravely, why worry about the way you feel?”

  “But you never felt as frightened as I feel,” objected the Cowardly Lion.

  “His knees do quake, His teeth do chatter, His big old heart goes pitter patter! But what’s the odds-Though stiff with fright He still can fight with mane and might!”

  cried Scraps, sitting down with a thud. “The more mane the more might,” she finished

  brilliantly.

  “So rub some tonic on your brain And just increase your might and mane!”

  “I doubt that,” mumbled the Doubtful Dromedary, looking at Scraps reprovingly.

  “There might be something in it,” said the camel, chewing a wisp of grass in his slow precise

  fashion.

  “My mane is a little thin,” mused the Cowardly Lion, rubbing it thoughtfully with his paw.

  “If I were you,” said the Patchwork Girl, rising unsteadily, “I should find a very brave person and then eat him up. That ought to give you a big dose of courage.

  “I doubt that,” said the Doubtful Dromedary sharply.

  “Think how uncomfortable it would be for the poor brave person,” sighed the camel. “My dear, I am afraid you have no heart.”

  “Of course I have no heart,” cried Scraps, starting to run down the path, “but I have a

  marvelous head.”

  The Comfortable Camel sighed and glanced uneasily at the Cowardly Lion. The Cowardly Lion had a faraway look in his eye, as if Scraps’ naughty suggestion had given him an idea, and it was not long before he made some excuse to get away from the two gentle creatures. He wanted to think. After all, why should he, the most famous lion in all Oz, forever be called cowardly? He would tell no one, but he would go off on a long journey and perhapseven to himself the Cowardly Lion did not say it, but the idea of swallowing a brave person did seem a reasonable way to acquire courage. “I need never tell little Dorothy,” muttered the great beast uncomfortably, “but how proud she will be when I return full of courage!”

  He slipped noiselessly out of the quiet, lovely garden and, avoiding the yellow brick road, struck off through a deep forest toward the Munchkin Country to the south. Many brave woodcutters live in the Munchkin forests, and the Cowardly Lion was resolved darkly to swallow the bravest of them, ax and all. “If only my cowardly heart does not fail me at the last moment,” he groaned nervously, as he went crackling through the heavy underbrush. “I could swallow one whole, and that oughtn’t to hurt much.” Already his kind, cowardly, comfortable old heart was beginning to quake at the thought of swallowing a woodcutter. But, arguing and rumbling to himself, he continued his race toward the south. By the time the castle clocks chimed eight, he was miles and miles away from the safe and delightful Emerald City of Oz.

  CHAPTER 9 In Search of a Brave Man

  The Cowardly Lion was familiar with all the forests in Oz, and though the one through which he was passing was so dense that, even in the morning, only a dim light filtered through the trees, he had no difficulty finding his way. In the center of this forest lived a small colony of woodcutters, and the Cowardly Lion was heading straight for this colony, roaring and growling to keep up his courage. The more he thought about devouring a brave man, the faster he ran. The thing would have to be done quickly or not at all-quickly before his heart failed him entirely. As the hollow blows of an ax came echoing through the stillness, a shiver ran down his back and, when a sudden leap brought him almost upon a tall Munchkin forester, he stopped altogether. At the sound of the crackling branches, the man turned, but when he saw the new comer was a lion, he calmly went on with his work.

  “There’s bravery for you,” gulped the Cowardly Lion to himself. Now was his chance, for the man’s back was turned. But it was no use; he simply could not spring on a man brave enough to turn his back, so instead he sighed heavily and sat down.

  “How’s the hunting?” asked the woodcutter gruffly, after he had brought down his tree.

  “Why, not very good, thank you,” replied the lion pensively. This was worse still. Could one eat up a man in the middle of a conversation?

  “Well, now that’s too bad.” The woodcutter mopped his brow and turned ‘round slowly. “Tell me,” asked the lion, blinking his eyes unhappily, “are you a brave man?”

  “Well, that,” pondered the woodcutter, sitting down on a stump and wiping off his ax with a bunch of leaves, “that I hardly know.”

  “Don’t you think talking to a lion is pretty brave?” asked the great beast hopefully. He gathered himself for a spring. If the man said yes, he would certainly eat him up and have an end to this disagreeable business. But instead, the woodcutter regarded him closely.

  “Say!” he burst out, hopping to his feet and giving the Cowardly Lion a resounding whack on the back, “say, this is an honor. Sorry I didn’t recognize you at once. Boys!” He raised his voice joyfully, “Boys, here’s the good old Cowardly Lion, the Cowardly Lion himself. Come on out. We’ve often heard about you,” explained the big man, fairly beaming upon the embarrassed lion, “but as none of us ever go to the Emerald City this is the first we’ve seen of you. How is the Scarecrow and Ozma, and how’s Princess Dorothy? You see, even though we live in the woods, we know all about you famous folks.”

  The Cowardly Lion put his paw to his head and tried to think. It was upsetting to have a man you intended to devour so frightfully polite. “How did you know I was the Cowardly Lion?” he asked in a husky voice.

  “Why, first I thought you were like any other lion, then I saw you were all of a tremble, and I says to myself, says I, ‘Wilby, my lad, you’re looking straight at this famous Cowardly Lion of Oz.’ I tell you it’s a proud day for me. To think I’m talking face to face with a lion who has saved his country as many times as you have. I declare now, it’s a pleasure.”

  Before the Cowardly Lion could answer, a dozen more woodcutters came running toward them and when he had been introduced by Wilby Whut to each woodcutter in turn, and to the wives and children of each woodcutter, he had neither the breath nor the inclination to devour anybody. The children hastily wove him a flower chain and crowed with delight when he trotted them about on his back. The women brought out their choicest meats and dishes of honey to refresh him, while the men sat around and listened solemnly to all he had to say of doings in the Emerald City. Why, there had not been such a holiday in the forest since the wicked Witch of the West had been destroyed by little Dorothy.

  The Cowardly Lion, ashamed of the dreadful purpose that had brought him to the forest, outdid himself to entertain them. And so enchanted were the kindly woodcutters with his conversation that he could not tear himself away until late in the afternoon.

  “I’ll never be able to eat a woodcutter,” groaned the Cowardly Lion, trotting slowly along in the gathering dusk. “Never after the way they have treated me. I’ll have to find some other sort of brave person to swallow.” Scraps’ advice was proving difficult right at the start, and very thoughtfully the Cowardly Lion continued his journey.

  It was night time when he reached the edge of the forest-night time and not a brave man in sight. But in the southern part of the Munchkin Country there are many great mountains and among the sturdy Munchkin mountaineers surely there would be a brave man. So the lion, who did not mind at all traveling in the dark, ran steadily toward the south, through quiet li
ttle villages, through fragrant fields and meadows, even swimming the broad and turbulent Munchkin river. It was rather lonely, and he wished Dorothy or Sir Hokus of Pokes were along, but he well knew that neither would approve of his plan for acquiring courage. He was not sure that he approved of it himself, but he kept on arguing in his head and shuddering in his heart, and sighing because he was so great a coward. Just as the sun rose he came upon a brave man, asleep under a blue rose bush. He knew he must be brave, because he was dressed as a huntsman and beside him lay a terrible-looking gun.

  The Cowardly Lion’s heart began to thump like a triphammer, for he was much afraid of guns. But it did not seem at all fair to swallow a man in his sleep and, though he trembled so violently he could

  scarcely stand, he determined to waken the huntsman and to ascertain at the same time whether he were brave enough for his purpose. Gathering himself together as best he could, he sprang upon the sleeping huntsman. There was a crackle and snap as if he had stepped upon a pillow stuffed with twigs. Then an ear splitting shriek flattened back the Cowardly Lion’s ears and fairly curdled his blood. At the same time his tail was seized from behind, and twisted terrifically.

  “Help! Help!” screamed the huntsman, trying to rise.

  “Ouch, Stop!” roared the Cowardly Lion, while the person who had hold of his tail screamed in seven different keys. The Cowardly Lion removed his paw from the huntsman’s chest. “Are you a brave man?” he asked in a quavering voice.

  “Not very,” chattered the huntsman, jumping up and backing cautiously toward a tree.

  “Well, you don’t sound brave,” continued the lion in a relieved voice. “A brave man would not call for help. Let go of my tail, little boy. It’s all a mistake. I don’t want this huntsman after all.”

  “He’s not a huntsman,” wailed the little boy, running over and clasping the man around the

  knees.

  “Not a huntsman?” roared the Cowardly Lion, waving his tail very fast. “Then what-” “I’m a clown, you rude monster,” spluttered the man indignantly.

  A clown! Well, I should say-and none other than our old friend Notta Bit More. Snatching off his hat and false whiskers, he swung Bob Up into a tree and nimbly followed himself. When they were both seated on a branch, far above the ground, he looked anxiously through the leaves to see what the lion would do next. “Never saw such a country for lions!” he puffed resentfully. The lion, with one paw shading his eyes, was looking up at them. “Are you afraid?” he called pleasantly. “Are you afraid? Well, don’t be, for being a coward myself makes me very sympathetic.” At the word coward Notta almost fell from the tree.

  “Bob,” whispered the clown hoarsely, “it’s the Cowardly Lion himself! Now we mustn’t let him know we’re going to capture him.”

  “He’s a very bad lion,” interrupted Bob Up tearfully. “He tried to bite you!”

  “What say?” called the lion, who could only hear an indistinct muttering.

  “He says you are a very bad lion,” repeated Notta, looking seriously at the great creature below. “He’s right,” sighed the lion dolefully. “I am a bad lion. A good lion would have eaten you up by this time, but a bad lion often makes a good friend. Come on down. It was all a mistake.”

  “Are you a friend of Dorothy’s?” asked Bob, leaning far out over the branch. At mention of Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion gave a guilty little jump.

  “Well, I should say so. Are you friends of Dorothy’s?”

  “No, but we’re from the same country,” said the clown, “and if you’re quite sure you don’t want to eat me up, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’ve never eaten a man in my life,” roared the Cowardly Lion, rolling his eyes sadly.

  “Then why start on me?” asked Notta, scratching his ear and winking at Bob Up. Now that the incident was over it struck him as terribly funny to be perched in a tree conversing with the Cowardly Lion. He wished some of his old pals in the circus could see him. He’d never expect them to believe it otherwise. So Notta and Bob climbed down and the three regarded each other with frank interest.

  The Cowardly Lion had never seen a clown and the clown had never seen a Cowardly Lion, so there was much to be explained and accounted for. First, Notta told of their sudden transportation to Mudge, of Doorways, and everything else except Mustafa’s determination to have them capture the Cowardly Lion himself. They were on their way, explained the clown, to the Emerald City to see whether or not Dorothy could find a way to send them back to the United States.

  “Ozma can do that very easi1y with her magic belt,” said the lion, “but I will go with you, for Oz is full of dangers for mortal folks like you, and Dorothy would not want anything to happen to anyone from her country, I am very sure. He then told them a lot about the marvelous land of Oz, with its four big countries and its many little ones.

  “This,” roared the Cowardly Lion with a sweep of his paw, “is the Munchkin Country. To the north is the Kingdom of the Gillikens, to the west is the Winkie Country and to the south the Quadling Country, ruled over by the good sorceress, Glinda. But all of Oz is under the rule of Ozma.”

  Bob’s eyes grew rounder and rounder as he told them how Dorothy was first blown to Oz by a cyclone, of her discovery of the scarecrow, how she had lifted him down his pole and, with the Cowardly Lion and Tin Woodman, traveled to the Emerald City, then ruled over by the Wizard of Oz. Then he told how Ozma, the little fairy ruler, who was the real Queen of Oz, had been found and placed upon the throne. Then came the story of Scraps and Sir Hokus and of Tik Tok, and of every other amazing person living in the amazing Emerald City.

  When the Cowardly Lion paused for breath Bob was jumping up and down with excitement.

  “Oh, I do want to see Dorothy and the Scarecrow! Let’s hurry,” cried the little orphan, throwing his arms ‘round the Cowardly Lion’s neck. The kind old Cowardly Lion blinked with pleasure.

  “I’m glad you did that,” he rumbled in a husky voice, “for now I know that you trust me, and have forgotten all about that unfortunate mistake!”

  “But why did you ask if I was brave?” mused the clown, who could scarcely believe that this merry little boy hugging the Cowardly Lion was the same Bobbie Downs who had fallen into Mudge.

  “Because,” the lion swallowed self-consciously, “because I am looking for the bravest man in

  Oz.”

  “What will you do when you find him?” asked Notta, carefully folding up his huntsman suit and powdering his nose with another marshmallow.

  “Now, don’t ask me that, please.” The Cowardly Lion raised his paw pleadingly and looked so uncomfortable Notta dropped the subject at once. He felt a little uncomfortable himself, for he had determined, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, to tie up the great creature and somehow or other deliver him to Mustafa. What else could he do? The clown sighed regretfully, for already he had taken a great fancy to the Cowardly Lion. But fancy or not, one could not risk turning blue, and he had

  Bob Up to think of. To gain the lion’s confidence he decided to travel with him for a while toward the Emerald City and, so long as they did that with the fixed purpose of capturing the Cowardly Lion, Mustafa’s ring could not turn black.

  Notta said nothing of his plans to Bob, for the boy was so happy at the thought of visiting the Emerald City, and so delighted with his new and interesting friend, he hated to spoil a bit of his pleasure. So he merely opened another pack of Mustafa’s sandwiches and they all had a cheerful breakfast together. Then, with Bob proudly riding the lion, they started off once again toward the north.

  “Would you mind telling me why you pretended to be a huntsman?” asked the Cowardly Lion. He had been looking sideways at Notta for some time, trying to puzzle the thing out for himself. “Not at all,” chuckled the clown, chinning himself on the branch of a tree. “I disguised myself as a huntsman to frighten off any wild animals while we were asleep. I always disguise myself when there is danger in the wind-d
on’t I, Bobbie?” The little boy nodded his head solemnly.

  “Does it help?” asked the Cowardly Lion in an interested voice. Bob Up looked thoughtful, but as the clown nodded emphatically, he said nothing. It seemed to Bob that Notta always picked the wrong disguise, but the clown was so confident and cheerful about it he could not bear to discourage him. So he listened politely while Notta explained his rules of disguise, politeness, joke and run. When he had finished the Cowardly Lion shook his head.

  “I suppose, said he, half closing his eyes, “that you cannot help your disguises any more than I can help my cowardice.”

  “It isn’t that I am afraid,” explained Notta hastily, “but I can fight better when I’m not looking like myself. When I look like myself I feel funny and when I feel funny, I can’t fight.”

  “Well, with me,” said the Cowardly Lion, who like most of us enjoyed talking about himself, “the funnier I look, the harder I fight. So don’t frighten me, I beg of you, for when I’m frightened I fight terrifically.”

  “I’ll remember what you say,” said Notta, turning a somersault, and wondering uneasily what the Cowardly Lion would do when he tried to capture him. But the thought of being captured never entered the lion’s head. He was rather glad to have the two strangers turn up this way. It postponed that disagreeable business of eating a brave man. Of course, if they should run across one on the journey, well enough, but first it was his plain duty to conduct this clown and little boy safely to the Emerald City.