“Well-it’s kind of short and unimportant. You’ve got three names. I want a silly middle name too.”
Robin laughed and patted her scarlet neck. “All right. You can be Merry Go Round. If ‘Go’ isn’t a silly middle name, I never heard one!”
“Go!” Merry snickered in delight, then added anxiously, “I suppose three names aren’t too fancy for just an ordinary merry-go-round horse? I wouldn’t want to seem stuck-up.”
“But you’re not an ordinary merry-go-round horse. You’re
alive!”
Merry gave a funny little neighing giggle and cantered around in a circle, coming to a halt directly in front of Robin again.
“How long will I be alive?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Robin confessed thoughtfully. He scratched his head and sat down on the grass. “There’s a lot of things I don’t know any more than you do, come to think of it. I don’t know why you are alive, or where we are, or how we re going to get back to Oregon, or why we flew away. All I did was catch the brass ring… say, I wonder if I’ve still got it.”
He fished in one pocket after another, finding a handkerchief, two marbles, a rather squashed gumdrop, a harmonica, a stubby pencil, a key chain without any keys, one wheel from a model airplane, a yellowish pebble he was fond of, and-in the very last pocket-the brass ring. It was nice and shiny, but it was too big for any of his fingers and it certainly didn’t answer any of his questions, so he put it back in his pocket and began to eat the gumdrop. “It’s all mighty queer,” he finished.
“I think it’s nice,” Merry said happily. “Let’s not go back to Oregon at all.”
“But we can’t stay right here,” Robin objected, swallowing the gumdrop and getting to his feet.
“Why not?” Merry, who had started cantering in a circle again, stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “‘Will the MeGudgeys worry about you?”
“No,” Robin admitted. “They probably won’t even miss me until Tim counts noses next.”
“Will you miss them?” asked Merry.
“I’ll miss my King Arthur book, and that’s about all,” Robin told her truthfully. “But we can’t stay in this meadow. There’s nothing to eat here, and I’m hungry.”
“I miss the calliope,” Merry confessed. “Maybe we could find another carnival somewhere.”
“We’ll find a farm, first,” Robin said practically. “And ask the farmer where we are. After that we can decide what we want to do. Let’s climb that hill and look around. Come on.
“All right,” Merry said amiably, and cantered around her circle.
Robin, who had started walking toward the hill, paused and glanced back at her. “Come on,” he repeated.
“I’m trying,” Merry said, cantering faster-but still in a circle. “Only I don’t seem to know how to ‘come on.
“Why, just-just come. Come this way. Can’t you go in a straight line?”
Merry stopped and eyed him doubtfully. “I never have,” she said. “I’ve never gone any way but ‘round and ‘round.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Robin said in dismay. “I guess you haven’t. Well, I’ll have to teach you-if I can.
Walking back to the mare, he took her gilded reins in his hand and attempted to lead her toward the hill. He found her leading him, instead, firmly in a circle. They halted and eyed each other uneasily.
“Let’s try again,” Robin said. “This time I’ll pull harder.” They tried again. By dint of very hard pulling, Robin succeeded
in making the mare take three or four steps straight ahead,
before she swerved and stopped abruptly, complaining that it made
her dizzy.
“It makes you dizzy to go in a straight line?” Robin puffed in astonishment. (He was quite out of breath from tugging.) Merry nodded her scarlet head guiltily. “Is that wrong?”
“‘Well, it’s kind of mixed-up,” Robin told her, scratching his head. “It makes me dizzy to go in a circle-till I sort of get used to it. You’ll just have to get used to going straight, Merry, ‘cause we’ll never get anywhere just going ‘round and ‘round.”
“Ride on my back and guide me,” the little horse suggested. “Then I could canter. I don’t feel right, walking. Why, I’ve never walked since I was carved! Maybe that’s the trouble!”
Robin climbed willingly into the gilded saddle and flapped the gilded reins, which flashed so brightly in the sunlight that they attracted the attention of a passing redbird, who fluttered down to the hawthorn hedge and perched on a twig to watch. “Okay, Gid-dap!” said Robin.
Merry rolled an innocently inquiring eye, but didn’t move. “‘What’s ‘Gid-dap’?” she asked in an interested voice.
“That means start! Begin! Go ahead! I suppose it’s the wrong word for a merry-go-round horse,” Robin sighed. “‘What signal are you used to?”
“Music,” Merry said promptly. “That’s what’s wrong, there’s no calliope! Could you manage to sound like a calliope, Robin?”
“‘Well, I’ll try,” Robin told her, though he couldn’t help reflecting that there was a good deal more to riding a merry-go-round horse than to riding any real horse he’d ever heard of. Clearing his throat, he began, “Oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah, teedle-eedle-eedle-eedle-”
“Louder,” Merry urged, starting very slowly to canter.
“Oom-pah-pah, teedle-eedle-eedle-” sang Robin. Three more redbirds dropped down to the hawthorn bush and watched with the greatest interest, as Merry picked up a little speed.
“Louder!” she repeated. “It doesn’t feel right yet.”
Robin took a deep breath and made as much noise as he possibly could. “OOM PAM, PAM, OOM PAM PAH, TEEDLE EEDLE EEDLE..
Merry was now bounding along gaily, leaping and dropping just as she had done on the merry-go-round; but she was still going m circles, and Robin was expending so much energy roaring “OOM PARS” and “TEEDLE EEDLES” that he had almost none left over for trying to guide her. He managed only to change the circles to spirals before he ran out of breath completely, and pulled back on the reins.
“Whooooo!” he gasped, collapsing against her pole as she came slowly to a halt. “That’s never going to work, Merry-we’ll have to think of-something else.”
“And it was such fun, too!” the little mare said with regret. “Maybe you could whistle?”
“Not that loud. If I had a tin whistle-or a flute-”
“We can whistle that loud,” a little voice said shrilly.
Both Robin and Merry looked around in surprise, but there was no one in the meadow except themselves and the row of redbirds on the hawthorn hedge. Several more had joined the first ones; there was quite an audience by now.
“Did you say something, Merry?” Robin asked cautiously, one eye on the redbirds.
“No, I did, silly. I said we could whistle as loud as you were singing. Louder, in fact.”
There was no further doubt about it; it was the largest redbird speaking.
“‘Well, my goodness,” Robin said limply. “Nothing’s ever going to surprise me again in my life, after today. Can birds talk
too?”
“Just as well as you can,” the bird replied in an impatient tone. “I don’t see anything very surprising about that. In Oz, everybody can talk.”
“Oz?” chorused Robin and Merry
“Don’t you even know what country you’re in?” the bird said, staring. “This is the Land of Oz. Capital, Emerald City. Ruler: Our Gracious Fairy, Princess Ozma. Geography: all Oz is divided into four parts-Munchkins live in the east, Gillikins in the north,
Winkies in the west, Quadlings in the south. This is the Quadling Country; national color, red. How did you get here if you didn’t even know where you were going?”
“We don’t quite know that, either,” Robin confessed. “And I certainly don’t know how we’re going to get home-or even out of this meadow-unless I can teach Merry not to go in circles.”
“Ah, now we’re
back to the point,” the redbird said. “Do you want us to whistle while you train her?”
“I don’t think he’ll ever train her,” another redbird put in scornfully. “Not good stock to start with. Tail’s too long.”
“She’s a beautiful color, though,” observed a third, rather ostentatiously preening its own scarlet wing.
“Ought to be good at taking her fences, too,” put in the first one. “Got the right gait for it. More bounce in her hocks than in that whole gallumphing great creature of Squire Wirewither’s.”
“Tail’s much too long,” insisted the scornful one. “Like to see her clear a bramble-hedge without getting tangled! Poor stock, I say. Can’t think what her breeding lines could be.”
Robin had listened in astonishment to this lively argument, wondering how in the world birds happened to know so much about horses; but now, seeing that Merry’s lip was trembling again, and her big, soft glass eyes filling with tears, he spoke up stoutly.
“Merry hasn’t got any old breeding lines, she’s a merry-go-round horse,” he told the scornful bird. Then, to the others, he added politely, “I’d be very grateful if you’d whistle. She’s used to a calliope, you see.
“Glad to oblige,” said the first bird. “All right, fellows, baritones
and basses take the oompahs, and tenors the teedle-eedles. Ah-one-and-two!”
On “two” the entire chorus of birds broke into piercing song-all except the scornful one, who shook his scarlet feathers disdainfully and flew away. Merry brightened, tossed her pretty wooden mane and slowly started to move. This time Robin was free to turn all his attention to guiding her, and in a few minutes had coaxed her from circles to spirals, then from spirals to great arcs that took her bounding and leaping over most of the meadow. Finally, to Robin’s delight, the arcs straightened out until there was not much curve left in them at all.
“You’re doing it! You’re doing it!” he shouted.
“Am I? Oh, goody, how exciting! I’m learning to be a Real Horse, oh, goody, goody . .” Instantly Merry started going in circles again, and had to be brought to a halt, crestfallen.
“I guess excitement’s bad for you,” Robin told her, patting her scarlet neck while the birds were clearing their throats. “When you get excited, you forget. Okay, let’s try again.”
“Ah-one-and-two…” shrilled the largest redbird.
At the end of half an hour Merry was beginning to catch on nicely, and Robin was beginning to understand her merry-go-roundish ways. She always started slowly and halted gradually, and she needed regular stops-not for rest, since her wooden legs never grew tired, but because she was used to the merry-go-round’s stopping at intervals to let children off and on. Robin found that if
he merely climbed out of the saddle and back on again now and then, Merry was quite content, and said it “felt right.” Most important of all, except for a lingering tendency to go in circles when she was excited, the little horse was bounding along in perfectly straight lines.
“Now it’s safe enough to leave the meadow,” Robin thought. “But what about the calliope music? We can’t take all those birds along; besides, I’ll bet they wouldn’t go.”
Me had just happily remembered the harmonica in his pocket when Merry gave a jump of surprise, and the redbirds rose screeching into the air and scattered in every direction. Something had burst out of a thicket halfway up the hillside and was streaking toward them, running so swiftly it was no more than a red-brown blur.
“Why it’s a fox!” exclaimed Robin.
At his words the blur came to a sliding stop a few feet away from them, and sure enough, there was a handsome red fox, staring at Merry with every appearance of astonishment.
“Of course I’m a fox,” it barked. “But by my brush and mask and whiskers, what is that ?”
By this time Robin had ceased to be surprised at talking animals, so he answered quite calmly, “That’s my horse.”
“Your horse?” The fox’s eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed to slits as it sat back on its haunches and simply yelped with laughter. “Oh, my mask and whiskers, wait’ll they see this! Your horse! O, wait till I tell the kits! Oh, gadzooks!”
“What do you mean, laughing at Merry!” Robin cried indignantly, patting the little mare’s drooping head.
“Sorry, can t stay to explain, I’m on duty. But you’ll find out, you’ll find out …” Still yapping hilariously, the fox streaked off again, plunged through the hawthorn hedge and disappeared.
“What manners!” Robin said angrily. “Never mind him, Merry, he’s just ignorant. Come on, let’s go look for that farm, I’m tired of this old meadow.”
“B-but the birds are gone,” Merry said. Her lip was quivering with discouragement. “And everybody laughs at me, and I’ll never learn to be a Real Horse, and-”
“You’re better than a real horse!” Robin told her, fishing hastily in his pocket. “And we don’t need the birds, because I have a harmonica! Listen!”
Me blew a stirring chord or two on the instrument. Merry’s ears pricked up at once, but she had scarcely started to move when the loud, clear notes of a hunting horn sounded in the distance, and closer, the baying of a pack of hounds.
“What’s that, Robin?” Merry quavered, beginning to prance a little.
“It’s dogs,” Robin said nervously. “They’re coming fast, too. I think we’d better get out of here. Oh, my goodness-!”
He broke off as the first hounds appeared over the brow of the hill and headed straight down toward them. The noise of their baying filled the air.
Robin blew valiantly on his harmonica, kicking Merry’s painted sides at the same time. But Merry had never seen a pack of hounds. With a frightened whinny she bounded sideways, then backwards, then began running in frantic circles heedless of Robin’s shouts or tuggings on the reins. The hounds streamed past them, then as if belatedly realizing what they had seen, swirled like a river meeting a hidden obstacle and eddied back around the circling mare. At that moment the Hunt itself came over the hill.
“What’s that?” shrieked the terrified Merry, tightening her circles until Robin had to cling fast to her pole to keep from being hurled off.
“Real Horses!” he managed to gasp out, swiveling his head to stare at the swiftly approaching throng. “And men in pink coats! It’s a foxhunt, Merry! Oh, jeepers, I do think we’d better leave-”
It was too late. “Real Horses!” neighed Merry, and stood perfectly still. Next instant, with bugles sounding, hounds yapping, and hearty voices shouting “Tally-ho!” the Fox-Hunters were upon them and they were surrounded.
Chapter 3
ROBIN’S first and strongest reaction to the Fox-Hunters was a desire to put his fingers in his cars. He thought he had never heard quite so much noise. Hunters, horses, hounds, all talked at once; saddles squeaked, bridles jingled, and nobody
stayed still for half a second. What with the black-and-white dogs swirling underfoot, the pink coats surging above, and horses prancing, tossing their heads and switching their shining tails, the whole meadow was full of milling confusion.
Patting Merry, who was staring with wide eyes at the Real Horses, Robin tried to sort out the babble of voices into something more sensible than “Tally-ho!” “Jolly rum, what?” “Take em to Yoicks!” and “Odd breedin’!” Suddenly there was a piercing blast on the hunting horn, and the hubbub quieted somewhat, though not much.
“Tally-ho, well-met, and all that,” boomed a hearty voice in Robin’s left ear, and someone clapped him on the back with such excessive friendliness that he was almost knocked from the saddle. Clutching at Merry’s pole, he turned to see the nearest Huntsman beaming at him affably, and leaning from his horse to extend a large hand.
Robin submitted his own to a bone-crushing but fortunately brief grip, and said “Tally-ho,” which seemed to he the accepted greeting among these people.
“Resident of the County? What’s your Pack? Don’t think I’ve had the plea
sure,” the other went on rapidly. His gaze had shifted to Merry, at whom everybody else in sight, animal or human, was staring fascinatedly.
“Well, I-” Robin began, wondering what sort of Pack was meant, and which question to answer first.
“Speak up, can’t quite hear you,” boomed the Huntsman. “I’m the Whipper-In-name’s Wirewither. Questions quite in order. Take ‘em one at a time, speak up. Name, please?”
“Robin Brown,” said Robin, making an effort to speak up.
“Resident of the County?”
“Well-what county is this, sir? I live in Clackamas County, Oregon, U.S.A.,” Robin added, so that everything would be perfectly clear.
At once the undertone of noise and conversation rose to a babble again, with the hounds joining in freely, Robin noticed. “Furriners.” “Thought as much.” “Accounts for the rum breedin’.” “Take ‘em to Yoicks.“‘Poachin’! Only thing to do.”
The Whipper-In raised his riding crop, and the noise abated somewhat.
“There’s only one County,” he told Robin disapprovingly. “Never heard of that other place. They have Packs there?”
“Well,” Robin said, swallowing. “I once belonged to Cub Scout Pack 23. Is that what you-”
“Tell you what it is, chaps,” interrupted the Whipper-In, who was still examining Merry. “Back’s too short, that’s what. Too small all over, actually. Still, a nice little mare. Got a bit of fence rail caught in her saddle, hasn’t she? Odd thing to happen. Accident while jumping?” He pointed to Merry’s pole, then suddenly seemed to realize what Robin had said, and turned a shocked gaze on him. “Cub scouts, you say? Not at all the thing! No, no! Can’t allow that here. Hunt the full-grown fox, that’s all.”
“I don’t hunt anything,” Robin said exasperatedly. “And
that’s not a fence rail, that’s a merry-go-round pole. And-”
“Ah, kennel-boy, eh? Thought you didn’t quite look bred for huntin’. No offense!” Another hearty clap on the back nearly unseated Robin. “Probably jolly good kennel-boy. Don’t doubt it for a minute. Nice little mare, I must say. How’s her mouth? Here, make room there, let’s see her action.”
L. Frank Baum - Oz 40 Page 2
