Oz, The Complete Collection

by L. Frank Baum

  “Uncle Henry! Uncle Henry!”

  But the wind screeched and howled so madly that she scarce heard her own voice, and the man certainly failed to hear her, for he did not move.

  Dorothy decided she must go to him; so she made a dash forward, during a lull in the storm, to where a big square chicken-coop had been lashed to the deck with ropes. She reached this place in safety, but no sooner had she seized fast hold of the slats of the big box in which the chickens were kept than the wind, as if enraged because the little girl dared to resist its power, suddenly redoubled its fury. With a scream like that of an angry giant it tore away the ropes that held the coop and lifted it high into the air, with Dorothy still clinging to the slats. Around and over it whirled, this way and that, and a few moments later the chicken-coop dropped far away into the sea, where the big waves caught it and slid it up-hill to a foaming crest and then down-hill into a deep valley, as if it were nothing more than a plaything to keep them amused.

  Dorothy had a good ducking, you may be sure, but she didn’t lose her presence of mind even for a second. She kept tight hold of the stout slats and as soon as she could get the water out of her eyes she saw that the wind had ripped the cover from the coop, and the poor chickens were fluttering away in every direction, being blown by the wind until they looked like feather dusters without handles. The bottom of the coop was made of thick boards, so Dorothy found she was clinging to a sort of raft, with sides of slats, which readily bore up her weight. After coughing the water out of her throat and getting her breath again, she managed to climb over the slats and stand upon the firm wooden bottom of the coop, which supported her easily enough.

  “Why, I’ve got a ship of my own!” she thought, more amused than frightened at her sudden change of condition; and then, as the coop climbed up to the top of a big wave, she looked eagerly around for the ship from which she had been blown.

  It was far, far away, by this time. Perhaps no one on board had yet missed her, or knew of her strange adventure. Down into a valley between the waves the coop swept her, and when she climbed another crest the ship looked like a toy boat, it was such a long way off. Soon it had entirely disappeared in the gloom, and then Dorothy gave a sigh of regret at parting with Uncle Henry and began to wonder what was going to happen to her next.

  Just now she was tossing on the bosom of a big ocean, with nothing to keep her afloat but a miserable wooden hen-coop that had a plank bottom and slatted sides, through which the water constantly splashed and wetted her through to the skin! And there was nothing to eat when she became hungry—as she was sure to do before long—and no fresh water to drink and no dry clothes to put on.

  “Well, I declare!” she exclaimed, with a laugh. “You’re in a pretty fix, Dorothy Gale, I can tell you! and I haven’t the least idea how you’re going to get out of it!”

  As if to add to her troubles the night was now creeping on, and the grey clouds overhead changed to inky blackness. But the wind, as if satisfied at last with its mischievous pranks, stopped blowing this ocean and hurried away to another part of the world to blow something else; so that the waves, not being joggled any more, began to quiet down and behave themselves.

  It was lucky for Dorothy, I think, that the storm subsided; otherwise, brave though she was, I fear she might have perished. Many children, in her place, would have wept and given way to despair; but because Dorothy had encountered so many adventures and come safely through them it did not occur to her at this time to be especially afraid. She was wet and uncomfortable, it is true; but, after sighing that one sigh I told you of, she managed to recall some of her customary cheerfulness and decided to patiently await whatever her fate might be.

  By and by the black clouds rolled away and showed a blue sky overhead, with a silver moon shining sweetly in the middle of it and little stars winking merrily at Dorothy when she looked their way. The coop did not toss around any more, but rode the waves more gently—almost like a cradle rocking—so that the floor upon which Dorothy stood was no longer swept by water coming through the slats. Seeing this, and being quite exhausted by the excitement of the past few hours, the little girl decided that sleep would be the best thing to restore her strength and the easiest way in which she could pass the time. The floor was damp and she was herself wringing wet, but fortunately this was a warm climate and she did not feel at all cold.

  So she sat down in a corner of the coop, leaned her back against the slats, nodded at the friendly stars before she closed her eyes, and was asleep in half a minute.

  Chapter 2

  The YELLOW HEN

  strange noise awoke Dorothy, who opened her eyes to find that day had dawned and the sun was shining brightly in a clear sky. She had been dreaming that she was back in Kansas again, and playing in the old barn-yard with the calves and pigs and chickens all around her; and at first, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she really imagined she was there.

  “Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-kut! Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-kut!”

  Ah; here again was the strange noise that had awakened her. Surely it was a hen cackling! But her wide-open eyes first saw, through the slats of the coop, the blue waves of the ocean, now calm and placid, and her thoughts flew back to the past night, so full of danger and discomfort. Also she began to remember that she was a waif of the storm, adrift upon a treacherous and unknown sea.

  “Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-w-w—kut!”

  “What’s that?” cried Dorothy, starting to her feet.

  “Why, I’ve just laid an egg, that’s all,” replied a small, but sharp and distinct voice, and looking around her the little girl discovered a yellow hen squatting in the opposite corner of the coop.

  “Dear me!” she exclaimed, in surprise; “have you been here all night, too?”

  “Of course,” answered the hen, fluttering her wings and yawning. “When the coop blew away from the ship I clung fast to this corner, with claws and beak, for I knew if I fell into the water I’d surely be drowned. Indeed, I nearly drowned, as it was, with all that water washing over me. I never was so wet before in my life!”

  “Yes,” agreed Dorothy, “it was pretty wet, for a time, I know. But do you feel comfor’ble now?”

  “Not very. The sun has helped to dry my feathers, as it has your dress, and I feel better since I laid my morning egg. But what’s to become of us, I should like to know, afloat on this big pond?”

  “I’d like to know that, too,” said Dorothy. “But, tell me; how does it happen that you are able to talk? I thought hens could only cluck and cackle.”

  “Why, as for that,” answered the yellow hen thoughtfully, “I’ve clucked and cackled all my life, and never spoken a word before this morning, that I can remember. But when you asked a question, a minute ago, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to answer you. So I spoke, and I seem to keep on speaking, just as you and other human beings do. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Very,” replied Dorothy. “If we were in the Land of Oz, I wouldn’t think it so queer, because many of the animals can talk in that fairy country. But out here in the ocean must be a good long way from Oz.”

  “How is my grammar?” asked the yellow hen, anxiously. “Do I speak quite properly, in your judgment?”

  “Yes,” said Dorothy, “you do very well, for a beginner.”

  “I’m glad to know that,” continued the yellow hen, in a confidential tone; “because, if one is going to talk, it’s best to talk correctly. The red rooster has often said that my cluck and my cackle were quite perfect; and now it’s a comfort to know I am talking properly.”

  “I’m beginning to get hungry,” remarked Dorothy. “It’s breakfast time; but there’s no breakfast.”

  “You may have my egg,” said the yellow hen. “I don’t care for it, you know.”

  “Don’t you want to hatch it?” asked the little girl, in surprise.

  “No, indeed; I never care to hatch eggs unless I’ve a nice snug nest, in some quiet place, with a baker’s dozen of eggs under m
e. That’s thirteen, you know, and it’s a lucky number for hens. So you may as well eat this egg.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t poss’bly eat it, unless it was cooked,” exclaimed Dorothy. “But I’m much obliged for your kindness, just the same.”

  “Don’t mention it, my dear,” answered the hen, calmly, and began preening her feathers.

  For a moment Dorothy stood looking out over the wide sea. She was still thinking of the egg, though; so presently she asked:

  “Why do you lay eggs, when you don’t expect to hatch them?”

  “It’s a habit I have,” replied the yellow hen. “It has always been my pride to lay a fresh egg every morning, except when I’m moulting. I never feel like having my morning cackle till the egg is properly laid, and without the chance to cackle I would not be happy.”

  “It’s strange,” said the girl, reflectively; “but as I’m not a hen I can’t be ’spected to understand that.”

  “Certainly not, my dear.”

  Then Dorothy fell silent again. The yellow hen was some company, and a bit of comfort, too; but it was dreadfully lonely out on the big ocean, nevertheless.

  After a time the hen flew up and perched upon the topmost slat of the coop, which was a little above Dorothy’s head when she was sitting upon the bottom, as she had been doing for some moments past.

  “Why, we are not far from land!” exclaimed the hen.

  “Where? Where is it?” cried Dorothy, jumping up in great excitement.

  “Over there a little way,” answered the hen, nodding her head in a certain direction. “We seem to be drifting toward it, so that before noon we ought to find ourselves upon dry land again.”

  “I shall like that!” said Dorothy, with a little sigh, for her feet and legs were still wetted now and then by the sea-water that came through the open slats.

  “So shall I,” answered her companion. “There is nothing in the world so miserable as a wet hen.”

  The land, which they seemed to be rapidly approaching, since it grew more distinct every minute, was quite beautiful as viewed by the little girl in the floating hen-coop. Next to the water was a broad beach of white sand and gravel, and farther back were several rocky hills, while beyond these appeared a strip of green trees that marked the edge of a forest. But there were no houses to be seen, nor any sign of people who might inhabit this unknown land.

  “I hope we shall find something to eat,” said Dorothy, looking eagerly at the pretty beach toward which they drifted. “It’s long past breakfast time, now.”

  “I’m a trifle hungry, myself,” declared the yellow hen.

  “Why don’t you eat the egg?” asked the child. “You don’t need to have your food cooked, as I do.”

  “Do you take me for a cannibal?” cried the hen, indignantly. “I do not know what I have said or done that leads you to insult me!”

  “I beg your pardon, I’m sure Mrs.—Mrs.—by the way, may I inquire your name, ma’am?” asked the little girl.

  “My name is Bill,” said the yellow hen, somewhat gruffly.

  “Bill! Why, that’s a boy’s name.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “You’re a lady hen, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. But when I was first hatched out no one could tell whether I was going to be a hen or a rooster; so the little boy at the farm where I was born called me Bill, and made a pet of me because I was the only yellow chicken in the whole brood. When I grew up, and he found that I didn’t crow and fight, as all the roosters do, he did not think to change my name, and every creature in the barn-yard, as well as the people in the house, knew me as ‘Bill.’ So Bill I’ve always been called, and Bill is my name.”

  “But it’s all wrong, you know,” declared Dorothy, earnestly; “and, if you don’t mind, I shall call you ‘Billina.’ Putting the ‘eena’ on the end makes it a girl’s name, you see.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind it in the least,” returned the yellow hen. “It doesn’t matter at all what you call me, so long as I know the name means me.”

  “Very well, Billina. My name is Dorothy Gale—just Dorothy to my friends and Miss Gale to strangers. You may call me Dorothy, if you like. We’re getting very near the shore. Do you suppose it is too deep for me to wade the rest of the way?”

  “Wait a few minutes longer. The sunshine is warm and pleasant, and we are in no hurry.”

  “But my feet are all wet and soggy,” said the girl. “My dress is dry enough, but I won’t feel real comfor’ble till I get my feet dried.”

  She waited, however, as the hen advised, and before long the big wooden coop grated gently on the sandy beach and the dangerous voyage was over.

  It did not take the castaways long to reach the shore, you may be sure. The yellow hen flew to the sands at once, but Dorothy had to climb over the high slats. Still, for a country girl, that was not much of a feat, and as soon as she was safe ashore Dorothy drew off her wet shoes and stockings and spread them upon the sun-warmed beach to dry.

  Then she sat down and watched Billina, who was pick-pecking away with her sharp bill in the sand and gravel, which she scratched up and turned over with her strong claws.

  “What are you doing?” asked Dorothy.

  “Getting my breakfast, of course,” murmured the hen, busily pecking away.

  “What do you find?” inquired the girl, curiously.

  “Oh, some fat red ants, and some sand-bugs, and once in a while a tiny crab. They are very sweet and nice, I assure you.”

  “How dreadful!” exclaimed Dorothy, in a shocked voice.

  “What is dreadful?” asked the hen, lifting her head to gaze with one bright eye at her companion.

  “Why, eating live things, and horrid bugs, and crawly ants. You ought to be ’shamed of yourself!”

  “Goodness me!” returned the hen, in a puzzled tone; “how queer you are, Dorothy! Live things are much fresher and more wholesome than dead ones, and you humans eat all sorts of dead creatures.”

  “We don’t!” said Dorothy.

  “You do, indeed,” answered Billina. “You eat lambs and sheep and cows and pigs and even chickens.”

  “But we cook ’em,” said Dorothy, triumphantly.

  “What difference does that make?”

  “A good deal,” said the girl, in a graver tone. “I can’t just ’splain the diff’rence, but it’s there. And, anyhow, we never eat such dreadful things as bugs.”

  “But you eat the chickens that eat the bugs,” retorted the yellow hen, with an odd cackle. “So you are just as bad as we chickens are.”

  This made Dorothy thoughtful. What Billina said was true enough, and it almost took away her appetite for breakfast. As for the yellow hen, she continued to peck away at the sand busily, and seemed quite contented with her bill-of-fare.

  Finally, down near the water’s edge, Billina stuck her bill deep into the sand, and then drew back and shivered.

  “Ow!” she cried. “I struck metal, that time, and it nearly broke my beak.”

  “It prob’bly was a rock,” said Dorothy, carelessly.

  “Nonsense. I know a rock from metal, I guess,” said the hen. “There’s a different feel to it.”

  “But there couldn’t be any metal on this wild, deserted seashore,” persisted the girl. “Where’s the place? I’ll dig it up, and prove to you I’m right.”

  Billina showed her the place where she had “stubbed her bill,” as she expressed it, and Dorothy dug away the sand until she felt something hard. Then, thrusting in her hand, she pulled the thing out, and discovered it to be a large sized golden key—rather old, but still bright and of perfect shape.

  “What did I tell you?” cried the hen, with a cackle of triumph. “Can I tell metal when I bump into it, or is the thing a rock?”

  “It’s metal, sure enough,” answered the child, gazing thoughtfully at the curious thing she had found. “I think it is pure gold, and it must have lain hidden in the sand for a long time. How do you suppose it cam
e there, Billina? And what do you suppose this mysterious key unlocks?”

  “I can’t say,” replied the hen. “You ought to know more about locks and keys than I do.”

  Dorothy glanced around. There was no sign of any house in that part of the country, and she reasoned that every key must fit a lock and every lock must have a purpose. Perhaps the key had been lost by somebody who lived far away, but had wandered on this very shore.

  Musing on these things the girl put the key in the pocket of her dress and then slowly drew on her shoes and stockings, which the sun had fully dried.

  “I b’lieve, Billina,” she said, “I’ll have a look ’round, and see if I can find some breakfast.”

  Chapter 3

  LETTERS in the SAND

  alking a little way back from the water’s edge, toward the grove of trees, Dorothy came to a flat stretch of white sand that seemed to have queer signs marked upon its surface, just as one would write upon sand with a stick.

  “What does it say?” she asked the yellow hen, who trotted along beside her in a rather dignified fashion.

  “How should I know?” returned the hen. “I cannot read.”

  “Oh! Can’t you?”

  “Certainly not; I’ve never been to school, you know.”

  “Well, I have,” admitted Dorothy; “but the letters are big and far apart, and it’s hard to spell out the words.”

  But she looked at each letter carefully, and finally discovered that these words were written in the sand:

  BEWARE THE WHEELERS!

  “That’s rather strange,” declared the hen, when Dorothy had read aloud the words. “What do you suppose the Wheelers are?”

  “Folks that wheel, I guess. They must have wheelbarrows, or baby-cabs or hand-carts,” said Dorothy.

  “Perhaps they’re automobiles,” suggested the yellow hen. “There is no need to beware of baby-cabs and wheelbarrows; but automobiles are dangerous things. Several of my friends have been run over by them.”