“Aha! That did the business, all right. It was a happy thought for you to yell all together, for that made me as angry as I have ever been. Fine sparks, weren’t they?”
“Reg’lar fireworks,” replied Scraps, admiringly.
In a few moments the board had burned to a distance of several feet, leaving an opening big enough for them all to pass through. Ojo broke some branches from a tree and with them whipped the fire until it was extinguished.
“We don’t want to burn the whole fence down,” said he, “for the flames would attract the attention of the Munchkin farmers, who would then come and capture the Woozy again. I guess they’ll be rather surprised when they find he’s escaped.”
“So they will,” declared the Woozy, chuckling gleefully. “When they find I’m gone the farmers will be badly scared, for they’ll expect me to eat up their honey-bees, as I did before.”
“That reminds me,” said the boy, “that you must promise not to eat honey-bees while you are in our company.”
“None at all?”
“Not a bee. You would get us all into trouble, and we can’t afford to have any more trouble than is necessary. I’ll feed you all the bread and cheese you want, and that must satisfy you.”
“All right; I’ll promise,” said the Woozy, cheerfully. “And when I promise anything you can depend on it, ’cause I’m square.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes,” observed the Patchwork Girl, as they found the path and continued their journey. “The shape doesn’t make a thing honest, does it?”
“Of course it does,” returned the Woozy, very decidedly. “No one could trust that Crooked Magician, for instance, just because he is crooked; but a square Woozy couldn’t do anything crooked if he wanted to.”
“I am neither square nor crooked,” said Scraps, looking down at her plump body.
“No; you’re round, so you’re liable to do anything,” asserted the Woozy. “Do not blame me, Miss Gorgeous, if I regard you with suspicion. Many a satin ribbon has a cotton back.”
Scraps didn’t understand this, but she had an uneasy misgiving that she had a cotton back herself. It would settle down, at times, and make her squat and dumpy, and then she had to roll herself in the road until her body stretched out again.
Chapter 10
SHAGGY MAN to the RESCUE
hey had not gone very far before Bungle, who had run on ahead, came bounding back to say that the road of yellow bricks was just before them. At once they hurried forward to see what this famous road looked like.
It was a broad road, but not straight, for it wandered over hill and dale and picked out the easiest places to go. All its length and breadth was paved with smooth bricks of a bright yellow color, so it was smooth and level except in a few places where the bricks had crumbled or been removed, leaving holes that might cause the unwary to stumble.
“I wonder,” said Ojo, looking up and down the road, “which way to go.”
“Where are you bound for?” asked the Woozy.
“The Emerald City,” he replied.
“Then go west,” said the Woozy. “I know this road pretty well, for I’ve chased many a honey-bee over it.”
“Have you ever been to the Emerald City?” asked Scraps.
“No. I am very shy by nature, as you may have noticed, so I haven’t mingled much in society.”
“Are you afraid of men?” inquired the Patchwork Girl.
“Me? With my heart-rending growl—my horrible, shudderful growl? I should say not. I am not afraid of anything,” declared the Woozy.
“I wish I could say the same,” sighed Ojo. “I don’t think we need be afraid when we get to the Emerald City, for Unc Nunkie has told me that Ozma, our girl Ruler, is very lovely and kind, and tries to help everyone who is in trouble. But they say there are many dangers lurking on the road to the great Fairy City, and so we must be very careful.”
“I hope nothing will break me,” said the Glass Cat, in a nervous voice. “I’m a little brittle, you know, and can’t stand many hard knocks.”
“If anything should fade the colors of my lovely patches it would break my heart,” said the Patchwork Girl.
“I’m not sure you have a heart,” Ojo reminded her.
“Then it would break my cotton,” persisted Scraps. “Do you think they are all fast colors, Ojo?” she asked anxiously.
“They seem fast enough when you run,” he replied; and then, looking ahead of them, he exclaimed: “Oh, what lovely trees!”
They were certainly pretty to look upon and the travelers hurried forward to observe them more closely.
“Why, they are not trees at all,” said Scraps; “they are just monstrous plants.”
That is what they really were: masses of great broad leaves which rose from the ground far into the air, until they towered twice as high as the top of the Patchwork Girl’s head, who was a little taller than Ojo. The plants formed rows on both sides of the road and from each plant rose a dozen or more of the big broad leaves, which swayed continually from side to side, although no wind was blowing. But the most curious thing about the swaying leaves was their color. They seemed to have a general groundwork of blue, but here and there other colors glinted at times through the blue—gorgeous yellows, turning to pink, purple, orange and scarlet, mingled with more sober browns and greys—each appearing as a blotch or stripe anywhere on a leaf and then disappearing, to be replaced by some other color of a different shape.
The changeful coloring of the great leaves was very beautiful, but it was bewildering, as well, and the novelty of the scene drew our travelers close to the line of plants, where they stood watching them with rapt interest.
Suddenly a leaf bent lower than usual and touched the Patchwork Girl. Swiftly it enveloped her in its embrace, covering her completely in its thick folds, and then it swayed back upon its stem.
“Why, she’s gone!” gasped Ojo, in amazement, and listening carefully he thought he could hear the muffled screams of Scraps coming from the center of the folded leaf. But, before he could think what he ought to do to save her, another leaf bent down and captured the Glass Cat, rolling around the little creature until she was completely hidden, and then straightening up again upon its stem.
“Look out,” cried the Woozy. “Run! Run fast, or you are lost.”
Ojo turned and saw the Woozy running swiftly up the road. But the last leaf of the row of plants seized the beast even as he ran and instantly he disappeared from sight.
The boy had no chance to escape. Half a dozen of the great leaves were bending toward him from different directions and as he stood hesitating one of them clutched him in its embrace. In a flash he was in the dark. Then he felt himself gently lifted until he was swaying in the air, with the folds of the leaf hugging him on all sides.
At first he struggled hard to escape, crying out in anger: “Let me go! Let me go!” But neither struggles nor protests had any effect whatever. The leaf held him firmly and he was a prisoner.
Then Ojo quieted himself and tried to think. Despair fell upon him when he remembered that all his little party had been captured, even as he was, and there was none to save them.
“I might have expected it,” he sobbed, miserably. “I’m Ojo the Unlucky, and something dreadful was sure to happen to me.”
He pushed against the leaf that held him and found it to be soft, but thick and firm. It was like a great bandage all around him and he found it difficult to move his body or limbs in order to change their position.
The minutes passed and became hours. Ojo wondered how long one could live in such a condition and if the leaf would gradually sap his strength and even his life, in order to feed itself. The little Munchkin boy had never heard of any person dying in the Land of Oz, but he knew one could suffer a great deal of pain. His greatest fear at this time was that he would always remain imprisoned in the beautiful leaf and never see the light of day again.
No sound came to him through the leaf; all around w
as intense silence. Ojo wondered if Scraps had stopped screaming, or if the folds of the leaf prevented his hearing her. By and by he thought he heard a whistle, as of some one whistling a tune. Yes; it really must be some one whistling, he decided, for he could follow the strains of a pretty Munchkin melody that Unc Nunkie used to sing to him. The sounds were low and sweet and, although they reached Ojo’s ears very faintly, they were clear and harmonious.
Could the leaf whistle, Ojo wondered? Nearer and nearer came the sounds and then they seemed to be just the other side of the leaf that was hugging him.
Suddenly the whole leaf toppled and fell, carrying the boy with it, and while he sprawled at full length the folds slowly relaxed and set him free. He scrambled quickly to his feet and found that a strange man was standing before him—a man so curious in appearance that the boy stared with round eyes.
He was a big man, with shaggy whiskers, shaggy eyebrows, shaggy hair—but kindly blue eyes that were gentle as those of a cow. On his head was a green velvet hat with a jeweled band, which was all shaggy around the brim. Rich but shaggy laces were at his throat; a coat with shaggy edges was decorated with diamond buttons; the velvet breeches had jeweled buckles at the knees and shags all around the bottoms. On his breast hung a medallion bearing a picture of Princess Dorothy of Oz, and in his hand, as he stood looking at Ojo, was a sharp knife shaped like a dagger.
“Oh!” exclaimed Ojo, greatly astonished at the sight of this stranger; and then he added: “Who has saved me, sir?”
“Can’t you see?” replied the other, with a smile; “I’m the Shaggy Man.”
“Yes; I can see that,” said the boy, nodding. “Was it you who rescued me from the leaf?”
“None other, you may be sure. But take care, or I shall have to rescue you again.”
Ojo gave a jump, for he saw several broad leaves leaning toward him; but the Shaggy Man began to whistle again, and at the sound the leaves all straightened up on their stems and kept still.
The man now took Ojo’s arm and led him up the road, past the last of the great plants, and not till he was safely beyond their reach did he cease his whistling.
“You see, the music charms ’em,” said he. “Singing or whistling—it doesn’t matter which—makes ’em behave, and nothing else will. I always whistle as I go by ’em and so they always let me alone. To-day as I went by, whistling, I saw a leaf curled and knew there must be something inside it. I cut down the leaf with my knife and—out you popped. Lucky I passed by, wasn’t it?”
“You were very kind,” said Ojo, “and I thank you. Will you please rescue my companions, also?”
“What companions?” asked the Shaggy Man.
“The leaves grabbed them all,” said the boy. “There’s a Patchwork Girl and—”
“A what?”
“A girl made of patchwork, you know. She’s alive and her name is Scraps. And there’s a Glass Cat—”
“Glass?” asked the Shaggy Man.
“All glass.”
“And alive?”
“Yes,” said Ojo; “she has pink brains. And there’s a Woozy—”
“What’s a Woozy?” inquired the Shaggy Man.
“Why, I—I—can’t describe it,” answered the boy, greatly perplexed. “But it’s a queer animal with three hairs on the tip of its tail that won’t come out and—”
“What won’t come out?” asked the Shaggy Man; “the tail?”
“The hairs won’t come out. But you’ll see the Woozy, if you’ll please rescue it, and then you’ll know just what it is.”
“Of course,” said the Shaggy Man, nodding his shaggy head. And then he walked back among the plants, still whistling, and found the three leaves which were curled around Ojo’s traveling companions. The first leaf he cut down released Scraps, and on seeing her the Shaggy Man threw back his shaggy head, opened wide his mouth and laughed so shaggily and yet so merrily that Scraps liked him at once. Then he took off his hat and made her a low bow, saying:
“My dear, you’re a wonder. I must introduce you to my friend the Scarecrow.”
When he cut down the second leaf he rescued the Glass Cat, and Bungle was so frightened that she scampered away like a streak and soon had joined Ojo, when she sat beside him panting and trembling. The last plant of all the row had captured the Woozy, and a big bunch in the center of the curled leaf showed plainly where he was. With his sharp knife the Shaggy Man sliced off the stem of the leaf and as it fell and unfolded out trotted the Woozy and escaped beyond the reach of any more of the dangerous plants.
Chapter 11
A GOOD FRIEND
oon the entire party was gathered on the road of yellow bricks, quite beyond the reach of the beautiful but treacherous plants. The Shaggy Man, staring first at one and then at the other, seemed greatly pleased and interested.
“I’ve seen queer things since I came to the Land of Oz,” said he, “but never anything queerer than this band of adventurers. Let us sit down a while, and have a talk and get acquainted.”
“Haven’t you always lived in the Land of Oz?” asked the Munchkin boy.
“No; I used to live in the big, outside world. But I came here once with Dorothy, and Ozma let me stay.”
“How do you like Oz?” asked Scraps. “Isn’t the country and the climate grand?”
“It’s the finest country in all the world, even if it is a fairyland, and I’m happy every minute I live in it,” said the Shaggy Man. “But tell me something about yourselves.”
So Ojo related the story of his visit to the house of the Crooked Magician, and how he met there the Glass Cat, and how the Patchwork Girl was brought to life and of the terrible accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte. Then he told how he had set out to find the five different things which the Magician needed to make a charm that would restore the marble figures to life, one requirement being three hairs from a Woozy’s tail.
“We found the Woozy,” explained the boy, “and he agreed to give us the three hairs; but we couldn’t pull them out. So we had to bring the Woozy along with us.”
“I see,” returned the Shaggy Man, who had listened with interest to the story. “But perhaps I, who am big and strong, can pull those three hairs from the Woozy’s tail.”
“Try it, if you like,” said the Woozy.
So the Shaggy Man tried it, but pull as hard as he could he failed to get the hairs out of the Woozy’s tail. So he sat down again and wiped his shaggy face with a shaggy silk handkerchief and said:
“It doesn’t matter. If you can keep the Woozy until you get the rest of the things you need, you can take the beast and his three hairs to the Crooked Magician and let him find a way to extract ’em. What are the other things you are to find?”
“One,” said Ojo, “is a six-leaved clover.”
“You ought to find that in the fields around the Emerald City,” said the Shaggy Man. “There is a Law against picking six-leaved clovers, but I think I can get Ozma to let you have one.”
“Thank you,” replied Ojo. “The next thing is the left wing of a yellow butterfly.”
“For that you must go to the Winkie Country,” the Shaggy Man declared. “I’ve never noticed any butterflies there, but that is the yellow country of Oz and it’s ruled by a good friend of mine, the Tin Woodman.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of him!” exclaimed Ojo. “He must be a wonderful man.”
“So he is, and his heart is wonderfully kind. I’m sure the Tin Woodman will do all in his power to help you to save your Unc Nunkie and poor Margolotte.”
“The next thing I must find,” said the Munchkin boy, “is a gill of water from a dark well.”
“Indeed! Well, that is more difficult,” said the Shaggy Man, scratching his left ear in a puzzled way. “I’ve never heard of a dark well; have you?”
“No,” said Ojo.
“Do you know where one may be found?” inquired the Shaggy Man.
“I can’t imagine,” said Ojo.
“Then we must ask the Sca
recrow.”
“The Scarecrow! But surely, sir, a scarecrow can’t know anything.”
“Most scarecrows don’t, I admit,” answered the Shaggy Man. “But this Scarecrow of whom I speak is very intelligent. He claims to possess the best brains in all Oz.”
“Better than mine?” asked Scraps.
“Better than mine?” echoed the Glass Cat. “Mine are pink, and you can see ’em work.”
“Well, you can’t see the Scarecrow’s brains work, but they do a lot of clever thinking,” asserted the Shaggy Man. “If anyone knows where a dark well is, it’s my friend the Scarecrow.”
“Where does he live?” inquired Ojo.
“He has a splendid castle in the Winkie Country, near to the palace of his friend the Tin Woodman, and he is often to be found in the Emerald City, where he visits Dorothy at the royal palace.”
“Then we will ask him about the dark well,” said Ojo.
“But what else does this Crooked Magician want?” asked the Shaggy Man.
“A drop of oil from a live man’s body.”
“Oh; but there isn’t such a thing.”
“That is what I thought,” replied Ojo; “but the Crooked Magician said it wouldn’t be called for by the recipe if it couldn’t be found, and therefore I must search until I find it.”
“I wish you good luck,” said the Shaggy Man, shaking his head doubtfully; “but I imagine you’ll have a hard job getting a drop of oil from a live man’s body. There’s blood in a body, but no oil.”
“There’s cotton in mine,” said Scraps, dancing a little jig.
“I don’t doubt it,” returned the Shaggy Man admiringly. “You’re a regular comforter and as sweet as patchwork can be. All you lack is dignity.”
“I hate dignity,” cried Scraps, kicking a pebble high in the air and then trying to catch it as it fell. “Half the fools and all the wise folks are dignified, and I’m neither the one nor the other.”
Oz, The Complete Collection Page 85
