“She’s just crazy,” explained the Glass Cat.
The Shaggy Man laughed.
“She’s delightful, in her way,” he said. “I’m sure Dorothy will be pleased with her, and the Scarecrow will dote on her. Did you say you were traveling toward the Emerald City?”
“Yes,” replied Ojo. “I thought that the best place to go, at first, because the six-leaved clover may be found there.”
“I’ll go with you,” said the Shaggy Man, “and show you the way.”
“Thank you,” exclaimed Ojo. “I hope it won’t put you out any.”
“No,” said the other, “I wasn’t going anywhere in particular. I’ve been a rover all my life, and although Ozma has given me a suite of beautiful rooms in her palace I still get the wandering fever once in a while and start out to roam the country over. I’ve been away from the Emerald City several weeks, this time, and now that I’ve met you and your friends I’m sure it will interest me to accompany you to the great city of Oz and introduce you to my friends.”
“That will be very nice,” said the boy, gratefully.
“I hope your friends are not dignified,” observed Scraps.
“Some are, and some are not,” he answered; “but I never criticise my friends. If they are really true friends, they may be anything they like, for all of me.”
“There’s some sense in that,” said Scraps, nodding her queer head in approval. “Come on, and let’s get to the Emerald City as soon as possible.” With this she ran up the path, skipping and dancing, and then turned to await them.
“It is quite a distance from here to the Emerald City,” remarked the Shaggy Man, “so we shall not get there to-day, nor to-morrow. Therefore let us take the jaunt in an easy manner. I’m an old traveler and have found that I never gain anything by being in a hurry. ‘Take it easy’ is my motto. If you can’t take it easy, take it as easy as you can.”
After walking some distance over the road of yellow bricks Ojo said he was hungry and would stop to eat some bread and cheese. He offered a portion of the food to the Shaggy Man, who thanked him but refused it.
“When I start out on my travels,” said he, “I carry along enough square meals to last me several weeks. Think I’ll indulge in one now, as long as we’re stopping anyway.”
Saying this, he took a bottle from his pocket and shook from it a tablet about the size of one of Ojo’s finger-nails.
“That,” announced the Shaggy Man, “is a square meal, in condensed form. Invention of the great Professor Wogglebug, of the Royal College of Athletics. It contains soup, fish, roast meat, salad, apple-dumplings, ice cream and chocolate-drops, all boiled down to this small size, so it can be conveniently carried and swallowed when you are hungry and need a square meal.”
“I’m square,” said the Woozy. “Give me one, please.”
So the Shaggy Man gave the Woozy a tablet from his bottle and the beast ate it in a twinkling.
“You have now had a six course dinner,” declared the Shaggy Man.
“Pshaw!” said the Woozy, ungratefully, “I want to taste something. There’s no fun in that sort of eating.”
“One should only eat to sustain life,” replied the Shaggy Man, “and that tablet is equal to a peck of other food.”
“I don’t care for it. I want something I can chew and taste,” grumbled the Woozy.
“You are quite wrong, my poor beast,” said the Shaggy Man in a tone of pity. “Think how tired your jaws would get chewing a square meal like this, if it were not condensed to the size of a small tablet—which you can swallow in a jiffy.”
“Chewing isn’t tiresome; it’s fun,” maintained the Woozy. “I always chew the honey-bees when I catch them. Give me some bread and cheese, Ojo.”
“No, no! You’ve already eaten a big dinner!” protested the Shaggy Man.
“May be,” answered the Woozy; “but I guess I’ll fool myself by munching some bread and cheese. I may not be hungry, having eaten all those things you gave me, but I consider this eating business a matter of taste, and I like to realize what’s going into me.”
Ojo gave the beast what he wanted, but the Shaggy Man shook his shaggy head reproachfully and said there was no animal so obstinate or hard to convince as a Woozy.
At this moment a patter of footsteps was heard, and looking up they saw the live phonograph standing before them. It seemed to have passed through many adventures since Ojo and his comrades last saw the machine, for the varnish of its wooden case was all marred and dented and scratched in a way that gave it an aged and disreputable appearance.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Ojo, staring hard. “What has happened to you?”
“Nothing much,” replied the phonograph in a sad and depressed voice. “I’ve had enough things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock a department store and furnish half a dozen bargain-counters.”
“Are you so broken up that you can’t play?” asked Scraps.
“No; I still am able to grind out delicious music. Just now I’ve a record on tap that is really superb,” said the phonograph, growing more cheerful.
“That is too bad,” remarked Ojo. “We’ve no objection to you as a machine, you know; but as a music-maker we hate you.”
“Then why was I ever invented?” demanded the machine, in a tone of indignant protest.
They looked at one another inquiringly, but no one could answer such a puzzling question. Finally the Shaggy Man said:
“I’d like to hear the phonograph play.”
Ojo sighed. “We’ve been very happy since we met you, sir,” he said.
“I know. But a little misery, at times, makes one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony, what is this record like, which you say you have on tap?”
“It’s a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands the common people have gone wild over it.”
“Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then it’s dangerous.”
“Wild with joy, I mean,” explained the phonograph. “Listen. This song will prove a rare treat to you, I know. It made the author rich—for an author. It is called ‘My Lulu.’”
Then the phonograph began to play. A strain of odd, jerky sounds was followed by these words, sung by a man through his nose with great vigor of expression:
“Ah wants mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu;
Ah wants mah loo-loo, loo-loo, loo-loo, Lu!
Ah loves mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu,
There ain’t nobody else loves loo-loo, Lu!”
“Here—shut that off!” cried the Shaggy Man, springing to his feet. “What do you mean by such impertinence?”
“It’s the latest popular song,” declared the phonograph, speaking in a sulky tone of voice.
“A popular song?”
“Yes. One that the feeble-minded can remember the words of and those ignorant of music can whistle or sing. That makes a popular song popular, and the time is coming when it will take the place of all other songs.”
“That time won’t come to us, just yet,” said the Shaggy Man, sternly: “I’m something of a singer myself, and I don’t intend to be throttled by any Lulus like your coal-black one. I shall take you all apart, Mr. Phony, and scatter your pieces far and wide over the country, as a matter of kindness to the people you might meet if allowed to run around loose. Having performed this painful duty I shall—”
But before he could say more the phonograph turned and dashed up the road as fast as its four table-legs could carry it, and soon it had entirely disappeared from their view.
The Shaggy Man sat down again and seemed well pleased. “Some one else will save me the trouble of scattering that phonograph,” said he; “for it is not possible that such a music-maker can last long in the Land of Oz. When you are rested, friends, let us go on our way.”
During the afternoon the travelers found themselves in a lonely and uninhabited part of the country. Even the fields were no longer cultivated and the country began to resemble a wilderness. The road of yellow bricks seemed
to have been neglected and became uneven and more difficult to walk upon. Scrubby underbrush grew on either side of the way, while huge rocks were scattered around in abundance.
But this did not deter Ojo and his friends from trudging on, and they beguiled the journey with jokes and cheerful conversation. Toward evening they reached a crystal spring which gushed from a tall rock by the roadside and near this spring stood a deserted cabin. Said the Shaggy Man, halting here:
“We may as well pass the night here, where there is shelter for our heads and good water to drink. Road beyond here is pretty bad; worst we shall have to travel; so let’s wait until morning before we tackle it.”
They agreed to this and Ojo found some brushwood in the cabin and made a fire on the hearth. The fire delighted Scraps, who danced before it until Ojo warned her she might set fire to herself and burn up. After that the Patchwork Girl kept at a respectful distance from the darting flames, but the Woozy lay down before the fire like a big dog and seemed to enjoy its warmth.
For supper the Shaggy Man ate one of his tablets, but Ojo stuck to his bread and cheese as the most satisfying food. He also gave a portion to the Woozy.
When darkness came on and they sat in a circle on the cabin floor, facing the firelight—there being no furniture of any sort in the place—Ojo said to the Shaggy Man:
“Won’t you tell us a story?”
“I’m not good at stories,” was the reply; “but I sing like a bird.”
“Raven, or crow?” asked the Glass Cat.
“Like a song bird. I’ll prove it. I’ll sing a song I composed myself. Don’t tell anyone I’m a poet; they might want me to write a book. Don’t tell ’em I can sing, or they’d want me to make records for that awful phonograph. Haven’t time to be a public benefactor, so I’ll just sing you this little song for your own amusement.”
They were glad enough to be entertained, and listened with interest while the Shaggy Man chanted the following verses to a tune that was not unpleasant:
“I’ll sing a song of Ozland, where wondrous creatures dwell
And fruits and flowers and shady bowers abound in every dell,
Where magic is a science and where no one shows surprise
If some amazing thing takes place before his very eyes.
Our Ruler’s a bewitching girl whom fairies love to please;
She’s always kept her magic sceptre to enforce decrees
To make her people happy, for her heart is kind and true
And to aid the needy and distressed is what she longs to do.
And then there’s Princess Dorothy, as sweet as any rose,
A lass from Kansas, where they don’t grow fairies, I suppose;
And there’s the brainy Scarecrow, with a body stuffed with straw,
Who utters words of wisdom rare that fill us all with awe.
I’ll not forget Nick Chopper, the Woodman made of Tin,
Whose tender heart thinks killing time is quite a dreadful sin,
Nor old Professor Wogglebug, who’s highly magnified
And looks so big to everyone that he is filled with pride.
Jack Pumpkinhead’s a dear old chum who might be called a chump,
But won renown by riding round upon a magic Gump;
The Sawhorse is a splendid steed and though he’s made of wood
He does as many thrilling stunts as any meat horse could.
And now I’ll introduce a beast that ev’ryone adores—
The Cowardly Lion shakes with fear ’most ev’ry time he roars,
And yet he does the bravest things that any lion might,
Because he knows that cowardice is not considered right.
There’s Tik-Tok—he’s a clockwork man and quite a funny sight—
He talks and walks mechanically, when he’s wound up tight;
And we’ve a Hungry Tiger who would babies love to eat
But never does because we feed him other kinds of meat.
It’s hard to name all of the freaks this noble Land’s acquired;
’Twould make my song so very long that you would soon be tired;
But give attention while I mention one wise Yellow Hen
And Nine fine Tiny Piglets living in a golden pen.
Just search the whole world over—sail the seas from coast to coast—
No other nation in creation queerer folk can boast;
And now our rare museum will include a Cat of Glass,
A Woozy, and—last but not least—a crazy Patchwork Lass.”
Ojo was so pleased with this song that he applauded the singer by clapping his hands, and Scraps followed suit by clapping her padded fingers together, although they made no noise. The cat pounded on the floor with her glass paws—gently, so as not to break them—and the Woozy, which had been asleep, woke up to ask what the row was about.
“I seldom sing in public, for fear they might want me to start an opera company,” remarked the Shaggy Man, who was pleased to know his effort was appreciated. “Voice, just now, is a little out of training; rusty, perhaps.”
“Tell me,” said the Patchwork Girl earnestly, “do all those queer people you mention really live in the Land of Oz?”
“Every one of ’em. I even forgot one thing: Dorothy’s Pink Kitten.”
“For goodness sake!” exclaimed Bungle, sitting up and looking interested. “A Pink Kitten? How absurd! Is it glass?”
“No; just ordinary kitten.”
“Then it can’t amount to much. I have pink brains, and you can see ’em work.”
“Dorothy’s kitten is all pink—brains and all—except blue eyes. Name’s Eureka. Great favorite at the royal palace,” said the Shaggy Man, yawning.
The Glass Cat seemed annoyed.
“Do you think a pink kitten—common meat—is as pretty as I am?” she asked.
“Can’t say. Tastes differ, you know,” replied the Shaggy Man, yawning again. “But here’s a pointer that may be of service to you: make friends with Eureka and you’ll be solid at the palace.”
“I’m solid now; solid glass.”
“You don’t understand,” rejoined the Shaggy Man, sleepily. “Anyhow, make friends with the Pink Kitten and you’ll be all right. If the Pink Kitten despises you, look out for breakers.”
“Would anyone at the royal palace break a Glass Cat?”
“Might. You never can tell. Advise you to purr soft and look humble—if you can. And now I’m going to bed.”
Bungle considered the Shaggy Man’s advice so carefully that her pink brains were busy long after the others of the party were fast asleep.
Chapter 12
The GIANT PORCUPINE
ext morning they started out bright and early to follow the road of yellow bricks toward the Emerald City. The little Munchkin boy was beginning to feel tired from the long walk, and he had a great many things to think of and consider besides the events of the journey. At the wonderful Emerald City, which he would presently reach, were so many strange and curious people that he was half afraid of meeting them and wondered if they would prove friendly and kind. Above all else, he could not drive from his mind the important errand on which he had come, and he was determined to devote every energy to finding the things that were necessary to prepare the magic recipe. He believed that until dear Unc Nunkie was restored to life he could feel no joy in anything, and often he wished that Unc could be with him, to see all the astonishing things Ojo was seeing. But alas Unc Nunkie was now a marble statue in the house of the Crooked Magician and Ojo must not falter in his efforts to save him.
The country through which they were passing was still rocky and deserted, with here and there a bush or a tree to break the dreary landscape. Ojo noticed one tree, especially, because it had such long, silky leaves and was so beautiful in shape. As he approached it he studied the tree earnestly, wondering if any fruit grew on it or if it bore pretty flowers.
Suddenly he became aware that he had been looking at that tree a long time—at least
for five minutes—and it had remained in the same position, although the boy had continued to walk steadily on. So he stopped short, and when he stopped, the tree and all the landscape, as well as his companions, moved on before him and left him far behind.
Ojo uttered such a cry of astonishment that it aroused the Shaggy Man, who also halted. The others then stopped, too, and walked back to the boy.
“What’s wrong?” asked the Shaggy Man.
“Why, we’re not moving forward a bit, no matter how fast we walk,” declared Ojo. “Now that we have stopped, we are moving backward! Can’t you see? Just notice that rock.”
Scraps looked down at her feet and said: “The yellow bricks are not moving.”
“But the whole road is,” answered Ojo.
“True; quite true,” agreed the Shaggy Man. “I know all about the tricks of this road, but I have been thinking of something else and didn’t realize where we were.”
“It will carry us back to where we started from,” predicted Ojo, beginning to be nervous.
“No,” replied the Shaggy Man; “it won’t do that, for I know a trick to beat this tricky road. I’ve traveled this way before, you know. Turn around, all of you, and walk backward.”
“What good will that do?” asked the cat.
“You’ll find out, if you obey me,” said the Shaggy Man.
So they all turned their backs to the direction in which they wished to go and began walking backward. In an instant Ojo noticed they were gaining ground and as they proceeded in this curious way they soon passed the tree which had first attracted his attention to their difficulty.
“How long must we keep this up, Shags?” asked Scraps, who was constantly tripping and tumbling down, only to get up again with a laugh at her mishap.
“Just a little way farther,” replied the Shaggy Man.
A few minutes later he called to them to turn about quickly and step forward, and as they obeyed the order they found themselves treading solid ground.
“That task is well over,” observed the Shaggy Man. “It’s a little tiresome to walk backward, but that is the only way to pass this part of the road, which has a trick of sliding back and carrying with it anyone who is walking upon it.”
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