Oz, The Complete Collection

by L. Frank Baum

  “Mind your P’s and Q’s!” called the Rattlesnake warningly. It was well that he spoke, for the A-B-Sea Serpent had doubled the P and Q blocks under, and they were ready to snap off. Finally, however, he managed to make a bridge of himself, and the Scarecrow stepped easily over the blocks, the huge serpent holding himself rigid. Just as he reached Y, the unfortunate creature sneezed, and all the blocks rattled together. Up flew the Scarecrow and escaped falling into the stream only by the narrowest margin.

  “Blockhead!” shrilled the Rattlesnake, who had taken a great fancy to the Scarecrow.

  “I’m all right,” cried the Scarecrow rather breathlessly. “Thank you very much!” He sprang nimbly up the bank. “Hope you have a pleasant vacation!”

  “Can’t, with a rattlepate like that.” The A-B-Sea Serpent nodded glumly in the Rattlesnake’s direction.

  “Now don’t quarrel,” begged the Scarecrow. “You are both charming and unusual, and if you follow that Yellow Road, you will come to the Emerald City, and Ozma will be delighted to welcome you.”

  “The Emerald City! We must see that, my dear Rattles.” Forgetting his momentary displeasure, the A-B-Sea Serpent pulled himself out of the river, and waving his X Y Z blocks in farewell to the Scarecrow, went clattering down the road, the little Rattlesnake rattling along behind him.

  As for the Scarecrow, he continued his journey, and the day was so delightful and the country so pleasant that he almost forgot he had no family. He was treated everywhere with the greatest courtesy and had innumerable invitations from the hospitable Munchkins. He was anxious to reach his destination, however, so he refused them all, and traveling night and day came without further mishap or adventure late on the second evening to the little Munchkin farm where Dorothy had first discovered him. He was curious to know whether the pole on which he had been hoisted to scare away the crows still stood in the cornfield and whether the farmer who had made him could tell him anything further about his history.

  “It is a shame to waken him,” thought the kind Scarecrow. “I’ll just take a look in the cornfield.” The moon shone so brightly that he had no trouble finding his way about. With a little cry of pleasure, he pushed his way through the dry cornstalks. There in the center of the field stood a tall pole—the very identical bean pole from which he had descended.

  “All the family or family tree I’ve got!” cried the Scarecrow, running toward it with emotion.

  “What’s that?” A window in the farmhouse was thrown up, and a sleepy Munchkin thrust out his head. “What are you doing?” he called crossly.

  “Thinking!” said the Scarecrow, leaning heavily against the bean pole.

  “Well, don’t do it out loud,” snapped the farmer. Then, catching a better view of the Scarecrow, he cried in surprise: “Why, it’s you!—Come right in, my dear fellow, and give us the latest news from the Emerald City. I’ll fetch a candle!”

  The farmer was very proud of the Scarecrow. He had made him long ago by stuffing one of his old suits with straw, painting a jolly face on a sack, stuffing that, and fastening the two together. Red boots, a hat, and yellow gloves had finished his man—and nothing could have been jollier than the result. Later on, when the Scarecrow had run off with Dorothy and got his brains from the Wizard of Oz and become Ruler of the Emerald City, the little farmer had felt highly gratified.

  The Scarecrow, however, was not in a humor for conversation. He wanted to think in peace. “Don’t bother!” he called up. “I’m going to spend the night here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “All right! Take care of yourself,” yawned the farmer, and drew in his head.

  For a long time the Scarecrow stood perfectly still beside the bean pole—thinking. Then he got a spade from the shed and began clearing away the cornstalks and dried leaves from around the base of the pole. It was slow work, for his fingers were clumsy, but he persevered. Then a wonderful idea came to him.

  “Perhaps if I dig down a bit, I may discover—” He got no further, for at the word “discover,” he pushed the spade down with all his might. There was a loud crash. The bottom dropped out of things, and the Scarecrow fell through.

  “Gr-eat cornstalks!” cried the Scarecrow, throwing up his arms. To his surprise, they came in contact with a stout pole, which he embraced. It was a lifesaver, for he was shooting down into the darkness at a great rate.

  “Why!” he gasped as soon as he regained his breath, for he was falling at a terrific rate of speed, “Why, I believe I’m sliding down the bean pole!”

  Chapter 3

  DOWN the MAGIC BEAN POLE

  ugging the bean pole for dear life, the Scarecrow slid rapidly downward, Everything was dark, but at times a confused roaring sounded in his ears.

  “Father, I hear something falling past!” shouted a gruff voice all at once.

  “Then reach out and pull it in,” growled a still deeper voice. There was a flash of light, a door opened suddenly, and a giant hand snatched the air just above the Scarecrow’s head.

  “It’s a good thing I haven’t a heart to fail me,” murmured the Scarecrow, glancing up fearfully and clinging more tightly to the pole. “Though I fall, I shall not falter. But where under the earth am I falling to?” At that minute, a door opened far below, and someone called up:

  “Who are you? Have out your toll and be ready to salute the Royal Ruler of the Middlings!”

  The Scarecrow had learned in the course of his many and strange adventures that it was best to accede to every request that was reasonable or possible. Realizing that unless he answered at once he would fall past his strange questioners, he shouted amiably:

  “I am the Scarecrow of Oz, sliding down my family tree!” The words echoed oddly in the narrow passageway, and by the time he reached the word “tree” the Scarecrow could make out two large brown men leaning from a door somewhere below. Next minute he came to a sharp stop. A board had shot out and closed off the passageway. So sudden was the stop that the Scarecrow was tossed violently upward. While he endeavored to regain his balance, the two Middlings eyed him curiously.

  “So this is the kind of thing they grow on top,” said one, holding a lantern close to the Scarecrow’s head.

  “Toll, Toll!” droned the other, holding out a horribly twisted hand.

  “One moment, your Royal Middleness!” cried the Scarecrow, backing as far away from the lantern as he could, for with a straw stuffing one cannot be too careful of fire. He felt in his pocket for an emerald he had picked up in the Emerald City a few days before and handed it gingerly to the Muddy monarch.

  “Why do you call me Middleness?” the King demanded angrily, taking the emerald.

  “Is your kingdom not in the middle of the earth, and are you not royalty? What could be more proper than Royal Middleness?” asked the Scarecrow, flecking the dust from his hat.

  Now that he had a better view, he saw that the two were entirely men of mud, and very roughly put together. Dried grass hair stood erect upon each head, and their faces were large and lumpy and had a disconcerting way of changing shape. Indeed, when the King leaned over to examine the Scarecrow, his features were so soft they seemed to run into his cheek, which hung down alarmingly, while his nose turned sideways and lengthened at least an inch!

  Muddle pushed the King’s nose back and began spreading his cheek into place. Instead of hands and feet, the Middlings had gnarled and twisted roots which curled up in a perfectly terrifying manner. Their teeth were gold, and their eyes shone like small electric lights. They wore stiff coats of dried mud, buttoned clumsily with lumps of coal, and the King had a tall mud crown. Altogether, the Scarecrow thought he had never seen more disagreeable looking creatures.

  “What he needs,” spluttered the King, fingering the jewel greedily, “is a coat of mud! Shall we pull him in, Muddle?”

  “He’s very poorly made, your Mudjesty. Can you work, Carescrow?” asked Muddle, thumping him rudely in the chest.

  “Scarecrow, if you please!” The
Scarecrow drew himself up and spoke with great difficulty. “I can work with my head!” he added proudly.

  “Your head!” roared the King. “Did you hear that, Muddle? He works with his head. What’s the matter with your hands?” Again the King lunged forward, and this time his face fell on the other side and had bulged enormously before Muddle could pat it into shape. They began whispering excitedly together, but the Scarecrow made no reply, for looking over their shoulder he glimpsed a dark, forbidding cavern lighted only by the flashing red eyes of thousands of Middlings. They appeared to be digging, and above the rattle of the shovels and picks came the hoarse voice of one of them singing the Middling National Air. Or so the Scarecrow gathered from the words:

  “Oh, chop the brown clods as they fall with a thud!

  Three croaks for the Middlings, who stick in the Mud.

  Oh, mud, rich and wormy! Oh, mud, sweet and squirmy!

  Oh what is so lovely as Mud! Oh what is so lovely as Mud!

  Three croaks for the Middlings, who delve all the day

  In their beautiful Kingdom of soft mud and clay!”

  The croaks that came at the end of the song were so terrifying that the Scarecrow shivered in spite of himself.

  “Ugh! Hardly a place for a pleasant visit!” he gasped, flattening himself against the wall of the passage. Feeling that matters had gone far enough, he repeated in a loud voice:

  “I am the Scarecrow of Oz and desire to continue my fall. I have paid my toll and unless your Royal Middleness release me—”

  “Might as well drop him—a useless creature!” whispered Muddle, and before the King had time to object, he jerked the board back. “Fall on!” he screeched maliciously, and the Scarecrow shot down into the darkness, the hoarse screams of the two Middlings echoing after him through the gloom.

  No use trying to think! The poor Scarecrow bumped and banged from side to side of the passage. It was all he could do to keep hold of the bean pole, so swiftly was he falling.

  “A good thing I’m not made of meat like little Dorothy,” he wheezed breathlessly. His gloves were getting worn through from friction with the pole, and the rush of air past his ears was so confusing that he gave up all idea of thinking. Even magic brains refuse to work under such conditions. Down—down—down he plunged till he lost all count of time. Down—down—down—hours and hours! Would he never stop? Then suddenly it grew quite light, and he flashed through what appeared to be a hole in the roof of a huge silver palace, whirled down several stories and landed in a heap on the floor of a great hall. In one hand he clutched a small fan, and in the other a parasol that had snapped off the beanstalk just before he reached the palace roof.

  Shaken and bent over double though he was, the Scarecrow could see that he had fallen into a company of great magnificence. He had a confused glimpse of silken clad courtiers, embroidered screens, inlaid floors, and flashing silver lanterns, when there was a thundering bang that hurled him halfway to the roof again. Falling to a sitting position and still clinging to the bean pole, he saw two giant kettle drums nearby, still vibrating from the terrible blows they had received.

  The company were staring at him solemnly, and as he attempted to rise, they fell prostrate on their faces. Up flew the poor flimsy Scarecrow again, such was the draught, and this time landed on his face. He was beginning to feel terribly annoyed, but before he could open his mouth or stand up, a deep voice boomed:

  “He has come!”

  “He has come!” shrilled the rest of the company, thumping their heads on the stone floor. The language seemed strange to the Scarecrow, but oddly enough, he could understand it perfectly. Keeping a tight grasp on the bean pole, he gazed at the prostrate assemblage, too astonished to speak. They looked exactly like the pictures of some Chinamen he had seen in one of Dorothy’s picture books back in Oz, but instead of being yellow, their skin was a curious grey, and the hair of old and young alike was silver and worn in long, stiff queues. Before he had time to observe any more, an old, old courtier hobbled forward and beckoned imperiously to a page at the door. The page immediately unfurled a huge silk umbrella and, running forward, held it over the Scarecrow’s head.

  “Welcome home, sublime and noble Ancestor! Welcome, honorable and exalted Sir.” The old gentleman made several deep salaams.

  “Welcome, immortal and illustrious Ancestor! Welcome, ancient and serene Father!” cried the others, banging their heads hard on the floor—so hard that their queues flew into the air.

  “Ancestor! Father!” mumbled the Scarecrow in a puzzled voice. Then, collecting himself somewhat, he made a deep bow, and sweeping off his hat with a truly royal gesture began: “I am indeed honored—” But he got no farther. The silken clad courtiers sprang to their feet in a frenzy of joy. A dozen seized him bodily and carried him to a great silver Throne Room.

  “The same beautiful voice!” cried the ancient gentleman, clasping his hands in an ecstasy of feeling.

  “It is he! The Emperor! The Emperor has returned! Long live the Emperor!” shouted everyone at once. The confusion grew worse and worse.

  “Ancestor! Father! Emperor!” The Scarecrow could scarcely believe his ears. “For a fallen man, I am rising like yeast!” he murmured to himself. Half a dozen courtiers had run outdoors to spread the wonderful news, and soon silver gongs and bells began ringing all over the kingdom, and cries of “The Emperor! The Emperor!” added to the general excitement. Holding fast to the sides of the throne and still grasping the little fan and parasol, the Scarecrow sat blinking with embarrassment.

  “If they would just stop emperoring, I could ask them who I am,” thought the poor Scarecrow. As if in answer to his thoughts, the tottery old nobleman raised his long arm, and at once the hall became absolutely silent.

  “Now!” sighed the Scarecrow, leaning forward. “Now I shall hear something of interest.”

  Chapter 4

  DOROTHY’S LONELY BREAKFAST

  orothy, who occupied one of the coziest apartments in Ozma’s palace, wakened the morning after the party with a feeling of great uneasiness. At breakfast, the Scarecrow was missing. Although he, the Tin Woodman and Scraps did not require food, they always livened up the table with their conversation. Ordinarily Dorothy would have thought nothing of the Scarecrow’s absence, but she could not forget his distressed expression when Professor Wogglebug had so rudely remarked on his family tree. The Professor himself had left before breakfast, and everybody but Dorothy had forgotten all about the Royal Book of Oz.

  Already many of Ozma’s guests who did not live in the palace were preparing to depart, but Dorothy could not get over her feeling of uneasiness. The Scarecrow was her very best friend, and it was not like him to go without saying good-bye. So she hunted through the gardens and in every room of the palace and questioned all the servants. Unfortunately, Jellia Jamb, who was the only one who had seen the Scarecrow go, was with her mistress. Ozma always breakfasted alone and spent the morning over state matters. Knowing how busy she was, Dorothy did not like to disturb her. Betsy Bobbin and Trot, real little girls like Dorothy, also lived in the Fairy palace, and Ozma was a great chum for them. But the Kingdom of Oz had to be governed in between times, and they all knew that unless Ozma had the mornings to herself, she could not play with them in the afternoons. So Dorothy searched by herself.

  “Perhaps I didn’t look hard enough,” thought the little girl, and searched the palace all over again.

  “Don’t worry,” advised the Tin Woodman, who was playing checkers with Scraps. “He’s probably gone home.”

  “He is a man of brains; why worry

  Because he’s left us in a hurry?”

  chuckled Scraps with a careless wave of her hand, and Dorothy, laughing in spite of herself, ran out to have another look in the garden.

  “That is just what he has done, and if I hurry, I may overtake him. Anyway, I believe I’ll go and pay him a visit,” thought Dorothy.

  Trot and Betsy Bobbin were swinging in one of the roy
al hammocks, and when Dorothy invited them to go along, they explained that they were going on a picnic with the Tin Woodman. So without waiting to ask anyone else or even whistling for Toto, her little dog, Dorothy skipped out of the garden.

  The Cowardly Lion, half asleep under a rose bush, caught a glimpse of her blue dress flashing by, and bounding to his feet thudded after her.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, stifling a giant yawn.

  “To visit the Scarecrow,” explained Dorothy. “He looked so unhappy last night. I am afraid he is worrying about his family tree, and I thought p’raps I could cheer him up.”

  The Cowardly Lion stretched luxuriously. “I’ll go too,” he rumbled, giving himself a shake. “But it’s the first time I ever heard of the Scarecrow worrying.”

  “But you see,” Dorothy said gently, “Professor Wogglebug told him he had no family.”

  “Family! Family fiddlesticks! Hasn’t he got us?” The Cowardly Lion stopped and waved his tail indignantly.

  “Why, you dear old thing!” Dorothy threw her arms around his neck. “You’ve given me a lovely idea!” The Cowardly Lion tried not to look pleased.

  “Well, as long as I’ve given it to you, you might tell me what it is,” he suggested mildly.

  “Why,” said Dorothy, skipping along happily, “we’ll let him adopt us and be his really relations. I’ll be his sister, and you’ll be—”

  “His cousin—that is, if you think he wouldn’t mind having a great coward like me for a cousin,” finished the Cowardly Lion in an anxious voice.

  “Do you still feel as cowardly as ever?” asked Dorothy sympathetically.

  “More so!” sighed the great beast, glancing apprehensively over his shoulder. This made Dorothy laugh, for although the lion trembled like a cup custard at the approach of danger, he always managed to fight with great valor, and the little girl felt safer with him than with the whole army of Oz, who never were frightened but who always ran away.