Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “That’ll do,” said the Woozy, at last; “I’m quite full. I hope the strange food won’t give me indigestion.”

  “I hope not,” said Ojo. “It’s what I eat.”

  “Well, I must say I’m much obliged, and I’m glad you came,” announced the beast. “Is there anything I can do in return for your kindness?”

  “Yes,” said Ojo earnestly, “you have it in your power to do me a great favor, if you will.”

  “What is it?” asked the Woozy. “Name the favor and I will grant it.”

  “I — I want three hairs from the tip of your tail,” said Ojo, with some hesitation.

  “Three hairs! Why, that’s all I have — on my tail or anywhere else,” exclaimed the beast.

  “I know; but I want them very much.”

  “They are my sole ornaments, my prettiest feature,” said the Woozy, uneasily. “If I give up those three hairs I — I’m just a blockhead.”

  “Yet I must have them,” insisted the boy, firmly, and he then told the Woozy all about the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and how the three hairs were to be a part of the magic charm that would restore them to life. The beast listened with attention and when Ojo had finished the recital it said, with a sigh:

  “I always keep my word, for I pride myself on being square. So you may have the three hairs, and welcome. I think, under such circumstances, it would be selfish in me to refuse you.”

  “Thank you! Thank you very much,” cried the boy, joyfully. “May I pull out the hairs now?”

  “Any time you like,” answered the Woozy.

  So Ojo went up to the queer creature and taking hold of one of the hairs began to pull. He pulled harder. He pulled with all his might; but the hair remained fast.

  “What’s the trouble?” asked the Woozy, which Ojo had dragged here and there all around the clearing in his endeavor to pull out the hair.

  “It won’t come,” said the boy, panting.

  “I was afraid of that,” declared the beast. “You’ll have to pull harder.”

  “I’ll help you,” exclaimed Scraps, coming to the boy’s side. “You pull the hair, and I’ll pull you, and together we ought to get it out easily.”

  “Wait a jiffy,” called the Woozy, and then it went to a tree and hugged it with its front paws, so that its body couldn’t be dragged around by the pull. “All ready, now. Go ahead!”

  Ojo grasped the hair with both hands and pulled with all his strength, while Scraps seized the boy around his waist and added her strength to his. But the hair wouldn’t budge. Instead, it slipped out of Ojo’s hands and he and Scraps both rolled upon the ground in a heap and never stopped until they bumped against the rocky cave.

  “Give it up,” advised the Glass Cat, as the boy arose and assisted the Patchwork Girl to her feet. “A dozen strong men couldn’t pull out those hairs. I believe they’re clinched on the under side of the Woozy’s thick skin.”

  “Then what shall I do?” asked the boy, despairingly. “If on our return I fail to take these three hairs to the Crooked Magician, the other things I have come to seek will be of no use at all, and we cannot restore Unc Nunkie and Margolotte to life.”

  “They’re goners, I guess,” said the Patchwork Girl.

  “Never mind,” added the cat. “I can’t see that old Unc and Margolotte are worth all this trouble, anyhow.”

  But Ojo did not feel that way. He was so disheartened that he sat down upon a stump and began to cry.

  The Woozy looked at the boy thoughtfully.

  “Why don’t you take me with you?” asked the beast. “Then, when at last you get to the Magician’s house, he can surely find some way to pull out those three hairs.”

  Ojo was overjoyed at this suggestion.

  “That’s it!” he cried, wiping away the tears and springing to his feet with a smile. “If I take the three hairs to the Magician, it won’t matter if they are still in your body.”

  “It can’t matter in the least,” agreed the Woozy.

  “Come on, then,” said the boy, picking up his basket; “let us start at once. I have several other things to find, you know.”

  But the Glass Cat gave a little laugh and inquired in her scornful way:

  “How do you intend to get the beast out of this forest?”

  That puzzled them all for a time.

  “Let us go to the fence, and then we may find a way,” suggested Scraps. So they walked through the forest to the fence, reaching it at a point exactly opposite that where they had entered the enclosure.

  “How did you get in?” asked the Woozy.

  “We climbed over,” answered Ojo.

  “I can’t do that,” said the beast. “I’m a very swift runner, for I can overtake a honey-bee as it flies; and I can jump very high, which is the reason they made such a tall fence to keep me in. But I can’t climb at all, and I’m too big to squeeze between the bars of the fence.”

  Ojo tried to think what to do.

  “Can you dig?” he asked.

  “No,” answered the Woozy, “for I have no claws. My feet are quite flat on the bottom of them. Nor can I gnaw away the boards, as I have no teeth.”

  “You’re not such a terrible creature, after all,” remarked Scraps.

  “You haven’t heard me growl, or you wouldn’t say that,” declared the Woozy. “When I growl, the sound echoes like thunder all through the valleys and woodlands, and children tremble with fear, and women cover their heads with their aprons, and big men run and hide. I suppose there is nothing in the world so terrible to listen to as the growl of a Woozy.”

  “Please don’t growl, then,” begged Ojo, earnestly.

  “There is no danger of my growling, for I am not angry. Only when angry do I utter my fearful, ear-splitting, soul-shuddering growl. Also, when I am angry, my eyes flash fire, whether I growl or not.”

  “Real fire?” asked Ojo.

  “Of course, real fire. Do you suppose they’d flash imitation fire?” inquired the Woozy, in an injured tone.

  “In that case, I’ve solved the riddle,” cried Scraps, dancing with glee. “Those fence-boards are made of wood, and if the Woozy stands close to the fence and lets his eyes flash fire, they might set fire to the fence and burn it up. Then he could walk away with us easily, being free.”

  “Ah, I have never thought of that plan, or I would have been free long ago,” said the Woozy. “But I cannot flash fire from my eyes unless I am very angry.”

  “Can’t you get angry ‘bout something, please?” asked Ojo.

  “I’ll try. You just say ‘Krizzle-Kroo’ to me.”

  “Will that make you angry?” inquired the boy.

  “Terribly angry.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Scraps.

  “I don’t know; that’s what makes me so angry,” replied the Woozy.

  He then stood close to the fence, with his head near one of the boards, and Scraps called out “Krizzle-Kroo!” Then Ojo said “Krizzle-Kroo!” and the Glass Cat said “Krizzle-Kroo!” The Woozy began to tremble with anger and small sparks darted from his eyes. Seeing this, they all cried “Krizzle-Kroo!” together, and that made the beast’s eyes flash fire so fiercely that the fence-board caught the sparks and began to smoke. Then it burst into flame, and the Woozy stepped back and said triumphantly:

  “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.

  10 Shaggy Man to the Rescue

  THEY 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 grays — 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 was 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 fr
ee. 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 — ”