“What’s the game, anyhow — blind-man’s-buff?” asked Scraps.
“Keep quiet!” commanded the Shaggy Man, sternly. “All ready? Then follow me.”
He took Ojo’s-hand and led him forward over the road of yellow bricks, toward the gate. Holding fast to one another they all followed in a row, expecting every minute to bump against the iron bars. The Shaggy Man also had his eyes closed, but marched straight ahead, nevertheless, and after he had taken one hundred steps, by actual count, he stopped and said:
“Now you may open your eyes.”
They did so, and to their astonishment found the wall and the gateway far behind them, while in front the former Blue Country of the Munchkins had given way to green fields, with pretty farm-houses scattered among them.
“That wall,” explained the Shaggy Man, “is what is called an optical illusion. It is quite real while you have your eyes open, but if you are not looking at it the barrier doesn’t exist at all. It’s the same way with many other evils in life; they seem to exist, and yet it’s all seeming and not true. You will notice that the wall — or what we thought was a wall — separates the Munchkin Country from the green country that surrounds the Emerald City, which lies exactly in the center of Oz. There are two roads of yellow bricks through the Munchkin Country, but the one we followed is the best of the two. Dorothy once traveled the other way, and met with more dangers than we did. But all our troubles are over for the present, as another day’s journey will bring us to the great Emerald City.”
They were delighted to know this, and proceeded with new courage. In a couple of hours they stopped at a farmhouse, where the people were very hospitable and invited them to dinner. The farm folk regarded Scraps with much curiosity but no great astonishment, for they were accustomed to seeing extraordinary people in the Land of Oz.
The woman of this house got her needle and thread and sewed up the holes made by the porcupine quills in the Patchwork Girl’s body, after which Scraps was assured she looked as beautiful as ever.
“You ought to have a hat to wear,” remarked the woman, “for that would keep the sun from fading the colors of your face. I have some patches and scraps put away, and if you will wait two or three days I’ll make you a lovely hat that will match the rest of you.”
“Never mind the hat,” said Scraps, shaking her yarn braids; “it’s a kind offer, but we can’t stop. I can’t see that my colors have faded a particle, as yet; can you?”
“Not much,” replied the woman. “You are still very gorgeous,164 in spite of your long journey.”
The children of the house wanted to keep the Glass Cat to play with, so Bungle was offered a good home if she would remain; but the cat was too much interested in Ojo’s adventures and refused to stop.
“Children are rough playmates,” she remarked to the Shaggy Man, “and although this home is more pleasant than that of the Crooked Magician I fear I would soon be smashed to pieces by the boys and girls.”
After they had rested themselves they renewed their journey, finding the road now smooth and pleasant to walk upon and the country growing more beautiful the nearer they drew to the Emerald City.
By and by Ojo began to walk on the green grass, looking carefully around him.
“What are you trying to find?” asked Scraps.
“A six-leaved clover,” said he.
“Don’t do that!” exclaimed the Shaggy Man, earnestly. “It’s against the Law to pick a six-leaved clover. You must wait until you get Ozma’s consent.”
“She wouldn’t know it,” declared the boy.
“Ozma knows many things,” said the Shaggy Man. “In her room is a Magic Picture that shows any scene in the Land of Oz where strangers or travelers happen to be. She may be watching the picture of us even now, and noticing everything that we do.”
“Does she always watch the Magic Picture?” asked Ojo.
“Not always, for she has many other things to do; but, as I said, she may be watching us this very minute.”
“I don’t care,” said Ojo, in an obstinate tone of voice; “Ozma’s only a girl.”
The Shaggy Man looked at him in surprise.
“You ought to care for Ozma,” said he, “if you expect to save your uncle. For, if you displease our powerful Ruler, your journey will surely prove a failure; whereas, if you make a friend of Ozma, she will gladly assist you. As for her being a girl, that is another reason why you should obey her laws, if you are courteous and polite. Everyone in Oz loves Ozma and hates her enemies, for she is as just as she is powerful.”
Ojo sulked a while, but finally returned to the road and kept away from the green clover. The boy was moody and bad tempered for an hour or two afterward, because he could really see no harm in picking a six-leaved clover, if he found one, and in spite of what the Shaggy Man had said he considered Ozma’s law to be unjust.
They presently came to a beautiful grove of tall and stately trees, through which the road wound in sharp curves — first one way and then another. As they were walking through this grove they heard some one in the distance singing, and the sounds grew nearer and nearer until they could distinguish the words, although the bend in the road still hid the singer. The song was something like this:166
“Here’s to the hale old bale of straw That’s cut from the waving grain, The sweetest sight man ever saw In forest, dell or plain. It fills me with a crunkling joy A straw-stack to behold, For then I pad this lucky boy With strands of yellow gold.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Shaggy Man; “here comes my friend the Scarecrow.”
“What, a live Scarecrow?” asked Ojo.
“Yes; the one I told you of. He’s a splendid fellow, and very intelligent. You’ll like him, I’m sure.”
Just then the famous Scarecrow of Oz came around the bend in the road, riding astride a wooden Sawhorse which was so small that its rider’s legs nearly touched the ground.
The Scarecrow wore the blue dress of the Munchkins, in which country he was made, and on his head was set a peaked hat with a flat brim trimmed with tinkling bells. A rope was tied around his waist to hold him in shape, for he was stuffed with straw in every part of him except the top of his head, where at one time the Wizard of Oz had placed sawdust, mixed with needles and pins, to sharpen his wits. The head itself was merely a bag of cloth, fastened to the body at the neck, and on the front of this bag was painted the face — ears, eyes, nose and mouth.
The Scarecrow’s face was very interesting, for it bore a comical and yet winning expression, although one eye was a bit larger than the other and the ears were not mates. The Munchkin farmer who had made the Scarecrow had neglected to sew him together with close stitches and therefore some of the straw with which he was stuffed was inclined to stick out between the seams. His hands consisted of padded white gloves, with the fingers long and rather limp, and on his feet he wore Munchkin boots of blue leather with broad turns at the tops of them.
The Sawhorse was almost as curious as its rider. It had been rudely made, in the beginning, to saw logs upon, so that its body was a short length of a log, and its legs were stout branches fitted into four holes made in the body. The tail was formed by a small branch that had been left on the log, while the head was a gnarled bump on one end of the body. Two knots of wood formed the eyes, and the mouth was a gash chopped in the log. When the Sawhorse first came to life it had no ears at all, and so could not hear; but the boy who then owned him had whittled two ears out of bark and stuck them in the head, after which the Sawhorse heard very distinctly.
This queer wooden horse was a great favorite with Princess Ozma, who had caused the bottoms of its legs to be shod with plates of gold, so the wood would not wear away. Its saddle was made of cloth-of-gold richly encrusted with precious gems. It had never worn a bridle.
As the Scarecrow came in sight of the party of travelers, he reined in his wooden steed and dismounted, greeting the Shaggy Man with a smiling nod. Then he turned to stare at the Patchwork Girl in wonder
, while she in turn stared at him.
“Shags,” he whispered, drawing the Shaggy Man aside, “pat me into shape, there’s a good fellow!”
While his friend punched and patted the Scarecrow’s body, to smooth out the humps, Scraps turned to Ojo and whispered: “Roll me out, please; I’ve sagged down dreadfully from walking so much and men like to see a stately figure.”
She then fell upon the ground and the boy rolled her back and forth like a rolling-pin, until the cotton had filled all the spaces in her patchwork covering and the body had lengthened to its fullest extent. Scraps and the Scarecrow both finished their hasty toilets at the same time, and again they faced each other.
“Allow me, Miss Patchwork,” said the Shaggy Man, “to present my friend, the Right Royal Scarecrow of Oz. Scarecrow, this is Miss Scraps Patches; Scraps, this is the Scarecrow. Scarecrow — Scraps; Scraps — Scarecrow.”
They both bowed with much dignity.
“Forgive me for staring so rudely,” said the Scarecrow, “but you are the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever beheld.”
“That is a high compliment from one who is himself so beautiful,” murmured Scraps, casting down her suspender-button eyes by lowering her head. “But, tell me, good sir, are you not a trifle lumpy?”
“Yes, of course; that’s my straw, you know. It bunches up, sometimes, in spite of all my efforts to keep it even. Doesn’t your straw ever bunch?”
“Oh, I’m stuffed with cotton,” said Scraps. “It never bunches, but it’s inclined to pack down and make me sag.”
“But cotton is a high-grade stuffing. I may say it is even more stylish, not to say aristocratic, than straw,” said the Scarecrow politely. “Still, it is but proper that one so entrancingly lovely should have the best stuffing there is going. I — er — I’m so glad I’ve met you, Miss Scraps! Introduce us again, Shaggy.”170
“Once is enough,” replied the Shaggy Man, laughing at his friend’s enthusiasm.
“Then tell me where you found her, and — Dear me, what a queer cat! What are you made of — gelatine?”
“Pure glass,” answered the cat, proud to have attracted the Scarecrow’s attention. “I am much more beautiful than the Patchwork Girl. I’m transparent, and Scraps isn’t; I’ve pink brains — you can see ‘em work; and I’ve a ruby heart, finely polished, while Scraps hasn’t any heart at all.”
“No more have I,” said the Scarecrow, shaking hands with Scraps, as if to congratulate her on the fact. “I’ve a friend, the Tin Woodman, who has a heart, but I find I get along pretty well without one. And so — Well, well! here’s a little Munchkin boy, too. Shake hands, my little man. How are you?”
Ojo placed his hand in the flabby stuffed glove that served the Scarecrow for a hand, and the Scarecrow pressed it so cordially that the straw in his glove crackled.
Meantime, the Woozy had approached the Sawhorse and begun to sniff at it. The Sawhorse resented this familiarity and with a sudden kick pounded the Woozy squarely on its head with one gold-shod foot.
“Take that, you monster!” it cried angrily.
The Woozy never even winked.
“To be sure,” he said; “I’ll take anything I have to. But don’t make me angry, you wooden beast, or my eyes will flash fire and burn you up.”
The Sawhorse rolled its knot eyes wickedly and kicked again, but the Woozy trotted away and said to the Scarecrow:
“What a sweet disposition that creature has! I advise you to chop it up for kindling-wood and use me to ride upon. My back is flat and you can’t fall off.”
“I think the trouble is that you haven’t been properly introduced,” said the Scarecrow, regarding the Woozy with much wonder, for he had never seen such a queer animal before. “The Sawhorse is the favorite steed of Princess Ozma, the Ruler of the Land of Oz, and he lives in a stable decorated with pearls and emeralds, at the rear of the royal palace. He is swift as the wind, untiring, and is kind to his friends. All the people of Oz respect the Sawhorse highly, and when I visit Ozma she sometimes allows me to ride him — as I am doing to-day. Now you know what an important personage the Sawhorse is, and if some one — perhaps yourself — will tell me your name, your rank and station, and your history, it will give me pleasure to relate them to the Sawhorse. This will lead to mutual respect and friendship.”
The Woozy was somewhat abashed by this speech and did not know how to reply. But Ojo said:
“This square beast is called the Woozy, and he isn’t of much importance except that he has three hairs growing on the tip of his tail.”
The Scarecrow looked and saw that this was true.
“But,” said he, in a puzzled way, “what makes those three hairs important? The Shaggy Man has thousands of hairs, but no one has ever accused him of being important.”
So Ojo related the sad story of Unc Nunkie’s transformation into a marble statue, and told how he had set out to find the things the Crooked Magician wanted, in order to make a charm that would restore his uncle to life. One of the requirements was three hairs from a Woozy’s tail, but not being able to pull out the hairs they had been obliged to take the Woozy with them.
The Scarecrow looked grave as he listened and he shook his head several times, as if in disapproval.
“We must see Ozma about this matter,” he said. “That Crooked Magician is breaking the Law by practicing magic without a license, and I’m not sure Ozma will allow him to restore your uncle to life.”
“Already I have warned the boy of that,” declared the Shaggy Man.
At this Ojo began to cry. “I want my Unc Nunkie!” he exclaimed. “I know how he can be restored to life, and I’m going to do it — Ozma or no Ozma! What right has this girl Ruler to keep my Unc Nunkie a statue forever?”
“Don’t worry about that just now,” advised the Scarecrow. “Go on to the Emerald City, and when you reach it have the Shaggy Man take you to see Dorothy. Tell her your story and I’m sure she will help you. Dorothy is Ozma’s best friend, and if you can win her to your side your uncle is pretty safe to live again.” Then he turned to the Woozy and said: “I’m afraid you are not important enough to be introduced to the Sawhorse, after all.”
“I’m a better beast than he is,” retorted the Woozy, indignantly. “My eyes can flash fire, and his can’t.”
“Is this true?” inquired the Scarecrow, turning to the Munchkin boy.
“Yes,” said Ojo, and told how the Woozy had set fire to the fence.
“Have you any other accomplishments?” asked the Scarecrow.
“I have a most terrible growl — that is, sometimes,” said the Woozy, as Scraps laughed merrily and the Shaggy Man smiled. But the Patchwork Girl’s laugh made the Scarecrow forget all about the Woozy. He said to her:
“What an admirable young lady you are, and what jolly good company! We must be better acquainted, for never before have I met a girl with such exquisite coloring or such natural, artless manners.”
“No wonder they call you the Wise Scarecrow,” replied Scraps.
“When you arrive at the Emerald City I will see you again,” continued the Scarecrow. “Just now I am going to call upon an old friend — an ordinary young lady named Jinjur — who has promised to repaint my left ear for me. You may have noticed that the paint on my left ear has peeled off and faded, which affects my hearing on that side. Jinjur always fixes me up when I get weather-worn.”
“When do you expect to return to the Emerald City?” asked the Shaggy Man.
“I’ll be there this evening, for I’m anxious to have a long talk with Miss Scraps. How is it, Sawhorse; are you equal to a swift run?”
“Anything that suits you suits me,” returned the wooden horse.
So the Scarecrow mounted to the jeweled saddle and waved his hat, when the Sawhorse darted away so swiftly that they were out of sight in an instant.
14 Ojo Breaks the Law
“WHAT a queer man,” remarked the Munchkin boy, when the party had resumed its journey.
&n
bsp; “And so nice and polite,” added Scraps, bobbing her head. “I think he is the handsomest man I’ve seen since I came to life.”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” quoted the Shaggy Man; “but we must admit that no living scarecrow is handsomer. The chief merit of my friend is that he is a great thinker, and in Oz it is considered good policy to follow his advice.”
“I didn’t notice any brains in his head,” observed the Glass Cat.
“You can’t see ‘em work, but they’re there, all right,” declared the Shaggy Man. “I hadn’t much confidence in his brains myself, when first I came to Oz, for a humbug Wizard gave them to him; but I was soon convinced that the Scarecrow is really wise; and, unless his brains make him so, such wisdom is unaccountable.”
“Is the Wizard of Oz a humbug?” asked Ojo.
“Not now. He was once, but he has reformed and now assists Glinda the Good, who is the Royal Sorceress of Oz and the only one licensed to practice magic or sorcery. Glinda has taught our old Wizard a good many clever things, so he is no longer a humbug.”
They walked a little while in silence and then Ojo said:
“If Ozma forbids the Crooked Magician to restore Unc Nunkie to life, what shall I do?”
The Shaggy Man shook his head.
“In that case you can’t do anything,” he said. “But don’t be discouraged yet. We will go to Princess Dorothy and tell her your troubles, and then we will let her talk to Ozma. Dorothy has the kindest little heart in the world, and she has been through so many troubles herself that she is sure to sympathize with you.”
“Is Dorothy the little girl who came here from Kansas?” asked the boy.
“Yes. In Kansas she was Dorothy Gale. I used to know her there, and she brought me to the Land of Oz. But now Ozma has made her a Princess, and Dorothy’s Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are here, too.” Here the Shaggy Man uttered a long sigh, and then he continued: “It’s a queer country, this Land of Oz; but I like it, nevertheless.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 91
