Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “As fer po’try,” said he, “that’s as how you look at po’try. Rhymes come from your head, but real po’try from your heart, an’ whether the blue parrot has a heart or not he’s sure got a head.”

  Having decided not to venture into the Arch of Phinis they again started on, this time across the country straight toward the Fog Bank, which hung like a blue-gray cloud directly across the center of the island. They knew they were being followed by bands of the Blueskins, for they could hear the shouts of their pursuers growing louder and louder every minute, since their long legs covered the ground more quickly than our friends could possibly go. Had the journey been much farther the fugitives would have been overtaken, but when the leaders of the pursuing Blueskins were only a few yards behind them they reached the edge of the Fog Bank and without hesitation plunged into its thick mist, which instantly hid them from view.

  The Blueskins fell back, horrified at the mad act of the strangers. To them the Fog Bank was the most dreadful thing in existence and no Blueskin had ever ventured within it, even for a moment.

  “That’s the end of those short-necked Yellowskins,” said one, shaking his head. “We may as well go back and report the matter to the Boolooroo.”

  Through the Fog Bank

  IT was rather moist in the Fog Bank.

  “Seems like a reg’lar drizzle,” said Trot. “I’ll be soaked through in a minute.” She had been given a costume of blue silk, in exchange for her own dress, and the silk was so thin that the moisture easily wetted it.

  “Never mind,” said Cap’n Bill. “When it’s a case of life ‘n’ death, clo’s don’t count for much. I’m sort o’ drippy myself.”

  Cried the parrot, fluttering his feathers to try to keep them from sticking together:

  “Floods and gushes fill our path —

  This is not my day for a bath!

  Shut it off, or fear my wrath.”

  “We can’t,” laughed Trot. “We’ll jus’ have to stick it out till we get to the other side.”

  “Had we better go to the other side?” asked Button-Bright, anxiously.

  “Why not?” returned Cap’n Bill. “The other side’s the only safe side for us.”

  “We don’t know that, sir,” said the boy. “Ghip-Ghisizzle said it was a terrible country.”

  “I don’t believe it,” retorted the sailor, stoutly. “Sizzle’s never been there, an’ he knows nothing about it. ‘The Sunset Country’ sounds sort o’ good to me.”

  “But how’ll we ever manage to get there?” inquired Trot. “Aren’t we already lost in this fog?”

  “Not yet,” said Cap’n Bill. “I’ve kep’ my face turned straight ahead, ever since we climbed inter this bank o’ wetness. If we don’t get twisted any, we’ll go straight through to the other side.”

  It was no darker in the Fog Bank than it had been in the Blue Country. They could see dimly the mass of fog, which seemed to cling to them, and when they looked down they discovered that they were walking upon white pebbles that were slightly tinged with the blue color of the sky. Gradually this blue became fainter, until, as they progressed, everything became a dull gray.

  “I wonder how far it is to the other side,” remarked Trot, wearily.

  “We can’t say till we get there, mate,” answered the sailor in a cheerful voice. Cap’n Bill had a way of growing more and more cheerful when danger threatened.

  “Never mind,” said the girl; “I’m as wet as a dish rag now, and I’ll never get any wetter.”

  “Wet, wet, wet!

  It’s awful wet, you bet!”

  moaned the parrot on her shoulder.

  “I’m a fish-pond, I’m a well;

  I’m a clam without a shell!”

  “Can’t you dry up?” asked Cap’n Bill.

  “Not this evening, thank you, sir;

  To talk and grumble I prefer,”

  replied the parrot, dolefully.

  They walked along more slowly now, still keeping hold of hands; for although they were anxious to get through the Fog Bank they were tired with the long run across the country and with their day’s adventures. They had had no sleep and it was a long time past midnight.

  “Look out!” cried the parrot, sharply; and they all halted to find a monstrous frog obstructing their path. Cap’n Bill thought it was as big as a whale, and as it squatted on the gray pebbles its eyes were on a level with those of the old sailor.

  “Ker-chug, ker-choo!” grunted the frog; “what in the Sky is this crowd?”

  “W — we’re — strangers,” stammered Trot; “an’ we’re tryin’ to ‘scape from the Blueskins an’ get into the Pink Country.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said the frog, in a friendly tone. “I hate those Blueskins. The Pinkies, however, are very decent neighbors.”

  “Oh, I’m glad to hear that!” cried Button-Bright. “Can you tell us, Mister — Mistress — good Mr. Frog — eh — eh — your Royal Highness — if we’re on the right road to the Pink Country?”

  The frog seemed to laugh, for he gurgled in his throat in a very funny way.

  “I’m no Royal Highness,” he said. “I’m just a common frog; and a little wee tiny frog, too. But I hope to grow, in time. This Fog Bank is the Paradise of Frogs and our King is about ten times as big as I am.”

  “Then he’s a big un, an’ no mistake,” admitted Cap’n Bill. “I’m glad you like your country, but it’s a mite too damp for us, an’ we’d be glad to get out of it.”

  “Follow me,” said the frog. “I’ll lead you to the border. It’s only about six jumps.”

  He turned around, made a mighty leap and disappeared in the gray mist.

  Our friends looked at one another in bewilderment.

  “Don’t see how we can foller that lead,” remarked Cap’n Bill; “but we may as well start in the same direction.”

  “Brooks and creeks,

  How it leaks!”

  muttered the parrot;

  “How can we jog

  To a frog in a fog?”

  The big frog seemed to understand their difficulty, for he kept making noises in his throat to guide them to where he had leaped. When at last they came up to him he made a second jump — out of sight, as before — and when they attempted to follow they found a huge lizard lying across the path. Cap’n Bill thought it must be a giant alligator, at first, it was so big; but he looked at them sleepily and did not seem at all dangerous.

  “O, Liz — you puffy Liz —

  Get out of our way and mind your biz,”

  cried the parrot.

  “Creep-a-mousie, crawl-a-mousie, please move on!

  We can’t move a step till you are gone.”

  “Don’t disturb me,” said the lizard; “I’m dreaming about parsnips. Did you ever taste a parsnip?”

  “We’re in a hurry, if it’s the same to you, sir,” said Cap’n Bill, politely.

  “Then climb over me — or go around — I don’t care which,” murmured the lizard. “When they’re little, they’re juicy; when they’re big, there’s more of ‘em; but either way there’s nothing so delicious as a parsnip. There are none here in the Fog Bank, so the best I can do is dream of them. Oh, parsnips — par-snips — p-a-r-snips!” He closed his eyes sleepily and resumed his dreams.

  Walking around the lizard they resumed their journey and soon came to the frog, being guided by its grunts and croaks. Then off it went again, its tremendous leap carrying it far into the fog. Suddenly Cap’n Bill tripped and would have fallen flat had not Trot and Button-Bright held him up. Then he saw that he had stumbled over the claw of a gigantic land-crab, which lay sprawled out upon the pebbly bottom.

  “Oh; beg parding, I’m sure!” exclaimed Cap’n Bill backing away.

  “Don’t mention it,” replied the crab, in a tired tone. “You did not disturb me, so there is no harm done.”

  “We didn’t know you were here,” explained Trot.

  “Probably not,” said the crab. “It’s no place fo
r me, anyhow, for I belong in the Constellations, you know, with Taurus and Gemini and the other fellows. But I had the misfortune to tumble out of the Zodiac some time ago. My name is Cancer — but I’m not a disease. Those who examine the heavens in these days, alas! can find no Cancer there.”

  “Yes, we can, sir,

  Mister Cancer!”

  said the parrot, with a chuckle.

  “Once,” remarked Cap’n Bill, “I sawr a picter of you in an almanac.”

  “Ah; the almanacs always did us full justice,” the crab replied, “but I’m told they’re not fashionable now.”

  “If you don’t mind, we’d like to pass on,” said Button-Bright.

  “No; I don’t mind; but be careful not to step on my legs. They’re rheumatic, it’s so moist here.”

  They climbed over some of the huge legs and walked around others. Soon they had left the creature far behind.

  “Aren’t you rather slow?” asked the frog, when once more they came up to him.

  “It isn’t that,” said Trot. “You are rather swift, I guess.”

  The frog chuckled and leaped again. They noticed that the fog had caught a soft rose tint, and was lighter and less dense than before, for which reason the sailor remarked that they must be getting near to the Pink Country.

  On this jump they saw nothing but a monstrous turtle, which lay asleep with its head and legs drawn into its shell. It was not in their way, so they hurried on and rejoined the frog, which said to them:

  “I’m sorry, but I’m due at the King’s Court in a few minutes and I can’t wait for your short, weak legs to make the journey to the Pink Country. But if you will climb upon my back I think I can carry you to the border in one more leap.”

  “I’m tired,” said Trot, “an’ this awful fog’s beginnin’ to choke me. Let’s ride on the frog, Cap’n.”

  “Right you are, mate,” he replied, and although he shook a bit with fear, the old man at once began to climb to the frog’s back. Trot seated herself on one side of him and Button-Bright on the other, and the sailor put his arms around them both to hold them tight together.

  “Are you ready?” asked the frog.

  “Ding-dong!” cried the parrot;

  “All aboard! let ‘er go!

  Jump the best jump that you know.”

  “Don’t — don’t! Jump sort o’ easy, please,” begged Cap’n Bill.

  But the frog was unable to obey his request. Its powerful hind legs straightened like steel springs and shot the big body, with its passengers, through the fog like an arrow launched from a bow. They gasped for breath and tried to hang on, and then suddenly the frog landed just at the edge of the Fog Bank, stopping so abruptly that his three riders left his back and shot far ahead of him.

  They felt the fog melt away and found themselves bathed in glorious rays of sunshine; but they had no time to consider this change because they were still shooting through the air, and presently — before they could think of anything at all — all three were rolling heels over head on the soft grass of a meadow.

  The Pink Country

  WHEN the travelers could collect their senses and sit up they stared about them in bewilderment, for the transition from the sticky, damp fog to this brilliant scene was so abrupt as to daze them at first.

  It was a Pink Country, indeed. The grass was a soft pink, the trees were pink, all the fences and buildings which they saw in the near distance were pink — even the gravel in the pretty paths was pink. Many shades of color were there, of course, grading from a faint blush rose to deep pink verging on red, but no other color was visible. In the sky hung a pink glow, with rosy clouds floating here and there, and the sun was not silvery white, as we see it from the Earth, but a distinct pink.

  The sun was high in the sky, just now, which proved the adventurers had been a long time in passing through the Fog Bank. But all of them were wonderfully relieved to reach this beautiful country in safety, for aside from the danger that threatened them in the Blue Country, the other side of the island was very depressing. Here the scene that confronted them was pretty and homelike, except for the prevailing color and the fact that all the buildings were round, without a single corner or angle.

  Half a mile distant was a large City, its pink tintings glistening bravely in the pink sunshine, while hundreds of pink banners floated from its numerous domes. The country between the Fog Bank and the City was like a vast garden, very carefully kept and as neat as wax.

  The parrot was fluttering its wings and pruning its feathers to remove the wet of the fog. Trot and Button-Bright and Cap’n Bill were all soaked to the skin and chilled through, but as they sat upon the pink grass they felt the rays of the sun sending them warmth and rapidly drying their clothes; so, being tired out, they laid themselves comfortably down and first one and then another fell cosily asleep.

  It was the parrot that aroused them.

  “Look out — look out —

  There’s folks about!”

  it screamed;

  “The apple-dumplings, fat and pink,

  Will be here quicker than a wink!”

  Trot started up in alarm and rubbed her eyes; Cap’n Bill rolled over and blinked, hardly remembering where he was; Button-Bright was on his feet in an instant. Advancing toward them were four of the natives of the Pink Country.

  Two were men and two were women, and their appearance was in sharp contrast to that of the Blueskins. For the Pinkies were round and chubby — almost like “apple-dumplings,” as the parrot had called them — and they were not very tall, the highest of the men being no taller than Trot or Button-Bright. They all had short necks and legs, pink hair and eyes, rosy cheeks and pink complexions, and their faces were good-natured and jolly in expression.

  The men wore picturesque pink clothing and round hats with pink feathers in them, but the apparel of the women was still more gorgeous and striking. Their dresses consisted of layer after layer of gauzy tucks and ruffles and laces, caught here and there with bows of dainty ribbon. The skirts — which of course were of many shades of pink — were so fluffy and light that they stuck out from the fat bodies of the Pinkie women like the skirts of ballet-dancers, displaying their chubby pink ankles and pink kid shoes. They wore rings and necklaces and bracelets and brooches of rose-gold set with pink gems, and all four of the new arrivals, both men and women, carried sharp-pointed sticks, made of rosewood, for weapons.

  They halted a little way from our adventurers and one of the women muttered in a horrified voice: “Blueskins!”

  “Guess again! The more you guess

  I rather think you’ll know the less,”

  retorted the parrot; and then he added grumblingly in Trot’s ear: “Blue feathers don’t make bluebirds.”

  “Really,” said the little girl, standing up and bowing respectfully to the Pinkies, “we are not Blueskins, although we are wearing the blue uniforms of the Boolooroo and have just escaped from the Blue Country. If you will look closely you will see that our skins are white.”

  “There is some truth in what she says,” remarked one of the men, thoughtfully. “Their skins are not blue, but neither are they white. To be exact, I should call the skin of the girl and that of the boy a muddy pink, rather faded, while the skin of the gigantic monster with them is an unpleasant brown.”

  Cap’n Bill looked cross for a minute, for he did not like to be called a “gigantic monster,” although he realized he was much larger than the pink people.

  “What country did you come from?” asked the woman who had first spoken.

  “From the Earth,” replied Button-Bright.

  “The Earth! The Earth!” they repeated. “That is a country we have never heard of. Where is it located?”

  “Why, down below, somewhere,” said the boy, who did not know in which direction the Earth lay. “It isn’t just one country, but a good many countries.”

  “We have three countries in Sky Island,” returned the woman. “They are the Blue Country, the Fog
Country and the Pink Country; but of course this end of the Island is the most important.”

  “How came you in the Blue Country, from whence you say you escaped?” asked the man.

  “We flew there by means of a Magic Umbrella,” explained Button-Bright; “but the wicked Boolooroo stole it from us.”

  “Stole it! How dreadful,” they all cried in a chorus.

  “And they made us slaves,” said Trot.

  “An’ wanted fer to patch us,” added Cap’n Bill, indignantly.

  “So we ran away and passed through the Fog Bank and came here,” said Button-Bright.

  The Pinkies turned away and conversed together in low tones. Then one of the women came forward and addressed the strangers.

  “Your story is the strangest we have ever heard,” said she; “and your presence here is still more strange and astonishing. So we have decided to take you to Tourmaline and let her decide what shall be your fate.”

  “Who is Tourmaline?” inquired Trot, doubtfully, for she didn’t like the idea of being “taken” to anyone.

  “The Queen of the Pinkies. She is the sole Ruler of our country, so the word of Tourmaline is the Law of the Land.”

  “Seems to me we’ve had ‘bout enough of kings an’ queens,” remarked Cap’n Bill. “Can’t we shy your Tut — Tor — mar-line — or whatever you call her — in some way, an’ deal with you direct?”

  “No. Until we prove your truth and honor we must regard you as enemies of our race. If you had a Magic Umbrella you may be magicians and sorcerers, come here to deceive us and perhaps betray us to our natural enemies, the Blueskins.”

  “Mud and bricks — fiddlesticks!

  We don’t play such nasty tricks,”

  yelled the parrot, angrily, and this caused the Pinkies to shrink back in alarm, for they had never seen a parrot before.

  “Surely this is magic!” declared one of the men. “No bird can talk unless inspired by witchcraft.”

  “Oh, yes; parrots can,” said Trot.

  But this incident had determined the Pinkies to consider our friends prisoners and to take them immediately before their Queen.