L. Frank Baum - Oz 19

by The Lost King Of Oz

  “Maybe something’ll happen,” sighed Snip, pressing his nose against the slats. It had been late afternoon when they reached Catty Corners and in the gathering gloom the giant cats, parading up and down, looked like some dreadful sort of goblins. Turning back to Pajuka for comfort, Snip was horrified to see that the goose had drawn up one foot and closed his eyes.

  “Don’t fall asleep, Pajuka,” begged the little boy, shaking him frantically. “Don’t fall asleep and leave me all alone.”

  “Can’t help it Snip hah hoh! This is what comes of being a goose-hum!” yawned the poor prime minister. He blinked rapidly, stamped both feet and fluttered his feathers, but it was no use. His eyes simply would not stay open.

  “Well, if I’m to be eaten,” gulped Pajuka sadly, with a last monstrous yawn, ‘I might as well be asleep anyway.” Folding his head away dejectedly under his wing, he stood perfectly still. At this Snip felt so down-hearted that he sat on the floor and took the goose in his lap.

  “Wonder what Mombi’s doing,” he shuddered, trying to catch a glimpse of the old witch through the chinks in the lattice. To tell the truth, Mombi was in as tight a catty corner as Snip. Having indulged her fondness for cats to the fullest extent and, noting with alarm and approach of night, she had finally risen and bidding the Catty Queen an affectionate farewell, declared herself ready to depart. “And the goose and boy must come with me,” croaked Mombi, grinning secretly at the joke she had played on them.

  “With you,” cried the Cat Queen, springing up in alarm. “Why, you dear, ugly old darling, do you suppose I am ever going to let you go? Never! As for the boy-who cares for boys? He shall entertain us all day tomorrow. I’ll call out my grand army of Maltesers, and they shall maul and tease him to death. What fun. And the goose! I could hug you for bringing that goose.

  “But see here,” panted Mombi in alarm, “I need that goose. I’m taking him as a present to Ozma, the Queen.”

  “Well, I’m a Queen,” sniffed the Cat crossly, and I don’t give a yowl for Ozma. Come on, let’s pluck out his feathers.” And away across the garden scampered her Majesty. Mombi picked up her basket and followed in great haste. She knew that without Pajuka she would never recognize the King, nor regain her magic powers. Therefore, though she had no great love for the goose, she must find some way to save him.

  “Wait!” puffed the old witch, catching up with the Queen. “Wait! I, myself, will prepare a feast to go with the goose. I am a famous cook and know more about roasts and sauces than anyone in Oz.” Mombi rolled her eyes boastfully.

  “Do you?” murmured the Imperial Pussy, stopping short and l6oking admiringly at the old

  witch.

  “Did your Highness ever taste rice cream pudding?” inquired Mombi mysteriously. “No goose should be eaten without a dish of pudding beforehand. Keeps off the mullygrubs. Just let me make you a delicious little rice cream pudding!”

  “Rice cream pudding? Why that sounds delicious!” purred the Queen, waving her tail rapturously. “Make enough for us all, dear old ugliness, and I’ll take a cat nap while you do.”

  “Where’s the kitchen?” demanded Mombi with a wicked grin. Already she had thought of a way out of her difficulties. Once in the catty kitchen, really only an enclosed corner of the garden with a stone fireplace and iron crane, Mombi set quickly to work. Filling the largest cauldron with rice cream from the fountain, she poured in all the boxes of rice she had in her basket and all the raisins. Then, setting it over the fire, which two tortoise shell cats kept at blazing point, she stirred and muttered and

  muttered and stirred, and just before it was done dropped in the contents of another of her purple cans.

  Meanwhile, news of the coming treat had spread, and by the time the pudding was finished, the fences were simply crowded with cats, their eyes showing like green balls of fire in the darkness. There were only a few dim lanterns in Catty Corners, for cats can see quite as well by night as by day. Each cat had brought a saucer, and forming in an orderly procession, they lined up before the old witch, while Mombi ladled out helping after helping of the pudding, pausing every now and then to wipe her forehead on her sleeve and grin wickedly to herself.

  None of the cats dared eat until the Queen arrived, and when her Highness finally did appear, a long sigh of anticipation went up from the fences. Mombi had saved a particularly large helping for the Queen, and when her Maltese Majesty lowered her chin over her saucer and all the other cats started lapping up the pudding, Mombi could hardly restrain her chuckles. The pudding really was delicious and the Queen lapped faster and faster, as did the rest, so that in scarcely a moment the saucers were quite empty and the company quite the reverse.

  With half-closed eyes the Queen lifted her head to thank Mombi but before she could purr a purr, she, and that whole collection of cats, simply catapulted into the air and, while Mombi held her sides and rocked to and fro with malicious merriment, they rolled and tumbled toward the clouds like balloons released from their strings. No wonder! In that purple can was a baking powder powerful enough to raise an army-baking powder that the old witch had been collecting and refining for twenty years.

  “Hah,” snorted Mombi, rubbing her hands with satisfaction. Leaning over the fountain, she took a long drink of cream, for stirring the pudding had made her mighty thirsty. Then, without thought of her luckless victims, she picked up her basket and hobbled off to the summer house. Snip, after waiting in terror for the cats to come for Pajuka, had finally dropped into an uneasy slumber, and when Mombi flashed a small lantern in his eyes he almost jumped out of his jacket.

  “Come along, you little lazy bones,” grumbled the witch, jerking him roughly by the sleeve. “Is that silly old goose asleep too?”

  “I’ll carry him,” said Snip stiffly and, bending over, he picked Pajuka carefully up in his arms. He was quite an armful, but never stirred nor wakened at all. Snip longed to tell Mombi what he thought of her, but she looked so fierce he decided not to try it.

  “Where are the cats?” he shivered, tiptoeing nervously after the old witch. Mombi waved her stick aloft, and you can imagine the astonishment of the little boy to see a perfect cloud of cats sailing across the moon.

  “Gave ‘em rice pudding and they riz,” wheezed the old witch gleefully. Having no one else to boast to, Mombi condescended to explain her trick to Snip. Snip, on his part, was glad to escape from the catty creatures, but he could not help feeling a bit sorry for them.

  “How long will they have to stay up there?” he inquired curiously.

  “Till it rains,” grunted Mombi, swinging the lantern carelessly. “But come on, I can’t stand here talking all night. We’ll never reach the Emerald City at this rate.”

  “Anyway,” thought Snip, stepping along carefully so as not to wake Pajuka, “anyway they can eat their supper in the milky way and won’t it be raining cats when they do come down though!”

  While Mombi stopped to straighten her hat, Snip took a long drink from one of the cream fountains. “Nobody knows when we’ll get anything to eat, said the little button boy to himself.

  “Are we going to travel all night?” he puffed, running to catch up with Mombi.

  “Mind your own buttons,” hissed the old witch, lapsing into her usual ill-temper, and as she refused to say another word, there was nothing to do but follow the uncertain flicker of her lantern. After an hour of zigzagging along the fences, they reached the other side, unbolted the great iron doors in the wall and found themselves in another forest.

  Snip thought surely Mombi would stop, but the old witch went muttering and mumbling along, her eyes gleaming like hot coals in the darkness. Every once in a while, she would glance sideways at Snip in a way that caused him great uneasiness. To tell the truth, Mombi had about decided to rid herself of the little button boy. He knew too much and might run off and tell Ozma her plans before she could reach the Emerald City, herself. With Pajuka’s help, Mombi meant to find the old King, if she could, but when he had
restored her magic powers Mombi intended to be the real ruler of Oz.

  So, hurrying along through the inky forest, she began casting about in her mind for a way to destroy Snip.

  “I’ll wait till I reach the center of the forest,” hissed Mombi, stumping along under the silent trees, “and then

  “What did you say?” asked Snip anxiously.

  “Nothing,” grunted Mombi, smiling sourly to herself, “at least nothing that concerns you.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Mysterious Message

  SCRAPS, the Patch Work Girl, danced crazily down the flower-bordered path in Ozma’s lovely garden in the Emerald City, shouting this verse:

  “Hank hankers for a hanky To blow his funny nose, Hank hankers for a hanky, I hanker for a rose!”

  “I do not,” brayed Hank, Betsy Bobbins’ little mule, flapping his ears sulkily. “You don’t know what you are singing about, Scraps. Go away and stop jeering me. How could I use a hanky, you silly girl?”

  “Hank, you’re a crank!” shouted Scraps, and capered on down the path, stopping to chin herself on a tulip tree and dropping in a wobbly heap beside the little table where Ozma, Betsy Bobbin and Trot were having breakfast.

  “You shouldn’t tease Hank like that,” said Ozma, looking reproachfully at Scraps over her gold breakfast cup.

  “I’ll tease, I’ll tease, whom I please, I’ll cross my eyes and cross my knees!”

  chortled Scraps, and she looked so comical doing both of these crossings at once that the little girls simply burst into laughter, while Hank, with a snort of disgust, galloped off at full speed.

  “You’re awful,” sighed Betsy Bobbin, nearly choking on her biscuit, and Betsy was pretty nearly right, for this ridiculous maiden who lived luxuriously in Ozma’s palace was made entirely of patchwork. She had been cut from an old quilt, stuffed and sewn together by a wizard’s wife who intended her for a servant. But when the wizard mixed up her brains, a lot of fun and cleverness had got in, so that Scraps had refused to be a servant and had run off to the Emerald City. She was so comical and entertaining that Ozma had allowed her to remain at the capitol, and Scraps is now one of the most celebrated characters in the castle.

  Betsy Bobbin was a little girl from the United States. She and Hank had been ship-wrecked on the shores of a strange land near Oz and, after some terrible adventures with the old Gnome King, had reached Oz itself and been taken in by the kind-hearted little Queen. Trot also had come from America and liked Oz so well she had never returned home. These two, with Princess Dorothy, are the closest friends of the fairy ruler, for Ozma herself is only a little girl fairy, and these four together have the merriest times imaginable.

  Living in a green stone castle studded with emeralds is fun enough, dear knows, but living in a green stone castle with forty-nine courtiers, thirty-nine footmen, thirty-seven handmen, twenty-six serving maids, ten cooks and a flock of pages is luxury indeed, especially in a magical land where adventures are liable to happen every few minutes. Why, it’s the most fun yet!

  Perhaps Dorothy is Ozma’s prime favorite, for Dorothy was the first little girl to discover Oz and has been so mixed up in its magical history that Ozma would scarcely know how to rule her interesting subjects without her help. It was of Dorothy that Ozma was thinking, as she watched Scraps turning reckless handsprings under the tulip trees.

  “I wonder when Dorothy will return?” sighed the little Queen, pushing back her chair and signalling for the thirty-ninth footman to remove the gold breakfast plates. Dorothy had gone on a short visit to Perhaps City and already the others were longing for her return.

  “Let’s ask the Scarecrow,” proposed Betsy, waving to the jolly straw man who, arm-in-arm with Sir Hokus of Pokes, was coming down the path. Both these delightful fellows are great friends of Dorothy’s. In fact she discovered them. The Scarecrow she had lifted down from a pole on her very first trip to Oz. He had accompanied her to the Emerald City and been given a splendid set of brains by the Wizard of Oz, so that he is one of the wittiest and most able of Ozma’s courtiers. He has a cozy corn-ear castle in the Winkie Country, but prefers to spend most of his time in the capitol with the girls. Sir Hokus had been rescued from Pokes by Dorothy on another of her wonderful adventures, and since the Knight had taken up his residence in the palace Ozma felt more secure than ever before, for Sir Hokus was a splendid swordsman and feared neither man nor monster. It is people like Scraps, Sir Hokus and the Scarecrow who make life in the Emerald City so jolly and so different.

  “Yoo hoo! Don’t you think it’s time Dorothy was back?” called Betsy, as the two came nearer.

  “High time! High time!” answered the Scarecrow, waving his old blue hat up at the clock in the tallest tower of the castle. “And we’ll have a high time when she does come,” he smiled gaily. “I’ve thought up a dozen new games and…. What’s that?” cried the Scarecrow, interrupting himself suddenly and blinking his painted eyes so fast that Betsy bounded out of her chair.

  “What’s that?” echoed the little Queen of Oz, springing up in alarm. Something gold and brilliant had flashed through the air and fallen upon the walk.

  “A feather!” puffed Sir Hokus. “Odds goblins and hoblins, a feather!” He stooped creakily to pick it up, but as he did the golden quill righted itself and began to move rapidly across the marble walk.

  “It’s writing!” gasped Trot, clutching the Scarecrow by the arm, and in dazed fascination -‘ they watched the feather tracing a sentence. When it had set down five words, it made a little gold dot and fell lifelessly at Ozma’s feet.

  “Danger— Go to Morrow today!” stuttered the Scarecrow, reading the golden message aloud.

  “How now,” thundered Sir Hokus, letting his visor fall with a crash, “what means this

  message?”

  “Go tomorrow!” gulped the Scarecrow, clapping on his hat and squinting down at the golden legend on the walk.

  “Not tomorrow, today,” corrected Betsy Bobbin breathlessly.

  “But if we go today, how can we go tomorrow?” asked Ozma, growing more bewildered every minute.

  “Danger!” shuddered Trot, pointing a trembling finger at the first word.

  “What’s all the excitement?” demanded Scraps, dancing up on one toe. Then, seeing they were all staring down at the marble, she bent over and read the message aloud herself.

  “Go tomorrow to-day. It can never be done! Just to think of it gives me a pain in the bun.”

  screamed the Patch Work Girl, clapping her hand to her cotton forehead. “Hush, Scraps!” begged Ozma. “This is serious!”

  “Someone is delirious, or they’d never write such nonsense, declared Scraps defiantly. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Think!” mumbled the Scarecrow, dropping down on a gold garden bench.

  “Send for the Wizard!” advised Betsy Bobbin, jumping up and down in her excitement. “Wait! I’ll get him!”

  “It’s a goose quill,” announced Sir Hokus, as Betsy ran off toward the palace. He had picked up the golden feather and was examining it carefully.

  “A goose quill?” gasped Ozma. “Why what can that mean? Oh dear, I do wish Dorothy were

  back.”

  “My gooseness!” giggled Scraps. “No wonder it’s a silly message. Do you know any geese?” “None but you!” sniffed Trot, putting her arms about Ozma.

  “Silence, wench!” commanded Sir Hokus, pushing Scraps aside and seating himself beside the Scarecrow. “Methinks dark deeds are brewing here. Hast thought of anything friend?”

  “Not yet,” sighed the Scarecrow, rubbing his forehead sadly with his wobbly finger. “Let me think some more.

  All were silent until Betsy Bobbin came hurrying back, bringing with her the Wizard of Oz and Tik Tok. As everyone in Oz knows, Tik Tok is another great celebrity, a machine man of burnished copper who can talk, walk and even think when properly wound. Betsy was winding up his thick key, as she ran along, for Tik Tok’s brains, in spite of
their wheels, worked quite as well as the Scarecrow’s, and there certainly was a lot of thinking to be done.

  “You say it was a golden goose feather?” panted the little Wizard of Oz, quickening his steps. “A goose feather! Humph!” Next instant he was bending over the strange inscription on the walk, while Ozma and Trot breathlessly explained just how and when it had all happened.

  “Tomorrow to-day!” murmured the Wizard, mopping his bald head with his green hanky. “Why that’s impossible, there’s some trick to it.”

  The Wizard drew a small green book from his pocket. It was the book of magic messages and the little company waited anxiously while he flipped over the pages. But although every other kind of

  message was touched upon, there was nothing at all about goose feathers. With a sigh, the Wizard returned the book to his pocket, and dropping upon his knees began to examine the letters through his smallifying glass.

  Tik Tok, except for the chug and whirr of his machinery, had been perfectly quiet. Now, leaning over so far he nearly tumbled on his copper nose, he began to read the message aloud.

  “Go-to-morrow-to-day! Go-o-morrow-to-day!” rasped Tik Tok, in his harsh rasping voice, over and over and over, until Ozma and Betsy clapped hands to their ears and Trot begged him to stop. “That’s funny-,” ticked the copper man at last. “It tells us when to go-but not-where. Too many times and-no-place, Go-to-mor-Whirr-click! Tik Tok’s voice ran down and the sentence stopped in mid air. “Thank goodness!” cried Betsy Bobbin fervently.