The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels

by Various Authors

  “Just a little way farther,” replied the Shaggy Man.

  A few minutes later he called to them to turn about quickly and step forward, and as they obeyed the order they found themselves treading solid ground.

  “That task is well over,” observed the Shaggy Man. “It’s a little tiresome to walk backward, but that is the only way to pass this part of the road, which has a trick of sliding back and carrying with it anyone who is walking upon it.”

  With new courage and energy they now trudged forward and after a time came to a place where the road cut through a low hill, leaving high banks on either side of it. They were traveling along this cut, talking together, when the Shaggy Man seized Scraps with one arm and Ojo with another and shouted: “Stop!”

  “What’s wrong now?” asked the Patchwork Girl.

  “See there!” answered the Shaggy Man, pointing with his finger.

  Directly in the center of the road lay a motionless object that bristled all over with sharp quills, which resembled arrows. The body was as big as a ten-bushel-basket, but the projecting quills made it appear to be four times bigger.

  “Well, what of it?” asked Scraps.

  “That is Chiss, who causes a lot of trouble along this road,” was the reply.

  “Chiss! What is Chiss?

  “I think it is merely an overgrown porcupine, but here in Oz they consider Chiss an evil spirit. He’s different from a reg’lar porcupine, because he can throw his quills in any direction, which an American porcupine cannot do. That’s what makes old Chiss so dangerous. If we get too near, he’ll fire those quills at us and hurt us badly.”

  “Then we will be foolish to get too near,” said Scraps.

  “I’m not afraid,” declared the Woozy. “The Chiss is cowardly, I’m sure, and if it ever heard my awful, terrible, frightful growl, it would be scared stiff.”

  “Oh; can you growl?” asked the Shaggy Man.

  “That is the only ferocious thing about me,” asserted the Woozy with evident pride. “My growl makes an earthquake blush and the thunder ashamed of itself. If I growled at that creature you call Chiss, it would immediately think the world had cracked in two and bumped against the sun and moon, and that would cause the monster to run as far and as fast as its legs could carry it.”

  “In that case,” said the Shaggy Man, “you are now able to do us all a great favor. Please growl.”

  “But you forget,” returned the Woozy; “my tremendous growl would also frighten you, and if you happen to have heart disease you might expire.”

  “True; but we must take that risk,” decided the Shaggy Man, bravely. “Being warned of what is to occur we must try to bear the terrific noise of your growl; but Chiss won’t expect it, and it will scare him away.”

  The Woozy hesitated.

  “I’m fond of you all, and I hate to shock you,” it said.

  “Never mind,” said Ojo.

  “You may be made deaf.”

  “If so, we will forgive you.”

  “Very well, then,” said the Woozy in a determined voice, and advanced a few steps toward the giant porcupine. Pausing to look back, it asked: “All ready?”

  “All ready!” they answered.

  “Then cover up your ears and brace yourselves firmly. Now, then—look out!”

  The Woozy turned toward Chiss, opened wide its mouth and said:

  “Quee-ee-ee-eek.”

  “Go ahead and growl,” said Scraps.

  “Why, I—I did growl!” retorted the Woozy, who seemed much astonished.

  “What, that little squeak?” she cried.

  “It is the most awful growl that ever was heard, on land or sea, in caverns or in the sky,” protested the Woozy. “I wonder you stood the shock so well. Didn’t you feel the ground tremble? I suppose Chiss is now quite dead with fright.”

  The Shaggy Man laughed merrily.

  “Poor Wooz!” said he; “your growl wouldn’t scare a fly.”

  The Woozy seemed to be humiliated and surprised. It hung its head a moment, as if in shame or sorrow, but then it said with renewed confidence: “Anyhow, my eyes can flash fire; and good fire, too; good enough to set fire to a fence!”

  “That is true,” declared Scraps; “I saw it done myself. But your ferocious growl isn’t as loud as the tick of a beetle—or one of Ojo’s snores when he’s fast asleep.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Woozy, humbly, “I have been mistaken about my growl. It has always sounded very fearful to me, but that may have been because it was so close to my ears.”

  “Never mind,” Ojo said soothingly; “it is a great talent to be able to flash fire from your eyes. No one else can do that.”

  As they stood hesitating what to do Chiss stirred and suddenly a shower of quills came flying toward them, almost filling the air, they were so many. Scraps realized in an instant that they had gone too near to Chiss for safety, so she sprang in front of Ojo and shielded him from the darts, which stuck their points into her own body until she resembled one of those targets they shoot arrows at in archery games. The Shaggy Man dropped flat on his face to avoid the shower, but one quill struck him in the leg and went far in. As for the Glass Cat, the quills rattled off her body without making even a scratch, and the skin of the Woozy was so thick and tough that he was not hurt at all.

  When the attack was over they all ran to the Shaggy Man, who was moaning and groaning, and Scraps promptly pulled the quill out of his leg. Then up he jumped and ran over to Chiss, putting his foot on the monster’s neck and holding it a prisoner. The body of the great porcupine was now as smooth as leather, except for the holes where the quills had been, for it had shot every single quill in that one wicked shower.

  “Let me go!” it shouted angrily. “How dare you put your foot on Chiss?”

  “I’m going to do worse than that, old boy,” replied the Shaggy Man. “You have annoyed travelers on this road long enough, and now I shall put an end to you.”

  “You can’t!” returned Chiss. “Nothing can kill me, as you know perfectly well.”

  “Perhaps that is true,” said the Shaggy Man in a tone of disappointment. “Seems to me I’ve been told before that you can’t be killed. But if I let you go, what will you do?”

  “Pick up my quills again,” said Chiss in a sulky voice.

  “And then shoot them at more travelers? No; that won’t do. You must promise me to stop throwing quills at people.”

  “I won’t promise anything of the sort,” declared Chiss.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is my nature to throw quills, and every animal must do what Nature intends it to do. It isn’t fair for you to blame me. If it were wrong for me to throw quills, then I wouldn’t be made with quills to throw. The proper thing for you to do is to keep out of my way.”

  “Why, there’s some sense in that argument,” admitted the Shaggy Man, thoughtfully; “but people who are strangers, and don’t know you are here, won’t be able to keep out of your way.”

  “Tell you what,” said Scraps, who was trying to pull the quills out of her own body, “let’s gather up all the quills and take them away with us; then old Chiss won’t have any left to throw at people.”

  “Ah, that’s a clever idea. You and Ojo must gather up the quills while I hold Chiss a prisoner; for, if I let him go, he will get some of his quills and be able to throw them again.”

  So Scraps and Ojo picked up all the quills and tied them in a bundle so they might easily be carried. After this the Shaggy Man released Chiss and let him go, knowing that he was harmless to injure anyone.

  “It’s the meanest trick I ever heard of,” muttered the porcupine gloomily. “How would you like it, Shaggy Man, if I took all your shags away from you?”

  “If I threw my shags and hurt people, you would be welcome to capture them,” was the reply.

/>   Then they walked on and left Chiss standing in the road sullen and disconsolate. The Shaggy Man limped as he walked, for his wound still hurt him, and Scraps was much annoyed because the quills had left a number of small holes in her patches.

  When they came to a flat stone by the roadside the Shaggy Man sat down to rest, and then Ojo opened his basket and took out the bundle of charms the Crooked Magician had given him.

  “I am Ojo the Unlucky,” he said, “or we would never have met that dreadful porcupine. But I will see if I can find anything among these charms which will cure your leg.”

  Soon he discovered that one of the charms was labelled: “For flesh wounds,” and this the boy separated from the others. It was only a bit of dried root, taken from some unknown shrub, but the boy rubbed it upon the wound made by the quill and in a few moments the place was healed entirely and the Shaggy Man’s leg was as good as ever.

  “Rub it on the holes in my patches,” suggested Scraps, and Ojo tried it, but without any effect.

  “The charm you need is a needle and thread,” said the Shaggy Man. “But do not worry, my dear; those holes do not look badly, at all.”

  “They’ll let in the air, and I don’t want people to think I’m airy, or that I’ve been stuck up,” said the Patchwork Girl.

  “You were certainly stuck up until we pulled out those quills,” observed Ojo, with a laugh.

  So now they went on again and coming presently to a pond of muddy water they tied a heavy stone to the bundle of quills and sunk it to the bottom of the pond, to avoid carrying it farther.

  Chapter Thirteen.Scraps and the Scarecrow

  From here on the country improved and the desert places began to give way to fertile spots; still no houses were yet to be seen near the road. There were some hills, with valleys between them, and on reaching the top of one of these hills the travelers found before them a high wall, running to the right and the left as far as their eyes could reach. Immediately in front of them, where the wall crossed the roadway, stood a gate having stout iron bars that extended from top to bottom. They found, on coming nearer, that this gate was locked with a great padlock, rusty through lack of use.

  “Well,” said Scraps, “I guess we’ll stop here.”

  “It’s a good guess,” replied Ojo. “Our way is barred by this great wall and gate. It looks as if no one had passed through in many years.”

  “Looks are deceiving,” declared the Shaggy Man, laughing at their disappointed faces, “and this barrier is the most deceiving thing in all Oz.”

  “It prevents our going any farther, anyhow,” said Scraps. “There is no one to mind the gate and let people through, and we’ve no key to the padlock.”

  “True,” replied Ojo, going a little nearer to peep through the bars of the gate. “What shall we do, Shaggy Man? If we had wings we might fly over the wall, but we cannot climb it and unless we get to the Emerald City I won’t be able to find the things to restore Unc Nunkie to life.”

  “All very true,” answered the Shaggy Man, quietly; “but I know this gate, having passed through it many times.”

  “How?” they all eagerly inquired.

  “I’ll show you how,” said he. He stood Ojo in the middle of the road and placed Scraps just behind him, with her padded hands on his shoulders. After the Patchwork Girl came the Woozy, who held a part of her skirt in his mouth. Then, last of all, was the Glass Cat, holding fast to the Woozy’s tail with her glass jaws.

  “Now,” said the Shaggy Man, “you must all shut your eyes tight, and keep them shut until I tell you to open them.”

  “I can’t,” objected Scraps. “My eyes are buttons, and they won’t shut.”

  So the Shaggy Man tied his red handkerchief over the Patchwork Girl’s eyes and examined all the others to make sure they had their eyes fast shut and could see nothing.

  “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, 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:

  “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.