L. Frank Baum - Oz 27

by Ojo In Oz

  “I told-you-to be careful!” choked the Cowardly Lion, shaking his mane fretfully. “I’ve stubbed all of my toes and got sand in my ears.”

  “Oh, Scraps,” wailed Dorothy, tumbling disconsolately off the lion’s back. “Whatever made you wish before I did? Now you’ve ruined everything!”

  “What do you mean?” The Cowardly Lion looked at the little girl anxiously. “Aren’t we where you wished us to be, Dorothy? Sa-ay, I don’t see any gypsies around here. I-I don’t see anything.”

  “That’s because it’s too dark,” said Scraps, trying to speak jauntily.

  “Well, where’s the basket of charms to save Ojo and get us back to the Emerald City?” roared the lion, beginning to lash his tail angrily. “Oh, don’t you see?” explained Dorothy in a distressed voice. “Just as I swallowed the wishing pill and before I could wish us to the right place, Scraps wished us here, and we started so fast the basket flew out of my hand and now we have no magic to help us at all.”

  “Well, a fine meddlesome nuisance you’ve turned out to be,” scolded the Cowardly Lion, looking sternly around at the Patchwork Girl. “Now what are we to do, Miss?”

  “That magic picture told us that Ojo was in the Blue Forest. This forest is blue, so what’s the fussing about? All we have to do is look around for him.” Sliding off the lion’s back, Scraps tossed her yarn hair and started off sulkily by herself.

  “I guess that is all we can do,” sighed Dorothy, climbing resignedly up on the Cowardly Lion. “But it seems like a pretty big forest to me, and there won’t be any breakfast, either, for the magic dinner bell was in that basket, too.”

  “The one the Red Jinn gave Jack Pumpkinhead and Jack Pumpkinhead gave to Ozma?” asked the lion, sniffing the keen air hungrily.

  “Yes,” Dorothy said regretfully. “All we had to do was ring the bell and the slave of the bell would bring us breakfast, dinner or lunch on a silver tray.”

  Scraps, being well stuffed with cotton, did not require food, but she felt so annoyed to think she had caused all the trouble that she burst into a loud and defiant song.. It was useless to remonstrate with the reckless Patchwork Girl, and riding soberly along on the lion’s back Dorothy wondered what they would do if they really did meet the gypsies. Without any magic to help them they might easily be captured and carried off themselves. Then, too, four o’clock is pretty early and dark to be abroad, and the Cowardly Lion, stepping carefully along, trembled at each crackling of a twig or movement in the underbrush. Even Scraps stopped singing after awhile, for the forest was truly immense and as it grew deeper and darker the possibility of finding Ojo and the gypsies seemed less and less probable.

  “This reminds me of the time we were looking for the Scarecrow and found Sir Hokus,” said the lion, speaking in a low growl out of the corner of his mouth.

  “We’ve been on lots of hunts together, haven’t we?” answered Dorothy, leaning over to give the big fellow a hug. “Remember when I found you?” The lion nodded emphatically, for he and Dorothy have been chums for years—ever since the little girl blew to Oz in a cyclone. On that first exciting visit

  Dorothy had discovered the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion and they had all traveled to the Emerald City to see the Wizard of Oz, who was at that time ruler of this famous fairy land. Afterward, when Dorothy came back to live in Oz, the Cowardly Lion had been her staunchest protector and friend. Indeed, these two have had so many adventures together that their experiences alone fill several volumes of Oz hoztry. So, to cheer the way through the gloomy forest, they began to talk of old times.

  Scraps, flouncing along beside them, listened politely enough for a while. Then, as the Cowardly Lion began to recall a visit they had once made in Fix City, she indignantly flung up her arms. “Oh, forget all that ancient history,” she cried rudely. “Let’s talk about the present and now and what’s happening to Ojo. I suppose by now that bear has devoured him.”

  “Bears do not eat little boys,” rumbled the Cowardly Lion, peering nervously to the left and right. “Besides-” Scraps, knowing that the lion was going to say that if she had not interfered they would have been with Ojo by this time, rushed ahead and disappeared between two enormous umbrella trees. Almost instantly she was back, her suspender button eyes twinkling with excitement

  “A path! A road, come on, come on! we’ll catch those gypBles up at dawn.”

  “There, there! Keep your hair on,” advised the Cowardly Lion, trotting sedately after the excited maiden.

  “Maybe it is the road they took,” breathed Dorothy, as the lion stood blinking at the road that started on the other side of the umbrella trees and cut clearly and whitely through the blue forest.

  “Mmm-m, yes,” agreed the lion thoughtfully. “What does that sign say, Scraps?”

  “ROLLING ROAD,” read the Patchwork Girl with a little bounce.

  “An odd enough name for a road.” The Cowardly Lion flattened his ears suspiciously.

  “I think it’s rather pretty,” observed Dorothy. “We had a Rolling Road back home. It means it’s a little hilly.”

  “Oh, if that’s all it means, here goes!” Gathering himself together for a spring, the Cowardly Lion quickly and gracefully launched himself forward, Scraps jumping gaily after him. And that is all they

  remembered for some time, for the road, curling up like a parchment, rolled rapidly and noisily through the forest, the three startled rescuers rattling around helplessly inside.

  CHAPTER 9

  Dorothy in Dicksy Land

  Too shaken and tossed about to know where they were heading, Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion and Scraps were carried swiftly along by the mischievous road. Finally, opening suddenly to its full length, it tilted them carelessly into a field of blue clover and went off by itself. Dorothy, feeling exactly like a little boy who has rolled down hill in a barrel, made a feeble attempt to rise. But this, she found, was perfectly impossible. She was rolled up tightly like a ball and try as she would could not straighten herself out again. She could hear Scraps and the Cowardly Lion scolding and grumbling beside her, and peering between her knees which were tightly pressed against her nose, she saw that her two companions were in the same uncomfortable predicament as herself.

  “Just like jelly rolls,” thought Dorothy, giving her knees a fretful push.

  “Keep rolling! Keep rolling! It’s the only thing to do,” advised a cheery voice from somewhere behind them, and though Dorothy could not see the person who offered this suggestion she decided to try it anyway. So, seizing her feet in a firm grasp, she began rolling over and over like a hoop, with Scraps and the Cowardly Lion, still complaining bitterly, rolling along after her. It was very dusty and fatiguing and Dorothy was about to stop and make another desperate attempt to unroll, when the ground unaccountably dropped from under her and she fell with a tremendous splash into some very rough and chilly water. It is hard to see clearly when you are doubled up and the three had been so busy rolling that they had rolled right off the road into the Munchkin River.

  “Ugh!” gurgled Dorothy angrily. Then, as she began to unroll and straighten like a paper doll does when wet, she gave a little gasp of relief and struck out sturdily for the other side. The Cowardly Lion and Scraps had come unwound, too, and the lion, after making sure Dorothy was all right, caught the Patchwork Girl in his teeth and swam swiftly across.

  “Poor Scraps, she’ll be soggy for hours,” thought

  Dorothy, as she reached the other side and scrambled up the sandy bank.

  “Well, how did you enjoy your breakfast?” inquired the Cowardly Lion, dropping Scraps on the grass and giving himself a disgusted shake. “A dozen rolls and a barrel of water.”

  “Don’t talk about rolls,” begged Dorothy, running over to the Patchwork Girl. “I thought we would have to roll on forever.”

  “Squeeze me out, for the love of pie, And hang me up somewhere to dry,,’

  coughed Scraps. “That rolling has made me feel perfectly p
retzelish and now I’m sloshing all over the place. Oh, dear, I sorter despise all water.”

  Wringing out the Patchwork Girl was quite an undertaking, but the Cowardly Lion lent a paw and they finally got all the water from her cotton-stuffed body and spread her on a low bush to dry.

  “I wonder who told us to roll on,” mused Dorothy, squeezing the water from her own skirts and sitting down gloomily on a handy tree stump.

  “Some interfering practical joker,” mumbled the Cowardly Lion, licking his fur vigorously. “No one

  in sight now, I suppose?”

  “No,” said Dorothy, shading her eyes as she looked across the river. “But anyway the water cured our curling.”

  “Yes, but where are we now?” sighed the lion glumly. “No sign of the blue forest and how are we to find Ojo when we are lost ourselves?”

  “I thought Dorothy said she knew all the cities and countries in Oz,” snuffled Scraps, raising a soggy head from the bush and looking reproachfully at the

  girl.

  “Oh, hold your tongue,” advised the lion severely. “If you had held it sooner, none of this would have occurred. Hello, what’s all this flapping overhead?”

  “A bird,” answered Dorothy, without much enthusiasm. “And it’s coming right this way, too.”

  “It had better not peck me,” muttered the Patchwork Girl darkly.

  m soak it in the silly bill; I’m soaking wet, but I soak things still! Especially when they swoop and chatter, whoo, bird! Shoo, bird, what’s the matter?”

  “What dreadful slang,” murmured Dorothy, as a large, ruffled blue bird circled over their heads and

  then settled down on a small sapling opposite.

  “Mmm-m.! Breakfast!” whispered the Cowardly

  Lion, crouching for a spring. “I never cared for feathers on my cereal, but here goes!”

  “No! No! Wait! It has a sign around its neck.” Jumping to her feet, Dorothy moved closer to the sapling.

  “I’m a Dicky Bird,” announced the card hanging from the bird’s scrawny neck. “Follow me,” directed a notice on the other side, as Dorothy walked cautiously around to the back.

  “Well, shall we?” The girl looked doubtfully at the Cowardly Lion, and the lion, after thumping his tail a few times on the ground and opening and shutting his eyes, got lazily to his feet.

  “Might as well,” he decided gruffly. “And if this Dicky Bird does not lead me to some breakfast, I’ll just make a breakfast of him. The way I feel now I could eat a stuffed owl and enjoy it. Lift Scraps on my back if she’s not dry enough to walk.” The bird, at the lion’s remarks, gave an indignant squawk and then, after looking intently at the Patchwork Girl, spread its gaudy wings and flew slowly toward the west. The lion followed at a leisurely pace, Dorothy walking beside him to keep Scraps from slipping off. The sun shone brightly. Dew glistened on the long blue grass, and the morning air was so fresh and invigorating that it was impossible not to feel a bit more cheerful. When the Dicky Bird, after flying through a small wood, alighted on the top of a huge blue brick wall, Dorothy gave a little skip of interest.

  “M-maybe there’ll be g-guards on the other side of that wall,” shivered the lion, as the Dicky Bird disappeared over the top. “Guards with long pikes and halberds!”

  “But why would they hurt us?” reasoned Dorothy calmly. “We are not enemies. Oh, look, some one is opening the gate.” And some one was, a small nervous some one in an enormous blue top hat and coat. The Cowardly Lion, seeing that the gate keeper was so small, took heart and sprang inside with an ear-splitting roar.

  “Oh, my head! Oh, my heart! A lion without a cage!” shuddered the little man, dropping his bunch of keys with a terrible clatter. “Oh, my ears! Oh, my eyes! Oh, my heels and my fingers!”

  “How about your toes?” inquired Scraps, pulling herself upright by clutching the lion’s mane, and looking at the gate keeper critically.

  “I was coming to that, I was coming to that,” mumbled the little fellow, and fumbling wildly in his pocket he brought out a small pair of specs and clapped them hurriedly on his nose. “There, there, that’s better,” he explained, peering up at the travelers again. “Does your dog bite, Miss?”

  “Dog?” exclaimed Dorothy, with a little laugh. “He’s a lion and you know it.”

  “Not now. Not now.” The gate keeper looked them over tranquilly. “Through these reducing glasses he looks a mere dog and you girls are almost too little to bother about. Some people wear magnifying glasses to make things look larger. I wear smallify-ing glasses to make them look smaller. mimize your troubles as it were, as it were.”

  “How about when you eat ice cream?” asked Dorothy in an interested voice.

  “Oh, I wear them then, too,” confided the gate keeper, clasping his hands behind his back. “Then there’s so much more ice cream than you think, it’s quite cheering.”

  “You’re a queer one,” sniffed the Patchwork Girl, rolling her suspender buttons, “almost as queer as your hat band. Now, I ask you, why wear a girl’s sash around the brim of your hat?”

  “Because I’m a Dick.” Solemnly the gate keeper pointed to a bright flag snapping and curling in the morning breeze.

  “DICKSY LAND,” spelled out Dorothy, after a little trouble, for the flag was flapping merrily on its pole. “Why, there’s a Dixie Land in the United States but it’s not spelled like this one.”

  “Then it’s not the same,” stated the little man primly. “Here we are all Dicks together. I am the Dick with the queer hat band. That’s my peculiarity. To what are you addicted?” he inquired, pointing a long finger at Dorothy. “What’s your peculiarity?”

  “Why, why-” Slightly confused, the little girl turned to the Cowardly Lion. “I don’t believe I have any, that is-” Poor Dorothy, she got no further in her explanation. Without warning or reason she again rolled up like a jelly roll, for the effect of the mischievous road had not entirely worn off.

  “Ah, I see,” said the Dick, swaying back and forth on his heels. “You curl. Well, that ought to let you in, all right:

  “There was a little girl and she had a little curl

  Right in the middle of our gateway;

  And when she is curled, she is very, very curled,

  But I think I prefer her the straight way!”

  “Be quiet!” ordered Scraps, bounding off the lion’s back and beginning to pull and tug at Dorothy’s feet. The lion took hold of her arms and between them they managed to get her straightened out again.

  “Why, even her hair curls,” mused the gate keeper, looking at Dorothy admiringly. “And that quilted creature can get in on her appearance alone.” His gaze strayed slowly to Scraps. “But what about the dog? What’s his peculiarity?”

  “Breakfast!” roared the lion, who was out of patience with so much conversation. “Breakfast and plenty of it Rare roast beef with a capital B. And be quick about it. Who keeps the Cowardly Lion of Oz waiting for his breakfast?”

  “Cowardly Lion!” gasped the little man, pushing back his hat. “That is a queer one. Roast beef for breakfast? That would get anyone in. Come along, you’ll make a splendid Dick. This way, please!” The little fellow motioned them into a small round house where a small round chef hastily set out an appetiz-mg breakfast for Dorothy, and after a frightened conference with the gate keeper produced three cold

  roasts for the Cowardly Lion. Scraps, not caring for food, amused herself in the garden, where the apples grew on raspberry bushes and the raspberries on the apple trees, where the roses were daisies and the daisies were roses and everything was mixed and topsy-turvy.

  But Scraps did not mind, for she was that way herself and besides there was a swing. So, swinging deliriously and almost as high as the little house, she soon dried off completely and was in such high spirits when Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion came out to look for her that she went cartwheeling to meet them. Dorothy, though much cheered by her breakfast, felt terribly uneasy about curling and scarcely heard w
hat the gate keeper said as he accompanied them down the garden path. As a matter of fact, the little Dick was wishing them good-day and after turning them over to a Dick with a queer collar, hurried back to his post at the gate.

  “I’ll just take you along to the Dictatorium,” explained the second Dick, who was short and fat and kept peering up at Dorothy over his collar like Humpty Dumpty looking over the wall.

  “Have you seen any gypsies around here?” asked Scraps, as their guide led them down a long, tree-lined lane. “Or of a lost boy named Ojo?”

  “There is nothing queer about gypsies, so they wouldn’t be here,” piped up the Dick promptly. “There is nothing queer about a boy who is lost. Boys are always losing themselves, so he wouldn’t be here either.” After delivering himself of this, the Dick subsided sulkily into his collar and paid no attention to the further remarks and conversation of the travelers. Dicksy Land was a pleasant enough little country. Some of the houses had windows where you’d expect to find doors and doors where you’d expect to find windows and often the chimneys stood out of the side instead of the top. But on the whole, it was quite interesting and pretty. There were no women, hence not much conversation. Dorothy decided that this was because men were queerer than women, but I am not so sure about this - The Dicks themselves were odd-looking enough. Some were queer about their shoes, some were queer about their diet. There was one who actually made a living with his pen and another who had once sold an idea to a millionaire. Some looked queer, some acted queer, but they were all gentle and harmless and too much interested in their own affairs to notice the visitors at all

  The Dictatorium, when they reached it, was really