by Grampa In Oz
“Which way are we going?” asked the old soldier, sitting down recklessly on a cake of ice. “East,” announced the weather cock, after twirling around three times like a top.
“That’s good,” sighed Grampa, “for East of us lies Oz and the nearer we come to Oz, the farther we get from Isa Poso.”
“I never want to see it again! And if that is a sample of your Princesses, I’ll be like you, Grampa, and never marry,” said the Prince, taking a seat beside the old soldier.
“I think, myself, that if we can find my father’s head, we’d better just go home anyway. We could work hard in the gingham gardens, raise bigger crops and-”
“And I’ll help you,” smiled Urtha, drifting about over the ice like an old- fashioned bouquet and filling the frosty air with a lovely fragrance.
“But the fortune,” objected Bill, staring at the Prince in horror. “We have to find the fortune.”
“That’s right,” agreed the old soldier, remembering Mrs. Sew-and-Sew’s words about refurnishing the castle. “We mustn’t give up yet, just because we’ve bumped into some odd and chilly places. Just wait-there are lots of Princesses in Oz, and fortunes too!”
“Well I prefer fairies,” sighed Tatters, with a smile at Urtha.
“Look!” cried the little flower girl delightedly. “Let’s pretend this is a’ silver ship and there-” as a spray of crystal drops dashed over the side of the iceberg-“there are the diamonds! Let’s dance!” She looked so coaxing and so cunning that Tatters sprang up impulsively and the two went skipping, sliding and twirling all over the ice until they were dancing on a perfect carpet of flowers.
“Teach her the Ragbad quadrille,” called Grampa. “If we’re going back with a fortune, there’ll be high old times in the red castle and Urtha will want to know the dances the same as the other girls. Wait, I’ll play it for you.
Seizing his drum sticks, the old soldier broke into the spirited measures of the Ragbad quadrille and soon Tatters and Urtha were bowing and gliding, turning three times to the left and four to the right, pretending to change partners with a dozen imaginary courtiers-all troubles and dangers forgotten.
“This reminds me of old times,” said Grampa, stopping at last from lack of breath.
“And you’ll never be a wall-flower, my dear!” chuckled the old soldier, wagging his finger at the little fairy.
“Let’s play scrum,” proposed Tatters, who was perfectly breathless too. “Oh let’s!” cried Urtha. So Grampa obligingly unfastened his game leg, and the Prince and little flower girl were soon deep in the mysteries of the queer old game of scrum, Bill keeping score on the ice and the old soldier, with half closed eyes, thinking of the good old days when he was a lad and a hero to all the pretty girls in Ragbad.
“First peaceful moment we’ve had since we left the old country,” mused Grampa and, reaching down, he picked up his pipe and tobacco. Tatters had removed them from the game leg before they started to play. Absently Grampa filled his pipe from one of the pouches-the blue pouch he had taken from Vaga, the bandit. All this time it had lain forgotten in Grampa’s game leg. Without realizing that he had used the robber’s tobacco, Grampa felt for a match. At the same moment Urtha and Tatters finished their fifth game of scrum and, closing up the game leg, they buckled it back in place.
“Now tell me all about Ragbad,” begged Urtha, leaning against Grampa’s knee.
This Tatters was only too delighted to do, for the young Pnnce was heartily homesick and, as he could not be in Ragbad, talking about it was the next best thing. So he told little Urtha all about his pigeons and the Redsmith and Pudge’s tower-where you could see clear out into Jinxland-and of the fun he and Grampa had in the old castle and of Mrs. Sew-and-Sew’s garden. The old soldier nodded from time to time and at last, taking up his pipe, he began to smoke. I say began, for at the third puff a simply astonishing thing happened. Bill vanished instanter [and you know how quick that is]. Tatters turned to a great black crow, Urtha to a crow of vari-colored feathers, and Grampa, himself, to an old crow with a game leg.
“Help!” cawed the old soldier, dropping the pipe from his bill and beginning to hop wildly over the ice.
“Daisies and dahlias, I can fly!” twittered Urtha, circling aloft. “Come on Tatters and try it!”
“He’s a crow!” shrieked Grampa. “I’m a crow, you’re a crow! What’s happened and where’s Bill?”
“Here I am,” screamed a frightened voice. But though they stared and stared they could see nothing at all-for Bill had turned to a cock’s crow, which of course can only be heard and not seen.
“Poor Bill, there’s nothing left but his crow,” cawed Grampa. “It’s magic,” gasped Tatters.
“It’s that pesky wizard,” added the old soldier, stamping his game foot and ruffling up all his feathers, for Grampa did not realize he’d smoked Vaga’s tobacco.
“But now that we’re crows why not fly?” asked Urtha merrily. She did not seem to mind her feathers at all. “Let’s fly back to Oz!”
“Why, so we can!” cried Tatters. “All the way over the Nonestic Ocean and sandy desert, straight to the Emerald City itself. Someone’s helping us, Grampa,” finished the Prince of Ragbad, fluttering into the air.
“Wish they’d mind their own business,” croaked Grampa crossly. “Being a crow is no help to me. But come on. We might as well fly while we can. Bill, you lead the way and see that you keep us pointed East and crow every few minutes, will you, so we can hear where you are.
“All right,” agreed the weather cock readily, and they could tell from the flutter of his iron wings that the puzzled bird had gotten under way.
“Here I go by the name of Bill!” he crowed loudly. “Invisi-Bill!” chortled the old soldier, rising into the air. “Come on crows!” Tatters quickly followed Grampa and after Tatters flew Urtha, higher and higher and higher, until the iceberg became only a tiny speck, bobbing up and down in the blue waters of the Nonestic Ocean.
For a time the adventurers flew in silence, each one pondering the strange events that had crowded upon them in the past few hours. “Invisi-Bill” continued to lead the way, Grampa, Prince Tatters and Urtha winging after him.
CHAPTER 14: On Monday Mountain
“GOOD SLEEP, how did you enjoy your morning?” asked Percy Vere brightly. “Pretty well,” smiled Dorothy, sitting up with a little yawn. “How did you enjoy your sleep?”
“There was a rock in my bed,” said the Forgetful Poet thoughtfully, “and then I got trying to think of a word to rhyme with schnetzel.”
“How about pretzel?” suggested Dorothy, smiling a little to herself at the Forgetful Poet’s earnestness. “And what is a schnetzel?” Dorothy smiled sweetly.
“It’s a green mocking bird,” explained Percy Vere, tossing back his hair, “and it does live on pretzels. My dear, you have a wonderful mind.”
“Woof!” interrupted Toto. He had been up for hours and wanted his breakfast. The three travellers had been forced to spend the night in the deep forest to which the runaway had brought them. The Forgetful Poet had piled up a soft couch of boughs and leaves for Dorothy and Toto, but had flung himself carelessly under a tree. However, it took more than a hard bed to dash Percy’s spirits and, after running up and down a few paces to get the stiffness out of his bones, he began to sing at the top of his voice, filling in the words he forgot with such comical made-up ones that Dorothy could not help laughing.
“I think we are going to have a lucky day, Mr. Vere,” said the little girl, hopping up merrily. “Don’t you?” Percy, who was washing his face in a nearby brook, nodded so vigorously that the water splashed in every direction.
“I should say!-April, May!” he called gaily. “Why do you put in April May?” asked Dorothy, running over to splash her own hands in the brook.
“To keep in practice,” puffed the Forgetful Poet. “Is that plain-aeroplane? Is that clear-summer’s here? I’m always afraid I shall run out of rhymes,” confided Percy, drying hi
s face on his yellow silk handkerchief. “So when I’m talking in prose, I usually add a line under my breath.”
“Oh!” said Dorothy, and lowered her head so that the Forgetful Poet would not see her smile. “You’ll like Scraps,” observed Dorothy presently. “She’s a poet too.” And as they walked through the fragrant forest, Dorothy told him all about the Patch Work Girl, who lives in the Emerald City. Scraps, as most of you know, is one of the most famous characters in Oz, being entirely made from a patch work quilt and magically brought to life.
“Does she make better verses than I do?” asked Percy jealously. “No,” answered Dorothy, shaking her head, “not any better, and yours are such fun to finish.” This speech so tickled Percy Vere that he recited a verse upon the spot, waving his arms so ferociously that Toto hid under a rock. The little dog peered out from his hiding place to hear the strange young poet deliver this jingle-which his little doggie head could not comprehend in the slightest:
“As I came out of Snoozleburg, I met a melon collie; He wept because he said he felt So terribly unjolly! “I patted him upon the head; He bit me on the shin-Which goes to show just what A horrid temper he was-was-”
“In,” giggled Dorothy, “and did he really?” “No, unreally,” chuckled the Forgetful Poet, leaning down to give Toto’s ear an afectionate little tweak. “Unreally! Unreally! Unreally! As unreally as the breakfast we had this morning. Dorothy, my dear, I’m as weak as tea!”
“Well, you don’t look it,” laughed the little girl mischievously. “But I see a hut between those two pines. Perhaps someone lives there.”
“Tut tut! A hut; Let’s hasten to it! If the door is shut I’ll jump right-?” “All right!” said Dorothy merrily. “C’mon!” The door was shut but when the Forgetful Poet turned the knob it opened easily and they found themselves in a small, simply furnished cabin.
There was no one home, but there were eggs, coffee, bacon and bread in the cupboard, so Percy made a fire in the little stove and Dorothy quickly prepared an appetizing breakfast.
“It must belong to a woodcutter,” said Dorothy as they sat down cozily together, “and I don’t believe he’ll mind.”
“I’ll leave a poem to pay for it,” said Percy loftily. “And I’ll leave my ring,” added Dorothy. She was a little afraid the woodcutter might not appreciate Percy’s poem.
While Dorothy washed up the dishes Percy scribbled away busily on some sheets of paper he had found on the table and, after a good many corrections, he pinned the following verse up on the wall:
“We’ve eaten up a little bacon And eggs and such and now are takin’ Our leave. Accept our thanks, and you Should feel a little honored to Have entertained with humble fare A really celebrated pair-A Princess and a Poet, who Wish you good-luck, good-day, a-” Dorothy took the pencil and added a large dieu to Percy’s last line. Then, leaving her gold ring on the table, she skipped after the Forgetful Poet and Toto, who were already out of doors and anxious to be off.
“Which way shall we go?” Dorothy paused a moment. “I think the Emerald City is in this direction,” she decided at last, facing toward the West.
“Well, I hope so,” sighed Percy Vere, “for otherwise we shall never find the Princess. I wish I’d flung that prophet out of the window-so I do!” You see the young poet was getting very much discouraged.
“But even if you had, there still would be the monster to think about,” Dorothy reminded him. “And if she’s lost from us, she’s lost from the monster, too!”
“That’s so,” said the Forgetful Poet, cheering up immediately. “You think of everything, don’t you. I’m going to write a book of verse about you when I get back to Perhaps City.”
“That’ll be nice,” smiled Dorothy. “But let’s hurry up and see how far we can be by noon-time.” And hurry up it certainly was, for the path Dorothy had chosen grew steeper and steeper. It wound in and out among the trees and was so rough and full of stones that they had to stop every once in a while to rest.
“It’s a mountain-go fountain!” panted Percy Vere, after they had toiled steadily upward for more than an hour.
“Never mind,” puffed Dorothy, tucking Toto under her arm-for the poor bow-bow was completely worn out-“when we reach the top we’ll know where we are.
The trees had thinned out by this time and clouds of vapor hid the top of the mountain from view, but Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet kept climbing upward on and on and up.
“It’s a dreadful blue mountain,” said Dorothy at last, leaning against a rock. “It’s blue as blueing,” groaned Percy Vere, shaking a stone out of his shoe. “What’s this?”
“What’s that?” cried Dorothy, in the same breath. Now this-as it happened-was a clothes horse, full of petticoats and pajamas-and as the two travellers stared at it in disbelief it kicked up its pegs and dashed off at a gallop, its petticoats and pajamas snapping in the breeze. And that was a wash woman-a wild, wild wash woman, her hair dragged up on top of her head and held in place by a couple of clothes pins. She had a clothes prop in one hand and a cake of soap in the other. Hurling both with all her might at Percy Vere, she turned and scrambled up the mountain, screaming in a dozen different keys as she scrambled. The clothes prop missed, but the great cake of soap caught Percy squarely in the stomach.
“Ugh!” grunted the Forgetful Poet, sitting down from the shock: “How rude, how rough, how awfully wasteful-The lady’s manners are dis dis-?” “Gusting,” panted Dorothy-who was too frightened to make a rhyme. “Can you fight?” she asked breathlessly, helping Percy to his feet. “I think there’s going to be a fight. Look!” Percy snatched up the cake of soap that had felled him and turned to see what was coming. Through the clouds of steam that hung over the mountain top there suddenly burst a terrible company.
Toto hid his head in Dorothy’s blouse and the Forgetful Poet could think of no verse to express his feelings. No wonder! A charge of wild wash women is enough to frighten the bravest traveller and that is exactly what was coming. An army of wash women armed with long bars of soap, bottles of blueing, clothes props, wash boards, tubs and baskets. They were huge and fat, with rolled-up sleeves and cross, red faces, and the faster they ran the crosser they grew, and the crosser they grew the faster they ran.
“Doesn’t seem polite to fight the ladies, but-Percy raised his arm and flung the cake with all his might at the head of the advancing army. It struck her smartly on the nose and, with a howl of rage, she dropped her wash tub and rushed upon the two helpless adventurers.
“Wash their faces! Iron their hands and wring their necks!” she roared hoarsely. “What are you doing here you-you-scutter-mullions!”
Before either could answer, and Percy was racking his brains to think of a word to rhyme with scutter-mullions, she had Dorothy by one arm and the Forgetful Poet by the other, shaking them until they couldn’t have spoken had they tried-while the others pressed so close (as Dorothy told Ozma afterwards) it’s a wonder they weren’t smothered on the spot. But at last, weary of shaking them, the wild wash woman flung them down upon a rock.
“You’re a disgrace to our mountain!” she panted angrily. “Look at your clothes!” (To be quite truthful Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet were looking shabby and dusty in the extreme.)
“Give me his coat! Give me her dress! Snatch off their socks!” screamed the other wash women, making little snatches at the two on the rock.
Percy put his arms protectingly around Dorothy and Toto showed all his teeth and began to growl so terribly that even the head of the wash women stepped back.
“What are you doing on Monday Mountain?” she demanded indignantly. “Monday Mountain?” gasped Percy Vere. “Did you hear that, Dorothy? We’re on Monday Mountain! Great blueing, black and blueing!” finished Percy, with a groan.
“Stop mumbling and speak up!” shouted the wash woman threateningly. “Stop shouting and shut up!” barked Toto unexpectedly.
“We’re searching for a Princess,” explained Dorothy, in the su
rprised silence that followed Toto’s remark.
“A Princess! Oh, mother!” Out from the dreadful group sprang a perfectly enormous wash girl.
“Tell them, tell them!” She gave the leader of the tribe a playful push.
“Oh, mother, may I have him?”
“My daughter is a Princess,” announced the wash woman grandly, “Princess of the Tubbies, and as this yellow bird pleases her he may remain.”
“And marry me?’ exulted the Princess of Monday Mountain, clasping her fat hands in glee. “Marry you!” shouted Percy Vere, springing to his feet. “Never! Absolutely no-domi-no! Dorothy, Dorothy, do you hear what they are saying?” Dorothy did not, for she had both hands over her ears. The shouts and screams of the Tubbies, at Percy’s refusal to marry their Princess, were so shrill and piercing that she thought her head would split with the racket.
“To the wash tubs with them!” screamed the Queen furiously. “Wash their faces, wring their necks, hang them up to dry!” And, seizing upon the luckless pair, the wild wash women bore them struggling and kicking to the top of Monday Mountain-Toto dashing after-and the herds of clothes horses that graze on the mountain side scattering in every direction as they passed.
