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Ojo was now able to see a small house near the pathway. It was dark and silent, but the boy was tired and wanted to rest, so he went up to the door and knocked.

“Who is there?” cried a voice from within.

“I am Ojo the Unlucky, and with me are Miss Scraps Patchwork and the Glass Cat,” he replied.

“What do you want?” asked the Voice.

“A place to sleep,” said Ojo.

“Come in, then; but don’t make any noise, and you must go directly to bed,” returned the Voice.

Ojo unlatched the door and entered. It was very dark inside and he could see nothing at all. But the cat exclaimed: “Why, there’s no one here!”

“There must be,” said the boy. “Some one spoke to me.”

“I can see everything in the room,” replied the cat, “and no one is present but ourselves. But here are three beds, all made up, so we may as well go to sleep.”

“What is sleep?” inquired the Patchwork Girl.

“It’s what you do when you go to bed,” said Ojo.

“But why do you go to bed?” persisted the Patchwork Girl.

“Here, here! You are making altogether too much noise,” cried the Voice they had heard before. “Keep quiet, strangers, and go to bed.”

The cat, which could see in the dark, looked sharply around for the owner of the Voice, but could discover no one, although the Voice had seemed close beside them. She arched her back a little and seemed afraid. Then she whispered to Ojo: “Come!” and led him to a bed.

With his hands the boy felt of the bed and found it was big and soft, with feather pillows and plenty of blankets. So he took off his shoes and hat and crept into the bed. Then the cat led Scraps to another bed and the Patchwork Girl was puzzled to know what to do with it.

“Lie down and keep quiet,” whispered the cat, warningly.

“Can’t I sing?” asked Scraps.

“No.”

“Can’t I whistle?” asked Scraps.

“No.”

“Can’t I dance till morning, if I want to?” asked Scraps.

“You must keep quiet,” said the cat, in a soft voice.

“I don’t want to,” replied the Patchwork Girl, speaking as loudly as usual. “What right have you to order me around? If I want to talk, or yell, or whistle–“

Before she could say anything more an unseen hand seized her firmly and threw her out of the door, which closed behind her with a sharp slam. She found herself bumping and rolling in the road and when she got up and tried to open the door of the house again she found it locked.

“What has happened to Scraps?” asked Ojo.

“Never mind. Let’s go to sleep, or something will happen to us,” answered the Glass Cat.

So Ojo snuggled down in his bed and fell asleep, and he was so tired that he never wakened until broad daylight.

Chapter Seven

The Troublesome Phonograph

When the boy opened his eyes next morning he looked carefully around the room. These small Munchkin houses seldom had more than one room in them. That in which Ojo now found himself had three beds, set all in a row on one side of it. The Glass Cat lay asleep on one bed, Ojo was in the second, and the third was neatly made up and smoothed for the day. On the other side of the room was a round table on which breakfast was already placed, smoking hot. Only one chair was drawn up to the table, where a place was set for one person. No one seemed to be in the room except the boy and Bungle.

Ojo got up and put on his shoes. Finding a toilet stand at the head of his bed he washed his face and hands and brushed his hair. Then he went to the table and said:

“I wonder if this is my breakfast?”

“Eat it!” commanded a Voice at his side, so near that Ojo jumped. But no person could he see.

He was hungry, and the breakfast looked good; so he sat down and ate all he wanted. Then, rising, he took his hat and wakened the Glass Cat.

“Come on, Bungle,” said he; “we must go.”

He cast another glance about the room and, speaking to the air, he said: “Whoever lives here has been kind to me, and I’m much obliged.”

There was no answer, so he took his basket and went out the door, the cat following him. In the middle of the path sat the Patchwork Girl, playing with pebbles she had picked up.

“Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “I thought you were never coming out. It has been daylight a long time.”

“What did you do all night?” asked the boy.

“Sat here and watched the stars and the moon,” she replied. “They’re interesting. I never saw them before, you know.”

“Of course not,” said Ojo.

“You were crazy to act so badly and get thrown outdoors,” remarked Bungle, as they renewed their journey.

“That’s all right,” said Scraps. “If I hadn’t been thrown out I wouldn’t have seen the stars, nor the big gray wolf.”

“What wolf?” inquired Ojo.

“The one that came to the door of the house three times during the night.”

“I don’t see why that should be,” said the boy, thoughtfully; “there was plenty to eat in that house, for I had a fine breakfast, and I slept in a nice bed.”

“Don’t you feel tired?” asked the Patchwork Girl, noticing that the boy yawned.

“Why, yes; I’m as tired as I was last night; and yet I slept very well.”

“And aren’t you hungry?”

“It’s strange,” replied Ojo. “I had a good breakfast, and yet I think I’ll now eat some of my crackers and cheese.”

Scraps danced up and down the path. Then she sang:

“Kizzle-kazzle-kore;
The wolf is at the door,
There’s nothing to eat but a bone without meat, And a bill from the grocery store.”

“What does that mean?” asked Ojo.

“Don’t ask me,” replied Scraps. “I say what comes into my head, but of course I know nothing of a grocery store or bones without meat or– very much else.”

“No,” said the cat; “she’s stark, staring, raving crazy, and her brains can’t be pink, for they don’t work properly.”

“Bother the brains!” cried Scraps. “Who cares for ’em, anyhow? Have you noticed how beautiful my patches are in this sunlight?”

Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps pattering along the path behind them and all three turned to see what was coming. To their
astonishment they beheld a small round table running as fast as its four spindle legs could carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a phonograph with a big gold horn.

“Hold on!” shouted the phonograph. “Wait for me!”

“Goodness me; it’s that music thing which the Crooked Magician scattered the Powder of Life over,” said Ojo.

“So it is,” returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of voice; and then, as the phonograph overtook them, the Glass Cat added sternly: “What are you doing here, anyhow?”

“I’ve run away,” said the music thing. “After you left, old Dr. Pipt and I had a dreadful quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces if I didn’t keep quiet. Of course I wouldn’t do that, because a talking-machine is supposed to talk and make a noise–and sometimes music. So I slipped out of the house while the Magician was stirring his four kettles and I’ve been running after you all night. Now that I’ve found such pleasant company, I can talk and play tunes all I want to.”

Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their party. At first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought decided him not to make friends.

“We are traveling on important business,” he declared, “and you’ll excuse me if I say we can’t be bothered.”

“How very impolite!” exclaimed the phonograph.

“I’m sorry; but it’s true,” said the boy. “You’ll have to go somewhere else.”

“This is very unkind treatment, I must say,” whined the phonograph, in an injured tone. “Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended to amuse people.”

“It isn’t you we hate, especially,” observed the Glass Cat; “it’s your dreadful music. When I lived in the same room with you I was much annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and grumbles and clicks and scratches so it spoils the music, and your machinery rumbles so that the racket drowns every tune you attempt.”

“That isn’t my fault; it’s the fault of my records. I must admit that I haven’t a clear record,” answered the machine.

“Just the same, you’ll have to go away,” said Ojo.

“Wait a minute,” cried Scraps. “This music thing interests me. I remember to have heard music when I first came to life, and I would like to hear it again. What is your name, my poor abused phonograph?”

“Victor Columbia Edison,” it answered.

“Well, I shall call you ‘Vic’ for short,” said the Patchwork Girl. “Go ahead and play something.”

“It’ll drive you crazy,” warned the cat.

“I’m crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel out the music, Vic.”

“The only record I have with me,” explained the phonograph, “is one the Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It’s a highly classical composition.”

“A what?” inquired Scraps.

“It is classical music, and is considered the best and most puzzling ever manufactured. You’re supposed to like it, whether you do or not, and if you don’t, the proper thing is to look as if you did. Understand?”

“Not in the least,” said Scraps.

“Then, listen!”

At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and Scraps began to laugh.

“Cut it out, Vic,” she said. “That’s enough.”

But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo seized the crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However, the moment the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine again and began winding it up. And still the music played.

“Let’s run!” cried Scraps, and they all started and ran down the path as fast as they could go. But the phonograph was right behind them and could run and play at the same time. It called out, reproachfully:

“What’s the matter? Don’t you love classical music?”

“No, Vic,” said Scraps, halting. “We will passical the classical and preserve what joy we have left. I haven’t any nerves, thank goodness, but your music makes my cotton shrink.”

“Then turn over my record. There’s a rag-time tune on the other side,” said the machine.

“What’s rag-time?”

“The opposite of classical.”

“All right,” said Scraps, and turned over the record.

The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble of sounds which proved so bewildering that after a moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron into the gold horn and cried: “Stop–stop! That’s the other extreme. It’s extremely bad!”

Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on.

“If you don’t shut off that music I’ll smash your record,” threatened Ojo.

The music stopped, at that, and the machine turned its horn from one to another and said with great indignation: “What’s the matter now? Is it possible you can’t appreciate rag- time?”

“Scraps ought to, being rags herself,” said the cat; “but I simply can’t stand it; it makes my whiskers curl.”

“It is, indeed, dreadful!” exclaimed Ojo, with a shudder.

“It’s enough to drive a crazy lady mad,” murmured the Patchwork Girl. “I’ll tell you what, Vic,” she added as she smoothed out her apron and put it on again, “for some reason or other you’ve missed your guess. You’re not a concert; you’re a nuisance.”

“Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” asserted the phonograph sadly.

“Then we’re not savages. I advise you to go home and beg the Magician’s pardon.”

“Never! He’d smash me.”

“That’s what we shall do, if you stay here,” Ojo declared.

“Run along, Vic, and bother some one else,” advised Scraps. “Find some one who is real wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In that way you can do some good in the world.”

The music thing turned silently away and trotted down a side path, toward a distant Munchkin village.

“Is that the way we go?” asked Bungle anxiously.

“No,” said Ojo; “I think we shall keep straight ahead, for this path is the widest and best. When we come to some house we will inquire the way to the Emerald City.”

Chapter Eight

The Foolish Owl and the Wise Donkey

On they went, and half an hour’s steady walking brought them to a house somewhat better than the two they had already passed. It stood close to the roadside and over the door was a sign that read: “Miss Foolish Owl and Mr. Wise Donkey: Public Advisers.”

When Ojo read this sign aloud Scraps said laughingly: “Well, here is a place to get all the advice we want, maybe more than we need. Let’s go in.”

The boy knocked at the door.

“Come in!” called a deep bass voice.

So they opened the door and entered the house, where a little light-brown donkey, dressed in a blue apron and a blue cap, was engaged in dusting the furniture with a blue cloth. On a shelf over the window sat a great blue owl with a blue sunbonnet on her head, blinking her big round eyes at the visitors.

“Good morning,” said the donkey, in his deep voice, which seemed bigger than he was. “Did you come to us for advice?”

“Why, we came, anyhow,” replied Scraps, “and now we are here we may as well have some advice. It’s free, isn’t it?”

“Certainly,” said the donkey. “Advice doesn’t cost anything–unless you follow it. Permit me to say, by the way, that you are the queerest lot of travelers that ever came to my shop. Judging you merely by appearances, I think you’d better talk to the Foolish Owl yonder.”

They turned to look at the bird, which fluttered its wings and stared back at them with its big eyes.

“Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot!” cried the owl.

“Fiddle-cum-foo,
Howdy-do?
Riddle-cum, tiddle-cum,
Too-ra-la-loo!”

“That beats your poetry, Scraps,” said Ojo.

“It’s just nonsense!” declared the Glass Cat.

“But it’s good advice for the foolish,” said the donkey, admiringly. “Listen to my partner, and you can’t go wrong.”

Said the owl in a grumbling voice:

“Patchwork Girl has come to life;
No one’s sweetheart, no one’s wife; Lacking sense and loving fun,
She’ll be snubbed by everyone.”

“Quite a compliment! Quite a compliment, I declare,” exclaimed the donkey, turning to look at Scraps. “You are certainly a wonder, my dear, and I fancy you’d make a splendid pincushion. If you belonged to me, I’d wear smoked glasses when I looked at you.”

“Why?” asked the Patchwork Girl.

“Because you are so gay and gaudy.”

“It is my beauty that dazzles you,” she asserted. “You Munchkin people all strut around in your stupid blue color, while I–“

“You are wrong in calling me a Munchkin,” interrupted the donkey, “for I was born in the Land of Mo and came to visit the Land of Oz on the day it was shut off from all the rest of the world. So here I am obliged to stay, and I confess it is a very pleasant country to live in.”

“Hoot-ti-toot!” cried the owl;

“Ojo’s searching for a charm,
‘Cause Unc Nunkie’s come to harm. Charms are scarce; they’re hard to get; Ojo’s got a job, you bet!”

“Is the owl so very foolish?” asked the boy.

“Extremely so,” replied the donkey. “Notice what vulgar expressions she uses. But I admire the owl for the reason that she is positively foolish. Owls are supposed to be so very wise, generally, that a foolish one is unusual, and you perhaps know that anything or anyone unusual is sure to be interesting to the wise.”

The owl flapped its wings again, muttering these words:

“It’s hard to be a glassy cat–
No cat can be more hard than that; She’s so transparent, every act
Is clear to us, and that’s a fact.”

“Have you noticed my pink brains?” inquired Bungle, proudly. “You can see ’em work.”

“Not in the daytime,” said the donkey. “She can’t see very well by day, poor thing. But her advice is excellent. I advise you all to follow it.”

“The owl hasn’t given us any advice, as yet,” the boy declared.

“No? Then what do you call all those sweet poems?”

“Just foolishness,” replied Ojo. “Scraps does the same thing.”

“Foolishness! Of course! To be sure! The Foolish Owl must be foolish or she wouldn’t be the Foolish Owl. You are very complimentary to my partner, indeed,” asserted the donkey, rubbing his front hoofs together as if highly pleased.

“The sign says that you are wise,” remarked Scraps to the donkey. “I wish you would prove it.”

“With great pleasure,” returned the beast. “Put me to the test, my dear Patches, and I’ll prove my wisdom in the wink of an eye.”

“What is the best way to get to the Emerald City?” asked Ojo.

“Walk,” said the donkey.

“I know; but what road shall I take?” was the boy’s next question.

“The road of yellow bricks, of course. It leads directly to the Emerald City.”

“And how shall we find the road of yellow bricks?”

“By keeping along the path you have been following. You’ll come to the yellow bricks pretty soon, and you’ll know them when you see them because they’re the only yellow things in the blue country.”

“Thank you,” said the boy. “At last you have told me something.”

“Is that the extent of your wisdom?” asked Scraps.

“No,” replied the donkey; “I know many other things, but they wouldn’t interest you. So I’ll give you a last word of advice: move on, for the sooner you do that the sooner you’ll get to the Emerald City of Oz.”

“Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot-ti-too!” screeched the owl;

“Off you go! fast or slow,
Where you’re going you don’t know. Patches, Bungle, Muchkin lad,
Facing fortunes good and bad,
Meeting dangers grave and sad,
Sometimes worried, sometimes glad– Where you’re going you don’t know,
Nor do I, but off you go!”

“Sounds like a hint, to me,” said the Patchwork Girl.

“Then let’s take it and go,” replied Ojo.

They said good-bye to the Wise Donkey and the Foolish Owl and at once resumed their journey.

Chapter Nine

They Meet the Woozy

“There seem to be very few houses around here, after all,” remarked Ojo, after they had walked for a time in silence.

“Never mind,” said Scraps; “we are not looking for houses, but rather the road of yellow bricks. Won’t it be funny to run across something yellow in this dismal blue country?”

“There are worse colors than yellow in this country,” asserted the Glass Cat, in a spiteful tone.

“Oh; do you mean the pink pebbles you call your brains, and your red heart and green eyes?” asked the Patchwork Girl.

“No; I mean you, if you must know it,” growled the cat.

“You’re jealous!” laughed Scraps. “You’d give your whiskers for a lovely variegated complexion like mine.”

“I wouldn’t!” retorted the cat. “I’ve the clearest complexion in the world, and I don’t employ a beauty-doctor, either.”

“I see you don’t,” said Scraps.

“Please don’t quarrel,” begged Ojo. “This is an important journey, and quarreling makes me discouraged. To be brave, one must be cheerful, so I hope you will be as good-tempered as possible.”

They had traveled some distance when suddenly they faced a high fence which barred any further progress straight ahead. It ran directly across the road and enclosed a small forest of tall trees, set close together. When the group of adventurers peered through the bars of the fence they thought this forest looked more gloomy and forbidding than any they had ever seen before.

They soon discovered that the path they had been following now made a bend and passed around the enclosure, but what made Ojo stop and look thoughtful was a sign painted on the fence which read:

“BEWARE OF THE WOOZY!”

“That means,” he said, “that there’s a Woozy inside that fence, and the Woozy must be a dangerous animal or they wouldn’t tell people to beware of it.”

“Let’s keep out, then,” replied Scraps. “That path is outside the fence, and Mr. Woozy may have all his little forest to himself, for all we care.”

“But one of our errands is to find a Woozy,” Ojo explained. “The Magician wants me to get three hairs from the end of a Woozy’s tail.”

“Let’s go on and find some other Woozy,” suggested the cat. “This one is ugly and dangerous, or they wouldn’t cage him up. Maybe we shall find another that is tame and gentle.”

“Perhaps there isn’t any other, at all,” answered Ojo. “The sign doesn’t say: ‘Beware a Woozy’; it says: ‘Beware the Woozy,’ which may mean there’s only one in all the Land of Oz.”

“Then,” said Scraps, “suppose we go in and find him? Very likely if we ask him politely to let us pull three hairs out of the tip of his tail he won’t hurt us.”

“It would hurt him, I’m sure, and that would make him cross,” said the cat.

“You needn’t worry, Bungle,” remarked the Patchwork Girl; “for if there is danger you can climb a tree. Ojo and I are not afraid; are we, Ojo?”

“I am, a little,” the boy admitted; “but this danger must be faced, if we intend to save poor Unc Nunkie. How shall we get over the fence?”

“Climb,” answered Scraps, and at once she began climbing up the rows of bars. Ojo followed and found it more easy than he had expected. When they got to the top of the fence they began to get down on the other side and soon were in the forest. The Glass Cat, being small, crept between the lower bars and joined them.

Here there was no path of any sort, so they entered the woods, the boy leading the way, and wandered through the trees until they were nearly in the center of the forest. They now came upon a clear space in which stood a rocky cave.

So far they had met no living creature, but when Ojo saw the cave he knew it must be the den of the Woozy.

It is hard to face any savage beast without a sinking of the heart, but still more terrifying is it to face an unknown beast, which you have never seen even a picture of. So there is little wonder that the pulses of the Munchkin boy beat fast as he and his companions stood facing the cave. The opening was perfectly square, and about big enough to admit a goat.

“I guess the Woozy is asleep,” said Scraps. “Shall I throw in a stone, to waken him?”

“No; please don’t,” answered Ojo, his voice trembling a little. “I’m in no hurry.”

But he had not long to wait, for the Woozy heard the sound of voices and came trotting out of his cave. As this is the only Woozy that has ever lived, either in the Land of Oz or out of it, I must describe it to you.

The creature was all squares and flat surfaces and edges. Its head was an exact square, like one of the building-blocks a child plays with; therefore it had no ears, but heard sounds through two openings in the upper corners. Its nose, being in the center of a square surface, was flat, while the mouth was formed by the opening of the lower edge of the block. The body of the Woozy was much larger than its head, but was likewise block-shaped–being twice as long as it was wide and high. The tail was square and stubby and perfectly straight, and the four legs were made in the same way, each being four-sided. The animal was covered with a thick, smooth skin and had no hair at all except at the extreme end of its tail, where there grew exactly three stiff, stubby hairs. The beast was dark blue in color and his face was not fierce nor ferocious in expression, but rather good-humored and droll.

Seeing the strangers, the Woozy folded his hind legs as if they had been hinged and sat down to look his visitors over.

“Well, well,” he exclaimed; “what a queer lot you are! At first I thought some of those miserable Munchkin farmers had come to annoy me, but I am relieved to find you in their stead. It is plain to me that you are a remarkable group–as remarkable in your way as I am in mine–and so you are welcome to my domain. Nice place, isn’t it? But lonesome–dreadfully lonesome.”

“Why did they shut you up here?” asked Scraps, who was regarding the queer, square creature with much curiosity.

“Because I eat up all the honey-bees which the Munchkin farmers who live around here keep to make them honey.”

“Are you fond of eating honey-bees?” inquired the boy.

“Very. They are really delicious. But the farmers did not like to lose their bees and so they tried to destroy me. Of course they couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“My skin is so thick and tough that nothing can get through it to hurt me. So, finding they could not destroy me, they drove me into this forest and built a fence around me. Unkind, wasn’t it?”

“But what do you eat now?” asked Ojo.

“Nothing at all. I’ve tried the leaves from the trees and the mosses and creeping vines, but they don’t seem to suit my taste. So, there being no honey-bees here, I’ve eaten nothing for years.

“You must be awfully hungry,” said the boy. “I’ve got some bread and cheese in my basket. Would you like that kind of food?”

“Give me a nibble and I will try it; then I can tell you better whether it is grateful to my appetite,” returned the Woozy.

So the boy opened his basket and broke a piece off the loaf of bread. He tossed it toward the Woozy, who cleverly caught it in his mouth and ate it in a twinkling.

“That’s rather good,” declared the animal. “Any more?”

“Try some cheese,” said Ojo, and threw down a piece.

The Woozy ate that, too, and smacked its long, thin lips.

“That’s mighty good!” it exclaimed. “Any more?”

“Plenty,” replied Ojo. So he sat down on a Stump and fed the Woozy bread and cheese for a long time; for, no matter how much the boy broke off, the loaf and the slice remained just as big.

“That’ll do,” said the Woozy, at last; “I’m quite full. I hope the strange food won’t give me indigestion.”

“I hope not,” said Ojo. “It’s what I eat.”

“Well, I must say I’m much obliged, and I’m glad you came,” announced the beast. “Is there anything I can do in return for your kindness?”

“Yes,” said Ojo earnestly, “you have it in your power to do me a great favor, if you will.”

“What is it?” asked the Woozy. “Name the favor and I will grant it.”

“I–I want three hairs from the tip of your tail,” said Ojo, with some hesitation.

“Three hairs! Why, that’s all I have–on my tail or anywhere else,” exclaimed the beast.

“I know; but I want them very much.”

“They are my sole ornaments, my prettiest feature,” said the Woozy, uneasily. “If I give up those three hairs I–I’m just a blockhead.”

“Yet I must have them,” insisted the boy, firmly, and he then told the Woozy all about the accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte, and how the three hairs were to be a part of the magic charm that would restore them to life. The beast listened with attention and when Ojo had finished the recital it said, with a sigh:

“I always keep my word, for I pride myself on being square. So you may have the three hairs, and welcome. I think, under such circumstances, it would be selfish in me to refuse you.”

“Thank you! Thank you very much,” cried the boy, joyfully. “May I pull out the hairs now?”

“Any time you like,” answered the Woozy.

So Ojo went up to the queer creature and taking hold of one of the hairs began to pull. He pulled harder. He pulled with all his might; but the hair remained fast.

“What’s the trouble?” asked the Woozy, which Ojo had dragged here and there all around the clearing in his endeavor to pull out the hair.

“It won’t come,” said the boy, panting.

“I was afraid of that,” declared the beast. “You’ll have to pull harder.”

“I’ll help you,” exclaimed Scraps, coming to the boy’s side. “You pull the hair, and I’ll pull you, and together we ought to get it out easily.”

“Wait a jiffy,” called the Woozy, and then it went to a tree and hugged it with its front paws, so that its body couldn’t be dragged around by the pull. “All ready, now. Go ahead!”

Ojo grasped the hair with both hands and pulled with all his strength, while Scraps seized the boy around his waist and added her strength to his. But the hair wouldn’t budge. Instead, it slipped out of Ojo’s hands and he and Scraps both rolled upon the ground in a heap and never stopped until they bumped against the rocky cave.

“Give it up,” advised the Glass Cat, as the boy arose and assisted the Patchwork Girl to her feet. “A dozen strong men couldn’t pull out those hairs. I believe they’re clinched on the under side of the Woozy’s thick skin.”

“Then what shall I do?” asked the boy, despairingly. “If on our return I fail to take these three hairs to the Crooked Magician, the other things I have come to seek will be of no use at all, and we cannot restore Unc Nunkie and Margolotte to life.”

“They’re goners, I guess,” said the Patchwork Girl.

“Never mind,” added the cat. “I can’t see that old Unc and Margolotte are worth all this trouble, anyhow.”

But Ojo did not feel that way. He was so disheartened that he sat down upon a stump and began to cry.

The Woozy looked at the boy thoughtfully.

“Why don’t you take me with you?” asked the beast. “Then, when at last you get to the Magician’s house, he can surely find some way to pull out those three hairs.”

Ojo was overjoyed at this suggestion.

“That’s it!” he cried, wiping away the tears and springing to his feet with a smile. “If I take the three hairs to the Magician, it won’t matter if they are still in your body.”

“It can’t matter in the least,” agreed the Woozy.

“Come on, then,” said the boy, picking up his basket; “let us start at once. I have several other things to find, you know.”

But the Glass Cat gave a little laugh and inquired in her scornful way:

“How do you intend to get the beast out of this forest?”

That puzzled them all for a time.

“Let us go to the fence, and then we may find a way,” suggested Scraps. So they walked through the forest to the fence, reaching it at a point exactly opposite that where they had entered the enclosure.

“How did you get in?” asked the Woozy.

“We climbed over,” answered Ojo.

“I can’t do that,” said the beast. “I’m a very swift runner, for I can overtake a honey-bee as it flies; and I can jump very high, which is the reason they made such a tall fence to keep me in. But I can’t climb at all, and I’m too big to squeeze between the bars of the fence.”

Ojo tried to think what to do.

“Can you dig?” he asked.

“No,” answered the Woozy, “for I have no claws. My feet are quite flat on the bottom of them. Nor can I gnaw away the boards, as I have no teeth.”

“You’re not such a terrible creature, after all,” remarked Scraps.

“You haven’t heard me growl, or you wouldn’t say that,” declared the Woozy. “When I growl, the sound echoes like thunder all through the valleys and woodlands, and children tremble with fear, and women cover their heads with their aprons, and big men run and hide. I suppose there is nothing in the world so terrible to listen to as the growl of a Woozy.”

“Please don’t growl, then,” begged Ojo, earnestly.

“There is no danger of my growling, for I am not angry. Only when angry do I utter my fearful, ear-splitting, soul-shuddering growl. Also, when I am angry, my eyes flash fire, whether I growl or not.”

“Real fire?” asked Ojo.

“Of course, real fire. Do you suppose they’d flash imitation fire?” inquired the Woozy, in an injured tone.

“In that case, I’ve solved the riddle,” cried Scraps, dancing with glee. “Those fence-boards are made of wood, and if the Woozy stands close to the fence and lets his eyes flash fire, they might set fire to the fence and burn it up. Then he could walk away with us easily, being free.”

“Ah, I have never thought of that plan, or I would have been free long ago,” said the Woozy. “But I cannot flash fire from my eyes unless I am very angry.”

“Can’t you get angry ’bout something, please?” asked Ojo.

“I’ll try. You just say ‘Krizzle-Kroo’ to me.”

“Will that make you angry?” inquired the boy.

“Terribly angry.”

“What does it mean?” asked Scraps.

“I don’t know; that’s what makes me so angry,” replied the Woozy.

He then stood close to the fence, with his head near one of the boards, and Scraps called out “Krizzle-Kroo!” Then Ojo said “Krizzle-Kroo!” and the Glass Cat said “Krizzle-Kroo!” The Woozy began to tremble with anger and small sparks darted from his eyes. Seeing this, they all cried “Krizzle-Kroo!” together, and that made the beast’s eyes flash fire so fiercely that the fence-board caught the sparks and began to smoke. Then it burst into flame, and the Woozy stepped back and said triumphantly:

“Aha! That did the business, all right. It was a happy thought for you to yell all together, for that made me as angry as I have ever been. Fine sparks, weren’t they?”

“Reg’lar fireworks,” replied Scraps, admiringly.

In a few moments the board had burned to a distance of several feet, leaving an opening big enough for them all to pass through. Ojo broke some branches from a tree and with them
whipped the fire until it was extinguished.

“We don’t want to burn the whole fence down,” said he, “for the flames would attract the attention of the Munchkin farmers, who would then come and capture the Woozy again. I guess they’ll be rather surprised when they find he’s escaped.”

“So they will,” declared the Woozy, chuckling gleefully. “When they find I’m gone the farmers will be badly scared, for they’ll expect me to eat up their honey-bees, as I did before.”

“That reminds me,” said the boy, “that you must promise not to eat honey-bees while you are in our company.”

“None at all?”

“Not a bee. You would get us all into trouble, and we can’t afford to have any more trouble than is necessary. I’ll feed you all the bread and cheese you want, and that must satisfy you.”

“All right; I’ll promise,” said the Woozy, cheerfully. “And when I promise anything you can depend on it, ’cause I’m square.”

“I don’t see what difference that makes,” observed the Patchwork Girl, as they found the path and continued their journey. “The shape doesn’t make a thing honest, does it?”

“Of course it does,” returned the Woozy, very decidedly. “No one could trust that Crooked Magician, for instance, just because he is crooked; but a square Woozy couldn’t do anything crooked if he wanted to.”

“I am neither square nor crooked,” said Scraps, looking down at her plump body.

“No; you’re round, so you’re liable to do anything,” asserted the Woozy. “Do not blame me, Miss Gorgeous, if I regard you with suspicion. Many a satin ribbon has a cotton back.”

Scraps didn’t understand this, but she had an uneasy misgiving that she had a cotton back herself. It would settle down, at times, and make her squat and dumpy, and then she had to roll herself in the road until her body stretched out again.

Chapter Ten

Shaggy Man to the Rescue

They had not gone very far before Bungle, who had run on ahead, came bounding back to say that the road of yellow bricks was just before them. At once they hurried forward to see what this famous road looked like.

It was a broad road, but not straight, for it wandered over hill and dale and picked out the easiest places to go. All its length and breadth was paved with smooth bricks of a bright yellow color, so it was smooth and level except in a few places where the bricks had crumbled or been removed, leaving holes that might cause the unwary to stumble.

“I wonder,” said Ojo, looking up and down the road, “which way to go.”

“Where are you bound for?” asked the Woozy.

“The Emerald City,” he replied.

“Then go west,” said the Woozy. “I know this road pretty well, for I’ve chased many a honey-bee over it.”

“Have you ever been to the Emerald City?” asked Scraps.

“No. I am very shy by nature, as you may have noticed, so I haven’t mingled much in society.”

“Are you afraid of men?” inquired the Patchwork Girl.

“Me? With my heart-rending growl–my horrible, shudderful growl? I should say not. I am not afraid of anything,” declared the Woozy.

“I wish I could say the same,” sighed Ojo. “I don’t think we need be afraid when we get to the Emerald City, for Unc Nunkie has told me that Ozma, our girl Ruler, is very lovely and kind, and tries to help everyone who is in trouble. But they say there are many dangers lurking on the road to the great Fairy City, and so we must be very careful.”

“I hope nothing will break me,” said the Glass Cat, in a nervous voice. “I’m a little brittle, you know, and can’t stand many hard knocks.”

“If anything should fade the colors of my lovely patches it would break my heart,” said the Patchwork Girl.

“I’m not sure you have a heart,” Ojo reminded her.

“Then it would break my cotton,” persisted Scraps. “Do you think they are all fast colors, Ojo?” she asked anxiously.

“They seem fast enough when you run,” he replied; and then, looking ahead of them, he exclaimed: “Oh, what lovely trees!”

They were certainly pretty to look upon and the travelers hurried forward to observe them more closely.

“Why, they are not trees at all,” said Scraps; “they are just monstrous plants.”

That is what they really were: masses of great broad leaves which rose from the ground far into the air, until they towered twice as high as the top of the Patchwork Girl’s head, who was a little taller than Ojo. The plants formed rows on both sides of the road and from each plant rose a dozen or more of the big broad leaves, which swayed continually from side to side, although no wind was blowing. But the most curious thing about the swaying leaves was their color. They seemed to have a general groundwork of blue, but here and there other colors glinted at times through the blue–gorgeous yellows, turning to pink, purple, orange and scarlet, mingled with more sober browns and grays–each appearing as a blotch or stripe anywhere on a leaf and then disappearing, to be replaced by some other color of a different shape. The changeful coloring of the great leaves was very beautiful, but it was bewildering, as well, and the novelty of the scene drew our travelers close to the line of plants, where they stood watching them with rapt interest.

Suddenly a leaf bent lower than usual and touched the Patchwork Girl. Swiftly it enveloped her in its embrace, covering her completely in its thick folds, and then it swayed back upon its stem.

“Why, she’s gone!” gasped Ojo, in amazement, and listening carefully he thought he could hear the muffled screams of Scraps coming from the center of the folded leaf. But, before he could think what he ought to do to save her, another leaf bent down and captured the Glass Cat, rolling around the little creature until she was completely hidden, and then straightening up again upon its stem.

“Look out,” cried the Woozy. “Run! Run fast, or you are lost.”

Ojo turned and saw the Woozy running
swiftly up the road. But the last leaf of the row of plants seized the beast even as he ran and instantly he disappeared from sight.

The boy had no chance to escape. Half a dozen of the great leaves were bending toward him from different directions and as he stood hesitating one of them clutched him in its embrace. In a flash he was in the dark. Then he felt himself gently lifted until he was swaying in the air, with the folds of the leaf hugging him on all sides.

At first he struggled hard to escape, crying out in anger: “Let me go! Let me go!” But neither struggles nor protests had any effect whatever. The leaf held him firmly and he was a prisoner.

Then Ojo quieted himself and tried to think. Despair fell upon him when he remembered that all his little party had been captured, even as he was, and there was none to save them.

“I might have expected it,” he sobbed, miserably. “I’m Ojo the Unlucky, and something dreadful was sure to happen to me.”

He pushed against the leaf that held him and found it to be soft, but thick and firm. It was like a great bandage all around him and he found it difficult to move his body or limbs in order to change their position.

The minutes passed and became hours. Ojo wondered how long one could live in such a condition and if the leaf would gradually sap his strength and even his life, in order to feed itself. The little Munchkin boy had never heard of any person dying in the Land of Oz, but he knew one could suffer a great deal of pain. His greatest fear at this time was that he would always remain imprisoned in the beautiful leaf and never see the light of day again.

No sound came to him through the leaf; all around was intense silence. Ojo wondered if Scraps had stopped screaming, or if the folds of the leaf prevented his hearing her. By and by he thought he heard a whistle, as of some one whistling a tune. Yes; it really must be some one whistling, he decided, for he could follow the strains of a pretty Munchkin melody that Unc Nunkie used to sing to him. The sounds were low and sweet and, although they reached Ojo’s ears very faintly, they were clear and harmonious.

Could the leaf whistle, Ojo wondered? Nearer and nearer came the sounds and then they seemed to be just the other side of the leaf that was hugging him.

Suddenly the whole leaf toppled and fell, carrying the boy with it, and while he sprawled at full length the folds slowly relaxed and set him free. He scrambled quickly to his feet and found that a strange man was standing before him–a man so curious in appearance that the boy stared with round eyes.

He was a big man, with shaggy whiskers, shaggy eyebrows, shaggy hair–but kindly blue eyes that were gentle as those of a cow. On his head was a green velvet hat with a jeweled band, which was all shaggy around the brim. Rich but shaggy laces were at his throat; a coat with shaggy edges was decorated with diamond buttons; the velvet breeches had jeweled buckles at the knees and shags all around the bottoms. On his breast hung a medallion bearing a picture of Princess Dorothy of Oz, and in his hand, as he stood looking at Ojo, was a sharp knife shaped like a dagger.

“Oh!” exclaimed Ojo, greatly astonished at the sight of this stranger; and then he added: “Who has saved me, sir?”

“Can’t you see?” replied the other, with a smile; “I’m the Shaggy Man.”

“Yes; I can see that,” said the boy, nodding. “Was it you who rescued me from the leaf?”

“None other, you may be sure. But take care, or I shall have to rescue you again.”

Ojo gave a jump, for he saw several broad leaves leaning toward him; but the Shaggy Man began to whistle again, and at the sound the leaves all straightened up on their stems and kept still.

The man now took Ojo’s arm and led him up the road, past the last of the great plants, and not till he was safely beyond their reach did he cease his whistling.

“You see, the music charms ’em,” said he. “Singing or whistling–it doesn’t matter which– makes ’em behave, and nothing else will. I always whistle as I go by ’em and so they always let me alone. To-day as I went by, whistling, I saw a leaf curled and knew there must be something inside it. I cut down the leaf with my knife and–out you popped. Lucky I passed by, wasn’t it?”

“You were very kind,” said Ojo, “and I thank you. Will you please rescue my companions, also?”

“What companions?” asked the Shaggy Man.

“The leaves grabbed them all,” said the boy. “There’s a Patchwork Girl and–“

“A what?”

“A girl made of patchwork, you know. She’s alive and her name is Scraps. And there’s a Glass Cat–“

“Glass?” asked the Shaggy Man.

“All glass.”

“And alive?”

“Yes,” said Ojo; “she has pink brains. And there’s a Woozy–“

“What’s a Woozy?” inquired the Shaggy Man.

“Why, I–I–can’t describe it,” answered the boy, greatly perplexed. “But it’s a queer animal with three hairs on the tip of its tail that won’t come out and–“

“What won’t come out?” asked the Shaggy Man; “the tail?”

“The hairs won’t come out. But you’ll see the Woozy, if you’ll please rescue it, and then you’ll know just what it is.”

“Of course,” said the Shaggy Man, nodding his shaggy head. And then he walked back among the plants, still whistling, and found the three leaves which were curled around Ojo’s traveling companions. The first leaf he cut down released Scraps, and on seeing her the Shaggy Man threw back his shaggy head, opened wide his mouth and laughed so shaggily and yet so merrily that Scraps liked him at once. Then he took off his hat and made her a low bow, saying:

“My dear, you’re a wonder. I must introduce you to my friend the Scarecrow.”

When he cut down the second leaf he rescued the Glass Cat, and Bungle was so frightened that she scampered away like a streak and soon had joined Ojo, when she sat beside him panting and trembling. The last plant of all the row had captured the Woozy, and a big bunch in the center of the curled leaf showed plainly where he was. With his sharp knife the Shaggy Man sliced off the stem of the leaf and as it fell and unfolded out trotted the Woozy and escaped beyond the reach of any more of the dangerous plants.

Chapter Eleven

A Good Friend

Soon the entire party was gathered on the road of yellow bricks, quite beyond the reach of the beautiful but treacherous plants. The Shaggy Man, staring first at one and then at the other, seemed greatly pleased and interested.

“I’ve seen queer things since I came to the Land of Oz,” said he, “but never anything queerer than this band of adventurers. Let us sit down a while, and have a talk and get acquainted.”

“Haven’t you always lived in the Land of Oz?” asked the Munchkin boy.

“No; I used to live in the big, outside world. But I came here once with Dorothy, and Ozma let me stay.”

“How do you like Oz?” asked Scraps. “Isn’t the country and the climate grand?”

“It’s the finest country in all the world, even if it is a fairyland. and I’m happy every minute I live in it,” said the Shaggy Man. “But tell me something about yourselves.”

So Ojo related the story of his visit to the house of the Crooked Magician, and how he met there the Glass Cat, and how the Patchwork Girl was brought to life and of the terrible accident to Unc Nunkie and Margolotte. Then he told how he had set out to find the five different things which the Magician needed to make a charm that would restore the marble figures to life, one requirement being three hairs from a Woozy’s tail.

“We found the Woozy,” explained the boy, “and he agreed to give us the three hairs; but we couldn’t pull them out. So we had to bring the Woozy along with us.”

“I see,” returned the Shaggy Man, who had listened with interest to the story. “But perhaps I, who am big and strong, can pull those three hairs from the Woozy’s tail.”

“Try it, if you like,” said the Woozy.

So the Shaggy Man tried it, but pull as hard as he could he failed to get the hairs out of the Woozy’s tail. So he sat down again and wiped his shaggy face with a shaggy silk handkerchief and said:

“It doesn’t matter. If you can keep the Woozy until you get the rest of the things you need, you can take the beast and his three hairs to the Crooked Magician and let him find a way to extract ’em. What are the other things you are to find?”

“One,” said Ojo, “is a six-leaved clover.”

“You ought to find that in the fields around the Emerald City,” said the Shaggy Man.
“There is a Law against picking six-leaved clovers, but I think I can get Ozma to let you have one.”

“Thank you,” replied Ojo. “The next thing is the left wing of a yellow butterfly.”

“For that you must go to the Winkie Country,” the Shaggy Man declared. “I’ve never noticed any butterflies there, but that is the yellow country of Oz and it’s ruled by a good friend of mine, the Tin Woodman.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him!” exclaimed Ojo. “He must be a wonderful man.”

“So he is, and his heart is wonderfully kind. I’m sure the Tin Woodman will do all in his power to help you to save your Unc Nunkie and poor Margolotte.”

“The next thing I must find,” said the Munchkin boy, “is a gill of water from a dark well.”

“Indeed! Well, that is more difficult,” said the Shaggy Man, scratching his left ear in a puzzled way. “I’ve never heard of a dark well; have you?”

“No,” said Ojo.

“Do you know where one may be found?” inquired the Shaggy Man.

“I can’t imagine,” said Ojo.

“Then we must ask the Scarecrow.”

“The Scarecrow! But surely, sir, a scarecrow can’t know anything.”

“Most scarecrows don’t, I admit,” answered the Shaggy Man. “But this Scarecrow of whom I speak is very intelligent. He claims to possess the best brains in all Oz.”

“Better than mine?” asked Scraps.

“Better than mine?” echoed the Glass Cat. “Mine are pink, and you can see ’em work.”

“Well, you can’t see the Scarecrow’s brains work, but they do a lot of clever thinking,” asserted the Shaggy Man. “If anyone knows where a dark well is, it’s my friend the Scarecrow.”

“Where does he live?” inquired Ojo.

“He has a splendid castle in the Winkie Country, near to the palace of his friend the Tin Woodman, and he is often to be found in the Emerald City, where he visits Dorothy at the royal palace.”

“Then we will ask him about the dark well,” said Ojo.

“But what else does this Crooked Magician want?” asked the Shaggy Man.

“A drop of oil from a live man’s body.”

“Oh; but there isn’t such a thing.”

“That is what I thought,” replied Ojo; “but the Crooked Magician said it wouldn’t be called for by the recipe if it couldn’t be found, and therefore I must search until I find it.”

“I wish you good luck,” said the Shaggy Man, shaking his head doubtfully; “but I imagine you’ll have a hard job getting a drop of oil from a live man’s body. There’s blood in a body, but no oil.”

“There’s cotton in mine,” said Scraps, dancing a little jig.

“I don’t doubt it,” returned the Shaggy Man admiringly. “You’re a regular comforter and as sweet as patchwork can be. All you lack is dignity.”

“I hate dignity,” cried Scraps, kicking a pebble high in the air and then trying to catch it as it fell. “Half the fools and all the wise folks are dignified, and I’m neither the one nor the other.”

“She’s just crazy,” explained the Glass Cat.

The Shaggy Man laughed.

“She’s delightful, in her way,” he said. “I’m sure Dorothy will be pleased with her, and the Scarecrow will dote on her. Did you say you were traveling toward the Emerald City?”

“Yes,” replied Ojo. “I thought that the best place to go, at first, because the six-leaved clover may be found there.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the Shaggy Man, “and show you the way.”

“Thank you,” exclaimed Ojo. “I hope it won’t put you out any.”

“No,” said the other, “I wasn’t going anywhere in particular. I’ve been a rover all my life, and although Ozma has given me a suite of beautiful rooms in her palace I still get the wandering fever once in a while and start out to roam the country over. I’ve been away from the Emerald City several weeks, this time, and now that I’ve met you and your friends I’m sure it will interest me to accompany you to the great city of Oz and introduce you to my friends.”

“That will be very nice,” said the boy, gratefully.

“I hope your friends are not dignified,” observed Scraps.

“Some are, and some are not,” he answered; “but I never criticise my friends. If they are really true friends, they may be anything they like, for all of me.”

“There’s some sense in that,” said Scraps, nodding her queer head in approval. “Come on, and let’s get to the Emerald City as soon as possible.” With this she ran up the path, skipping and dancing, and then turned to await them.

“It is quite a distance from here to the Emerald City,” remarked the Shaggy Man, “so we shall not get there to-day, nor to-morrow. Therefore let us take the jaunt in an easy manner. I’m an old traveler and have found that I never gain anything by being in a hurry. ‘Take it easy’ is my motto. If you can’t take it easy, take it as easy as you can.”

After walking some distance over the road of yellow bricks Ojo said he was hungry and would stop to eat some bread and cheese. He offered a portion of the food to the Shaggy Man, who thanked him but refused it.

“When I start out on my travels,” said he, “I carry along enough square meals to last me several weeks. Think I’ll indulge in one now, as long as we’re stopping anyway.”

Saying this, he took a bottle from his pocket and shook from it a tablet about the size of one of Ojo’s finger-nails.

“That,” announced the Shaggy Man, “is a square meal, in condensed form. Invention of the great Professor Woggle-Bug, of the Royal College of Athletics. It contains soup, fish, roast meat, salad, apple-dumplings, ice cream and chocolate- drops, all boiled down to this small size, so it can be conveniently carried and swallowed when you are hungry and need a square meal.”

“I’m square,” said the Woozy. “Give me one, please.”

So the Shaggy Man gave the Woozy a tablet from his bottle and the beast ate it in a twinkling.

“You have now had a six course dinner,” declared the Shaggy Man.

“Pshaw!” said the Woozy, ungratefully, “I want to taste something. There’s no fun in that sort of eating.”

“One should only eat to sustain life,” replied the Shaggy Man, “and that tablet is equal to a peck of other food.”

“I don’t care for it. I want something I can chew and taste,” grumbled the Woozy.

“You are quite wrong, my poor beast,” said the Shaggy Man in a tone of pity. “Think how tired your jaws would get chewing a square meal like this, if it were not condensed to the size of a small tablet–which you can swallow in a jiffy.”

“Chewing isn’t tiresome; it’s fun, maintained the Woozy. “I always chew the honey-bees when I catch them. Give me some bread and cheese, Ojo.”

“No, no! You’ve already eaten a big dinner!” protested the Shaggy Man.

“May be,” answered the Woozy; “but I guess I’ll fool myself by munching some bread and cheese. I may not be hungry, having eaten all those things you gave me, but I consider this eating business a matter of taste, and I like to realize what’s going into me.”

Ojo gave the beast what he wanted, but the Shaggy Man shook his shaggy head reproachfully and said there was no animal so obstinate or hard to convince as a Woozy.

At this moment a patter of footsteps was heard, and looking up they saw the live phonograph standing before them. It seemed to have passed through many adventures since Ojo and his comrades last saw the machine, for the varnish of its wooden case was all marred and dented and scratched in a way that gave it an aged and disreputable appearance.

“Dear me!” exclaimed Ojo, staring hard. “What has happened to you?”

“Nothing much,” replied the phonograph in a sad and depressed voice. “I’ve had enough things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock a department store and furnish half a dozen bargain-counters.”

“Are you so broken up that you can’t play?” asked Scraps.

“No; I still am able to grind out delicious music. Just now I’ve a record on tap that is really superb,” said the phonograph, growing more cheerful.

“That is too bad,” remarked Ojo. “We’ve no objection to you as a machine, you know; but as a music-maker we hate you.”

“Then why was I ever invented?” demanded the machine, in a tone of indignant protest.

They looked at one another inquiringly, but no one could answer such a puzzling question. Finally the Shaggy Man said:

“I’d like to hear the phonograph play.”

Ojo sighed. “We’ve been very happy since we met you, sir,” he said.

“I know. But a little misery, at times, makes one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony, what is this record like, which you say you have on tap?”

“It’s a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands the common people have gone wild over it.”

“Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then it’s dangerous.”

“Wild with joy, I mean,” explained the phonograph. “Listen. This song will prove a rare treat to you, I know. It made the author rich–for an author. It is called ‘My Lulu.'”

Then the phonograph began to play. A strain of odd, jerky sounds was followed by these words, sung by a man through his nose with great vigor of expression:

“Ah wants mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu; Ah wants mah loo-loo, loo-loo, loo-loo, Lu! Ah loves mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu, There ain’t nobody else loves loo-loo, Lu!”

“Here–shut that off!” cried the Shaggy Man, springing to his feet. “What do you mean by such impertinence?”

“It’s the latest popular song,” declared the phonograph, speaking in a sulky tone of voice.

“A popular song?”

“Yes. One that the feeble-minded can remember the words of and those ignorant of music can whistle or sing. That makes a popular song popular, and the time is coming when it will take the place of all other songs.”

“That time won’t come to us, just yet,” said the Shaggy Man, sternly: “I’m something of a singer myself, and I don’t intend to be throttled by any Lulus like your coal-black one. I shall take you all apart, Mr. Phony, and scatter your pieces far and wide over the country, as a matter of kindness to the people you might meet if allowed to run around loose. Having performed this painful duty I shall–“

But before he could say more the phonograph turned and dashed up the road as fast as its four table-legs could carry it, and soon it had entirely disappeared from their view.

The Shaggy Man sat down again and seemed well pleased. “Some one else will save me the trouble of scattering that phonograph,” said he; “for it is not possible that such a music-maker can last long in the Land of Oz. When you are rested, friends, let us go on our way.”

During the afternoon the travelers found themselves in a lonely and uninhabited part of the country. Even the fields were no longer cultivated and the country began to resemble a wilderness. The road of yellow bricks seemed to have been neglected and became uneven and more difficult to walk upon. Scrubby under-brush grew on either side of the way, while huge rocks were scattered around in abundance.

But this did not deter Ojo and his friends from trudging on, and they beguiled the journey with jokes and cheerful conversation. Toward evening they reached a crystal spring which gushed from a tall rock by the roadside and near this spring stood a deserted cabin. Said the Shaggy Man, halting here:

“We may as well pass the night here, where there is shelter for our heads and good water to drink. Road beyond here is pretty bad; worst we shall have to travel; so let’s wait until morning before we tackle it.”

They agreed to this and Ojo found some brushwood in the cabin and made a fire on the hearth. The fire delighted Scraps, who danced before it until Ojo warned her she might set fire to herself and burn up. After that the Patchwork Girl kept at a respectful distance from the darting flames, but the Woozy lay down before the fire like a big dog and seemed to enjoy its warmth.

For supper the Shaggy Man ate one of his tablets, but Ojo stuck to his bread and cheese as the most satisfying food. He also gave a portion to the Woozy.

When darkness came on and they sat in a circle on the cabin floor, facing the firelight–there being no furniture of any sort in the place–Ojo said to the Shaggy Man:

“Won’t you tell us a story?”

“I’m not good at stories,” was the reply; “but I sing like a bird.”

“Raven, or crow?” asked the Glass Cat.

“Like a song bird. I’ll prove it. I’ll sing a song I composed myself. Don’t tell anyone I’m a poet; they might want me to write a book. Don’t tell ’em I can sing, or they’d want me to make records for that awful phonograph. Haven’t time to be a public benefactor, so I’ll just sing you this little song for your own amusement.”

They were glad enough to be entertained, and listened with interest while the Shaggy Man chanted the following verses to a tune that was not unpleasant:

“I’ll sing a song of Ozland, where wondrous creatures dwell And fruits and flowers and shady bowers abound in every dell, Where magic is a science and where no one shows surprise If some amazing thing takes place before his very eyes.

Our Ruler’s a bewitching girl whom fairies love to please; She’s always kept her magic sceptre to enforce decrees To make her people happy, for her heart is kind and true And to aid the needy and distressed is what she longs to do.

And then there’s Princess Dorothy, as sweet as any rose, A lass from Kansas, where they don’t grow fairies, I suppose; And there’s the brainy Scarecrow, with a body stuffed with straw, Who utters words of wisdom rare that fill us all with awe.

I’ll not forget Nick Chopper, the Woodman made of Tin, Whose tender heart thinks killing time is quite a dreadful sin, Nor old Professor Woggle-Bug, who’s highly magnified And looks so big to everyone that he is filled with pride.

Jack Pumpkinhead’s a dear old chum who might be called a chump, But won renown by riding round upon a magic Gump; The Sawhorse is a splendid steed and though he’s made of wood He does as many thrilling stunts as any meat horse could.

And now I’ll introduce a beast that ev’ryone adores– The Cowardly Lion shakes with fear ‘most ev’ry time he roars, And yet he does the bravest things that any lion might, Because he knows that cowardice is not considered right.

There’s Tik-Tok–he’s a clockwork man and quite a funny sight– He talks and walks mechanically, when he’s wound up tight; And we’ve a Hungry Tiger who would babies love to eat But never does because we feed him other kinds of meat.

It’s hard to name all of the freaks this noble Land’s acquired; ‘Twould make my song so very long that you would soon be tired; But give attention while I mention one wise Yellow Hen And Nine fine Tiny Piglets living in a golden pen.

Just search the whole world over–sail the seas from coast to coast– No other nation in creation queerer folk can boast; And now our rare museum will include a Cat of Glass, A Woozy, and–last but not least–a crazy Patchwork Lass.”

Ojo was so pleased with this song that he applauded the singer by clapping his hands, and Scraps followed suit by clapping her padded fingers together, although they made no noise. The cat pounded on the floor with her glass paws–gently, so as not to break them–and the Woozy, which had been asleep, woke up to ask what the row was about.

“I seldom sing in public, for fear they might want me to start an opera company,” remarked the Shaggy Man, who was pleased to know his effort was appreciated. “Voice, just now, is a little out of training; rusty, perhaps.”

“Tell me,” said the Patchwork Girl earnestly, “do all those queer people you mention really live in the Land of Oz?”

“Every one of ’em. I even forgot one thing: Dorothy’s Pink Kitten.”

“For goodness sake!” exclaimed Bungle, sitting up and looking interested. “A Pink Kitten? How absurd! Is it glass?”

“No; just ordinary kitten.”

“Then it can’t amount to much. I have pink brains, and you can see ’em work.”

“Dorothy’s kitten is all pink–brains and all– except blue eyes. Name’s Eureka. Great favorite at the royal palace,” said the Shaggy Man, yawning.

The Glass Cat seemed annoyed.

“Do you think a pink kitten–common meat–is as pretty as I am?” she asked.