Merry Go Round In Oz - Oz 40
L. Frank Baum
by Eloise Jarvis McGraw and Lauren McGraw
Chapter 1
IT WAS a fine April evening, and the little carnival that had pitched its tents on the outskirts of Cherryburg, Oregon, was doing a rushing business and making as much noise as possible about it. The calliope blared, the banners snapped in the breeze, the rifles banged in the shooting gallery, the grease sizzled in the hamburger stand, the children shrieked with excitement, the cash registers chimed vigorously, and the manager rubbed his hands together with a sound like sandpaper scraping a board.
An ancient pickup truck added to the din as it bumped and jolted and clattered its way into the carnival grounds and across the parking area, subsiding with a final backfire under a huge oak tree. Instantly its doors and tailgate flew open and disgorged nine tow-headed McGudgey brothers, and one small rusty-haired foster brother named Robin Brown.
“Okay, everybody, eyes front!” yelled Big Tim, the tenth tow-headed McGudgey brother, who had been in the army. He climbed out of the driver’s seat, collected his young charges into a squirming, chattering group, and demanded to know where each one was going.
“Ferris wheel!” shrieked three McGudgeys. “Fortune teller!” yelled another.
“Hamburger stand! Rocket cars! Dodgems!” whooped several more.
“Merry-go-round,” said Robin Brown-in a calm voice, as
usual. Nobody heard him, also as usual.
“Okay, ‘tention!” shouted Tim. “Got your money? Everybody show me! Tommy, come back here! Allen, ‘bout face! Let’s see your money. Okay, company report back here at nine-thirty sharp, understand? Where’s Robin?”
“Where’s Robin? Where’s Robin?” cried the others impatiently, milling around.
“Here I am,” said Robin, but nobody heard him.
“Never mind him, let’s go!” yelled various McGudgeys.
“Now just wait a minute, company halt! Where’s Robin got to? Let go my sleeve, whoever that is-oh, it’s Robin! Where’ve you been, anyhow? You got your money? Okay, break ranks everybody, back at nine-thirty, remember!”
The last warning was uttered in a drill-sergeant’s bellow, as the nine McGudgeys scattered in all directions, whooping with anticipation. Big Tim himself set off at a trot for the shooting gallery, leaving Robin standing alone under the oak tree, able at last to hear the music of the merry-go-round.
Clutching his one precious coin, he hurried in the direction of the calliope, wondering if the merry-go-round could possibly be as glorious as he remembered it from last year, and warning himself not to be disappointed if it weren’t. Robin often issued these severe little warnings to himself, though he scarcely needed them. In the ten years of his orphan’s life-spent chiefly in shuttling from one foster home to another-very few things had turned
out to be as interesting as he had hoped.
He did not find the McGudgeys interesting at all, but they were no worse than any other of the foster families he had lived with-though noisier than most. He was quite accustomed to being solitary, belonging to no one and having no one that truly belonged to him. Mr. and Mrs. MeGudgey were kind enough, in an absentminded way. They bellowed good-naturedly at him whenever they happened to notice him, sent him along with their own sons to enjoy an occasional treat such as this carnival, and took him to the dentist twice a year. Once every two weeks he was required to line up with the other boys for the regular nose counting, temperature-taking, and gumdrop distributing, a procedure which was conducted along army lines by Tim. The rest of the time the McGudgeys went noisily about their business, and left Robin to go quietly about his own, thinking his own thoughts and warning himself about disappointments.
Tonight there was no disappointment in store. The merry-go-round was a glorious sight, and it made a glorious, if deafening, noise-exactly as he remembered. He stood gazing raptly at the gilt-and-scarlet canopy glittering under its colored lights, and the prancing horses circling below it. Even the music sounded gilt-and-scarlet, and the saddles and bridles were fully as gorgeous as the ones in his King Arthur book. If there was anything Robin liked as well as merry-go-rounds, it was his King Arthur book. And if there was anything he liked better than either one, it was horses-any kind of horses. He preferred real ones, but had yet
to meet one personally. Until he did, wooden ones would do.
He began to walk all around the spinning merry-go-round, studying the horses through narrowed eyes. He had money for only one ride, and he meant to choose the very handsomest horse to take that one ride on. But how to choose? They were all the handsomest! Dapple-gray with a blue and silver saddle, black with fiery eyes, snow-white, yellow, spotted .
Robin was still biting his lip anxiously, looking from one horse to another, when the merry-go-round began to slow down.
“My ticket!” he exclaimed. “For heaven’s sakes, I forgot to buy my ticket!”
As he whirled, glancing around to find the ticket booth, there was a cackle of laughter behind him, and a voice said, “Here’s your ticket, Sonny, I’ve got your ticket! This way, this way!”
The voice faded slowly with the turning of the merry-go-round, but Robin caught a glimpse of a bent little man clinging to one of the gilded poles, and ran quickly after him. He had to follow another half turn before the merry-go-round glided slowly to a halt, and the man stepped down in front of him.
He was a very strange little man, fat as a butterball, no taller than Robin himself, and dressed in the oddest possible collection of rags and tatters. He seemed amiable enough, however, for he was grinning and chuckling as he peered intently into Robin’s face.
“Here’s your ticket, Sonny! Where’s your money? Where’s your money? You pay-this way-I say-you pay-” He must be a little touched, Robin thought, hastily holding out his coin and receiving a ticket in return. He had a fleeting impression that the ticket was as odd as the ticket-seller, but he had no time to examine it, for the little man was tugging him onto the merry-go-round, talking all the time.
“There you are, Sonny, one ticket one ride, grab the ring and have a fling, grab the ring, grab the ring-free ride, whee ride, spree ride, glee ride, grab the ring, free ride .
“Wait a minute!” puffed Robin, trying to wriggle away from the little man, who was pulling him along between the horses as fast as he could go. “Please-wait a minute, Sir. I want to choose my horse!”
“No need, no need, there’s your steed, there’s your steed, light feed, such speed-”
The calliope gave a shrill blast, the little man a shrill laugh that sounded almost like it, and Robin found himself staring in delight at the very handsomest horse on the merry-go-round. It was a dainty, high-stepping little mare, painted scarlet, with a tossing carved mane and flowing long tail of snowy white. Her saddle and bridle were shining gilt, as was the twisted pole rising up out of her withers to the canopy above. Her hooves were black and polished, and her glass eyes dark and soft.
“Why, how did I miss you before?” Robin said happily, patting her wooden neck and climbing quickly onto her back. He was sure he hadn’t seen her before, though he couldn’t think why,
since she was in the outside ring of horses and plainly visible. “Never mind, I’ve found you now, thanks to that funny little man-where did he go, I wonder?”
The little man had certainly vanished-probably, thought Robin, he was on the other side of the merry-go-round selling tickets to someone else. For the first time, he examined his own ticket, and found that it ‘was a curious one, as he had thought. It was as large as a postcard, and scarlet, like the mare. Across one side of it in shining gilt letters was printed: GRAB THE BRASS RING FOR A FREE RIDE
> “Well, I’ll certainly try,” Robin told his mare. “I’d like two rides on you better than anything I can think of! … Oh-oh, here we go!”
Hastily gathering the gilded reins, Robin thrust his feet into the stirrups and sat up very straight and stern, deciding he would be Sir Gareth on this ride, and-if he managed to grab the brass ring-Sir Lancelot on the next. The merry-go-round slowly began its gliding circle, and the scarlet mare rose slowly in her bounding canter, sank again, rose more swiftly, sank, rose, dropped, leaped, dropped, leaped …
“It’s just like flying!” Robin thought, laughing with excitement as he watched the lights and tents of the carnival flick ‘round and ‘round. “Here I come, ye knights and ladies, I, Sir Gareth, will slay the Black Knight and rescue the damsel and-”
“The ring, grab the ring, have a fling, free ride, glee ride…”
It was the funny little man’s voice, all right, though Robin couldn’t see him anywhere. Never mind, there was the brass ring just ahead, a tiny object clipped to the end of a long metal arm that extended toward the merry-go-round. It was just out of reach.
“Missed it!” Robin said disgustedly. “Oh, well, it’ll come around again in a minute … Shucks! Missed it again!”
After the fourth or fifth failure, Robin began to grow stubborn, as he always did when he failed at something. Then he grew ingenious, as he always did when he became stubborn. While his little red mare was leaping and bounding around the rest of the circle, he prepared hastily for the moment at which he would pass that tantalizing metal arm again. With some difficulty, since the merry-go-round was now whirling at top speed and his mare was very spirited, he stood up in his stirrups, wound his left arm tightly around the mare’s pole to brace himself, and leaned perilously far out, with his right arm stretched full length.
Now! Here came the arm again-why, there was the little man, standing right under it, stamping one foot and shouting as he stamped. Reach, Sonny! Reach! Reach! Reach! Reach!” “I’m t-trying-” Robin panted, reaching with all his might …Click! “I got it, I got it!” Robin shouted, holding the ring high. He had one swift glimpse of the little man throwing his hat triumphantly in the air, then-CRACK!!!!
“Wh-what’s happening?” Robin gasped, flinging both arms around the pole and hanging on for dear life. The merry-goround seemed to have gone crazy-or else something had made
him fearfully dizzy-or else all the lights in the carnival were
really whirling and swaying and jouncing and bouncing, as if the world
were turning over and over. As he shut his eyes giddily, he heard
a shrill neigh, and the little man’s voice shrieked, “Free ride,
glee ride, ski ride, ‘wheee ride .
WHOOOOOOOOSMMHHHHHH!
“My g-goodness, it’s just like flying,” Robin gulped, feeling the wind whistle through his hair. Fearfully he opened one eye and peeped-backward and downward. One peep was enough. He was flying, he and the little red horse. “Free” ride indeed! This ride had shot him free of the merry-go-round itself, free of the lights, the tents, the whole carnival! There they all were, clustered below him in the darkness, already so far away they looked like toys, and getting smaller every second. Even as he watched, they dwindled to a bright pinpoint and then vanished entirely.
“Jeepers W. Creepers!” Robin groaned, squeezing his eyes shut again and gripping the pole convulsively. “What happens when we land?”
For a long while, it seemed they were never going to land at all. Once or twice Robin opened his eyes a crack, but there was absolutely nothing but darkness to see-not even any stars-and the cold gale that blew against his eyelids made them sting, so he soon gave up, closed them tight and devoted himself to hanging on.
Finally, after what seemed an age and a half of freezing wind and rocket-like speed, there was a curious sound, like tissue-paper tearing. Instantly he felt his speed decrease, and warm sunshine touch his face. The next moment the pole was jerked from his hands and he was falling-gently, slowly, somersaulting over and over-down, down, down, to land with a splintering, crackling sort of crash in something twiggy and uncomfortable.
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Chapter 2
FOR a few minutes, Robin did nothing at all but pant. Then very cautiously, he opened one eye. Seeing nothing more alarming than a patch of blue sky and a couple of clouds, he opened the other eye and tried to sit up. This proved difficult, both because he was dizzy and because whatever it was he had fallen into didn’t seem to want to be sat upon. Peering down at it, he perceived that it was a mass of leaves and twigs and thorns; as his head cleared, he realized he was sprawled in the middle of a hawthorn hedge.
His dizziness replaced by lively curiosity, Robin climbed out of the hedge and looked around him. The night had gone, somehow or other; there was a fresh feel of morning in the air. Early sunshine sparkled over a pleasant, rolling countryside, which was marked by hedgerows and stone walls and ditches, and dotted with patches of woodland. It didn’t look much like Oregon; there were no fir trees, no orchards, no mountains in the distance,
What it did look like-what it reminded Robin of strongly-was the pictures of England he had seen in books.
Wondering in astonishment if he could possibly have flown as as far as England, he pushed through a gap in the hedge to see what the place looked like on the other side. There he stopped short. Before him was a green meadow; and in the meadow was the little scarlet merry-go-round horse-cantering, all by itself, in tidy circles.
For a moment Robin simply gaped. Then he scrambled clear of the hedge and ran forward, telling himself sternly that it must be some other horse, and that he mustn’t be disappointed. But it was not some other horse. What other horse would be made of wood, and painted scarlet, and wear a gilded saddle, and-above all-have a broken merry-go-round pole growing from the base of its neck?
“So that’s what happened!” Robin exclaimed, peering at the jagged, broken end of the pole.
“What’s what happened?” inquired the mare, gliding to a halt in front of him.
“Why, the pole broke! That was the crack I heard, and we must have been thrown into the air by centripful-centrickital-centrifugal force, and just gone on flying somehow, though I still
can’t understand how we-Robin broke off, his jaw dropping. “Can you talk?” he exclaimed.
“I guess I can,” the mare replied in a surprised tone. “How
queer! I don’t remember ever doing it before. Am I doing it all right?” she added anxiously.
“V-very well,” Robin stammered. “Only I don’t believe it, of course. I expect I’m dreaming.” He sighed, and warning himself not to be disappointed, closed his eyes and gave himself a hard pinch on the arm. Nothing happened, except that it hurt. When he opened his eyes the mare was still there, watching him intently.
“Are you dreaming?” she asked him.
“No.” Robin drew a long solemn breath. “You’re really talking And you’re moving on your own legs, just like a real horse!”
The little mare blinked. “Aren’t I a real horse?”
“Well, no. That is, you’re real, of course, but you’re not a real horse,” Robin explained. “Real horses are made of flesh and blood, like me. You’re made of wood.”
“Oh,” she said in a disappointed tone. Turning her pretty scarlet neck this way and that, she examined her hooves, her painted flanks, her flowing wooden tail. “I guess I am,” she sighed. “Oh, dear, I wish I were a Real Horse! Do you think I could learn to
be?”
“Well-maybe,” Robin said doubtfully. “But I think you’re nice the way you are. I’ll just-just have to get used to you moving around and talking, that’s all.”
“Will it be very hard?.” the mare said earnestly. “I wouldn’t like to make things hard for you. I like you. I’d like to be your horse.”
Robin’s eyes grew round with pleasure. “Oh, would you? I’ve
always wanted a horse! I like you, too!” Suddenly he didn
’t feel solemn at all. He began to smile, then he grinned, then he burst out laughing.
The little mare eyed him, and her lip began to tremble. “Are you laughing at me? Because I’m not a Real Horse?”
“Of course not!” Robin cried, flinging his arms around her neck: “I’m only laughing because this is all so-so funny, and queer, and different from being with the MeGudgeys, and-well, just because we’re here, and I don’t even know where ‘here’ is! It looks like England,” Robin added, glancing around him uncertainly. “Hut I’m pretty sure merry-go-round horses don’t talk in England, any more than they do in Oregon. Not even real horses talk, that I ever heard of. How did you manage to learn?”
“I didn’t learn,” the little mare said. “I just knew how, all of a sudden. Who are the McGudgeys?”
“They’re my foster family.”
“What’s a foster family?”
“They’re people who let you live with them when you’re an orphan.”
“What’s an orphan?”
“My goodness!” Robin said in astonishment. “You don’t know much, do you?”
“No,” the little mare said humbly. “I suppose it’s because I’m not a Real Horse. I don’t even know your name.”
“Well, I haven’t told you!” Robin said reasonably. “It’s Robin
Brown. Robin S. Brown.” “What’s the ‘S’ for?”
“Oh . . Satchiverus,” Robin admitted reluctantly. “It’s awful silly, isn’t it? I guess practically everybody has a silly middle name.
Please just call me Robin. What’s your name?”
“I don’t have one. I guess I never needed one before. Nobody ever wanted to talk to me before.”
“Well, I want to talk to you, and I’m going to give you a name, ‘Robin declared. “Let’s see. I’ll call you … Merry!”
“Merry,” the little horse repeated in an awed, pleased voice. “Oh! How pretty! . Only-”
“Only what?” Robin asked, seeing that she looked a little disappointed.
L. Frank Baum - Oz 40 Page 1