“Ah,” said he, nodding wisely; “that’s magic. Dr. Pipt has enchanted the bread and the cheese, so it will last me all through my journey, however much I eat.”
“Why do you put those things into your mouth?” asked Scraps, gazing at him in astonishment. “Do you need more stuffing? Then why don’t you use cotton, such as I am stuffed with?”
“I don’t need that kind,” said Ojo.
“But a mouth is to talk with, isn’t it?”
“It is also to eat with,” replied the boy. “If I didn’t put food into my mouth, and eat it, I would get hungry and starve.”
“Ah, I didn’t know that,” she said. “Give me some.”
Ojo handed her a bit of the bread and she put it in her mouth.
“What next?” she asked, scarcely able to speak.
“Chew it and swallow it,” said the boy.
Scraps tried that. Her pearl teeth were unable to chew the bread and beyond her mouth there was no opening. Being unable to swallow she threw away the bread and laughed.
“I must get hungry and starve, for I can’t eat,” she said.
“Neither can I,” announced the cat; “but I’m not fool enough to try. Can’t you understand that you and I are superior people and not made like these poor humans?”
“Why should I understand that, or anything else?” asked the girl. “Don’t bother my head by asking conundrums, I beg of you. Just let me discover myself in my own way.”
With this she began amusing herself by leaping across the brook and back again.
“Be careful, or you’ll fall in the water,” warned Ojo.
“Never mind.”
“You’d better. If you get wet you’ll be soggy and can’t walk. Your colors might run, too,” he said.
“Don’t my colors run whenever I run?” she asked.
“Not in the way I mean. If they get wet, the reds and greens and yellows and purples of your patches might run into each other and become just a blur — no color at all, you know.”
“Then,” said the Patchwork Girl, “I’ll be careful, for if I spoiled my splendid colors I would cease to be beautiful.”
“Pah!” sneered the Glass Cat, “such colors are not beautiful; they’re ugly, and in bad taste. Please notice that my body has no color at all. I’m transparent, except for my exquisite red heart and my lovely pink brains — you can see ‘em work.”
“Shoo — shoo — shoo!” cried Scraps, dancing around and laughing. “And your horrid green eyes, Miss Bungle! You can’t see your eyes, but we can, and I notice you’re very proud of what little color you have. Shoo, Miss Bungle, shoo — shoo — shoo! If you were all colors and many colors, as I am, you’d be too stuck up for anything.” She leaped over the cat and back again, and the startled Bungle crept close to a tree to escape her. This made Scraps laugh more heartily than ever, and she said:
“Whoop-te-doodle-doo! The cat has lost her shoe. Her tootsie’s bare, but she don’t care, So what’s the odds to you?”
“Dear me, Ojo,” said the cat; “don’t you think the creature is a little bit crazy?”
“It may be,” he answered, with a puzzled look.
“If she continues her insults I’ll scratch off her suspender-button eyes,” declared the cat.
“Don’t quarrel, please,” pleaded the boy, rising to resume the journey. “Let us be good comrades and as happy and cheerful as possible, for we are likely to meet with plenty of trouble on our way.”
It was nearly sundown when they came to the edge of the forest and saw spread out before them a delightful landscape. There were broad blue fields stretching for miles over the valley, which was dotted everywhere with pretty, blue domed houses, none of which, however, was very near to the place where they stood. Just at the point where the path left the forest stood a tiny house covered with leaves from the trees, and before this stood a Munchkin man with an axe in his hand. He seemed very much surprised when Ojo and Scraps and the Glass Cat came out of the woods, but as the Patchwork Girl approached nearer he sat down upon a bench and laughed so hard that he could not speak for a long time.
This man was a woodchopper and lived all alone in the little house. He had bushy blue whiskers and merry blue eyes and his blue clothes were quite old and worn.
“Mercy me!” exclaimed the woodchopper, when at last he could stop laughing. “Who would think such a funny harlequin lived in the Land of Oz? Where did you come from, Crazy-quilt?”
“Do you mean me?” asked the Patchwork Girl.
“Of course,” he replied.
“You misjudge my ancestry. I’m not a crazy-quilt; I’m patchwork,” she said.
“There’s no difference,” he replied, beginning to laugh again. “When my old grandmother sews such things together she calls it a crazy-quilt; but I never thought such a jumble could come to life.”
“It was the Magic Powder that did it,” explained Ojo.
“Oh, then you have come from the Crooked Magician on the mountain. I might have known it, for — Well, I declare! here’s a glass cat. But the Magician will get in trouble for this; it’s against the law for anyone to work magic except Glinda the Good and the royal Wizard of Oz. If you people — or things — or glass spectacles — or crazy-quilts — or whatever you are, go near the Emerald City, you’ll be arrested.”
“We’re going there, anyhow,” declared Scraps, sitting upon the bench and swinging her stuffed legs.
“If any of us takes a rest, We’ll be arrested sure, And get no restitution ‘Cause the rest we must endure.”
“I see,” said the woodchopper, nodding; “you’re as crazy as the crazy-quilt you’re made of.”
“She really is crazy,” remarked the Glass Cat. “But that isn’t to be wondered at when you remember how many different things she’s made of. For my part, I’m made of pure glass — except my jewel heart and my pretty pink brains. Did you notice my brains, stranger? You can see ‘em work.”
“So I can,” replied the woodchopper; “but I can’t see that they accomplish much. A glass cat is a useless sort of thing, but a Patchwork Girl is really useful. She makes me laugh, and laughter is the best thing in life. There was once a woodchopper, a friend of mine, who was made all of tin, and I used to laugh every time I saw him.”
“A tin woodchopper?” said Ojo. “That is strange.”
“My friend wasn’t always tin,” said the man, “but he was careless with his axe, and used to chop himself very badly. Whenever he lost an arm or a leg he had it replaced with tin; so after a while he was all tin.”
“And could he chop wood then?” asked the boy.
“He could if he didn’t rust his tin joints. But one day he met Dorothy in the forest and went with her to the Emerald City, where he made his fortune. He is now one of the favorites of Princess Ozma, and she has made him the Emperor of the Winkies — the Country where all is yellow.”
“Who is Dorothy?” inquired the Patchwork Girl.
“A little maid who used to live in Kansas, but is now a Princess of Oz. She’s Ozma’s best friend, they say, and lives with her in the royal palace.”
“Is Dorothy made of tin?” inquired Ojo.
“Is she patchwork, like me?” inquired Scraps.
“No,” said the man; “Dorothy is flesh, just as I am. I know of only one tin person, and that is Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman; and there will never be but one Patchwork Girl, for any magician that sees you will refuse to make another one like you.”
“I suppose we shall see the Tin Woodman, for we are going to the Country of the Winkies,” said the boy.
“What for?” asked the woodchopper.
“To get the left wing of a yellow butterfly.”
“It is a long journey,” declared the man, “and you will go through lonely parts of Oz and cross rivers and traverse dark forests before you get there.”
“Suits me all right,” said Scraps. “I’ll get a chance to see the country.”
“You’re crazy, girl. Better crawl int
o a rag-bag and hide there; or give yourself to some little girl to play with. Those who travel are likely to meet trouble; that’s why I stay at home.”
The woodchopper then invited them all to stay the night at his little hut, but they were anxious to get on and so left him and continued along the path, which was broader, now, and more distinct.
They expected to reach some other house before it grew dark,78 but the twilight was brief and Ojo soon began to fear they had made a mistake in leaving the woodchopper.
“I can scarcely see the path,” he said at last. “Can you see it, Scraps?”
“No,” replied the Patchwork Girl, who was holding fast to the boy’s arm so he could guide her.
“I can see,” declared the Glass Cat. “My eyes are better than yours, and my pink brains — ”
“Never mind your pink brains, please,” said Ojo hastily; “just run ahead and show us the way. Wait a minute and I’ll tie a string to you; for then you can lead us.”
He got a string from his pocket and tied it around the cat’s neck, and after that the creature guided them along the path. They had proceeded in this way for about an hour when a twinkling blue light appeared ahead of them.
“Good! there’s a house at last,” cried Ojo. “When we reach it the good people will surely welcome us and give us a night’s lodging.” But however far they walked the light seemed to get no nearer, so by and by the cat stopped short, saying:
“I think the light is traveling, too, and we shall never be able to catch up with it. But here is a house by the roadside, so why go farther?”
“Where is the house, Bungle?”
“Just here beside us, Scraps.”
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,79 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.
7 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,86 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.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 86