Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “Be careful!”

  Chapter II. The Rolling Stone

  OF course Twinkle stopped then, and looked around to see who had spoken. But no one was anywhere in sight. So she started on again.

  “Look out, or you’ll step on me!” cried the voice a second time.

  She looked at her feet very carefully. There was nothing near them but a big round stone that was about the size of her head, and a prickly thistle that she never would step on if she could possibly help it.

  “Who’s talking?” she asked.

  “Why, I’m talking,” answered the voice. “Who do you suppose it is?”

  “I don’t know,” said Twinkle. “I just can’t see anybody at all.”

  “Then you must be blind,” said the voice. “I’m the Rolling Stone, and I’m about two inches from your left toes.”

  “The Rolling Stone!”

  “That’s it. That’s me. I’m the Rolling Stone that gathers no moss.”

  “You can’t be,” said Twinkle, sitting down in the path and looking carefully at the stone.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t roll,” she said. “You’re a stone, of course; I can see that, all right. But you’re not rolling.”

  How silly!” replied the Stone. “I don’t have to roll every minute to be a Rolling Stone, do I?”

  “Of course you do,” answered Twinkle. “If you don’t roll you’re just a common, still stone.”

  “Well, I declare!” exclaimed the Stone; “you don’t seem to understand anything. You’re a Talking Girl, are you not?”

  “To be sure I am,” said Twinkle.

  “But you don’t talk every minute, do you?”

  “Mama says I do,” she answered.

  “But you don’t. You’re sometimes quiet, aren’t you?”

  “‘Course I am.”

  “That’s the way with me. Sometimes I roll, and so I’m called the Rolling Stone. Sometimes you talk, and so you’re the Talking Girl.”

  “No; I’m Twinkle,” she said.

  “That doesn’t sound like a name,” remarked the Stone.

  “It’s what papa calls me, anyway,” explained the girl. Then, thinking she had lingered long enough, she added:

  “I’m going up the hill to pick those berries. Since you can roll, suppose you go with me.”

  “What! Up hill?” exclaimed the Stone.

  “Why not?” asked Twinkle.

  “Who ever heard of a stone rolling up hill? It’s unnatural!”

  “Any stone can roll down hill,” said the child. “If you can’t roll up hill, you’re no better than a common cobble-stone.”

  “Oh, I can roll up hill if I have to,” declared the Stone, peevishly. “But it’s hard work, and nearly breaks my back.”

  “I can’t see that you have any back,” said Twinkle.

  “Why, I’m all back,” replied the Stone. “When your back aches, it’s only a part of you. But when my back aches, it’s all of me except the middle.”

  “The middle ache is the worst of all,” said Twinkle, solemnly. “Well, if you don’t want to go,” she added, jumping up, “I’ll say good-bye.”

  “Anything to be sociable,” said the Stone, sighing deeply. “I’ll go along and keep you company. But it’s lots easier to roll down than it is to roll up, I assure you!”

  “Why, you’re a reg’lar grumbler!” exclaimed Twinkle.

  “That’s because I lead a hard life,” returned the Stone, dismally. “But don’t let us quarrel; it is so seldom I get a chance to talk with one of my own standing in society.”

  “You can’t have any standing, without feet,” declared Twinkle, shaking her head at the Stone.

  “One can have understanding, at least,” was the answer; “and understanding is the best standing any person can have.”

  “Perhaps that is true,” said the child, thoughtfully; “but I’m glad I have legs, just the same.”

  Chapter III. Some Queer Acquaintances

  “WAIT a minute!” implored a small voice, and the girl noticed a yellow butterfly that had just settled down upon the stone. “Aren’t you the child from the farm?”

  “To be sure,” she answered, much amused to hear the butterfly speak.

  “Then can you tell me if your mother expects to churn to-day,” said the pretty creature, slowly folding and unfolding its dainty wings.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “If she churns to-day, I’ll fly over to the house and try to steal some butter. But if your mother isn’t going to churn, I’ll fly down into the gulch and rob a bees’ nest I know of.”

  “Why do you rob and steal?” inquired Twinkle.

  “It’s the only way I can get my living,” said the butterfly. “Nobody ever gives me anything, and so I have to take what I want.”

  “Do you like butter?”

  “Of course I do! That’s why we are called butterflies, you know. I prefer butter to anything else, and I have heard that in some countries the children always leave a little dish of butter on the window-sill, so that we may help ourselves whenever we are hungry. I wish I had been born in such a country.”

  “Mother won’t churn until Saturday,” said Twinkle. “I know, ‘cause I’ve got to help her, and I just hate butter-making!”

  “Then I won’t go to the farm to-day,” replied the butterfly. “Good-bye, little girl. If you think of it, leave a dish of butter around where I can get at it.”

  “All right,” said Twinkle, and the butterfly waved its wings and fluttered through the air into the gulch below.

  Then the girl started up the hill and the Stone rolled slowly beside her, groaning and grumbling because the ground was so rough.

  Presently she noticed running across the path a tiny Book, not much bigger than a postage- stamp. It had two slender legs, like those of a bumble-bee, and upon these it ran so fast that all the leaves fluttered wildly, the covers being half open.

  “What’s that?” asked Twinkle, looking after the book in surprise.

  “That is a little Learning,” answered the Stone. “Look out for it, for they say it’s a dangerous thing.”

  “It’s gone already,” said Twinkle.

  “Let it go. Nobody wants it, that I know of. Just help me over this bump, will you?”

  So she rolled the Stone over the little hillock, and just as she did so her attention was attracted by a curious noise that sounded like “Pop! pop! pop!”

  “What’s that?” she inquired, hesitating to advance.

  “Only a weasel,” answered the Stone. “Stand still a minute, and you’ll see him. Whenever he thinks he’s alone, and there’s no one to hear, ‘pop’ goes the weasel.”

  Sure enough, a little animal soon crossed their path, making the funny noise at every step. But as soon as he saw that Twinkle was staring at him he stopped popping and rushed into a bunch of tall grass and hid himself.

  And now they were almost at the berry-bushes, and Twinkle trotted so fast that the Rolling Stone had hard work to keep up with her. But when she got to the bushes she found a flock of strange birds sitting upon them and eating up the berries as fast as they could. The birds were not much bigger than robins, and were covered with a soft, velvety skin instead of with feathers, and they had merry black eyes and long, slender beaks curving downward from their noses, which gave to their faces a saucy expression. The lack of usual feathers might not have surprised Twinkle so much had she not noticed upon the tail of each bird one single, solitary feather of great length, which was certainly a remarkable thing.

  “I know what they are,” she said, nodding her head wisely; “they’re birds of a feather.”

  At this the birds burst into a chorus of laughter, and one of them said:

  “Perhaps you think that’s why we flock together.”

  “Well, isn’t that the reason?” she asked.

  “Not a bit of it,” declared the bird. “The reason we flock together is because we’re too proud to mix with comm
on birds, who have feathers all over them.”

  “I should think you’d be ashamed, ‘cause you’re so naked,” she returned.

  “The fact is, Twinkle,” said another bird, as he pecked at a blueberry and swallowed it, “the common things in this world don’t amount to much. There are millions of birds on earth, but only a few of us that have but one feather. In my opinion, if you had but one hair upon your head you’d be much prettier.”

  “I’d be more ‘strord’nary, I’m sure,” said Twinkle, using the biggest word she could think of.

  “There’s no accounting for tastes,” remarked the Rolling Stone, which had just arrived at Twinkle’s side after a hard roll up the path. “For my part, I haven’t either hair or feathers, and I’m glad of it.”

  The birds laughed again, at this, and as they had eaten all the berries they cared for, they now flew into the air and disappeared.

  Chapter IV. The Dancing Bear

  “REALLY,” said Twinkle, as she began picking the berries and putting them into her pail, “I didn’t know so many things could talk.”

  “It’s because you are in the part of the gulch that’s enchanted,” answered the Rolling Stone. “When you get home again, you’ll think this is all a dream.”

  “I wonder if it isn’t!” she suddenly cried, stopping to look around, and then feeling of herself carefully. “It’s usually the way in all the fairy stories that papa reads to me. I don’t remember going to sleep any time; but perhaps I did, after all.”

  “Don’t let it worry you,” said the Stone, making a queer noise that Twinkle thought was meant for a laugh. “If you wake up, you’ll be sorry you didn’t dream longer; and if you find you haven’t been asleep, this will be a wonderful adventure.”

  “That’s true enough,” the girl answered, and again began filling her pail with the berries. “When I tell mama all this, she won’t believe a word of it. And papa will laugh and pinch my cheek, and say I’m like Alice in Wonderland, or Dorothy in the Land of Oz.”

  Just then she noticed something big and black coming around the bushes from the other side, and her heart beat a good deal faster when she saw before her a great bear standing upon his rear legs beside her.

  He had a little red cap on his head that was kept in place by a band of rubber elastic. His eyes were small, but round and sparkling, and there seemed to be a smile upon his face, for his white teeth showed in two long rows.

  “Don’t be afraid,” called out the Rolling Stone; “it’s only the Dancing Bear.”

  “Why should the child be afraid?” asked the bear, speaking in a low, soft tone that reminded her of the purring of a kitten. “No one ever heard of a Dancing Bear hurting anybody. We’re about the most harmless things in the world.”

  “Are you really a Dancing Bear?” asked Twinkle, curiously.

  “I am, my dear,” he replied, bowing low and then folding his arms proudly as he leaned against a big rock that was near. “I wish there was some one here who could tell you what a fine dancer I am. It wouldn’t be modest for me to praise myself, you know.”

  “I s’pose not,” said Twinkle. “But if you’re a Dancing Bear, why don’t you dance?”

  “There it is again!” cried the Rolling Stone. “This girl Twinkle wants to keep every body moving. She wouldn’t believe, at first, that I was a Rolling Stone, because I was lying quiet just then. And now she won’t believe you’re a Dancing Bear, because you don’t eternally keep dancing.”

  “Well, there’s some sense in that, after all,” declared the Bear. “I’m only a Dancing Bear while I’m dancing, to speak the exact truth; and you’re only a Rolling Stone while you’re rolling.”

  “I beg to disagree with you,” returned the Stone, in a cold voice.

  “Well, don’t let us quarrel, on any account,” said the Bear. “I invite you both to come to my cave and see me dance. Then Twinkle will be sure I’m a Dancing Bear.”

  “I haven’t filled my pail yet,” said the little girl, “and I’ve got to get enough berries for papa’s supper.”

  “I’ll help you,” replied the Bear, politely; and at once he began to pick berries and to put them into Twinkle’s pail. His big paws looked very clumsy and awkward, but it was astonishing how many blueberries the bear could pick with them. Twinkle had hard work to keep up with him, and almost before she realized how fast they had worked, the little pail was full and overflowing with fine, plump berries.

  “And now,” said the Bear, “I will show you the way to my cave.”

  He took her hand in his soft paw and began leading her along the side of the steep hill, while the Stone rolled busily along just behind them. But they had not gone far before Twinkle’s foot slipped, and in trying to save herself from falling she pushed hard against the Stone and tumbled it from the pathway.

  “Now you’ve done it!” growled the Stone, excitedly, as it whirled around. “Here I go, for I’ve lost my balance and I can’t help myself!”

  Even as he spoke the big round stone was flying down the side of the gulch, bumping against the hillocks and bits of rock — sometimes leaping into the air and then clinging close to the ground, but going faster and faster every minute.

  “Dear me,” said Twinkle, looking after it; “I’m afraid the Rolling Stone will get hurt.”

  “No danger of that,” replied the Bear. “It’s as hard as a rock, and not a thing in the gulch could hurt it a bit. But our friend would have to roll a long time to get back here again, so we won’t wait. Come along, my dear.”

  He held out his paw again, and Twinkle took it with one of her hands while she carried the pail with the other, and so managed to get over the rough ground very easily.

  Chapter V. The Cave of the Waterfall

  BEFORE long they came to the entrance to the cave, and as it looked dark and gloomy from without Twinkle drew back and said she guessed she wouldn’t go in.

  “But it’s quite light inside,” said the bear, “and there’s a pretty waterfall there, too. Don’t be afraid, Twinkle; I’ll take good care of you.”

  So the girl plucked up courage and permitted him to lead her into the cave; and then she was glad she had come, instead of being a ‘fraid-cat. For the place was big and roomy, and there were many cracks in the roof, that admitted plenty of light and air. Around the side walls were several pairs of big ears, which seemed to have been carved out of the rock. These astonished the little girl.

  “What are the ears for?” she asked.

  “Don’t walls have ears where you live?” returned the Bear, as if surprised.

  “I’ve heard they do,” she answered, “but I’ve never seen any before.”

  At the back of the cave was a little, tinkling waterfall, that splashed into a pool beneath with a sound that was very like music. Near this was a square slab of rock, a little raised above the level of the floor.

  “Kindly take a seat, my dear,” said the bear, “and I’ll try to amuse you, and at the same time prove that I can dance.”

  So to the music of the waterfall the bear began dancing. He climbed upon the flat stone, made a graceful bow to Twinkle, and then balanced himself first upon one foot and then upon the other, and swung slowly around in a circle, and then back again.

  “How do you like it?” he asked.

  “I don’t care much for it,” said Twinkle. “I believe I could do better myself.”

  “But you are not a bear,” he answered. “Girls ought to dance better than bears, you know. But not every bear can dance. If I had a hand-organ to make the music, instead of this waterfall, I might do better.”

  “Then I wish you had one,” said the girl.

  The Bear began dancing again, and this time he moved more rapidly and shuffled his feet in quite a funny manner. He almost fell off the slab once or twice, so anxious was he to prove he could dance. And once he tripped over his own foot, which made Twinkle laugh.

  Just as he was finishing his dance a strange voice cried out:

  “For bear!
” and a green monkey sprang into the cave and threw a big rock at the performer. It knocked the bear off the slab, and he fell into the pool of water at the foot of the waterfall, and was dripping wet when he scrambled out again.

  The Dancing Bear gave a big growl and ran as fast as he could after the monkey, finally chasing him out of the cave. Twinkle picked up her pail of berries and followed, and when she got into the sunshine again on the side of the hill she saw the monkey and the bear hugging each other tight, and growling and chattering in a way that showed they were angry with each other and not on pleasant terms.

  “You will throw rocks at me, will you?” shouted the Bear.

  “I will if I get the chance,” replied the monkey. “Wasn’t that a fine, straight shot? and didn’t you go plump into the water, though?” and he shrieked with laughter.

  Just then they fell over in a heap, and began rolling down the hill.

  “Let go!” yelled the Bear.

  “Let go, yourself!” screamed the monkey.

  But neither of them did let go, so they rolled faster and faster down the hill, and the last that Twinkle saw of them they were bounding among the bushes at the very bottom of the big gulch.

  Chapter VI. Prince Nimble

  “GOOD gracious!” said the little girl, looking around her; “I’m as good as lost in this strange place, and I don’t know in what direction to go to get home again.”

  So she sat down on the grass and tried to think which way she had come, and which way she ought to return in order to get across the gulch to the farm-house.

  “If the Rolling Stone was here, he might tell me,” she said aloud. “But I’m all alone.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not,” piped a small, sweet voice. “I’m here, and I know much more than the Rolling Stone does.”

  Twinkle looked this way and then that, very carefully, in order to see who had spoken, and at last she discovered a pretty grasshopper perched upon a long blade of grass nearby.

  “Did I hear you speak?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” replied the grasshopper. “I’m Prince Nimble, the hoppiest hopper in Hoptown.”