“Fine!” said Unc Nunkie, wagging his head and stroking his long gray beard.
“Dear me; what a chatterbox you’re getting to be, Unc,” remarked the Magician, who was pleased with the compliment. But just then there came a scratching at the back door and a shrill voice cried:
“Let me in! Hurry up, can’t you? Let me in!”
Margolotte got up and went to the door.
“Ask like a good cat, then,” she said.
“Mee-ee-ow-w-w! There; does that suit your royal highness?” asked the voice, in scornful accents.
“Yes; that’s proper cat talk,” declared the woman, and opened the door.
At once a cat entered, came to the center of the room and stopped short at the sight of strangers. Ojo and Unc Nunkie both stared at it with wide open eyes, for surely no such curious creature had ever existed before—even in the Land of Oz.
Chapter Four.The Glass Cat
The cat was made of glass, so clear and transparent that you could see through it as easily as through a window. In the top of its head, however, was a mass of delicate pink balls which looked like jewels, and it had a heart made of a blood-red ruby. The eyes were two large emeralds, but aside from these colors all the rest of the animal was clear glass, and it had a spun-glass tail that was really beautiful.
“Well, Doc Pipt, do you mean to introduce us, or not?” demanded the cat, in a tone of annoyance. “Seems to me you are forgetting your manners.”
“Excuse me,” returned the Magician. “This is Unc Nunkie, the descendant of the former kings of the Munchkins, before this country became a part of the Land of Oz.”
“He needs a haircut,” observed the cat, washing its face.
“True,” replied Unc, with a low chuckle of amusement.
“But he has lived alone in the heart of the forest for many years,” the Magician explained; “and, although that is a barbarous country, there are no barbers there.”
“Who is the dwarf?” asked the cat.
“That is not a dwarf, but a boy,” answered the Magician. “You have never seen a boy before. He is now small because he is young. With more years he will grow big and become as tall as Unc Nunkie.”
“Oh. Is that magic?” the glass animal inquired.
“Yes; but it is Nature’s magic, which is more wonderful than any art known to man. For instance, my magic made you, and made you live; and it was a poor job because you are useless and a bother to me; but I can’t make you grow. You will always be the same size—and the same saucy, inconsiderate Glass Cat, with pink brains and a hard ruby heart.”
“No one can regret more than I the fact that you made me,” asserted the cat, crouching upon the floor and slowly swaying its spun-glass tail from side to side. “Your world is a very uninteresting place. I’ve wandered through your gardens and in the forest until I’m tired of it all, and when I come into the house the conversation of your fat wife and of yourself bores me dreadfully.”
“That is because I gave you different brains from those we ourselves possess—and much too good for a cat,” returned Dr. Pipt.
“Can’t you take ‘em out, then, and replace ‘em with pebbles, so that I won’t feel above my station in life?” asked the cat, pleadingly.
“Perhaps so. I’ll try it, after I’ve brought the Patchwork Girl to life,” he said.
The cat walked up to the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined and looked at her attentively.
“Are you going to make that dreadful thing live?” she asked.
The Magician nodded.
“It is intended to be my wife’s servant maid,” he said. “When she is alive she will do all our work and mind the house. But you are not to order her around, Bungle, as you do us. You must treat the Patchwork Girl respectfully.”
“I won’t. I couldn’t respect such a bundle of scraps under any circumstances.”
“If you don’t, there will be more scraps than you will like,” cried Margolotte, angrily.
“Why didn’t you make her pretty to look at?” asked the cat. “You made me pretty—very pretty, indeed—and I love to watch my pink brains roll around when they’re working, and to see my precious red heart beat.” She went to a long mirror, as she said this, and stood before it, looking at herself with an air of much pride. “But that poor patched thing will hate herself, when she’s once alive,” continued the cat. “If I were you I’d use her for a mop, and make another servant that is prettier.”
“You have a perverted taste,” snapped Margolotte, much annoyed at this frank criticism. “I think the Patchwork Girl is beautiful, considering what she’s made of. Even the rainbow hasn’t as many colors, and you must admit that the rainbow is a pretty thing.”
The Glass Cat yawned and stretched herself upon the floor.
“Have your own way,” she said. “I’m sorry for the Patchwork Girl, that’s all.”
Ojo and Unc Nunkie slept that night in the Magician’s house, and the boy was glad to stay because he was anxious to see the Patchwork Girl brought to life. The Glass Cat was also a wonderful creature to little Ojo, who had never seen or known anything of magic before, although he had lived in the Fairyland of Oz ever since he was born. Back there in the woods nothing unusual ever happened. Unc Nunkie, who might have been King of the Munchkins, had not his people united with all the other countries of Oz in acknowledging Ozma as their sole ruler, had retired into this forgotten forest nook with his baby nephew and they had lived all alone there. Only that the neglected garden had failed to grow food for them, they would always have lived in the solitary Blue Forest; but now they had started out to mingle with other people, and the first place they came to proved so interesting that Ojo could scarcely sleep a wink all night.
Margolotte was an excellent cook and gave them a fine breakfast. While they were all engaged in eating, the good woman said:
“This is the last meal I shall have to cook for some time, for right after breakfast Dr. Pipt has promised to bring my new servant to life. I shall let her wash the breakfast dishes and sweep and dust the house. What a relief it will be!”
“It will, indeed, relieve you of much drudgery,” said the Magician. “By the way, Margolotte, I thought I saw you getting some brains from the cupboard, while I was busy with my kettles. What qualities have you given your new servant?”
“Only those that an humble servant requires,” she answered. “I do not wish her to feel above her station, as the Glass Cat does. That would make her discontented and unhappy, for of course she must always be a servant.”
Ojo was somewhat disturbed as he listened to this, and the boy began to fear he had done wrong in adding all those different qualities of brains to the lot Margolotte had prepared for the servant. But it was too late now for regret, since all the brains were securely sewn up inside the Patchwork Girl’s head. He might have confessed what he had done and thus allowed Margolotte and her husband to change the brains; but he was afraid of incurring their anger. He believed that Unc had seen him add to the brains, and Unc had not said a word against it; but then, Unc never did say anything unless it was absolutely necessary.
As soon as breakfast was over they all went into the Magician’s big workshop, where the Glass Cat was lying before the mirror and the Patchwork Girl lay limp and lifeless upon the bench.
“Now, then,” said Dr. Pipt, in a brisk tone, “we shall perform one of the greatest feats of magic possible to man, even in this marvelous Land of Oz. In no other country could it be done at all. I think we ought to have a little music while the Patchwork Girl comes to life. It is pleasant to reflect that the first sounds her golden ears will hear will be delicious music.”
As he spoke he went to a phonograph, which screwed fast to a small table, and wound up the spring of the instrument and adjusted the big gold horn.
“The music my servant will usually hear,” remarked Mar
golotte, “will be my orders to do her work. But I see no harm in allowing her to listen to this unseen band while she wakens to her first realization of life. My orders will beat the band, afterward.”
The phonograph was now playing a stirring march tune and the Magician unlocked his cabinet and took out the gold bottle containing the Powder of Life.
They all bent over the bench on which the Patchwork Girl reclined. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte stood behind, near the windows, Ojo at one side and the Magician in front, where he would have freedom to sprinkle the powder. The Glass Cat came near, too, curious to watch the important scene.
“All ready?” asked Dr. Pipt.
“All is ready,” answered his wife.
So the Magician leaned over and shook from the bottle some grains of the wonderful Powder, and they fell directly on the Patchwork Girl’s head and arms.
Chapter Five.A Terrible Accident
“It will take a few minutes for this powder to do its work,” remarked the Magician, sprinkling the body up and down with much care.
But suddenly the Patchwork Girl threw up one arm, which knocked the bottle of powder from the crooked man’s hand and sent it flying across the room. Unc Nunkie and Margolotte were so startled that they both leaped backward and bumped together, and Unc’s head joggled the shelf above them and upset the bottle containing the Liquid of Petrifaction.
The Magician uttered such a wild cry that Ojo jumped away and the Patchwork Girl sprang after him and clasped her stuffed arms around him in terror. The Glass Cat snarled and hid under the table, and so it was that when the powerful Liquid of Petrifaction was spilled it fell only upon the wife of the Magician and the uncle of Ojo. With these two the charm worked promptly. They stood motionless and stiff as marble statues, in exactly the positions they were in when the Liquid struck them.
Ojo pushed the Patchwork Girl away and ran to Unc Nunkie, filled with a terrible fear for the only friend and protector he had ever known. When he grasped Unc’s hand it was cold and hard. Even the long gray beard was solid marble. The Crooked Magician was dancing around the room in a frenzy of despair, calling upon his wife to forgive him, to speak to him, to come to life again!
The Patchwork Girl, quickly recovering from her fright, now came nearer and looked from one to another of the people with deep interest. Then she looked at herself and laughed. Noticing the mirror, she stood before it and examined her extraordinary features with amazement—her button eyes, pearl bead teeth and puffy nose. Then, addressing her reflection in the glass, she exclaimed:
“Whee, but there’s a gaudy dame!
Makes a paint-box blush with shame.
Razzle-dazzle, fizzle-fazzle!
Howdy-do, Miss What’s-your-name?”
She bowed, and the reflection bowed. Then she laughed again, long and merrily, and the Glass Cat crept out from under the table and said:
“I don’t blame you for laughing at yourself. Aren’t you horrid?”
“Horrid?” she replied. “Why, I’m thoroughly delightful. I’m an Original, if you please, and therefore incomparable. Of all the comic, absurd, rare and amusing creatures the world contains, I must be the supreme freak. Who but poor Margolotte could have managed to invent such an unreasonable being as I? But I’m glad—I’m awfully glad!—that I’m just what I am, and nothing else.”
“Be quiet, will you?” cried the frantic Magician; “be quiet and let me think! If I don’t think I shall go mad.”
“Think ahead,” said the Patchwork Girl, seating herself in a chair. “Think all you want to. I don’t mind.”
“Gee! but I’m tired playing that tune,” called the phonograph, speaking through its horn in a brazen, scratchy voice. “If you don’t mind, Pipt, old boy, I’ll cut it out and take a rest.”
The Magician looked gloomily at the music-machine.
“What dreadful luck!” he wailed, despondently. “The Powder of Life must have fallen on the phonograph.”
He went up to it and found that the gold bottle that contained the precious powder had dropped upon the stand and scattered its life-giving grains over the machine. The phonograph was very much alive, and began dancing a jig with the legs of the table to which it was attached, and this dance so annoyed Dr. Pipt that he kicked the thing into a corner and pushed a bench against it, to hold it quiet.
“You were bad enough before,” said the Magician, resentfully; “but a live phonograph is enough to drive every sane person in the Land of Oz stark crazy.”
“No insults, please,” answered the phonograph in a surly tone. “You did it, my boy; don’t blame me.”
“You’ve bungled everything, Dr. Pipt,” added the Glass Cat, contemptuously.
“Except me,” said the Patchwork Girl, jumping up to whirl merrily around the room.
“I think,” said Ojo, almost ready to cry through grief over Unc Nunkie’s sad fate, “it must all be my fault, in some way. I’m called Ojo the Unlucky, you know.”
“That’s nonsense, kiddie,” retorted the Patchwork Girl cheerfully. “No one can be unlucky who has the intelligence to direct his own actions. The unlucky ones are those who beg for a chance to think, like poor Dr. Pipt here. What’s the row about, anyway, Mr. Magic-maker?”
“The Liquid of Petrifaction has accidentally fallen upon my dear wife and Unc Nunkie and turned them into marble,” he sadly replied.
“Well, why don’t you sprinkle some of that powder on them and bring them to life again?” asked the Patchwork Girl.
The Magician gave a jump.
“Why, I hadn’t thought of that!” he joyfully cried, and grabbed up the golden bottle, with which he ran to Margolotte.
Said the Patchwork Girl:
“Higgledy, piggledy, dee—
What fools magicians be!
His head’s so thick
He can’t think quick,
So he takes advice from me.”
Standing upon the bench, for he was so crooked he could not reach the top of his wife’s head in any other way, Dr. Pipt began shaking the bottle. But not a grain of powder came out. He pulled off the cover, glanced within, and then threw the bottle from him with a wail of despair.
“Gone—gone! Every bit gone,” he cried. “Wasted on that miserable phonograph when it might have saved my dear wife!”
Then the Magician bowed his head on his crooked arms and began to cry.
Ojo was sorry for him. He went up to the sorrowful man and said softly:
“You can make more Powder of Life, Dr. Pipt.”
“Yes; but it will take me six years—six long, weary years of stirring four kettles with both feet and both hands,” was the agonized reply. “Six years! while poor Margolotte stands watching me as a marble image.”
“Can’t anything else be done?” asked the Patchwork Girl.
The Magician shook his head. Then he seemed to remember something and looked up.
“There is one other compound that would destroy the magic spell of the Liquid of Petrifaction and restore my wife and Unc Nunkie to life,” said he. “It may be hard to find the things I need to make this magic compound, but if they were found I could do in an instant what will otherwise take six long, weary years of stirring kettles with both hands and both feet.”
“All right; let’s find the things, then,” suggested the Patchwork Girl. “That seems a lot more sensible than those stirring times with the kettles.”
“That’s the idea, Scraps,” said the Glass Cat, approvingly. “I’m glad to find you have decent brains. Mine are exceptionally good. You can see ‘em work; they’re pink.”
“Scraps?” repeated the girl. “Did you call me ‘Scraps’? Is that my name?”
“I—I believe my poor wife had intended to name you ‘Angeline,’” said the Magician.
“But I like ‘Scraps’ best,” she replied with a laugh. “It
fits me better, for my patchwork is all scraps, and nothing else. Thank you for naming me, Miss Cat. Have you any name of your own?”
“I have a foolish name that Margolotte once gave me, but which is quite undignified for one of my importance,” answered the cat. “She called me ‘Bungle.’”
“Yes,” sighed the Magician; “you were a sad bungle, taken all in all. I was wrong to make you as I did, for a more useless, conceited and brittle thing never before existed.”
“I’m not so brittle as you think,” retorted the cat. “I’ve been alive a good many years, for Dr. Pipt experimented on me with the first magic Powder of Life he ever made, and so far I’ve never broken or cracked or chipped any part of me.”
“You seem to have a chip on your shoulder,” laughed the Patchwork Girl, and the cat went to the mirror to see.
“Tell me,” pleaded Ojo, speaking to the Crooked Magician, “what must we find to make the compound that will save Unc Nunkie?”
“First,” was the reply, “I must have a six-leaved clover. That can only be found in the green country around the Emerald City, and six-leaved clovers are very scarce, even there.”
“I’ll find it for you,” promised Ojo.
“The next thing,” continued the Magician, “is the left wing of a yellow butterfly. That color can only be found in the yellow country of the Winkies, West of the Emerald City.”
“I’ll find it,” declared Ojo. “Is that all?”
“Oh, no; I’ll get my Book of Recipes and see what comes next.”
Saying this, the Magician unlocked a drawer of his cabinet and drew out a small book covered with blue leather. Looking through the pages he found the recipe he wanted and said: “I must have a gill of water from a dark well.”
The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels Page 197