But now the boats were landing upon the beach. They were fifty in number, beautifully decorated and upholstered and rowed by men clad in the gay uniforms of the King of Gilgad. One splendid boat had a throne of gold in the center, over which was draped the King’s royal robe of purple velvet, embroidered with gold buttercups.
Rinkitink shuddered when he saw this throne; but now a tall man, handsomely dressed, approached and knelt upon the grass before his King, while all the other occupants of the boats shouted joyfully and waved their plumed hats in the air.
“Thanks to our good fortune,” said the man who kneeled, “we have found Your Majesty at last!”
“Pinkerbloo,” answered Rinkitink sternly, “I must have you hanged, for thus finding me against my will.”
“You think so now, Your Majesty, but you will never do it,” returned Pinkerbloo, rising and kissing the King’s hand.
“Why won’t I?” asked Rinkitink.
“Because you are much too tender-hearted, Your Majesty.”
“It may be—it may be,” agreed Rinkitink, sadly. “It is one of my greatest failings. But what chance brought you here, my Lord Pinkerbloo?”
“We have searched for you everywhere, sire, and all the people of Gilgad have been in despair since you so mysteriously disappeared. We could not appoint a new King, because we did not know but that you still lived; so we set out to find you, dead or alive. After visiting many islands of the Nonestic Ocean we at last thought of Pingaree, from where come the precious pearls; and now our faithful quest has been rewarded.”
“And what now?” asked Rinkitink.
“Now, Your Majesty, you must come home with us, like a good and dutiful King, and rule over your people,” declared the man in a firm voice.
“I will not.”
“But you must—begging Your Majesty’s pardon for the contradiction.”
“Kitticut,” cried poor Rinkitink, “you must save me from being captured by these, my subjects. What! must I return to Gilgad and be forced to reign in splendid state when I much prefer to eat and sleep and sing in my own quiet way? They will make me sit in a throne three hours a day and listen to dry and tedious affairs of state; and I must stand up for hours at the court receptions, till I get corns on my heels; and forever must I listen to tiresome speeches and endless petitions and complaints!”
“But someone must do this, Your Majesty,” said Pinkerbloo respectfully, “and since you were born to be our King you cannot escape your duty.”
“‘Tis a horrid fate!” moaned Rinkitink. “I would die willingly, rather than be a King—if it did not hurt so terribly to die.”
“You will find it much more comfortable to reign than to die, although I fully appreciate Your Majesty’s difficult position and am truly sorry for you,” said Pinkerbloo.
King Kitticut had listened to this conversation thoughtfully, so now he said to his friend:
“The man is right, dear Rinkitink. It is your duty to reign, since fate has made you a King, and I see no honorable escape for you. I shall grieve to lose your companionship, but I feel the separation cannot be avoided.”
Rinkitink sighed.
“Then,” said he, turning to Lord Pinkerbloo, “in three days I will depart with you for Gilgad; but during those three days I propose to feast and make merry with my good friend King Kitticut.”
Then all the people of Gilgad shouted with delight and eagerly scrambled ashore to take their part in the festival.
Those three days were long remembered in Pingaree, for never—before nor since—has such feasting and jollity been known upon that island. Rinkitink made the most of his time and everyone laughed and sang with him by day and by night.
Then, at last, the hour of parting arrived and the King of Gilgad and Ruler of the Dominion of Rinkitink was escorted by a grand procession to his boat and seated upon his golden throne. The rowers of the fifty boats paused, with their glittering oars pointed into the air like gigantic uplifted sabres, while the people of Pingaree—men, women and children—stood upon the shore shouting a royal farewell to the jolly King.
Then came a sudden hush, while Rinkitink stood up and, with a bow to those assembled to witness his departure, sang the following song, which he had just composed for the occasion.
“Farewell, dear Isle of Pingaree—
The fairest land in all the sea!
No living mortals, kings or churls,
Would scorn to wear thy precious pearls.
“King Kitticut, ‘tis with regret
I’m forced to say farewell; and yet
Abroad no longer can I roam
When fifty boats would drag me home.
“Good-bye, my Prince of Pingaree;
A noble King some time you’ll be
And long and wisely may you reign
And never face a foe again!”
They cheered him from the shore; they cheered him from the boats; and then all the oars of the fifty boats swept downward with a single motion and dipped their blades into the purple-hued waters of the Nonestic Ocean.
As the boats shot swiftly over the ripples of the sea Rinkitink turned to Prince Bobo, who had decided not to desert his former master and his present friend, and asked anxiously:
“How did you like that song, Bilbil—I mean Bobo? Is it a masterpiece, do you think?”
And Bobo replied with a smile:
“Like all your songs, dear Rinkitink, the sentiment far excels the poetry.”
The Lost Princess of Oz L. Frank Baum
To My Readers
Some of my youthful readers are developing wonderful imaginations. This pleases me. Imagination has brought mankind through the Dark Ages to its present state of civilization. Imagination led Columbus to discover America. Imagination led Franklin to discover electricity. Imagination has given us the steam engine, the telephone, the talking-machine and the automobile, for these things had to be dreamed of before they became realities. So I believe that dreams—day dreams, you know, with your eyes wide open and your brain-machinery whizzing—are likely to lead to the betterment of the world. The imaginative child will become the imaginative man or woman most apt to create, to invent, and therefore to foster civilization. A prominent educator tells me that fairy tales are of untold value in developing imagination in the young. I believe it.
Among the letters I receive from children are many containing suggestions of “what to write about in the next Oz Book.” Some of the ideas advanced are mighty interesting, while others are too extravagant to be seriously considered—even in a fairy tale. Yet I like them all, and I must admit that the main idea in “The Lost Princess of Oz” was suggested to me by a sweet little girl of eleven who called to see me and to talk about the Land of Oz. Said she: “I s’pose if Ozma ever got lost, or stolen, ev’rybody in Oz would be dreadful sorry.”
That was all, but quite enough foundation to build this present story on. If you happen to like the story, give credit to my little friend’s clever hint.
L. Frank Baum
Royal Historian of Oz
CHAPTER 1.A TERRIBLE LOSS
There could be no doubt of the fact: Princess Ozma, the lovely girl ruler of the Fairyland of Oz, was lost. She had completely disappeared. Not one of her subjects—not even her closest friends—knew what had become of her. It was Dorothy who first discovered it. Dorothy was a little Kansas girl who had come to the Land of Oz to live and had been given a delightful suite of rooms in Ozma’s royal palace just because Ozma loved Dorothy and wanted her to live as near her as possible so the two girls might be much together.
Dorothy was not the only girl from the outside world who had been welcomed to Oz and lived in the royal palace. There was another named Betsy Bobbin, whose adventures had led her to seek refuge with Ozma, and still another named Trot, who had been invited, together with her faithful c
ompanion Cap’n Bill, to make her home in this wonderful fairyland. The three girls all had rooms in the palace and were great chums; but Dorothy was the dearest friend of their gracious Ruler and only she at any hour dared to seek Ozma in her royal apartments. For Dorothy had lived in Oz much longer than the other girls and had been made a Princess of the realm.
Betsy was a year older than Dorothy and Trot was a year younger, yet the three were near enough of an age to become great playmates and to have nice times together. It was while the three were talking together one morning in Dorothy’s room that Betsy proposed they make a journey into the Munchkin Country, which was one of the four great countries of the Land of Oz ruled by Ozma. “I’ve never been there yet,” said Betsy Bobbin, “but the Scarecrow once told me it is the prettiest country in all Oz.”
“I’d like to go, too,” added Trot.
“All right,” said Dorothy. “I’ll go and ask Ozma. Perhaps she will let us take the Sawhorse and the Red Wagon, which would be much nicer for us than having to walk all the way. This Land of Oz is a pretty big place when you get to all the edges of it.”
So she jumped up and went along the halls of the splendid palace until she came to the royal suite, which filled all the front of the second floor. In a little waiting room sat Ozma’s maid, Jellia Jamb, who was busily sewing. “Is Ozma up yet?” inquired Dorothy.
“I don’t know, my dear,” replied Jellia. “I haven’t heard a word from her this morning. She hasn’t even called for her bath or her breakfast, and it is far past her usual time for them.”
“That’s strange!” exclaimed the little girl.
“Yes,” agreed the maid, “but of course no harm could have happened to her. No one can die or be killed in the Land of Oz, and Ozma is herself a powerful fairy, and she has no enemies so far as we know. Therefore I am not at all worried about her, though I must admit her silence is unusual.”
“Perhaps,” said Dorothy thoughtfully, “she has overslept. Or she may be reading or working out some new sort of magic to do good to her people.”
“Any of these things may be true,” replied Jellia Jamb, “so I haven’t dared disturb our royal mistress. You, however, are a privileged character, Princess, and I am sure that Ozma wouldn’t mind at all if you went in to see her.”
“Of course not,” said Dorothy, and opening the door of the outer chamber, she went in. All was still here. She walked into another room, which was Ozma’s boudoir, and then, pushing back a heavy drapery richly broidered with threads of pure gold, the girl entered the sleeping-room of the fairy Ruler of Oz. The bed of ivory and gold was vacant; the room was vacant; not a trace of Ozma was to be found.
Very much surprised, yet still with no fear that anything had happened to her friend, Dorothy returned through the boudoir to the other rooms of the suite. She went into the music room, the library, the laboratory, the bath, the wardrobe, and even into the great throne room, which adjoined the royal suite, but in none of these places could she find Ozma.
So she returned to the anteroom where she had left the maid, Jellia Jamb, and said:
“She isn’t in her rooms now, so she must have gone out.”
“I don’t understand how she could do that without my seeing her,” replied Jellia, “unless she made herself invisible.”
“She isn’t there, anyhow,” declared Dorothy.
“Then let us go find her,” suggested the maid, who appeared to be a little uneasy. So they went into the corridors, and there Dorothy almost stumbled over a queer girl who was dancing lightly along the passage.
“Stop a minute, Scraps!” she called, “Have you seen Ozma this morning?”
“Not I!” replied the queer girl, dancing nearer. “I lost both my eyes in a tussle with the Woozy last night, for the creature scraped ‘em both off my face with his square paws. So I put the eyes in my pocket, and this morning Button-Bright led me to Aunt Em, who sewed ‘em on again. So I’ve seen nothing at all today, except during the last five minutes. So of course I haven’t seen Ozma.”
“Very well, Scraps,” said Dorothy, looking curiously at the eyes, which were merely two round, black buttons sewed upon the girl’s face.
There were other things about Scraps that would have seemed curious to one seeing her for the first time. She was commonly called “the Patchwork Girl” because her body and limbs were made from a gay-colored patchwork quilt which had been cut into shape and stuffed with cotton. Her head was a round ball stuffed in the same manner and fastened to her shoulders. For hair, she had a mass of brown yarn, and to make a nose for her a part of the cloth had been pulled out into the shape of a knob and tied with a string to hold it in place. Her mouth had been carefully made by cutting a slit in the proper place and lining it with red silk, adding two rows of pearls for teeth and a bit of red flannel for a tongue.
In spite of this queer make-up, the Patchwork Girl was magically alive and had proved herself not the least jolly and agreeable of the many quaint characters who inhabit the astonishing Fairyland of Oz. Indeed, Scraps was a general favorite, although she was rather flighty and erratic and did and said many things that surprised her friends. She was seldom still, but loved to dance, to turn handsprings and somersaults, to climb trees and to indulge in many other active sports.
“I’m going to search for Ozma,” remarked Dorothy, “for she isn’t in her rooms, and I want to ask her a question.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Scraps, “for my eyes are brighter than yours, and they can see farther.”
“I’m not sure of that,” returned Dorothy. “But come along, if you like.”
Together they searched all through the great palace and even to the farthest limits of the palace grounds, which were quite extensive, but nowhere could they find a trace of Ozma. When Dorothy returned to where Betsy and Trot awaited her, the little girl’s face was rather solemn and troubled, for never before had Ozma gone away without telling her friends where she was going, or without an escort that befitted her royal state. She was gone, however, and none had seen her go. Dorothy had met and questioned the Scarecrow, Tik-Tok, the Shaggy Man, Button-Bright, Cap’n Bill, and even the wise and powerful Wizard of Oz, but not one of them had seen Ozma since she parted with her friends the evening before and had gone to her own rooms.
“She didn’t say anything las’ night about going anywhere,” observed little Trot.
“No, and that’s the strange part of it,” replied Dorothy. “Usually Ozma lets us know of everything she does.”
“Why not look in the Magic Picture?” suggested Betsy Bobbin. “That will tell us where she is in just one second.”
“Of course!” cried Dorothy. “Why didn’t I think of that before?” And at once the three girls hurried away to Ozma’s boudoir, where the Magic Picture always hung. This wonderful Magic Picture was one of the royal Ozma’s greatest treasures. There was a large gold frame in the center of which was a bluish-gray canvas on which various scenes constantly appeared and disappeared. If one who stood before it wished to see what any person anywhere in the world was doing, it was only necessary to make the wish and the scene in the Magic Picture would shift to the scene where that person was and show exactly what he or she was then engaged in doing. So the girls knew it would be easy for them to wish to see Ozma, and from the picture they could quickly learn where she was.
Dorothy advanced to the place where the picture was usually protected by thick satin curtains and pulled the draperies aside. Then she stared in amazement, while her two friends uttered exclamations of disappointment.
The Magic Picture was gone. Only a blank space on the wall behind the curtains showed where it had formerly hung.
CHAPTER 2.THE TROUBLES OF GLINDA THE GOOD
That same morning there was great excitement in the castle of the powerful Sorceress of Oz, Glinda the Good. This castle, situated in the Quadling Country, far south of the Emerald Ci
ty where Ozma ruled, was a splendid structure of exquisite marbles and silver grilles. Here the Sorceress lived, surrounded by a bevy of the most beautiful maidens of Oz, gathered from all the four countries of that fairyland as well as from the magnificent Emerald City itself, which stood in the place where the four countries cornered. It was considered a great honor to be allowed to serve the good Sorceress, whose arts of magic were used only to benefit the Oz people. Glinda was Ozma’s most valued servant, for her knowledge of sorcery was wonderful, and she could accomplish almost anything that her mistress, the lovely girl Ruler of Oz, wished her to.
Of all the magical things which surrounded Glinda in her castle, there was none more marvelous than her Great Book of Records. On the pages of this Record Book were constantly being inscribed, day by day and hour by hour, all the important events that happened anywhere in the known world, and they were inscribed in the book at exactly the moment the events happened. Every adventure in the Land of Oz and in the big outside world, and even in places that you and I have never heard of, were recorded accurately in the Great Book, which never made a mistake and stated only the exact truth. For that reason, nothing could be concealed from Glinda the Good, who had only to look at the pages of the Great Book of Records to know everything that had taken place. That was one reason she was such a great Sorceress, for the records made her wiser than any other living person.
This wonderful book was placed upon a big gold table that stood in the middle of Glinda’s drawing room. The legs of the table, which were incrusted with precious gems, were firmly fastened to the tiled floor, and the book itself was chained to the table and locked with six stout golden padlocks, the keys to which Glinda carried on a chain that was secured around her own neck. The pages of the Great Book were larger in size than those of an American newspaper, and although they were exceedingly thin, there were so many of them that they made an enormous, bulky volume. With its gold cover and gold clasps, the book was so heavy that three men could scarcely have lifted it. Yet this morning when Glinda entered her drawing room after breakfast, the good Sorceress was amazed to discover that her Great Book of Records had mysteriously disappeared.
The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels Page 260