The Project Gutenberg eBook, Grampa in Oz, by Ruth Plumly Thompson, Illustrated by John R. Neill

Grampa in Oz

Dear Boys and Girls:

This book is all about an old soldier called Grampa, a young Prince, a lost Princess and a weather cock named Bill. I might never have known a thing about them if Dorothy had not been mixed up in the story. But if there is any excitement in Oz, that girl is bound to be right in the middle of it, and her adventures with Grampa, Prince Tatters and Bill are the most curious that have happened in a year of Oz days. Really!

“I hope the other boys and girls will like Grampa as much as I do,” says Dorothy, and I hope so too, for I’m awfully fond of the old soldier.

I hear from Glinda that Mombi the witch is up to some mischief, so I must hurry off to the Emerald City at once. If it is true I’ll tell you all about it in the next story. Now please do write me some more of those jolly letters and tell me any Oz news you may hear. Will you? Meanwhile, lots of love, good wishes and good times to you!

Ruth Plumly Thompson.

Philadelphia,
July, 1924.

This book is dedicated, with deep affection, to

Uncle Billy

(Major William J. Hammer)

Author, inventor and second cousin to Santa Claus

Ruth Plumly Thompson.

A Rainy Day in Ragbad

CHAPTER 1
A Rainy Day in Ragbad

King Fumbo of Ragbad shook in his carpet slippers. He had removed his red shoes, so he could not very well shake in them.

“My dear,” quavered the King, flattening his nose against the cracked pane, “will you just look out of this window and tell me what you see?”

“My Dear” was really the Queen of Ragbad and years ago, when she had first come to the old red castle on the hill, she had worn her crown every day and was always addressed as “Your Majesty!” But as time passed and affairs in the kingdom had gone from bad to worse, My Dear, like many another Queen, had taken off her crown, put on her thimble and become plain Mrs Sew-and-Sew, and with all her sewing she had barely been able to keep the kingdom from falling to pieces. She was stitching a patch on the King’s Thursday cloak at this very minute I am telling you about.

“What now!” gasped the poor lady, and rushing to the window she also pressed her nose to the pane.

“Do you see what I see?” choked King Fumbo, clutching at her hand.

“I see a great cloud rolling over Red Mountain,” panted Mrs Sew-and-Sew. “I see the red geese flying before the wind. I see—” Here she gave a great bounce and brushed past her husband—“I see my best patch work quilt blowing down the highway!” moaned Mrs Sew-and-Sew, stumbling across the room.

“Ruination!” spluttered the King as the door slammed after his wife. “Shut the bells! Ring the windows; fetch Prince Tatters and call my red umbrella! Grampa! Scroggles! Where is every Ragbad-body?”

Grampa, as it happened, was in the garden and Grampa was an old soldier with a game leg who had fought in nine hundred and eighty Ragbad battles and beaten everything, including the drum. Just now he was beating the carpet. Tatters, the young Prince of Ragbad, was off on a picnic with the Redsmith, and Scroggles, the footman-of-all-work about the castle, was mending a hole in the roof, so none of them heard the King’s calls.

Finally, seeing that no one was coming to carry out his commands, Fumbo began to carry them out himself. First he clutched his red beard and jumped clear out of his carpet slippers. Next he slammed the window on his thumb. With his thumb in his mouth he hurled himself upon the bell rope, pulling it so violently the cord broke and dropped him upon his back. Having failed to ring the bell, he wrung his hands—and well he might, for the room had grown dark as pitch and the wind was howling down the chimney like a pack of hungry gollywockers.

“I’ll get my umbrella,” muttered King Fumbo, scrambling to his feet, but just as he reached the door, ten thousand pounds of thunder clapped the castle on the back and so startled poor Fumbo that he fell through the door and all the way down ten flights of steps. And worse still, when he finally did pick himself up, instead of running into the throne room, he plunged out into the garden and the storm broke right over his head—broke with such flashing of lightning and crashing of thunder, and lashing of tree tops, that the King and such other luckless Ragbadians as were out were flung flat on their noses, and the ones who were indoors crept under beds and into cupboards and wished they had been better than they had been. Even Grampa—who was far and away the bravest man in the country—even Grampa, after one look at the sky, rolled himself in the carpet he had been beating and lay trembling like a tobacco leaf.

“This will certainly spoil the rag crop,” sighed Grampa dismally, and as he spoke right out in this frank fashion of the chief industry of Ragbad, I’d better tell you a bit more about the country itself, for I can see your nose curling with curiosity and curly noses are not nearly so becoming as they used to be.

To begin with, Ragbad is in Oz—a small patch of a kingdom way down in the southwestern corner of the Quadling country. In the reign of Fumbo’s father it had been famous for its chintz and tapis trees, its red ginghams and calico vines, its cotton fields and its fine linens and lawns. Indeed, at one time, all the dress goods in Oz had been grown in the gardens of Ragbad.

But when Fumbo came to the throne, he began to spend so much time reading and so much money for books and tobacco that he soon emptied the treasury and had no money to pay the chintz and gingham pickers, nor to send the lawns to the laundry—they were always slightly dusty from being trodden on—and one after another the workers of Ragbad had been forced to seek a living in other lands, so that now there were only twenty-seven families left, and the cotton fields and calico bushes, the chintz and tapis trees, from lack of care and cultivation, ran perfectly wild and yielded—instead of fine bolts of material—nothing but shreds, tatters and rags.

The twenty-seven remaining Ragbadians, including the Redsmith, the Miller, the Baker and twenty-four rustic laborers, after a vain attempt to do the work of twenty-seven hundred, gave up in despair and became common rag-pickers. From these rags, which fortunately were still plentiful, Mrs Sew-and-Sew and the good wives of Ragbad made all the clothing worn in the kingdom, besides countless rag rugs, and the money obtained from the sale of these rugs was all that kept the little country from absolute and utter ruin.

Of the splendid courtiers and servitors surrounding Fumbo’s father only three remained, for I regret to say that neither the servants nor the old nobility had been able to stand the hardships attendant upon poverty, and they had left in a body the first morning Mrs Sew-and-Sew had served oatmeal without cream for breakfast. The army, too, had deserted and marched off to Jinxland because the King could not buy them new uniforms, so that only three retainers were left in the old red castle on hill. Pudge, the oldest and fattest of the wise men, had stayed because he was fond of his room in the tower and of Mrs Sew-and-Sew’s coffee. Scroggles, the second footman, had stayed because he had old-fashioned notions of his duty, and Grampa, though long since discharged from active service, had stuck to his post like the gallant old soldier he was, and as there were no battles to fight, he tended the furnace, weeded the gardens and helped King Fumbo and Mrs Sew-and-Sew bring up their son to as fine a young Prince as any in Oz.

It was of Prince Tatters—during all this bluster—that Grampa was thinking as he lay shivering under the carpet, and as soon as the thunder stopped hammering in his ears he stuck out his head. The wind, after snatching off ten roofs, the wings from the red mill and shaking all the little cottages till their very chimneys chattered, had rushed away over Red Mountain. It was still raining, but Grampa, seeing that the worst was over, crawled out of the carpet and began to look for trouble. And what do you s’pose he found? Why, the King, or at least, the best part of the King!

“Ragamercy!” shrieked the old soldier, jumping behind a tapis tree, a thing he had never done in all of those nine hundred and eighty battles. But his conduct does not surprise me at all, for Fumbo had lost his head in the storm, and was running wildly around without it—stumbling over bushes and vines and stamping his stockinged feet in a perfect frenzy of fright and fury. Now, of course, you will say at once that Fumbo is not first King to lose his head and I can only answer that he is the first I ever heard of who went on living without it, and if Ragbad were not in the wonderful Land of Oz I should say at once that the thing was impossible. In Oz, however, one may come apart, but no one ever dies; so here was poor Fumbo, with his head clean off, as live and lively as ever.

Breathing hard, Grampa peered around the tapis tree again to see whether his eyes had deceived him. But no, it was the King, without a doubt, and without his head. “Whatever will Mrs Sew-and-Sew do now,” groaned Grampa, and pulling his campaign hat well down over his ears dashed out and seizing Fumbo’s arm began splashing through the garden, dragging the King along after him. Mrs Sew-and-Sew had already reached the castle and was sitting on the broken-springed sofa that served for a throne, sneezing violently. She had not only rescued her quilt, but she had caught a frightful cold. All the colors in the quilt had run together, and this last calamity so upset the poor lady that she began sobbing and sneezing by turns. But right in the middle of the fifteenth sneeze, she looked up and saw the old soldier with the game leg standing in the doorway.

“Now don’t be frightened,” begged Grampa, advancing stiffly and dripping water all over the rug. “Don’t be alarmed, but at the same time prepare yourself for a blow.”

Mrs Sew-and-Sew, with her damp kerchief in her hand, had already been preparing herself for a blow, but now, dropping the handkerchief, she sneezed instead and when, glancing over Grampa’s shoulder she caught sight of the King, she sneezed again and fainted dead away and rolled under the sofa.

“This is worse than a battle,” puffed Grampa, dashing between the King and the Queen, for every time he tried to help Mrs Sew-and-Sew the King fell over a chair or upset a table.

“Halt! About face and wheel to your left, can’t you?” roared the old soldier, mopping his forehead. But to these instructions Fumbo, having no face about him, paid no attention. Instead he wheeled to the right and swept all the ornaments from the mantel down on the old soldier’s head, and then jumped on Grampa’s good foot so hard that Grampa forgot for a moment he was a King, and thumped him in the ribs. Then, muttering apologies, the old soldier seized a curtain cord and tied Fumbo to a red pillar. This done, he reached under the sofa, pulled out Mrs Sew-and-Sew, and having nothing else handy gave her a huge pinch of snuff. Just as she came to, in from the garden, splashing water in every direction, rushed Prince Tatters and in from the kitchen pelted Pudge, the aged Wise Man.

“The rag crop is ruined and the King will lose his head!” panted Pudge, who had a bad habit of predicting events after they had occurred.

“Has lost his head,” corrected Grampa, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“But Grampa!” Stumbling across the room, Prince Tatters shook the old soldier by the arm. “When—how—why—what will he do?”

“Do without it,” sighed the old soldier, glancing uneasily at Fumbo.

“The King has lost his head, long live his body!” wheezed Pudge, rolling up his eyes.

“Now don’t cry, my dear!” begged Grampa, scowling reprovingly at Pudge and patting Mrs Sew-and-Sew on the shoulder. “Having no head really saves one no end of trouble. No face to wash! No more headaches, no ear aches, no tooth aches!” Grampa’s voice grew more and more cheerful. “No lectures to listen to, no spectacles to hunt, no hair to lose, no more colds to catch in it. Why he is really better off without a head!”

But Mrs Sew-and-Sew refused to be comforted and rocking to and fro moaned, “What shall we do! What shall we do? What shall we do?”

“I tell you,” proposed Pudge, pursing up his lips importantly. “Let’s all have a strong cup of coffee.” As this seemed a sensible suggestion they all filed into the big red kitchen of the castle, leaving Fumbo kicking his heels against the stone pillar.

The Wise Man Speaks

CHAPTER 2
The Wise Man Speaks

“I suppose,” sighed the old soldier, stirring his coffee with the handle of his sword, “it would do no good to hunt for the King’s head in the garden?” Drying out before the blazing fire in the kitchen stove and sipping Mrs Sew-and-Sew’s fragrant coffee the little company had grown more calm.

“I’ll just have a look,” said Prince Tatters, pushing back his chair, but the old Wise Man shook an impatient finger at the very idea of such a thing.

“When a King’s head goes off it goes off,” declared Pudge huskily—“Way off as far off as it can go.”

“How far is that?” asked the old soldier. “And—”

“Hush, I am thinking,” wheezed Pudge, ruffling up his hair with one hand and holding out his coffee cup with the other. “I am thinking and presently I shall speak. Another cup of coffee, ma’am!” This was his seventh cup and after he had sipped it deliberately, scraped all the sugar out of the bottom and licked the spoon, he set down both cup and saucer, flung up his hands and spoke. “Let Prince Tatters go in search of his father’s head,” said the old Wise Man of Ragbad. “Let him seek at the same time his fortune, or a Princess with a fortune, for otherwise he will end as a common rag-picker.”

“But suppose,” objected Grampa, who tho’ an old bachelor himself had romantic ideas about marriage, “suppose he cannot love a Princess with a fortune. Suppose—”

“It is not wisdom to suppose!” sniffed Pudge. “Hush! I am thinking and presently I shall speak again.” He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead and after a short silence, during which Mrs Sew-and-Sew took a quick swallow of coffee and Grampa a hasty pinch of snuff, he spoke again. “It is the rainy day,” announced Pudge in his most solemn voice, “the rainy day I have long predicted. As the King has lost his head we must ourselves see what he has saved up for it. Come!”

Marching to the King’s best bed chamber, Pudge flung open the cupboard and there beside Fumbo’s worn cloak hung the only thing he had saved up for a rainy day—a huge red umbrella.

“And must Tatters go out into Oz with only this to protect him from danger?” wailed Mrs Sew-and-Sew, beginning to sneeze again.

“No!” declared Grampa, stamping his good foot. “I myself will accompany him!”

“Oh, Grampa!” cried the Prince, who was too young to realize the dangers of head hunting or the hardships of fortune finding, “may we start at once?”

“Hush!” mumbled Pudge, holding up his finger, “I am thinking.” Blowing out his cheeks, he stood perfectly quiet for about as long as it would take to count ten.

“To-morrow morning will be the time to start,” said the old Wise Man. “Let us return to the King.” Sobering a bit at the thought of his unfortunate father, Prince Tatters followed them down stairs, but every now and then he gave a little hop, for the idea of setting out upon such an adventure thrilled him tremendously. When they reached the throne room, Fumbo was leaning quietly against the post. He had evidently become more used to the loss of his head and was busily twiddling his thumbs.

“If we could just get him a false head till we find his own,” sighed Grampa, thumping the King affectionately on the back, “he would look more natural. Ah, I have it!” Plunging out into the wet garden, the old soldier plucked a huge cabbage and hurrying back set it upon the King’s shoulders. But no sooner had he done so than Fumbo broke the cord tying him to the pillar, rushed to the kitchen and tried to climb into the soup pot! Indeed, Mrs Sew-and-Sew snatched off his cabbage head just in time to save him from this further calamity.

Panting a little from the exertion and surprise they all sat down to think again. But by this time the news had spread into the village, and the twenty-four rustic laborers, the Miller, and the Baker and the Redsmith came hurrying to the castle to offer their services. They were subjects to be proud of, let me tell you, though a little odd looking in their patched and many colored garments. They listened in respectful silence while Grampa told all he knew of the strange plight of King Fumbo.

“I will make the King an iron head,” volunteered the Redsmith eagerly. He had a forge next to the mill and did all the iron work in Ragbad.

“No, no!” protested Grampa. “Iron is too hard. Do you want Mrs Sew-and-Sew to break her knuckles?” he finished indignantly, then dodged behind a pillar, because it was not generally known that Mrs Sew-and-Sew boxed the King’s ears every morning.

“I will make the King a new bun—er—head,” puffed the Baker, stepping forward importantly, “a head as good as his own!”

“You mean a doughnut?” asked Grampa in astonishment. “Why, that would be splendid!” Fortunately no one heard him this time and as Mrs Sew-and-Sew was pleased with the idea the Baker hurried into the kitchen and with several raisins, some flour, spices, milk and butter, kneaded up and baked a head that was the image of Fumbo’s own. It had melancholy prune eyes, red icing for hair and cinnamon whiskers. Once it had been glued on the King’s shoulders everyone drew a deep sigh of relief and Fumbo himself walked calmly to his throne and sat down. Promising to bake new heads as they were needed, the Baker said good-night, and as it was growing late the others said good-night too and marched back to the village to repair the damage done by the storm.

But in the castle itself, there was little sleep that night. King Fumbo never closed his prune eyes, for the Baker had given him no eyelids. Prince Tatters, though packed off early to bed, could do nothing but twist and turn and think of the wonderful adventures he would have seeking his fortune. Mrs Sew-and-Sew sat up till the morning star rose over Red Mountain, mending and piecing the few poor garments the Prince possessed, and thinking up good advice to give him with his breakfast.

Grampa, too, had much to occupy him, oiling his gun, packing his knapsack and polishing his sword and game leg. Many old soldiers do a lot of talking about game legs, but Grampa had the real genuine article. It buckled on at the knee and was an oblong red and white ivory box that opened out like a checker board when one wanted to play. Jointed neatly on the end of this was another red box that Grampa used for a foot, and that contained the little red figures one used for playing. The game itself was known as scrum and was a great favorite in Ragbad, being a bit like checkers, a bit like parcheesi and a bit like chess.

Grampa was very proud of his game leg, for it not only served him in place of the one he had lost in battle, but whiled away many dull hours, and being hollow was a splendid place to store his pipe and tobacco. The old soldier had seventy-five pipes and deciding which of these to carry with him took longer than all his other preparations. At last even this important matter was settled and he lay down to snatch a few hours’ sleep before morning. And morning came in almost no time, the sun rising so bright and cheerily that even Mrs Sew-and-Sew took heart, and when Grampa stuck his head in the kitchen door to see how breakfast was coming she told him how she intended to refurnish the entire castle when he returned with the King’s head and the fortune.

“Fine!” cried the old soldier, who was in excellent spirits himself. “And if you will just sew a button on this shirt I’ll be ready to start at once!” So while Grampa went on with the breakfast Mrs Sew-and-Sew, who was frightfully clever with her needle, sewed a button on the shirt. That was all Grampa needed to complete his outfit, so he hurried up stairs to waken the Prince, and at eight o’clock precisely the old soldier and Tatters issued forth from the palace gates.

Grampa wore the red uniform of the Ragbad Guards, with its scarlet coat and checkered trousers and carried not only his knapsack, gun and sword, but his trusty drum as well. Prince Tatters, over his many colored rag suit, had flung the shaggy skin of a thread bear, and with the big umbrella grasped firmly in one hand and a box of lunch in the other, presented so brave and determined an appearance that the twenty-seven good men of Ragbad, drawn up to bid them farewell, burst into loud cheers. The children waved their hats and handkerchiefs and strewed the path of the two heroes with the bunches of posies and ragweed they had risen at dawn to gather. Mrs Sew-and-Sew and the King stood on the balcony waving their arms—she waving both hers and his—for poor Fumbo, with his dough head, had no way of knowing what the excitement was all about and stood there without so much as blinking a prune.

“Good-bye!” choked Mrs Sew-and-Sew, steadying Fumbo with one hand and fluttering her apron with the other. “Don’t forget your father’s head!”

“Good-bye!” shouted Pudge, leaning far out of his window in the tower to wave his red night cap. Pudge never rose till ten.

Grampa touched his cap, Prince Tatters waved his umbrella, and having taken the patched flag of Ragbad from Scroggles, who had accompanied them thus far, they wheeled sharply to the left and marched down the broad red highway that led straight out into other and dangerous lands of Oz!

The Blue Forest of Oz

CHAPTER 3
The Blue Forest of Oz

“Grampa,” said Prince Tatters, after the two adventurers had marched along for a time in silence, “Pudge did not tell us where to look for my father’s head, nor where to find the Princess and the fortune.”

“Trust a wise man for that,” replied the old soldier, striking a match on his game leg and lighting his pipe.

“Then where are we going Grampa?” asked the Prince, shifting his umbrella to his other arm and adjusting his stride to that of the old soldier.

“That,” puffed Grampa, “depends on the four-pence.” Stopping short, he took a small coin from his pocket. On one side was the head of King Fumbo and on the other the coat of arms of Ragbad. “I may not be a wise man,” explained Grampa, tossing the coin in his palm, “but I am sure your father’s head can only be restored by magic. There are but two people left in Oz who are permitted to practice magic. One is Glinda, the good sorceress and Queen of our own Quadling country and the other is the Wizard of Oz, who lives in the palace of Princess Ozma, ruler of all Oz.”

Tatters nodded impatiently, for he had learned all this in his history book.

“So,” continued Grampa, “we must march either to the East—for Glinda’s castle is in that direction—or to the North to the Emerald City and the palace of Ozma of Oz. Which shall it be? Heads for Ozma, arms for Glinda!”

Up flew the four-pence and Prince Tatters, dropping on his knee, gave a little cry of delight—for Fumbo’s head was uppermost.

“The King has decided himself,” chuckled Grampa, pocketing the coin, “so North we go to the Emerald City. We’ll be on our way, my lad, and who knows but on the way we may pick up a fortune or a Princess—and a couple of new pipes and some rare old Oz tobacco,” finished the old soldier, half closing his eyes. These last two items did not interest Prince Tatters, but the thought of visiting the Capitol of Oz, of seeing Princess Ozma, the little fairy ruler, and being presented at court, sent the Prince, who had spent his whole life in the shabby little kingdom of Ragbad, marching along the red highway so fast that Grampa had to do double time to keep up with him.

Tatters began rehearsing all Mrs Sew-and-Sew had taught him of court manners and speech and wondering whether he had better speak to Grampa about his bad habits. The old soldier had but two. One was eating with his sword and the other was taking snuff, but after a sidelong glance at Grampa, trudging happily at his side, the Prince decided to wait until they reached the Emerald City before offering any advice on etiquette. Even Tatters did not realize how long a journey this would be. He knew in a general way that Oz is a great oblong kingdom, divided into four large countries and many small ones, and that the Emerald City is in the exact center.

On the maps of Oz in the Prince’s geography the southern Quadling country was marked in red; the country of the West, which was settled by the Munchkins, was marked in blue; the northern Gilliken country in purple; and the land of the Winkies, which lay to the East, was colored yellow—for these were the national colors of the countries represented.

Though Grampa and Tatters had by this time left Ragbad far behind them, they were still in the Quadling country and all the little farms and villages they passed were of cheery red brick or stone and the people themselves dressed in the quaint red costume of the south. Tulips, poppies and red roses nodded over the tall hedges; the fields, rusty with sorrel, had a reddish tinge and all along the highway giant red maples arched their lacy branches. At noon they stopped under one of these maples and had a bite of the lunch Mrs Sew-and-Sew had prepared for them, but their pause was short for both were anxious to reach the Emerald City as soon as possible, to learn from the Wizard of Oz the best way to recover Fumbo’s head. To make the marching easier, the old soldier played a lively rat-tat upon his drum, and as they passed through the quiet Quadling villages many heads were popped out the windows to see what all the racket was about. But soon these villages became farther and farther apart, and the country more wild and unsettled and just as the sun slipped down behind the treetops they came to the edge of a deep blue forest.

“A long march,” puffed the old soldier, mopping his forehead, “but we’re getting along, my lad, for this is the beginning of the Munchkin country.”

“Do you think it’s safe?” asked Prince Tatters, peering anxiously into the gloomy forest.

“Safe!” cried Grampa scornfully. “Well I hope not. Fortunes are never found in safe places my boy. Shouldn’t wonder if there were a bear behind every tree,” he continued cheerfully. “Shouldn’t wonder if there were a dragon or two lying in wait for us. Come on!” Thrusting his drum sticks through his belt and waving his sword, the old soldier plunged recklessly into the blue forest, shouting the national air of Ragbad at the top of his lungs.

“Oh, hush,” begged Prince Tatters, glancing uneasily from side to side and treading close upon Grampa’s heels, “someone might hear you. Oh! What’s that?” For with a shrill scream a great bird had risen from the branches of a tree just ahead and flown squawking into the air.

“That’s supper!” chuckled the old soldier, and raising his gun he took aim and fired. There was a sharp crash as the bullet struck home, then down fell a large reddish fowl.

“Well?” the fowl rasped sulkily, as Prince Tatters and Grampa ran forward, “what am I supposed to do now? I’ve never been shot before.”

“A bird that’s shot is not supposed to do anything,” said the old soldier severely.

“Oh,” sighed the bird, “that’s easy!” and putting down its head, it lay quietly on its side.

“It’s a rooster!” exclaimed the Prince, touching it with one hand, “an iron rooster!” At this the bird sprang up indignantly.

“You may shoot me if you want, but I’ll not lie here and let you call me names,” it shrilled angrily. “Where are your eyes? Can’t you see I’m a weather cock?”

“Do you suppose I’d have wasted a good bullet on you if I had? I may have an iron constitution but I don’t eat cast iron birds,” sniffed Grampa. “What do you mean, flying through this forest deceiving hungry travellers?”

“I don’t know what I mean,” replied the weather cock calmly, “for I’ve only been alive since last night. What do you mean yourself, pray? Must everyone have a meaning like a riddle?”

Grampa stroked his whiskers thoughtfully over this remark.

“But how did you come to be alive?” asked the Prince, leaning on his red umbrella and regarding the bird with deep interest—for even in Oz weather cocks usually stick to their poles.

“There was a storm,” explained the cock, lifting one claw, “lightning, thunder, wind and rain. One minute I was whirling around on the top of my barn and next minute I was spinning through space. Then all at once I came in contact with a live wire, there was a flash, I was charged with a strange force and to my infinite amazement I found that my wings would work and that I could crow. So I crew and flew and flew and crew, till I fell exhausted in this forest.”

“Humph!” grunted Grampa. “A likely story. In the first place there are no live wires in Oz and—”

“Oz!” screeched the weather cock, “I didn’t say Oz. I was on a barn near Chicago when the storm broke. Have you never heard of Chicago, you odd looking, old creature?”

“Never,” answered Grampa emphatically, “but wherever you started from, you’re in Oz now and you might as well get used to it. Come along, Tatters. There’s nothing to be gained by arguing, it only makes me hungry.”

“But tell me,” the weather cock fluttered into the air, “what am I to do with my life?”

“Keep it—if you can,” chuckled the old soldier and started off between the trees. But Tatters was loath to leave this singular bird.

“Let him come with us Grampa,” coaxed the Prince. “He won’t need anything to eat and he might help us find the fortune.”

“Yes, do,” crowed the weather cock. “I can waken you in the morning, tell you which way the wind blows and fall upon the heads of your enemies. Have you any enemies?” the weather cock asked hopefully.

“Not yet,” murmured the Prince, looking ahead into the shadows,—“but—”

“Shouldn’t wonder if he would make a good fighter,” reflected Grampa, half closing his eyes. “Never saw a cock yet that wasn’t game. Do you agree to join this company, obey all commands and go by the name of Bill?”

“I’ll go by the name of Bill, but what name shall I come by?” asked the weather cock, putting its head on one side.

“The same, you iron idiot!” shouted Grampa, who was a bit short tempered. “Do you agree?”

“Yes,” crowed the weather cock, putting up his claw, solemnly.

“Then forward fly,” commanded the old soldier. And up into the air with a rusty creak flung the weather cock and just beneath marched Grampa and the Prince. As they progressed through the ever darkening forest, Tatters told Bill of the great storm in Ragbad, how he was seeking his father’s head and his own fortune.

“Your father lost his head in the same storm I found my life,” wheezed the weather cock earnestly, “so it is only fair that I should help you.”

“Hah! We shall be helped by fair means or fowl!” chuckled the old soldier, who would have his little joke—but it was lost on Bill, who was already looking around for the King’s head and the fortune. And though he was not quite sure what a fortune was, he felt confident that he should find one. It had grown so dark by now that Grampa soon called a halt. Under a tall blue tree the little company made camp. Bill was most helpful in collecting wood and Prince Tatters put up the red umbrella, which was so large that it served them admirably for a tent. A little beyond the rim of the umbrella Grampa kindled a fire, and after a cozy supper of toasted sandwiches the old soldier unbuckled his leg and he and Prince Tatters settled down to a quiet game of scrum. Bill flew to the top of the blue tree to observe the wind and the weather, and nothing could have been more peaceful. The stars twinkled merrily above, the fire crackled cheerily below and Tatters had just beaten Grampa two games to one, when a hundred little snaps in the underbrush made them turn in alarm.

“Great gum drops!” gasped the old soldier, jumping to his foot.

Tatters snatched up the umbrella and, using it for a shield, began to back away, for in the circle of the firelight and completely surrounding the blue tree stood a company of bandits. They were tall and terrible, with great slouch hats and blue boots. Pistols and daggers by the dozen bristled in their belts and nothing could have been fiercer than their whiskered faces and scowling brows.

For a moment no one spoke. Grampa frowned angrily and Prince Tatters tried to look as if he was not scared. As usual, Bill was calm.

“Are you going to stop here and let them call you gum drops?” sneered the leader, plucking a dagger from his boot. He took one stride forward, then pitched on his face and lay perfectly still—for the weather cock, convinced that this was an enemy, had fallen hard upon his head. The suddenness of the blow surprised the outlaws and while they drew back in confusion Grampa leaned down, seized his wooden leg and buckling it on as he ran, joined Prince Tatters, who by this time had his back against the tree.

“Go it Bill!” shouted the old soldier, laying about with his drum sticks.

“Here I go by the name of Bill!” screeched the excited weather cock, rising into the air again. “Here I come by the name of Bill. Su-cumb, you blue monster!” And down went a second bandit. This enraged the others, and though Prince Tatters poked away valiantly with the big umbrella, and Grampa knocked out three of the outlaws with his drum sticks and Bill fell upon the heads of two more, they were hopelessly outnumbered. In a minute more they were overpowered, bound with heavy ropes and dragged through the forest to the bandits’ camp. Even the weather cock swung head down from the belt of one of the robbers.

The Baffled Bandits

CHAPTER 4
The Baffled Bandits

“I’m so disappointed I could cry,” blubbered the robber chief, pulling out his red handkerchief. “Shake them again Skally, shake them hard!” Before him on the ground lay the few possessions of Grampa and Tatters—an old silver watch, the four-pence, a rusty pen knife and two copper medals. The chief had recovered from the terrible blow of the cast iron weather cock, but had a large black lump over one eye. Bill, who insisted on crowing in a dozen different keys, had been muffled in the bandit’s cloak and put under a rock.

“I told you they were a poor lot,” sniffed Skally, but nevertheless, he seized first Grampa and then Tatters and shook them violently by the heels. This he could easily do, being eight feet tall and exceedingly muscular. Two red gum drops rolled out of Grampa’s pocket, but that was all.

“And they’re not even frightened,” complained the bandit in a grieved voice, as Skally set the two roughly on their feet.

“Frightened!” puffed Grampa indignantly. (After the two terrible shakings he had only breath enough to puff.) “You didn’t think a flock of bush-whacking bandits like you could frighten an old soldier like me, and a young Prince like Tatters, did you?”

“Prince!” gasped the bandit, blinking at Tatters through the smoke of the wood fire, while the rest of the outlaws began to slap their knees and roar with merriment.

“Yes, Prince,” shrilled Grampa, “and don’t make faces at me, you ugly villain.”

“Well!” roared the chief, after another long look at Tatters, “he may be a Prince to his mother, but he’s a pain in the eye to me!”

“Then shut your eyes,” advised Grampa promptly. “I’d do it for you if I were not tied up. In a fair fight I’d beat you any day.”

“We’ve taken everything they have. Shall we hang them or let them go?” asked Skally in a bored voice.

“No you haven’t,” screamed Grampa defiantly. “No you haven’t. Take my picture you scoundrel! Take my rheumatism! Take my advice and clear out of this forest before I report you to the Princess of Oz.”

Even Prince Tatters, who really was frightened at the fierce appearance of the bandit, had to laugh a little at the surprised expression on the chief’s face as the old soldier continued to stamp and scold. And the more Grampa scolded the more cheerful the bandit became.

“He reminds me of my old father,” he remarked in an admiring undertone to Skally.

“Does your old father know you’re a bandit?” shouted Grampa sternly, “holding up honest adventurers and getting your living by breaking the law?”

“Father always told me to take things easy,” replied the chief, popping one of Grampa’s gum drops into his mouth. “‘Vaga,’ he said to me over and over again, ‘always take things easy, my boy,’ and I do,” grinned the robber wickedly. “But business is mighty slow in this forest lately. Kings and Princes are getting poorer and poorer every day. Look at him!” He waved scornfully at Tatters. “Not worth a shoe button and the whole week it has been the same story. All we got to-day was a wizard, but he was as false as his whiskers—couldn’t even change leaves to gold or sticks to precious stones. All he had with him was a bottle of patent medicine. Now medicine,” yawned Vaga, touching with his boot a long green bottle that lay with a heap of rubbish near the fire, “is something I never take.”

“But I thought wizards were not allowed to practice magic in Oz,” put in Tatters, surprised into speech by the bandit’s last statement. “It’s against the law isn’t it?”

“So are bandits!” roared Yaga. “But I’m here just the same, my boy, taking things easy, and when I’ve saved up enough I’m going to open an Inn and take things easier still.”

“Another way to rob honest travellers,” groaned the old soldier, “but now, as you’ve taken our four-pence and our time, untie these bonds and we’ll return to our camp.”

“Let him tell his story,” suggested Skally, “it might entertain us and they certainly owe us something for all this trouble.”

“No, I’ve decided to make outlaws of them,” announced Yaga calmly. “The old one is a fine fighter and can be a father to me; the young one would frighten anybody; as for the cast iron bird it can be melted up into bullets.”

“What shall we do now?” whispered Tatters, seizing Grampa’s arm. The old soldier winked encouragingly.

“Not bad at all,” he murmured aloud, as if he were half pleased at the idea of being a bandit. “Plenty of fighting and it’s as good a way as any to make a fortune. Swear us in Mr Vagabandit, swear us in my son!”

The bandit chief was surprised and overjoyed at Grampa’s change of heart. He immediately ordered Skally to untie the captives. Each was given a black mask and a dagger and, having raised their hands and solemnly agreed to break every law in Oz, they were welcomed with cheers and shouts into the outlaw band. After the excitement had died down, they all gathered about the fire and Grampa told them the history of Ragbad, how he had got his game leg and of the nine hundred and eighty great battles he had fought in. The bandits listened attentively at first, but the old soldier’s recital was so long that presently one and then another of the bandits fell asleep, and by the time Grampa had reached the nine hundredth battle the whole company lay sprawled about the fire, snoring like good fellows instead of bad ones. Prince Tatters, his head on the skin of the old thread bear, was asleep too.

“More ways than one of winning a battle,” chuckled the old soldier, smiling behind his whiskers. First, he recovered his watch, medals and the four-pence. They were still on the ground beside Vaga. Protruding from the robber’s pocket was a rough blue pouch. Very carefully the old soldier drew it out. “This will pay for the shakings,” said Grampa, stowing it away in his game leg. “I’ll sample the scoundrel’s tobacco when we’re well out of this.” As he straightened up the long, green bottle of patent medicine caught his eye. “I’ll take this along too,” he muttered, sticking it in his pocket. “Maybe it will help my rheumatism.”

The fire had died down and it was so dark and forbidding in the blue forest that Grampa decided to snatch a few hours’ rest before making an escape. Stretching unconcernedly beside long-legged Skally he fell into a deep and peaceful slumber. And so well trained was this old campaigner that in two hours, exactly, he awoke. The sun had not yet risen, but in the dim grey light of early morning Grampa could make out the forms of the sleeping bandits. Stepping softly, so as not to waken them, he touched Tatters on the shoulder. The Prince started up in alarm, but when Grampa, with fingers to his lips, motioned for him to come he seized his red umbrella and tip-toed after him.

“Have I lived to this age to be an old father to a bandit?” puffed Grampa indignantly as they hurried along. He shook his fist over his shoulder. “Farther and farther away is what I’ll be.” Grampa laughed a little at his joke. “But we can’t go without Bill,” he muttered suddenly, as they passed the rock under which the robbers had thrust the valiant weather cock. With some difficulty they lifted off the rock and, first whispering strict orders for silence, unwound Bill from the various coats and cloaks. Then Tatters, fearing the creak of Bill’s wings would arouse the bandits, stuck him under one arm.

“Wish I knew where they kept their supplies,” whispered the old soldier as they pushed on through the heavy underbrush and made their way around gnarled old trees. “My teeth need some exercise.”

“What a dreadful lot of crows there are in this forest,” mused the Prince, who had scarcely heard Grampa’s last remark. “Why the trees are black with them!”

“Well, do you expect me to eat crow?” sniffed the old soldier, waving his sword to disperse a flock of the birds that were circling around his head.

“No, but—” Tatters got no further, for at that instant crows of an entirely different nature made them both leap into the air. The sun had risen and as the first rays penetrated into the dim forest Bill flew out of Tatters’ arms and, perching on a low branch, burst into such a brazen clamor of cock-a-doodle-doos that the whole forest rang with it.

“Hush! Halt! Stop that alarm!” gasped Grampa. “Now, you’ve done it!”

“Oh, Bill, how could you!” groaned the Prince. Snatching off the skin of the thread bear, he flung it over the iron weather cock and seizing him unceremoniously began to run after Grampa. They had already put a goodly distance between themselves and the bandits, but a few minutes after Bill’s crowing shots came echoing through the wood and the next instant they could hear the outlaws crashing through the brush. They sounded like a herd of elephants.

“We’ll have to hide,” panted the old soldier. “Here, crawl into this hollow tree.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Grampa dove into the tree himself and Tatters, taking a firmer hold on Bill and the red umbrella, followed.

“Is there room?” gasped the Prince. “Grampa, are you there?” But Grampa was not there. Neither, for that matter, was Tatters himself, for his feet instead of resting on earth, rested on nothing. A great wind whistled past his ears and blew his hair straight on end.

“The temperature’s falling!” The voice of the weather cock came stuffily through the bear skin.

“Everything’s falling!” gasped the Prince of Ragbad, hugging Bill and the red umbrella close to his chest. “Everything!”

You can easily understand what had happened. There was no bottom to the hollow tree. When Grampa, Prince Tatters and Bill crawled into the hole, they simply disappeared. They dropped—down—down—down!

Down the Hollow Tree

CHAPTER 5
Down the Hollow Tree

Now falling, when you first start, is a hair-raising business, but after you have fallen for a mile and twenty minutes and nothing serious happens you grow rather used to the feel of it. And that’s how it was with Tatters.

“Bill,” he shouted presently—he had to shout for the rush of air carried away his words as fast as they were spoken—“Bill, where do you suppose we’re falling to?”

“South by West,” crowed the weather cock promptly. The Prince would have liked to continue the conversation, but it took too much breath, so he began planning how he should land without breaking Grampa, for certainly Grampa was somewhere below. Rather sorrowfully he reflected that they were falling farther away from the Emerald City every minute. He wondered where his father’s head was, and what Mrs Sew-and-Sew would think if she could see them tumbling down this hollow tree. Would it never grow lighter? Would they never reach the bottom and what would happen when they did? Just as he came to this point in his wonderings, Tatters dropped into a clump of pink bushes so hard that for several seconds he could do nothing but gasp.

“Well,” crowed Bill, beginning to flutter restlessly about in the bear-skin, “are we here?”

“Yes, thanks to you. You’re discharged!” roared the old soldier, as Prince Tatters picked up himself and his red umbrella. Grampa had been less fortunate in his landing. He sat in the middle of a cinder path, blinking rapidly, and as Bill scrambled out of the bear-skin and hopped after Tatters, he raised his gun threateningly.

“You’re discharged without pay,” repeated Grampa angrily. “What do you mean by crowing and betraying us to the enemy?”

“I couldn’t help it,” answered Bill in an injured tone. “It is the nature of a cock to crow and I’ve helped the sun to rise.”

“And us to fall,” scolded Grampa. “Well, you’re discharged!” Rolling over with a groan, he drew the bottle of patent medicine from his pocket. Fortunately it was not broken, but it had made a dreadful dent in Grampa.

“But wherever in Oz are we?” exclaimed Prince Tatters, trying to change the subject, for he did not intend to have Bill sent off in this hasty fashion. The old soldier pretended not to hear and continued to stare resentfully at the bottle of medicine. On one side was pasted a green label and Tatters looking over his shoulder read, with some surprise:

Sure cure for everything.
Follow the directions on the bottle.

Beneath in tiny printing was a long list of ailments. Grampa ran his finger hastily down the list until he came to breaks, sprains and bruises. “One spoon-full immediately after falling,” directed the bottle.

Without a word, Grampa took a tin spoon from his knapsack, uncorked the bottle and swallowed the dose.

“Why, it’s the wizard’s medicine!” cried Tatters, watching him anxiously, for no sooner was the stuff down than a broad grin overspread Grampa’s face. “Good thing I brought it along—works just like magic—never know I’d fallen,” puffed Grampa, completely restored to good humor. “Better have some, boys.” The old soldier smiled at his companions.

Tatters, who was not hurt at all, shook his head and Bill, who had flown into the air to examine the bottle, shook his wings.

“Well—good-bye!” wheezed the weather cock hoarsely. “You don’t need me to direct you now—you can follow the directions on the bottle. Here I go,” he finished sulkily, “here I go by the name of Bill!”

“Don’t go,” begged Tatters, looking pleadingly at the old soldier. Now Grampa, remembering the splendid way Bill had fallen upon the bandits, had already relented, but he never apologized.

“Company fall in!” he commanded gruffly, putting the wizard’s medicine in his pocket. Tatters winked at Bill and Bill, muttering something about having fallen in already, began to march down the cinder path. They had dropped into a small park surrounded by a hedge that grew up as high as they could see. A soft glow shone through the hedge and by its rosy light the three adventurers began to examine their surroundings with great interest. The park itself was pretty enough, but after marching entirely around it and finding no break in the hedge, Grampa looked rather worried.

“It’s a good enough place for a picnic,” puffed the old soldier, dusting his game leg, “but then we’re not on a picnic!”

“No,” sighed Tatters, sinking down on a bench, “we’re not on a picnic, for there’s nothing to eat.”

“If you were made of iron like I am you would never be hungry,” crowed the weather cock, proudly. “I am glad I am cast in iron, but what shall we do now, Mr Grampa?”

“Fly up and see how high the hedge is,” directed the old soldier, “while Tatters and I try to cut an opening.” Pleased to be of some service, Bill hurled himself upward, and Grampa with his sword and Tatters with his rusty pen knife began hacking at the hedge. But as fast as they cut away the twigs, others grew and after ten minutes hard work they gave up in despair. Then down came Bill with the discouraging news that he had flown as high as he could, and the top of the hedge was still nowhere in sight. “But the wind is blowing north,” finished the weather cock calmly.

“Bother the wind!” sputtered Grampa.

“Must we stay here till we starve,” groaned Tatters, “and never find my father’s head or the fortune at all?”

“Fortune,” repeated Bill, putting his head on one side as if the word brought something to his mind. “Don’t worry about that, for I have already found the fortune.” And while Grampa and the Prince stared at him in amazement, he touched with his claw a tiny golden key. It was suspended on a thin chain round his neck and neither of them had noticed it before.

“Why, where did you get that?” asked Tatters.

“I picked it out of the robber chief’s pocket,” explained Bill, rolling his eyes from one to the other.

“You’d make a fine bandit,” chuckled Grampa, “but that’s not a fortune, old fellow!”

“Then what is a fortune?” asked Bill, looking terribly disappointed.

Grampa pulled his whiskers thoughtfully, for a fortune, when you come right down to it, is hard to explain.

“Well,” he began slowly, “it might be gold, or jewels, or land. Anything precious and rare,” he finished hastily.

“Isn’t this gold?” demanded Bill, holding up the key.

“Oh, Grampa, maybe it’s the key to the bandit’s treasure chest,” interrupted Tatters excitedly. “Let’s go back and hunt for it.”

“And how are you going?” inquired the old soldier sarcastically. “Falling down trees is easy enough, but you can’t fall up trees like you can fall up steps. However,” he added quickly, seeing Tatters’ downcast face, “there must be some way out. Let’s look again.”

“I’m going to keep this key,” mused Tatters in a more cheerful voice, “for I believe it will help us.” He gave Bill a little pat on the head as he took the chain off his neck, and somewhat comforted, but still mightily puzzled, the iron weather cock hopped after Grampa. This time they circled the hedge more slowly, the old soldier taking one side and Tatters and Bill the other. It was Bill who made the discovery—for shining through the leaves on the left side the weather cock caught the gleam of gold!

“The fortune!” he crowed loudly. “The fortune!”

It was not a fortune, but a golden gate, and pushing aside the leaves and twigs Grampa and Tatters stared through the bars into the loveliest garden they had ever seen. The gate was unlocked, and when Grampa pressed upon it with his shoulder it swung noiselessly inward. Fairly holding his breath, Tatters stepped in after the old soldier, and Bill had just time to hop through before the gate swung shut again. Grampa gave a low whistle and Tatters an involuntary cry of admiration. Flowering vines and bushes filled the air with a delicate fragrance; paths of silvery sand wound in and out among the trees and arbors; crystal fountains splashed between the flower beds; and bordering each path and grass grown lane were trees glowing with magic lanterns, lanterns that bloomed as gaily as the blossoms themselves and lighted up the garden with a hundred rainbow sheens.

It was all so strange and beautiful that Tatters and Grampa scarcely dared breath but Bill, having been alive only two days, seemed to think magic gardens quite usual affairs.

“Come on,” he called excitedly, “let’s find the fortune!” But a golden sign on the nearest magic tree had caught Tatters’ eye and, paying no attention to Bill, he tip-toed over to it.

“This is the Garden of Gorba,” announced the sign. “Mystery and magic in all its branches.”

Grampa had come up behind Tatters. “Gorba,” muttered the old soldier softly. “Now where?” He pulled the bottle of patent medicine from his pocket and squinted first at the sign and then at the bottle. “The same!” puffed Grampa, for written in gold letters at the end of the list of ailments was the name Gorba.

“This must be the garden of the wizard that rascally bandit was telling us about,” muttered Grampa uneasily. “He must have been on his way here when they held him up. Maybe he’s here now! Hush! Be careful! Watch out now! I wouldn’t trust a wizard as far as I could swing a chimney by the smoke!”

The Wizard’s Garden

CHAPTER 6
The Wizard’s Garden

“Maybe he will tell me where to find my father’s head,” whispered Tatters excitedly.

“Well,” admitted Grampa, starting cautiously down one of the silver paths, “that would be a good turn, but a wizard’s more likely to turn us to good gate posts or caterpillars.”

“I refuse to be a caterpillar,” rasped the weather cock. He had flown down and was hopping close to Grampa’s heels. “I’ll give him a peck in the eye!”

Rattling his iron wings, Bill looked around anxiously.

“Well, don’t forget you’re under orders,” snapped Grampa severely. “No forward falling, crowing or pecking till I give the word, understand?”

“I don’t believe he’s a bad wizard,” observed the Prince quietly, “his garden is too pretty.”

“Pretty is as pretty does,” sniffed Grampa. “He’s practising magic, which is against the law, and you can’t get around that, besides—” Just here Grampa trod upon a small flagstone path that led across a broad stretch of lawn and never finished his sentence at all, for the stone rose a foot into the air and started bouncing across the green at such a rate the old soldier teetered backward and forward and did a regular toe dance to keep his balance.

“Wait!” shouted Tatters in alarm, and running after Grampa, himself stepped upon one of the lively flag stones. Up rose the stone and the next thing the Prince of Ragbad was bouncing after the old soldier, waving his red umbrella and calling frantically for Bill. But Bill was already aboard the third stone, and before any of them had sense enough to jump, the stones bounced straight under a silver fountain, dumped off their three startled passengers and went skipping back to their places in the walk.

“Variable winds and heavy showers,” crowed Bill dismally.

“Scraps and scribbage!” sputtered the old soldier. “I told you that wizard was a villain. Company fall out!” he commanded gruffly. This the company lost no time in doing.

“Oh, well,” laughed Tatters, rolling from under the drenching spray, “it saves us the trouble of washing our faces. But what made them do it Grampa?” Grampa gave himself an angry shake and marched stiffly over to the flagstone path. Carved neatly on the last stone were these words:

Gorba’s Stepping Stones,
Guaranteed for seven centuries.

Stand on the right foot to go East, on the left to go West. Stand on both feet to go South. To go North stand on your head.

“Well, North’s the way we want to go!” cried Tatters eagerly as Grampa finished reading. “Maybe they’ll carry us all the way to Emerald City.”

“Not me!” snorted the old soldier, taking a pinch of snuff. “Stand on your head if you like, but I’m going to travel right side up or not at all. Do you want to break your neck?” he demanded indignantly.

“It would be a little rough,” admitted Tatters, remembering the way the stones had bumped, “but it’s pretty good magic just the same.” Grampa grunted contemptuously and tightened the fastenings of his game leg, but even the old soldier could not stay cross long in this enchanting garden, and when a moment later they happened upon a cluster of peach trees he grew quite cheerful again.

“Always did like peaches for breakfast,” he sighed, impaling one on his sword. Twirling the sword and taking little bites all round, he looked with half closed eyes down the long vistas of lantern lanes. “I wish Mrs Sew-and-Sew could see this,” sighed the old soldier pensively. Tatters nodded, but he was impatient to see more of the wizard’s garden, so filling his pocket with peaches, he ran down the narrowest of the lanes after Bill, who had already flown ahead to have another look for the fortune. Opening out from this lane was a smaller and enclosed garden filled with the strangest bushes Tatters ever had seen. Each one grew in the shape of an animal. There were bears, tigers, lions, elephants and deer and the eyes, noses and mouths were marked by blossoms of the proper size and shape, that grew cunningly just where they were needed. They looked so life-like that for a moment the Prince was frightened, but after he had prodded a lion bush with his umbrella and it neither roared nor lashed its green tail he proceeded from one to the other quite as if he were in a museum. And certainly Gorba’s animals were queer enough to grace any museum.

“Wonder how he makes ’em grow this way?” murmured Tatters, finishing his last peach.

“Might as well wonder how he happens to be a wizard,” chuckled Grampa, who had come up quietly behind him. “Why, this is better than a zoo, it’s a whole blooming menagerie, and if we knew the secret of it we could travel all over Oz growing deer and rabbit bushes in the castle gardens and your fortune would be made in no time. But as we don’t know the secret of it,” concluded Grampa, squinting at his old silver watch, “we’d better forward march and see if we can find a way out of here.” With many backward glances, Tatters followed him down another of the lantern lanes, but they had scarcely gone half way when the hoarse voice of the weather cock came screeching overhead.

“The Princess! The Princess! I have found the Princess!” crowed Bill, falling with an iron clang in the path before them.

“Be quiet,” warned the old soldier anxiously, “do you want the wizard to get you? Now then, what’s all this nonsense about a Princess?” Grampa winked at Tatters and Tatters winked back, for neither of them had much faith in Bill’s discoveries. But the weather cock was too excited to mind. Hopping stiffly ahead and pausing every few seconds to urge them forward with a wave of his wing, he led them to the very center of the enchanted garden. There, on a bed of softest moss, surrounded by a rose blown hedge, lay the loveliest little maiden you could ever imagine!

“The Princess,” repeated Bill huskily. “The Princess!”

“You’re wrong,” breathed the old soldier, pushing back his cap and tip-toeing forward, “you’re wrong. It’s the Queen of the May!” And it surely seemed that Grampa had guessed correctly, for Bill’s Princess was a little Lady of Flowers. Her face, hands and neck were of the tiniest white blossoms, her eyes, deep blue violets, her mouth a rose bud and her nose and brows delicately marked with pink stems. Her hair, blowing backward and forward in the fragrant breeze, was the finest spray of flowering fern, and her dress was most enchanting of all. The waist was of every soft, silken flower you could think of, buttoned all the way down the front with pansies, while her skirts—a thick cluster of blossoming vines—fluttered gaily about her tiny lady slippers.

“Why!” exclaimed the Prince of Ragbad, “she’s growing in the flower bed. Oh, Grampa, if she were only alive!”

“I wish she were myself,” sighed the old soldier. “This wizard must know a deal of magic to grow a little fairy like that. Mind what you’re about there,” he called sharply to Bill. The weather cock had flown over the hedge and was hopping so close to the flower girl it made Grampa nervous.

“But look!” crowed Bill. “Looky look!” Under the hedge and padlocked to a small iron ring in the ground was a gold watering can. It did not take Grampa and Tatters long to leap over the hedge after that, for as the old soldier said himself, the wizard was doubtless away and it was their plain duty to see that this little flower maid had a freshening spray before they left the garden. First Tatters tried to wrench the can loose. The golden chain on the padlock was so slender it should have broken at the first tug, but it held like iron. Then Grampa tried his hand, but with no better luck; next both Grampa and Tatters tugged together, Bill doing his bit by jerking out the Prince’s coat-tails.

“More magic!” panted Grampa, sucking his thumb. “The only way to get it loose is to find the key.”

“The key,” shrilled Tatters, suddenly diving into his pocket. “Why, I wonder if this is the key?” Jubilantly he produced the tiny gold key Bill had taken from the bandit and the next instant he had fitted it in the padlock.

“Vaga must have stolen that from the wizard when he took the medicine,” mused Grampa, “and that wizard’s mighty particular with his old gold can.” He sniffed scornfully as Tatters slid it from its chain. “Here, I’ll fill it at the fountain.”

“But it’s already full,” answered the Prince of Ragbad, giving it a little shake.

Running over to the mossy bed, he tilted the gold can forward and sprayed the little flower lady from top to toe. Stars! No sooner had the last drop fallen than a perfectly amazing thing happened—so amazing that Grampa and Tatters clutched each other to keep from tumbling over backwards and Bill flew screaming into the nearest tree. For the little flower maiden slowly and gracefully rose from her bed, poised a moment on tip-toe and then, with a merry little laugh, bounded over to Grampa and Tatters and seized their hands. Next thing they were whirling round and round in the jolliest fashion imaginable, faster and faster and faster, till everything grew blurred and all three tumbled down in a heap.

“Oh, forget-me-nots—isn’t that fun!” trilled the little flower girl, jumping lightly to her feet. “Oh, I’ve wanted to do that always!”

“Who—who are you?” gasped Tatters, for Grampa, between loss of breath and astonishment, was perfectly speechless.

“Why, just my own self,” smiled the little creature, flinging back her feathery hair.

“How do you blow? How do you blow?” shrieked Bill, falling in a heap beside her.

“He means how do you do,” puffed Grampa, laughing in spite of himself. “You’ll have to excuse him for he’s a weather cock and used to talking to Augusta.” Then as the little maiden still seemed puzzled, Grampa finished his sentence. “Augusta Wind,” chuckled the old soldier, with a wink that made them all laugh except Bill, who continued to regard the flower girl intently.

“Are you a Princess?” asked Bill, with his head anxiously on one side.

“No,” mused the little girl slowly, “I don’t think I’m a Princess, let—me—see. Oh, I remember now the old wizard telling the birds my name was Urtha, because I’m made of earth!”

“Go along with you then,” snapped Bill crossly. “We’re looking for a Princess.”

“Don’t mind him,” begged Tatters jumping up hastily.

“Tell us about yourself, Miss Posy,” cried Grampa, straightening his cap and feeling his game leg slyly. In the dance it had turned completely around. “I declare you’re the loveliest little lady I’ve met in all my travels.”

The roses in Urtha’s cheeks seemed to grow pinker at Grampa’s words.

“There isn’t much to tell,” she began softly. “I don’t seem to remember anything but this garden. I guess I just grew,” she finished with a little bounce that sent her skirts flying out in every direction.

“And whatever was in that gold watering can brought you to life. I believe you’re a fairy,” said the old soldier solemnly.

“No! No!” laughed the little flower girl, seizing a long trailing vine. “I’m just Urtha.” And using the vine as a skipping rope she flashed up and down the silver paths so swiftly that it made Tatters and Grampa blink just to follow her dancing steps.

“What are you going to do now that you are alive?” asked Tatters as she paused for a moment beside him.

“Just going to be happy in this garden,” replied Urtha with a little shake of her lovely fern hair.

“I wish we could stay too,” sighed Tatters, for he could think of no end of games he could teach Urtha, and even the Emerald City, he reflected, could not be lovelier than this enchanted garden. Grampa gave a start at Tatters’ words and, suddenly recalled to his duty, gathered up his gun and knapsack.

“It’s been a pleasure to know you, my dear,” said Grampa gallantly, taking off his cap, “but we’ll have to be marching on now, for we’ve a long journey before us.”

“Oh!” Urtha gave a little cry of dismay. “Didn’t you grow in the garden too?” Grampa shook his head and as quickly as he could told her how King Fumbo had lost his head and how he and Tatters had set out to seek it and the Prince’s fortune. Urtha was almost as much puzzled over a fortune as Bill. Indeed, the whole of Grampa’s story was confusing—for you see it was the first story the little flower maiden had ever heard. But Prince Tatters and the old soldier interested her tremendously. She touched Grampa’s medals shyly and could not admire Tatters’ patched and many colored suit enough. As for Bill, she blew him so many kisses that the embarrassed weather cock flew and hid himself in an oleander bush. Saying good-bye to dear little Urtha was a difficult business, but at last Grampa, with a very determined expression, shouldered his gun and Tatters reluctantly picked up his red umbrella.

“Come on!” shouted Bill, impatiently sticking his head out of the bush. “Come on, or we’ll never find the head, the fortune and the Princess.” As Urtha had not turned out a Princess he had lost all interest in her.

“But I’ll miss you,” sighed Urtha, and drooped so sadly against a tree that Tatters promptly fell out of line and began to comfort her.

“You won’t miss us,” said Grampa, looking uneasily at his watch, “you can’t miss people you’ve just met, you know.” The old soldier was faced with a problem the like of which he had never before encountered, and he was plainly at a loss to know what to do.

“I’ve known you longer than anyone else. I’ve known you my whole life,” sighed Urtha wistfully.

“But you’ve only been alive five minutes,” smiled the old soldier indulgently.

“Why don’t you join the army like I did?” inquired Bill, who was anxious to be off.

“Oh, couldn’t she?” begged Tatters eagerly. Grampa shifted his feet and looked uncertainly at the little flower maiden. She seemed too frail and delicate to set out on a journey of adventure. “But,” reflected the old soldier, “if she’s a fairy nothing can harm her and if she’s not, someone ought to look out for her. As we brought her to life we’re responsible.”

“Come along with you,” cried Grampa recklessly. So away through the wizard’s garden marched this strange little army, the patched flag of Ragbad fluttering from the top of Tatters’ red umbrella and the little flower maiden falling out of line every few minutes to dance gaily round a tree or skip merrily through a fountain.

She fairly seemed to float above the flowers that blossomed along the way, as her dainty feet slipped from daisy to daisy. Prince Tatters could hardly keep his eyes away from Urtha as she danced along the way. And Grampa smiled happily at the delight of the two happy young people.

The Winding Stairway

CHAPTER 7
The Winding Stairway