Chapter Seven

The Troublesome Phonograph

When the boy opened his eyes next morning he

looked carefully around the room. These small

Munchkin houses seldom had more than one room in

them. That in which Ojo now found himself had

three beds, set all in a row on one side of it.

The Glass Cat lay asleep on one bed, Ojo was in

the second, and the third was neatly made up and

smoothed for the day. On the other side of the

room was a round table on which breakfast was

already placed, smoking hot. Only one chair was

drawn up to the table, where a place was set for

one person. No one seemed to be in the room except

the boy and Bungle.

Ojo got up and put on his shoes. Finding a

toilet stand at the head of his bed he washed his

face and hands and brushed his hair. Then he

went to the table and said:

“I wonder if this is my breakfast?”

“Eat it!” commanded a Voice at his side, so

near that Ojo jumped; But no person could he

see.

He was hungry, and the breakfast looked

good; so he sat down and ate all he wanted.

Then, rising, he took his hat and wakened the

Glass Cat.

“Come on, Bungle,” said he; “we must go.

He cast another glance about the room and,

speaking to the air, he said: “Whoever lives here

has been kind to me, and I’m much obliged.”

There was no answer, so he took his basket

and went out the door, the cat following him.

In the middle of the path sat the Patchwork

Girl, playing with pebbles she had picked up.

“Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed cheerfully.

“I thought you were never coming out. It has been

daylight a long time.”

“What did you do all night?” asked the boy.

“Sat here and watched the stars and the

moon,” she replied. “They’re interesting. I never

saw them before, you know.”

“Of course not,” said Ojo.

“You were crazy to act so badly and get

thrown outdoors,” remarked Bungle, as they

renewed their journey.

“That’s all right,” said Scraps. “If I hadn’t

been thrown out I wouldn’t have seen the stars,

nor the big gray wolf.”

“What wolf?” inquired Ojo.

“The one that came to the door of the house

three times during the night.”

“I don’t see why that should be,” said the

boy, thoughtfully; “there was plenty to eat in

that house, for I had a fine breakfast, and I

slept in a nice bed.”

“Don’t you feel tired?” asked the Patchwork

Girl, noticing that the boy yawned.

“Why, yes; I’m as tired as I was last night;

and yet I slept very well.”

“And aren’t you hungry?”

“It’s strange,” replied Ojo. “I had a good

breakfast, and yet I think I’ll now eat some of

my crackers and cheese.”

Scraps danced up and down the path. Then

she sang:

“Kizzle-kazzle-kore;

The wolf is at the door,

There’s nothing to eat but a bone without meat,

And a bill from the grocery store.”

“What does that mean?” asked Ojo.

“Don’t ask me,” replied Scraps. “I say what

comes into my head, but of course I know nothing

of a grocery store or bones without meat or

very much else.”

“No,” said the cat; “she’s stark, staring,

raving crazy, and her brains can’t be pink, for

they don’t work properly.”

“Bother the brains!” cried Scraps. “Who cares

for ‘em, anyhow? Have you noticed how beautiful my

patches are in this sunlight?”

Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps

pattering along the path behind them and all three

turned to see what was coming. To their

astonishment they beheld a small round table

running as fast as its four spindle legs could

carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a

phonograph with a big gold horn.

“Hold on!” shouted the phonograph. “Wait for

me!”

“Goodness me; it’s that music thing which the

Crooked Magician scattered the Powder of Life

over,” said Ojo.

“So it is,” returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of

voice; and then, as the phonograph overtook them,

the Glass Cat added sternly: “What are you doing

here, anyhow?”

“I’ve run away,” said the music thing. “After

you left, old Dr. Pipt and I had a dreadful

quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces if

I didn’t keep quiet. Of course I wouldn’t do that,

because a talking-machine is supposed to talk and

make a noise—and sometimes music. So I slipped out

of the house while the Magician was stirring his

four kettles and I’ve been running after you all

night. Now that I’ve found such pleasant company,

I can talk and play tunes all I want to.”

Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome

addition to their party. At first he did not know

what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought

decided him not to make friends.

“We are traveling on important business,” he

declared, “and you’ll excuse me if I say we can’t

be bothered.”

“How very impolite!” exclaimed the phonograph.

“I’m sorry; but it’s true,” said the boy. “You’ll

have to go somewhere else.”

“This is very unkind treatment, I must say,

whined the phonograph, in an injured tone.

“Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended

to amuse people.”

“It isn’t you we hate, especially,” observed

the Glass Cat; “it’s your dreadful music. When

I lived in the same room with you I was much

annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and

grumbles and clicks and scratches so it spoils

the music, and your machinery rumbles so that

the racket drowns every tune you attempt.”

“That isn’t my fault; it’s the fault of my

records. I must admit that I haven’t a clear

record,” answered the machine.

“Just the same, you’ll have to go away,” said

Ojo.

“Wait a minute,” cried Scraps. “This music

thing interests me. I remember to have heard

music when I first came to life, and I would like

to hear it again. What is your name, my poor

abused phonograph?”

“Victor Columbia Edison,” it answered.

“Well, I shall call you ‘Vic’ for short,” said

the Patchwork Girl. “Go ahead and play something.”

“It’ll drive you crazy,” warned the cat.

“I’m crazy now, according to your statement.

Loosen up and reel out the music, Vic.”

“The only record I have with me,” explained

the phonograph, “is one the Magician attached

just before we had our quarrel. It’s a highly

classical composition.”

“A what?” inquired Scraps.

“It is classical music, and is considered the

best and most puzzling ever manufactured.

You’re supposed to like it, whether you do or

not, and if you don’t, the proper thing is to look

as if you did. Understand?”

“Not in the least,” said Scraps.

“Then, listen!”

At once the machine began to play and in a

few minutes Ojo put his hands to his ears to

shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and

Scraps began to Jaugh.

“Cut it out, Vic,” she said. “That’s enough.”

But the phonograph continued playing the dreary

tune, so Ojo seized the crank, jerked it free and

threw it into the road. However, the moment the

crank struck the ground it hounded back to the

machine again and began winding it up. And still

the music played.

“Let’s run!” cried Scraps, and they all started

and ran down the path as fast as they could go.

But the phonograph was right behind them

and could run and play at the same time. It

called out, reproachfully:

“What’s the matter? Don’t you love classical

music?”

“No, Vic,” said Scraps, halting. “We will

passical the classical and preserve what joy we

have left. I haven’t any nerves, thank goodness,

but your music makes my cotton shrink.”

“Then turn over my record. There’s a rag-time

tune on the other side,” said the machine.

“What’s rag-time?”

“The opposite of classical.”

“All right,” said Scraps, and turned over the

record.

The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble

of sounds which proved so bewildering that after a

moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron into the

gold horn and cried: “Stop—stop! That’s the other

extreme. It’s extremely bad!”

Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on.

“If you don’t shut off that music I’ll smash

your record,” threatened Ojo.

The music stopped, at that, and the machine

turned its horn from one to another and said

with great indignation: “What’s the matter

now? Is it possible you can’t appreciate rag-time?”

“Scraps ought to, being rags herself,” said

the cat; “but I simply can’t stand it; it makes

my whiskers curl.”

“It is, indeed, dreadful!” exclaimed Ojo, with

a shudder.

“It’s enough to drive a crazy lady mad,”

murmured the Patchwork Girl. “I’ll tell you what,

Vic,” she added as she smoothed out her apron and

put it on again, “for some reason or other you’ve

missed your guess. You’re not a concert; you’re a

nuisance. “

“Music hath charms to soothe the savage

breast,” asserted the phonograph sadly.

“Then we’re not savages. I advise you to go

home and beg the Magician’s pardon.”

“Never! He’d smash me.”

“That’s what we shall do, if you stay here,”

Ojo declared.

“Run along, Vic, and bother some one else,”

advised Scraps. “Find some one who is real

wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In

that way you can do some good in the world.”

The music thing turned silently away and

trotted down a side path, toward a distant

Munchkin village.

“Is that the way we go?” asked Bungle anxiously.

“No,” said Ojo; “I think we shall keep straight

ahead, for this path is the widest and best.

When we come to some house we will inquire

the way to the Emerald City.”