Chapter Thirteen

Scraps and the Scarecrow

From here on the country improved and the desert

places began to give way to fertile spots; still

no houses were yet to be seen near the road. There

were some hills, with valleys between them, and on

reaching the top of one of these hills the

travelers found before them a high wall, running

to the right and the left as far as their eyes

could reach. Immediately in front of them, where

the wall crossed the roadway, stood a gate having

stout iron bars that extended from top to bottom.

They found, on coming nearer, that this gate was

locked with a great padlock, rusty through lack of

use.

“Well,” said Scraps, “I guess we’ll stop here.”

“It’s a good guess,” replied Ojo. “Our way is

barred by this great wall and gate. It looks as if

no one had passed through in many years.

“Looks are deceiving,” declared the Shaggy Man,

laughing at their disappointed faces, “and this

barrier is the most deceiving thing in all Oz.”

“It prevents our going any farther, anyhow,”

said Scraps. “There is no one to mind the gate

and let people through, and we’ve no key to

the padlock.”

“True,” replied Ojo, going a little nearer to

peep through the bars of the gate. “What shall we

do, Shaggy Man? If we had wings we might fly over

the wall, but we cannot climb it and unless we get

to the Emerald City I won’t be able to find the

things to restore Unc Nunkie to life.”

“All very true,” answered the Shaggy Man,

quietly; “but I know this gate, having passed

through it many times.”

“How?” they all eagerly inquired.

“I’ll show you how,” said he. He stood Ojo

in the middle of the road and placed Scraps

just behind him, with her padded hands on his

shoulders. After the Patchwork Girl came the

Woozy, who held a part of her skirt in his

mouth. Then, last of all, was the Glass Cat,

holding fast to the Woozy’s tail with her glass

jaws.

“Now,” said the Shaggy Man, “you must all

shut your eyes tight, and keep them shut until

I tell you to open them.”

“I can’t,” objected Scraps. “My eyes are buttons, and they won’t shut.”

So the Shaggy Man tied his red handkerchief over

the Patchwork Girl’s eyes and examined all the

others to make sure they had their eyes fast shut

and could see nothing.

“What’s the game, anyhow—blind-man’s-buff?”

asked Scraps.

“Keep quiet!” commanded the Shaggy Man,

sternly. “All ready? Then follow me.”

He took Ojo’s hand and led him forward over the

road of yellow bricks, toward the gate. Holding

fast to one another they all followed in a row,

expecting every minute to bump against the iron

bars. The Shaggy Man also had his eyes closed, but

marched straight ahead, nevertheless, and after

he had taken one hundred steps, by actual count,

he stopped and said:

“Now you may open your eyes.”

They did so, and to their astonishment found

the wall and the gateway far behind them,

while in front the former Blue Country of the

Munchkins had given way to green fields, with

pretty farmhouses scattered among them.

“That wall,” explained the Shaggy Man, “is

what is called an optical illusion. It is quite real

while you have your eyes open, but if you are

not looking at it the barrier doesn’t exist at all.

It’s the same way with many other evils in life;

they seem to exist, and yet it’s all seeming and

not true. You will notice that the wall—or what

we thought was a wall—separates the Munchkin

Country from the green country that surrounds

the Emerald City, which lies exactly in the

center of Oz. There are two roads of yellow

bricks through the Munchkin Country, but the

one we followed is the best of the two. Dorothy

once traveled the other way, and met with more

dangers than we did. But all our troubles are

over for the present, as another day’s journey

will bring us to the great Emerald City.”

They were delighted to know this, and proceeded

with new courage. In a couple of hours they

stopped at a farmhouse, where the people were very

hospitable and invited them to dinner. The farm

folk regarded Scraps with much curiosity but no

great astonishment, for they were accustomed to

seeing extraordinary people in the Land of Oz.

The woman of this house got her needle and

thread and sewed up the holes made by the

porcupine quills in the Patchwork Girl’s body,

after which Scraps was assured she looked as

beautiful as ever.

“You ought to have a hat to wear,” remarked

the woman, “for that would keep the sun from

fading the colors of your face. I have some

patches and scraps put away, and if you will

wait two or three days I’ll make you a lovely

hat that will match the rest of you.”

“Never mind the hat,” said Scraps, shaking

her yarn braids; “it’s a kind offer, but we can’t

stop. I can’t see that my colors have faded a

particle, as yet; can you?”

“Not much,” replied the woman. “You are still

very gorgeous, in spite of your long journey.”

The children of the house wanted to keep the

Class Cat to play with, so Bungle was offered

a good home if she would remain; but the cat

was too much interested in Ojo’s adventures and

refused to stop.

“Children are rough playmates,” she remarked to

the Shaggy Man, “and although this home is more

pleasant than that of the Crooked Magician I fear

I would soon be smashed to pieces by the boys and

girls.”

After they had rested themselves they renewed

their journey, finding the road now smooth and

pleasant to walk upon and the country growing more

beautiful the nearer they drew to the Emerald

City.

By and by Ojo began to walk on the green

grass, looking carefully around him.

“What are you trying to find?” asked Scraps.

“A six-leaved clover,” said he.

“Don’t do that!” exclaimed the Shaggy Man,

earnestly. “It’s against the Law to pick a six-leaved clover. You must wait until you get Ozma’s

consent.”

“She wouldn’t know it,” declared the boy.

“Ozma knows many things,” said the Shaggy Man.

“In her room is a Magic Picture that shows any

scene in the Land of Oz where strangers or

travelers happen to be. She may be watching the

picture of us even now, and noticing everything

that we do.”

“Does she always watch the Magic Picture?”

asked Ojo.

“Not always, for she has many other things

to do; but, as I said, she may be watching us

this very minute.”

“I don’t care,” said Ojo, in an obstinate tone

of voice; “Ozma’s only a girl.”

The Shaggy Man looked at him in surprise.

“You ought to care for Ozma,” said he, “if you

expect to save your uncle. For, if you displease

our powerful Ruler, your journey will surely prove

a failure; whereas, if you make a friend of Ozma,

she will gladly assist you. As for her being a

girl, that is another reason why you should obey

her laws, if you are courteous and polite.

Everyone in Oz loves Ozma and hates her enemies,

for she is as just as she is powerful.”

Ojo sulked a while, but finally returned to the

road and kept away from the green clover. The

boy was moody and bad tempered for an hour

or two afterward, because he could really see

no harm in picking a six-leaved clover, if he

found one, and in spite of what the Shaggy

Man had said he considered Ozma’s law to be

unjust.

They presently came to a beautiful grove of tall

and stately trees, through which the road wound in

sharp curves—first one way and then another. As

they were walking through this grove they heard

some one in the distance singing, and the sounds

grew nearer and nearer until they could

distinguish the words, although the bend in the

road still hid the singer. The song was something

like this:

“Here’s to the hale old bale of straw

That’s cut from the waving grain,

The sweetest sight man ever saw

In forest, dell or plain.

It fills me with a crunkling joy

A straw-stack to behold,

For then I pad this lucky boy

With strands of yellow gold.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Shaggy Man; “here comes my

friend the Scarecrow.

“What, a live Scarecrow?” asked Ojo.

“Yes; the one I told you of. He’s a splendid

fellow, and very intelligent. You’ll like him,

I’m sure.

Just then the famous Scarecrow of Oz came

around the bend in the road, riding astride a

wooden Sawhorse which was so small that its

rider’s legs nearly touched the ground.

The Scarecrow wore the blue dress of the

Munchkins, in which country he was made,

and on his head was set a peaked hat with a flat

brim trimmed with tinkling bells. A rope was

tied around his waist to hold him in shape. for

he was stuffed with straw in every part of him

except the top of his head, where at one time

the Wizard of Oz had placed sawdust, mixed

with needles and pins, to sharpen his wits. The

head itself was merely a bag of cloth, fastened

to the body at the neck, and on the front of this

bag was painted the face—ears, eyes, nose and

mouth.

The Scarecrow’s face was very interesting, for

it bore a comical and yet winning expression,

although one eye was a bit larger than the other

and ears were not mates. The Munchkin farmer who

had made the Scarecrow had neglected to sew him

together with close stitches and therefore some of

the straw with which he was stuffed was inclined

to stick out between the seams. His hands

consisted of padded white gloves, with the fingers

long and rather limp, and on his feet he wore

Munchkin boots of blue leather with broad turns at

the tops of them.

The Sawhorse was almost as curious as its rider.

It had been rudely made, in the beginning, to saw

logs upon, so that its body was a short length of

a log, and its legs were stout branches fitted

into four holes made in the body. The tail was

formed by a small branch that had been left on the

log, while the head was a gnarled bump on one end

of the body. Two knots of wood formed the eyes,

and the mouth was a gash chopped in the log. When

the Sawhorse first came to life it had no ears at

all, and so could not hear; but the boy who then

owned him had whittled two ears out of bark and

stuck them in the head, after which the Sawhorse

heard very distinctly.

This queer wooden horse was a great favorite

with Princess Ozma, who had caused the bottoms of

its legs to be shod with plates of gold, so the

wood would not wear away. Its saddle was made of

cloth-of-gold richly encrusted with precious gems.

It had never worn a bridle.

As the Scarecrow came in sight of the party of

travelers, he reined in his wooden steed and

dismounted, greeting the Shaggy Man with a smiling

nod. Then he turned to stare at the Patchwork Girl

in wonder, while she in turn stared at him.

“Shags,” he whispered, drawing the Shaggy Man

aside, “pat me into shape, there’s a good fellow!”

While his friend punched and patted the

Scarecrow’s body, to smooth out the humps, Scraps

turned to Ojo and whispered: “Roll me out, please;

I’ve sagged down dreadfully from walking so much

and men like to see a stately figure.”

She then fell upon the ground and the boy rolled

her back and forth like a rolling-pin, until the

cotton had filled all the spaces in her patchwork

covering and the body had lengthened to its

fullest extent. Scraps and the Scarecrow both

finished their hasty toilets at the same time, and

again they faced each other.

“Allow me, Miss Patchwork,” said the Shaggy Man,

“to present my friend, the Right Royal Scarecrow

of Oz. Scarecrow, this is Miss Scraps Patches;

Scraps, this is the Scarecrow. Scarecrow—Scraps;

Scraps—Scarecrow.”

They both bowed with much dignity.

“Forgive me for staring so rudely,” said the

Scarecrow, “but you are the most beautiful sight

my eyes have ever beheld.”

“That is a high compliment from one who is

himself so beautiful,” murmured Scraps, casting

down her suspender-button eyes by lowering her

head. “But, tell me, good sir, are you not a

trifle lumpy?”

“Yes, of course; that’s my straw, you know.

It bunches up, sometimes, in spite of all my

efforts to keep it even. Doesn’t your straw ever

bunch?”

“Oh, I’m stuffed with cotton,” said Scraps.

“It never bunches, but it’s inclined to pack down

and make me sag.”

“But cotton is a high-grade stuffing. I may say

it is even more stylish, not to say aristocratic,

than straw,” said the Scarecrow politely. “Still,

it is but proper that one so entrancingly lovely

should have the best stuffing there is going. I—

er—I’m so glad I’ve met you, Miss Scraps!

Introduce us again, Shaggy.”

“Once is enough,” replied the Shaggy Man,

laughing at his friend’s enthusiasm.

“Then tell me where you found her, and—Dear me,

what a queer cat! What are you made of—gelatine?”

“Pure glass,” answered the cat, proud to have

attracted the Scarecrow’s attention. “I am much

more beautiful than the Patchwork Girl. I’m

transparent, and Scraps isn’t; I’ve pink brains—

you can see ‘em work; and I’ve a ruby heart,

finely polished, while Scraps hasn’t any heart at

all.”

“No more have I,” said the Scarecrow, shaking

hands with Scraps, as if to congratulate her on

the fact. “I’ve a friend, the Tin Woodman, who has

a heart, but I find I get along pretty well

without one. And so—Well, well! here’s a little

Munchkin boy, too. Shake hands, my little man. How

are you?”

Ojo placed his hand in the flabby stuffed glove

that served the Scarecrow for a hand, and the

Scarecrow pressed it so cordially that the straw

in his glove crackled.

Meantime, the Woozy had approached the Sawhorse

and begun to sniff at it. The Sawhorse resented

this familiarity and with a sudden kick pounded

the Woozy squarely on its Lead with one gold-shod

foot.

“Take that, you monster!” it cried angrily.

The Woozy never even winked.

“To be sure,” he said; “I’ll take anything I

have to. But don’t make me angry, you wooden

beast, or my eyes will flash fire and burn you

up.”

The Sawhorse rolled its knot eyes wickedly

and kicked again, but the Woozy trotted away

and said to the Scarecrow:

“What a sweet disposition that creature has!

I advise you to chop it up for kindling-wood

and use me to ride upon. My back is flat and

you can’t fall off.”

“I think the trouble is that you haven’t been

properly introduced,” said the Scarecrow,

regarding the Woozy with much wonder, for he had

never seen such a queer animal before.

“The Sawhorse is the favorite steed of Princess

Ozma, the Ruler of the Land of Oz, and he lives in

a stable decorated with pearls and emeralds, at

the rear of the royal palace. He is swift as the

wind, untiring, and is kind to his friends. All

the people of Oz respect the Sawhorse highly, and

when I visit Ozma she sometimes allows me to ride

him—as I am doing to-day. Now you know what an

important personage the Sawhorse is, and if some

one—perhaps yourself—will tell me your name,

your rank and station, and your history, it will

give me pleasure to relate them to the Sawhorse.

This will lead to mutual respect and friendship.”

The Woozy was somewhat abashed by this speech

and did not know how to reply. But Ojo said:

“This square beast is called the Woozy, and he

isn’t of much importance except that he has three

hairs growing on the tip of his tail.

“

The Scarecrow looked and saw that this was true.

“But,” said he, in a puzzled way, “what makes

those three hairs important? The Shaggy Man has

thousands of hairs, but no one has ever accused

him of being important.”

So Ojo related the sad story of Unc Nunkie’s

transformation into a marble statue, and told how

he had set out to find the things the Crooked

Magician wanted, in order to make a charm that

would restore his uncle to life. One of the

requirements was three hairs from a Woozy’s tail,

but not being able to pull out the hairs they had

been obliged to take the Woozy with them.

The Scarecrow looked grave as he listened and he

shook his head several times, as if in

disapproval.

“We must see Ozma about this matter,” he

said. “That Crooked Magician is breaking the

Law by practicing magic without a license, and

I’m not sure Ozma will allow him to restore your

uncle to life.”

“Already I have warned the boy of that,”

declared the Shaggy Man.

At this Ojo began to cry. “I want my Unc

Nunkie!” he exclaimed. “I know how he can be

restored to life, and I’m going to do it—Ozma or

no Ozma! What right has this girl Ruler to keep my

Unc Nunkie a statue forever?”

“Don’t worry about that just now,” advised

the Scarecrow. “Go on to the Emerald City,

and when you reach it have the Shaggy Man

take you to see Dorothy. Tell her your story and

I’m sure she will help you. Dorothy is Ozma’s

best friend, and if you can win her to your side

your uncle is pretty safe to live again.” Then he

turned to the Woozy and said: “I’m afraid you

are not important enough to be introduced to

the Sawhorse, after all.”

“I’m a better beast than he is,” retorted the

Woozy, indignantly. “My eyes can flash fire, and

his can’t.”

“Is this true?” inquired the Scarecrow, turning

to the Munchkin boy.

“Yes,” said Ojo, and told how the Woozy had

set fire to the fence.

“Have you any other accomplishments?”

asked the Scarecrow.

“I have a most terrible growl—that is,

sometimes,” said the Woozy, as Scraps laughed

merrily and the Shaggy Man smiled. But the Patchwork Girl’s laugh made the Scarecrow forget all

about the Woozy. He said to her:

“What an admirable young lady you are, and

what jolly good company! We must be better

acquainted, for never before have I met a girl

with such exquisite coloring or such natural,

artless manners.”

“No wonder they call you the Wise Scarecrow,”

replied Scraps.

“When you arrive at the Emerald City I will see

you again,” continued the Scarecrow. “Just now I

am going to call upon an old friend—an ordinary

young lady named Jinjur—who has Promised to

repaint my left ear for me. You may have noticed

that the paint on my left ear has peeled off and

faded, which affects my hearing on that side.

Jinjur always fixes me up when I get weather-worn.”

“When do you expect to return to the Emerald

City?” asked the Shaggy Man.

“I’ll be there this evening, for I’m anxious

to have a long talk with Miss Scraps. How is it,

Sawhorse; are you equal to a swift run?”

“Anything that suits you suits me,” returned

the wooden horse.

So the Scarecrow mounted to the jeweled

saddle and waved his hat, when the Sawhorse

darted away so swiftly that they were out of

sight in an instant.