Chapter Sixteen

Princess Dorothy

Dorothy Gale was sitting in one of her rooms in

the royal palace, while curled up at her feet was

a little black dog with a shaggy coat and very

bright eyes. She wore a plain white frock, without

any jewels or other ornaments except an emerald-green hair-ribbon, for Dorothy was a simple

little girl and had not been in the least spoiled

by the magnificence surrounding her. Once the

child had lived on the Kansas prairies, but she

seemed marked for adventure for she had made

seven trips to the Land of Oz before she came to

live there for good. Her very best friend was the

beautiful Ozma of Oz, who loved Dorothy so well

that she kept her in her own palace, so as to be

near her. The girl’s Uncle Henry and Aunt Em—the

only relatives she had in the world—had also been

brought here by Ozma and given a pleasant home.

Dorothy knew almost everybody in Oz, and it was

she who had discovered the Scarecrow, the Tin

Woodman and the Cowardly Lion, as well as Tik-tok

the Clockwork Man. Her life was very pleasant now,

and although she had been made a Princess of Oz by

her friend Ozma she did not care much to be a

Princess and remained as sweet as when she had

been plain Dorothy Gale of Kansas.

Dorothy was reading in a book this evening

when Jellia Jamb, the favorite servant-maid of

the palace, came to say that the Shaggy Man

wanted to see her.

“All right,” said Dorothy; “tell him to come

right up.”

“But he has some queer creatures with him—some

of the queerest I’ve ever laid eyes on,” reported

Jellia.

“Never mind; let ‘em all come up,” replied

Dorothy.

But when the door opened to admit not only the

Shaggy Man, but Scraps, the Woozy and the Glass

Cat, Dorothy jumped up and looked at her strange

visitors in amazement. The Patchwork Girl was the

most curious of all and Dorothy was uncertain at

first whether Scraps was really alive or only a

dream or a nightmare. Toto, her dog, slowly

uncurled himself and going to the Patchwork Girl

sniffed at her inquiringly; but soon he lay down

again, as if to say he had no interest in such an

irregular creation.

“You’re a new one to me,” Dorothy said

reflectively, addressing the Patchwork Girl. “I

can’t imagine where you’ve come from.”

“Who, me?” asked Scraps, looking around the

pretty room instead of at the girl. “Oh, I came

from a bedquilt, I guess. That’s what they say,

anyhow. Some call it a crazyquilt and some a

patchwork quilt. But my name is Scraps—and now

you know all about me.”

“Not quite all,” returned Dorothy with a smile.

“I wish you’d tell me how you came to be alive.”

“That’s an easy job,” said Scraps, sitting upon

a big upholstered chair and making the springs

bounce her up and down. “Margolotte wanted a

slave, so she made me out of an old bedquilt she

didn’t use. Cotton stuffing, suspender-button

eyes, red velvet tongue, pearl beads for teeth.

The Crooked Magician made a Powder of Life,

sprinkled me with it and—here I am. Perhaps

you’ve noticed my different colors. A very refined

and educated gentleman named the Scarecrow, whom I

met, told me I am the most beautiful creature in

all Oz, and I believe it.”

“Oh! Have you met our Scarecrow, then?” asked

Dorothy, a little puzzled to understand the brief

history related.

“Yes; isn’t he jolly?”

“The Scarecrow has many good qualities,” replied

Dorothy. “But I’m sorry to hear all this ‘bout the

Crooked Magician. Ozma’ll be mad as hops when she

hears he’s been doing magic again. She told him

not to.”

“He only practices magic for the benefit of his

own family,” explained Bungle, who was keeping at

a respectful distance from the little black dog.

“Dear me,” said Dorothy; “I hadn’t noticed

you before. Are you glass, or what?”

“I’m glass, and transparent, too, which is more

than can be said of some folks,” answered the

cat. “Also I have some lovely pink brains; you

can see ‘em work.”

“Oh; is that so? Come over here and let me see.”

The Class Cat hesitated, eyeing the dog.

“Send that beast away and I will,” she said.

“Beast! Why, that’s my dog Toto, an’ he’s the

kindest dog in all the world. Toto knows a good

many things, too; ‘most as much as I do, I

guess.”

“Why doesn’t he say anything?” asked Bungle.

“He can’t talk, not being a fairy dog,”

explained Dorothy. “He’s just a common United

States dog; but that’s a good deal; and I

understand him, and he understands me, just as

well as if he could talk.”

Toto, at this, got up and rubbed his head

softly against Dorothy’s hand, which she held

out to him, and he looked up into her face as if

he had understood every word she had said.

“This cat, Toto,” she said to him, “is made

of glass, so you mustn’t bother it, or chase it,

any more than you do my Pink Kitten. It’s

prob’ly brittle and might break if it bumped

against anything.”

“Woof!” said Toto, and that meant he understood.

The Glass Cat was so proud of her pink brains

that she ventured to come close to Dorothy, in

order that the girl might “see ‘em work.” This was

really interesting, but when Dorothy patted the

cat she found the glass cold and hard and

unresponsive, so she decided at once that Bungle

would never do for a pet.

“What do you know about the Crooked Magician who

lives on the mountain?” asked Dorothy.

“He made me,” replied the cat; “so I know all

about him. The Patchwork Girl is new—three or

four days old—but I’ve lived with Dr. Pipt for

years; and, though I don’t much care for him, I

will say that he has always refused to work magic

for any of the people who come to his house. He

thinks there’s no harm in doing magic things for

his own family, and he made me out of glass

because the meat cats drink too much milk. He also

made Scraps come to life so she could do the

housework for his wife Margolotte.”

“Then why did you both leave him?” asked

Dorothy.

“I think you’d better let me explain that,”

interrupted the Shaggy Man, and then he told

Dorothy all of Ojo’s story and how Unc Nunkie and

Margolotte had accidentally been turned to marble

by the Liquid of Petrifaction. Then he related how

the boy had started out in search of the things

needed to make the magic charm, which would

restore the unfortunates to life, and how he had

found the Woozy and taken him along because he

could not pull the three hairs out of its tail.

Dorothy listened to all this with much interest,

and thought that so far Ojo had acted very well.

But when the Shaggy Man told her of the Munchkin

boy’s arrest by the Soldier with the Green

Whiskers, because he was accused of wilfully

breaking a Law of Oz, the little girl was greatly

shocked.

“What do you s’pose he’s done?” she asked.

“I fear he has picked a six-leaved clover,”

answered the Shaggy Man, sadly. “I did not see him

do it, and I warned him that to do so was against

the Law; but perhaps that is what he did,

nevertheless.”

“I’m sorry ‘bout that,” said Dorothy gravely,

“for now there will be no one to help his poor

uncle and Margolotte ‘cept this Patchwork Girl,

the Woozy and the Glass Cat.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Scraps. “That’s no

affair of mine. Margolotte and Unc Nunkie are

perfect strangers to me, for the moment I came

to life they came to marble.”

“I see,” remarked Dorothy with a sigh of

regret; “the woman forgot to give you a heart.”

“I’m glad she did,” retorted the Patchwork Girl.

“A heart must be a great annoyance to one. It

makes a person feel sad or sorry or devoted or

sympathetic—all of which sensations interfere with

one’s happiness.”

“I have a heart,” murmured the Glass Cat.

“It’s made of a ruby; but I don’t imagine I shall

let it bother me about helping Unc Nunkie and

Margolotte.”

“That’s a pretty hard heart of yours,” said

Dorothy. “And the Woozy, of course—”

“Why, as for me,” observed the Woozy, who was

reclining on the floor with his legs doubled under

him, so that he looked much like a square box, “I

have never seen those unfortunate people you are

speaking of, and yet I am sorry for them, having

at times been unfortunate myself. When I was shut

up in that forest I longed for some one to help

me, and by and by Ojo came and did help me. So I’m

willing to help his uncle. I’m only a stupid

beast, Dorothy, but I can’t help that, and if

you’ll tell me what to do to help Ojo and his

uncle, I’ll gladly do it.”

Dorothy walked over and patted the Woozy on his

square head.

“You’re not pretty,” she said, “but I like you.

What are you able to do; anything ‘special?”

“I can make my eyes flash fire—real fire—when

I’m angry. When anyone says: ‘Krizzle-Kroo’ to me

I get angry, and then my eyes flash fire.”

“I don’t see as fireworks could help Ojo’s

uncle,” remarked Dorothy. “Can you do anything

else?”

“I—I thought I bad a very terrifying growl,”

said the Woozy, with hesitation; “but perhaps

I was mistaken.”

“Yes,” said the Shaggy Man, “you were certainly

wrong about that.” Then he turned to Dorothy and

added: “What will become of the Munchkin boy?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head

thoughtfully. “Ozma will see him ‘bout it, of

course, and then she’ll punish him. But how,

I don’t know, ‘cause no one ever has been

punished in Oz since I knew anything about

the place. Too bad, Shaggy Man, isn’t it?”

While they were talking Scraps had been

roaming around the room and looking at all

the pretty things it contained. She had carried

Ojo’s basket in her hand, until now, when she

decided to see what was inside it. She found

the bread and cheese, which she had no use for,

and the bundle of charms, which were curious

but quite a mystery to her. Then, turning these

over, she came upon the six-leaved clover which

the boy had plucked.

Scraps was quick-witted, and although she had no

heart she recognized the fact that Ojo was her

first friend. She knew at once that because the

boy had taken the clover he bad been imprisoned,

and she understood that Ojo had given her the

basket so they would not find the clover in his

possession and have proof of his crime. So,

turning her head to see that no one noticed her,

she took the clover from the basket and dropped it

into a golden vase that stood on Dorothy’s table.

Then she came forward and said to Dorothy:

“I wouldn’t care to help Ojo’s uncle, but I

will help Ojo. He did not break the Law—no

one can prove he did—and that green-whiskered

soldier had no right to arrest him.”

“Ozma ordered the boy’s arrest,” said Dorothy,

“and of course she knew what she was doing. But if

you can prove Ojo is innocent they will set him

free at once.

“They’ll have to prove him guilty, won’t

they?” asked Scraps.

“I s’pose so.”

“Well, they can’t do that,” declared the

Patchwork Girl.

As it was nearly time for Dorothy to dine with

Ozma, which she did every evening, she rang for a

servant and ordered the Woozy taken to a nice room

and given plenty of such food as he liked best.

“That’s honey-bees,” said the Woozy.

“You can’t eat honey-bees, but you’ll be given

something just as nice,” Dorothy told him. Then

she had the Glass Cat taken to another room for

the night and the Patchwork Girl she kept in one

of her own rooms, for she was much interested in

the strange creature and wanted to talk with her

again and try to understand her better.