THE ORCHESTRA

By L. Frank Baum

Author of The Magic of Oz, The Treasure of Karnak, Daughters of Destiny, etc.

Originally published in Songs of Spring, 1916.

 

 

There’s discord in Music Land; why, do you know?
All on account of Miss Violin’s beau.
Miss Clarinet frets, and Miss Banjo, to boot,
While Banning’s cornet has gone off on a toot.

They’d come to rehearse—’twas an Uplift affair;
The orchestra places were all of them there:
Good old Frankel’s cello, high-strung Mrs. Harp,
Bill’s flute—a bright fellow, but often too sharp.

Sweet Miss Violin, and Viola, her chum,
Our Herman’s trombone, light-headed Miss Drum,
Her father, Bass Drum, who stumps with a stick,
And Miss Tambourine, with her merry click-click.

Their keepers had gone—’twas an awful mistake
To stand at the bar and indulge in a shake,
Forgetting that up in the Blue Room, just now,
Their quarrelsome instruments might have a row.

That high-toned assemblage—a sensitive lot—
Had all been keyed up to perform on the spot,
When Miss Violin, looking sharply around,
Discovered her beau was nowhere to be found.

Unstrung, broken-hearted, she leaned on the wall,
While great consternation arose in the hall.
“Oh, oh, for a Beau,” in a high tremolo
Thrilled Miss Piccolo, who had ne’er had a beau.

Roared Harry’s Bass Viol: “Oh, fiddlesticks, say,
I’m sure Mrs. Harp has enticed it away.”
“You’re wrong,” cried the Harp; “I really don’t see
Why somebody always is picking on me.”

“That Bass is quite cracked,” said Viola. “We know
She’d scrape an acquaintce with any old beau;
While Hays Rice’s fiddle, by common report,
Accomplishes pieces of very low sort.”

And so the dispute rose higher and higher
Till Ira’s Flute piped, “Mrs. Harp, you’re a lyre.”
But just at this time, e’er the scrap could begin,
The door opened wide and our Robbie walked in.

“Hush,” cried the Director, with chastening frown;
“You’re all out of tune and had better tone down.
Be still, Miss Viola; don’t nag the big Bass,
And I will look into Miss Violin’s case.”

Deep silence ensued; not another harsh word,
Nor one note of discord was then to be heard.
Robbie looked for a moment—one only—and lo,
Right there, in her case, lay Miss Violin’s beau.
 

 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 15, 1918

 

Another Supposy Idea

 The King, one day, and Solomon
Tremendous Wise were sitting
Beneath a tree, discussing matters
Interesting and fitting!

“I’ve noticed, among other things,”
Thus spoke up Mr. Wise,
“A tendency among the young
To overexercise!

“In truth, it seems, Your Majesty,
That, in Supposyville,
Only when fast asleep at night
Are lads and lassies still.

“While, on the other hand,
The grown-ups underexercise.
Now there’s a way to even up
These matters, I surmise!”

“Quite right!” the King reluctantly
Rose from his comfy chair.
“Get up, you lazy rogue!” he laughed.
“We are a guilty pair!”

Sir Solomon sprang to his feet
And, chuckling, he proceeds,
To just explain and make quite plain
Supposy-people’s needs.

“I say we set an hour a day
For children to keep still.
And have the grown folks out
To do a bracing set-up drill!”

“Ha, hoh!” the good King
Nearly bent himself in two. “Ha, hoh!
Sir Solomon, you are the
Wisest queer old chap I know!”

He spluttered, “That’s a hopping plan;
’Twill go into effect
Tomorrow, and will cause a lot
Of comment—I expect!

“And I suggest that while
The young folks sit quite still they do
Some useful thing—pare ’taters, say—
To help the housework through!”

So that’s how things are evened up
In old Supposyville,
Sweethearts—while grown folks exercise
The little folks keep still.

Copyright © 2025 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

TOMMY TAPIR PAYS A VISIT

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Lost King of Oz, "The Wizard of Pumperdink," "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Oakland Tribune, June 20, 1915.

 

 

The rainy season had set in, and it was very slow and wet in the jungle. Oliver Elephant had read all the books in the house, even his mother’s cook book and the Jungle calendar, and he and Uncle Abner had played checkers until they had nearly worn the checker board. There was nothing left to do, and Oliver, staring gloomily out the window, wished that he lived any place except the jungle. Suddenly sloshing along the sodden road he caught sight of a familiar figure. “Mother! Mother!” he called excitedly. “Here comes Tommy Tapir!” “Why sure enough it is!” said Mother Elephant, looking over Oliver’s shoulder. “Though what his mother can be thinking of to let him out in this kind of weather I can not imagine.”

Oliver, not bothering his head about this, ran to let Tommy in. And though he had worn a raincoat and his goloshes and carried a tree-mendous umbrella, Tommy was soaked all the way through, so that Mother Elephant had to lend him some of Oliver’s clothes. They were terrible baggy and loose on him, but Tommy said he didn’t care. “I just couldn’t stand it another minute,” he confided to Oliver, “and I thought if I came over here that your Uncle Abner might tell us a story.” “What’s that?” said Uncle Abner Elephant, putting down the paper and pretending to look very ferocious. “Go on, Uncle Abner, tell us a story!” begged Oliver.

“Well,” began Uncle Abner, looking out the window, “this weather surely does remind me of the time that Rob Rabbit came to the jungle. Just such a rainy, gloomy spell as this it was. Shaggy Lion, who was King at that time, was sitting under a tree growling at the weather, while the monkey pages were holding huge palm leaves to keep the rain off him, and all the other animals were sitting around just too bored and wet to even eat. And first thing you know, as they were all sitting there as glum as you please, down the road came an umbrella, even a bigger umbrella than Tommy’s there, wigwagging from side to side, but coming right on. ‘Hullo!’ said Shaggy Lion, sitting up. ‘Wonder what’s under that umbrella?’ He didn’t have to wonder long, though, because by that time the umbrella was right in the midst of them. They heard a funny noise underneath, as if some one were wrestling with himself—and ‘Pshaw’ and ‘Hang it’ and words like that came spluttering out from under the edges. Then all at once the umbrella closed, fell over with a flop, and out scrambled the wettest, skinniest little rabbit you ere did see!

“‘My name’s Robin,’ said he, ‘and I’d like to speak with the King.’ ‘Well,’ drawled Shaggy Lion, licking his chops, ’cause he reckoned he was going to gobble that rabbit up directly, ‘you’re a-lookin’ right at him!’”

“What did the rabbit say before the King ate him up?” gasped Tommy Tapir. Uncle Abner began to chuckle. “Say—why that rabbit just scratched his ear and remarked slow and solemn:

“‘How do I know you are a King?’ And all the other beasts began to grin. Lion was so shocked and surprised he pretty nearly choked. ‘Ca—can’t you see my crown?’ he roared. Rob Rabbit said he could see it all right, but that he’d like to hold it in his hands so that he could see it better. And all the beasts—who thought it a good joke on Shaggy Lion—said: ‘Let him hold it!’ And he did. And Rob Rabbit took the crown and put it on the ground—then he stood in the middle of it and reckoned that if a crown was what made a King—then he was it. Then all the beasts grinned some more at Rob Rabbit. But Rob stepped behind a tree and wriggling his nose, called: ‘How do I know you are King?’ And pretty soon all the other beasts began to look at Shaggy Lion and roar: ‘How do I know you are King?’ And Shaggy Lion began to feel mighty uncomfortable. You see, the rain had made all the beasts cross and crabbed and they were just dying for some kind of excitement, and that little rabbit stood behind the tree and sicked ’em on, and the first thing you know the whole lot of them were snarling and clawing at each other and rolling around in the mud. And when Shaggy Lion managed to untangle himself from the bunch, and, with his coat all ripped, started to run away, Rob Rabbit leaned away out and called: ‘Catch him! Catch him! How do you know he is King?’ And all of those crazy beasts went crashing and splashing through the pouring rain after Shaggy Lion—and while they were gone Rob Rabbit came out and took the crown and all the other things that he wanted (the animals had left all their belongings where they’d been sitting), and he tied them all up in Shaggy Lion’s purple robes, put up his big umbrella and went off back where he had come from. And what do you think of that?” finished Uncle Abner. But just then the lunch bell rang—and as you and I are not invited I can not tell you what Oliver and Tommy thought of the story. What do you think of it?

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 8, 1918

School Opens in Supposyville

Oh! not with frowns or solemn looks
Do ’Sposy children get their books.
Oh! not with groans or lagging feet
Do they go down each lane and street!

The opening day of school—well, I
Should just guess not—there’s not a sigh.
Indeed they come all out of puff;
They just can’t get there fast enough.

For in their quaint Supposy way
They turn it to a festive day.
Now we do things just upside down
In this old systematic town.

We have our concert at the close
Of school—’tis well enough I ’spose;
But seems to me ’twould put more heart
In things to have it at the start!

The way they do in S’posyville
And sort o’ sugar-coat the pill.
The King and Queen and half the court
Are there to help along the sport.

Heigh-ho! they start school here with fiddles,
Old-fashioned jigs and games and riddles,
Virginia reels and merry peals
Of laughter till each scholar feels

So welcome and so warm inside
He couldn’t be gloomy if he tried.
Once folks have laughed together they
Are friends for always and a day!

And then, to make things still more pleasant,
The King gives every one a present;
And makes a jolly little speech
And hands new copy books to each.

New copy books and pencils four,
Rules and rubbers, pens galore.
The Queen distributes bags and straps,
Brand-new raincoats, boots and caps!

And afterward comes ice cream pink
And little cakes and pies, I think.
Then home the lads and lassies trot,
Just captivated on the spot,

Resolved to study hard and do
Just what the teacher wants them to.
And I think ’twould be nice for us
To do the same and not to fuss.

’Cause if we want to grow up right,
We must do lessons every night
And learn a lot of useful things
Concerning figures, books and kings!

Copyright © 2024 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

A "ONCE UPON A TIME" STORY

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of Speedy in Oz, "The Wizard of Pumperdink," "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Springfield Union, March 12, 1916, and the Philadelphia Public Ledger, March 19, 1916.

Listen! girls and boys, to a story—a story of Time. In a certain town there once lived a little boy named Junior. On this certain day of our story all the other little boys, with their hair parted very straight, and scores of new pencils and—marbles, and all the little girls, with fearfully clean frocks and lovely bows, with shiny new pencil boxes and brand new copy books, had disappeared into the big red building. It was the first day of school, and Junior was late. He felt pretty bad, so bad, in fact, that he decided not to go to school Sh!—don’t tell! He stood kicking his boot in the dust and wondering what in the world had become of the 15 minutes he had started out with. A gay young breeze happened along just then, and seeing a little boy out of school, called: “Hello, there! You seem to have fallen behind time.”

“I didn’t fall,” said Junior reflectively.

“Dear me!” said the breeze, with a sly wink at the Sun, “perhaps you met Pleasure, then; he is a great one for running off with the minutes.”

“I didn’t meet Pleasure,” said Junior, “but I did meet the loveliest yellow butterfly, and I chased him ever so far.”

“That was Pleasure,” said the breeze, with a chuckle; “now, I wonder whether Curiosity crossed your path this morning.”

“Well,” said Junior, “just as I reached the big elm the fire bells rang; wasn’t much of a fire, though,” he finished abruptly.

“Whee!” said the breeze, with a gusty laugh that sent the leaves skipping down the road; “you need a timekeeper,” and off he rushed, leaving Junior more perplexed than ever.

“Well,” said a voice suddenly, “if you are going to overtake Time, you had better start off; if people looked at me oftener they wouldn’t lose time so often.”

“Are you a timekeeper?” asked Junior squinting up sideways at the Sun.

“The very first, and all of the timekeepers are imitations of me, mere imitations, my dear Junior,” replied the Sun, with a smile that brought the tears to Junior’s eyes. Indeed, he had to look away, and when he looked up again the Sun had hidden himself behind a cloud. So he walked very thoughtfully down the road and soon came up with an old man.

“Have you seen anything of Time?” he asked politely.

“Time!” growled the old man, and pulling out a fat gold watch opened it with a snap; “just half-past nine,” he said.

“But where is Time?” questioned Junior.

“Here, on the face of the watch,” answered the old man irritably.

“Give it to me! Give it to me!” cried Junior, in the greatest excitement.

“Give it to you!” shrieked the old man; “a gold watch to a child! What is he talking about?”

“Much you know!” cried the Sun, coming suddenly from behind the clouds.

Junior looked up—but, what a strange thing had happened! He rubbed his eyes and looked again, and there, instead of the Sun, a great round, jolly watch, with both hands outstretched, rode proudly in the sky. Before Junior had time to think, it began to descend, growing larger and larger, and finally eclipsing everything in sight, came to a stop beside Junior. He climbed hastily up the slippery side (wouldn’t you have?) and stood looking round, till he was suddenly knocked off his feet and seated forcibly upon the hour hand.

“This is like a merry-go-round,” said Junior.

“Not quite so fast,” said the Hour Hand, to Junior’s surprise, and “Low bridge!” it called, as the minute hand came whirling past. All round the edges of this great watch were stationed men-at-arms. They stood straight and tall and strictly at attention. “The Minute Men,” explained the Hour Hand, “and when next you hear the tick of a watch you will know ’tis the Minute Men marking time.” I tell you, they were handsome fellows!

The hour hand now began to revolve slowly and they had soon come to a tall man with a very thin body, and his head was set down beside it instead of atop it. He was very stern.

“Ten o’clock and still school time,” said the Hour Hand, and as far as Junior could see beyond 10 o’clock were hundreds and hundreds of little girls and boys sitting at desks and studying out of huge books. Some of the desks were empty, and when Junior asked the Hour Hand why this was, he answered, “Those are the desks of the boys and girls who are late.”

“Oh!” said Junior and grew very thoughtful, for he had just spied his own vacant desk.

They seemed to be going quite slowly, and the voices of the girls and boys reciting their lessons made him drowsy. Fearing that Junior would fall asleep and tumble off, the Hour Hand began to talk. “Did the sun tell you about Time’s relations?” he asked.

“No,” said Junior sitting up with a start, “has Time any relations?”

“Certainly,” said the Hour Hand, but here they passed another queer person who was chiefly remarkable for the length of his legs and the absence of his head. “Eleven o’clock and still school time,” said the Hour Hand.

As far as Junior could see beyond eleven o’clock were girls and boys still busily studying. “Tell me about Time’s relations,” he said, looking uneasily at a cross teacher whom they were passing.

“Well,” said the Hour Hand, “Time, like most of the rest of us, has poor relations, and you want to look out for them, too. There’s No-Time and Some-Time and Any-Time, for instance; they are always trying to convince folks that they are the Right Time. But if you have anything to do, remember that No-Time is an excuse; that Some-Time will never come and Any-Time will never do.”

Here Junior was startled by a great ringing of bells, followed by shouting and hundreds of laughing voices. They were now directly opposite a jolly person with one long leg and one short leg and a small pleasant face. “Twelve o’clock,” called the Hour Hand, and now out of all the schools children by scores came hurrying. Some skipped rope, some played ball, some played marbles. It was all so very pleasant that Junior forgot to dodge the Minute Hand, which rapped him smartly on the head, and it seemed scarcely believable when they came to a tall and hungry-looking person that he could be One o’Clock and Dinner-Time. Didn’t those dinners smell good! My! Poor Junior riding by on the Hour Hand, was forced to look upon all the little girls and boys in the country eating the bestest dinners. Jams and jellies, and pies and chops, and chicken, sometimes.

How quickly they seemed to be traveling now. Just as he was thinking seriously of slipping off and hunting his own dinner, a short, fiery, little man with a great head bobbed up in their path. “Two o’clock and school time again,” said the Hour Hand, and beyond two o’clock all of the girls and boys were busily studying. One class they passed were having a lesson on time.

“Who was the first timekeeper?” asked the teacher. No one knew.

“The Sun, the Sun!” called Junior in the greatest excitement, but no one paid the slightest attention to him.

Slowly but surely, he was carried past the busy children, and it was not long before they had come to another queer person whom Time hailed as Three O’Clock.

The Hour Hand, as he slowly made his way past the children bending over their books, told Junior much of Time—how very, very old he was, and what a great traveler, how he sometimes flies on the wings of the wind with a gay little sprite called Joy, but how oftener he trudges slowly along with a person whose name is Sorrow. So it seemed not long before they were upon a most triangular body whom you have already guessed was Four O’Clock and Playtime. Now everything became very exciting. The children came hurrying out of school. There were ball games so engrossing that Junior nearly lost his balance. There were merry races. There was fun in every form. Oh! there’s nothing so jolly as Playtime!

The Hour Hand seemed to be traveling now with the swiftness of an express train, and all too soon for Junior they came to a pleasant-faced person of rather remarkable figure. “This,” said the Hour Hand softly, is “Five O’Clock and Story Time.” The children hurried homeward, his old friend the Sun rested on the top of a green hill. Now he gave a dreadful yawn, and pulling a great pink blanket cloud over his head went fast asleep, leaving the world to the pleasant dusk.

“Look,” said the Hour Hand, and out of the dusk Junior saw the story folks coming. Princesses with gleaming hair and Knights in shining armor, and robbers and giants and elves and fairies. They gathered round the children, and together they visited the most wonderful countries.

So busy was Junior watching these delightful folks that he was almost sorry to see a stout little man whom the Hour Hand called Six O’Clock and Suppertime. All the lights were lighted; the story folk fled; the girls and boys gathered round the cheerful supper tables and told about the things at school. Junior grew very hungry and very lonely.

After they had passed supper time the Hour Hand again began to hurry, and they were soon under the very nose of a most dour old fellow. “Seven O’Clock and Lesson Time,” whispered the Hour Hand. Junior thought him most disagreeable.

Now all the girls and boys were nodding over their books and Junior’s eyes grew heavier and heavier. Just as he thought that he must surely fall off with weariness they came to a very fat and sleepy man who yawned widely as they passed. “Eight O’Clock and Bedtime!” droned the Hour Hand, and as far as Junior could see beyond Eight O’Clock were boys and girls cozily tucked in little white beds. All the lights went out and the moon and stars shone over the housetops. Then the mothers came and sat by the bedsides, for it was prayer-time. As Junior looked he saw his own little bed and, slipping quietly from the Hour Hand, he dropped light among its soft pillows and was soon being tucked in by his own dear mother, just as if he had not been to the strangest place in the world.

 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 1, 1918

A Prescription Against Growing-Upness

The old King, looking sober-like,
Upon one August day
To Solomon Tremendous Wise
Once took his royal way.

Sir Solomon was testing out
Some curious invention,
And ’twas some time before the King
Could get his sage attention.

At last he pushed his specses back
And slowly glanced around.
“Upon my word, Your Majesty!
Well, I’ll be tied and bound!

“How long have you been waiting here?
Now have a chair—take two—
And tell me straight at once—right off—
What service I may do!”

The King sat down quite heavily,
Two tears rolled down his cheeks;
His royal voice was all choked up,
And sadly now he speaks:

“Old friend, I’m ’fraid an awful thing
Is going to happen. Say!
Do you, sir, realize that we
Grow older every day?

“Yes, sir; I’m worried, Solomon.
There’s just one dreadful thing
Might happen to the whole of us—
Yes, even to your King!”

Old Solomon set down his rules,
Set down his testing cup.
“What is it?” “Oh,” the poor King wailed,
“You know—we might grow up!”

“I don’t mind growing older, but
To grow up—Oh, my stars!
How dull, how simply awful
In a kingdom run like ours!”

“Upon my head and heart and heels,
Well I should think and say—”
Quoth Solomon, “I’ll look into
This matter right away!”

The King with thoughtful shake of head
Goes off; the wise man takes
With troubled frown a big book down
And sundry entries makes!

Then, chuckling, runs at top speed to
The palace. “Do no fear
That growing-upness,” laughed the sage,
“For this prescription here

“Will make it plumb impossible
No matter, sire, how old
One grows, just so one doesn’t let
The heart get stiff and cold!

“Just so he keeps his laughing muscles
Well in use and plastic,
And exercises so his heart
Is sure to keep elastic.

“And I prescribe three games a day,
A circus once a year,
With forty picnics scattered through
For everybody here.

“Five miles a day, a lot of sun,
With singing in between,
And none of us will be a bit
Heart-older than sixteen!”

Copyright © 2024 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE MASSACRE

By L. Frank Baum

Author of Ozma of Oz, The Treasure of Karnak, Daughters of Destiny, etc.

 

Originally published in Songs of Spring by the Uplifters, 1916.

 

 

The Spring is the time to make verses;

It’s also the time to hear curses;

And I know that I’d orter

Be lead to the slaughter,

Unless the next poem far worse is.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 25, 1918

A Supposyville Picnic

This is the tale of Sea Gull’s Point
And how the engine got out of joint.
’Twas fine and fair in Supposyville,
But rather hot. Said the King: “We will
Go out for a lark in our new motorboat
And take our supper; ’twill be cool afloat!”
So down they trooped to the old town dock—
’Twas 7 p. m. by the castle clock.

The jolly Rover tugged at her rope,
Then away she went at a sailor’s lope,
With all aboard, from King to cook.
And m—m! the barrel of stuff they took
To eat. Pretty soon they sighted land—
A long, thin strip of gleaming sand.
They trooped ashore with a right good will
With the help of a rowboat and Captain Bill.

The wood was gathered, a big fire built
And the cocoa pot at the proper tilt
Was set atop. Geewhiz! I hate
To tell the truth—how they ate and ate
Till nothin’ was left but cups and rockses—
If the cook had waited they’d have et the boxes.
But pshaw! they made one mistake all right;
Never gave that engine a single bite.

And it pouted and spouted and trouble was brewing.
“I’ll get even with ’em for what they’re doing,”
It grumbled to itself, but no one heard,
And that’s how the whole blame thing occurred.
’Bout nine o’clock they chugged away;
The sky had turned from blue to gray.
That old engine was chucklin’ to itself. It knew
Just what it was plannin’ to up and do.

Halfway home it began to cough,
Gave a snore, then turned itself clean off.
The King held the light, while an old ex-whaler
Called on the engine to get on like a sailor,
But it wouldn’t budge and it went to sleep
And left ’em marooned on the briny deep.
Then a storm came up and the rain came down,
And those poor folk were like to drown!

But it couldn’t dash the spirits of King and crew.
The more it rained and the more it blew
The louder they sang and joked and laughed—
“Shut down the window, I feel a draft!”
Ah, well! to make a long story short,
When the engine saw the kind and sort
Of a crew it had shipped, it gave a chug
And started back at a sulky plug.

And at two o’clock with a sigh and snort
It bumped ’em down at a nearby port.
From there they tranped the last long mile
And all turned in to snooze a while.
But I want to tell you, next time, I’ll bet,
They’ll feed the engine and not forget!

Copyright © 2024 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

 

I AM RADIO . . .

A Prose Poem
By Jack Snow
Author of The Magical Mimics of Oz, Spectral Snow, Who's Who in Oz, etc.

Originally published 1941.


I am Radio . . .

No man has ever seen me.

I am invisible as the winds that wander the world.

No man has ever felt me.

I am shapeless and formless and occupy all space at all time.

I am everywhere. I dwell in the earth, the sky and the void beyond.

I flash through the air. I penetrate the inanimate. I thrust through the earth’s core. I pulse through the cells of the bodies of man and the birds that wing through the heavens.

I am part of all.

I am Silence.

The frightening silence of the Great Unknown where man stands trembling, stupefied by the terrifying riddle his tiny sum of knowledge feebly reveals.

I am Sound.

I am the chirruping of a cricket. I am the mighty roar of the hurricane. I am the tick of a clock. I am the cry of a baby. I am the prayer of a Mother. I am the song of the marching Soldier. I am the Voice of the President. I am the multitudinous echo of every voice that was ever heard.

I am all Sound.

I Sing—I Pray—every note of music that was ever written in all voices that were ever lifted and on all instruments that were ever created.

There is no conceivable sound that is not a part of me.

I am Radio . . .

I serve mankind.

I inform, I instruct, I entertain, I comfort the lonely—I inspire the hopeless.

To me—all men are equal. I speak with the same voice in the same tones to all.

I am the voices and minds of men long dead.
I am Shakespeare—I am Milton—I am Homer.

I sing aloud the glorious dreams of men who are now legends. I am Wagner—I am Bach—I am Beethoven.

I am all beauty and all terror that man has ever dreamed of.

* * *

I am Radio . . .

All that I am—no man knows.

I am first cousin of the lightning bolt.
I am a part of the electric force that exists everywhere at all times.
I am a fraction of the riddle of life.
I am akin to that vitality which pulses through all living things.

I am part of all.

I am new to man.

I am old beyond all reckoning.

I travel hand in hand with the light that flashes from the most distant star.

All these things I am.

Yet—they are not me.

What I am—is limited only by the imagination of man.

Listen!—I am Radio!

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 18, 1918

Supposyville’s Good Idea

Heigh-ho for that merry kingdom
Of Supposyville—Heigh-ho!
For the Queen and King and everything
’Tis the finest place I know.

The finest place—well, I should just
Declare and I should say,
For they simply lark from dawn to dark
And turn all work to play!

They turn all work to play, dears,
And do it all together,
And laugh and smile most all the while,
Whatever the wind or weather!

And now the crop of yellow corn,
Piled in a mountain tall,
Is waiting to be stocked and shocked
And shared by Supposies all.

The King has sent his couriers
Down every land and street—
They summon the good Supposies
Crying, “All ye good folk meet

Tonight at moon-up, on the hill,
And, come, be hale and hearty;
The King has bidden all attend
A mighty shocking party!”

Gay lanterns swing from every tree,
The court band twangs and fiddles—
The court cook by a bonfire big
Is heating up his griddles.

Then up the hill in twos and fours,
In sixes and in dozens,
Supposies hustle, all a bustle—
Sisters, wives and cousins.

Now rises up the King: “Who finds
The first red ear shall win
A bag of gold; who shocks the most
A silver bag. Begin!”

He cries, then loud the trumpets blow,
And every one falls to—
And how they worked and pulled and jerked
And how the corn husks flew.

The cook he roasts a hundred ears
And more as they are needed,
And passed them ’round and I’ll be bound,
Their appetites exceeded

Most anything I’ve ever seen!
And when the smallest maid
Picked out a big red ear, the cheer
Most made ’em deaf, I’m ’fraid.

And when at last the yellow corn
Had all been shocked, each pile
Was counted, and who do you suppose
Had shocked the most?—don’t smile—

Old Solomon Tremendous Wise.
He’d found a speedy system—
“A certain knack, just turn ’em back—
Then give a turn and twist ’em!”

He modestly explained. With one
Big merry dance it ended.
And as a party ’tis a kind
Most highly recommended.

Copyright © 2024 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

A RUSSIAN WEDDING

By L. Frank Baum

Author of The Marvelous Land of Oz, The Treasure of Karnak, Daughters of Destiny, etc.

A Description of a Russian Wedding in Edgeley, North Dakota.
Originally published in the Aberdeen (SD) Daily News, July 24, 1889.


The grandest occasion in which I participated was the wedding of Michael Roloff, one of the most respected of the Russian kings [chiefs or leaders of the community]. Michael is fifty-five years of age, and the father of nine sons and four daughters. He unfortunately lost his wife in May, and a month’s solitude induced him to make advances to a demure widow who owned an adjoining section. I arrived on the morning of the wedding, and was received with marked courtesy. Wagon after wagon arrived laden with whole families, neighbors for many miles in all directions determining to do justice to the occasion.

Now as Michael’s house is no larger than his fellow’s, accommodations for so vast a crowd were exceedingly limited. The house was accordingly vacated and the visitors, in default of chairs or benches, seated themselves upon the smooth prairie, with the sun radiating a temperature of 105 degrees and calmly awaited the ceremonies. They spoke softly among themselves in a not unmusical gibberish, and maintained the utmost gravity. At last they mustered about 200 strong and the hour arrived which was to make my friend Roloff a happy man again. Suddenly a short, fat and jolly faced priest arose and extended his hands. The 200 heads at once bowed as low as their owners’ posture would permit, and the priest began a kind of chanting prayer that lasted at least twenty minutes. Amidst the silence which followed, Michael led forward his bride. The priest kissed the man and patted the woman’s head with the indescribable gentleness that is peculiar to his class. At this the assemblage burst forth into a loud wailing hymn. A man at my side drew from beneath his coat a yellow clarinet, of antiquated pattern, and its piercing tones, added to the tumult of noise, obliged me to stop my ears to relieve the agony I endured. A second prayer followed, of almost interminable length, and then the ceremony proper began. I shall not attempt to describe it. Sufficient be it to affirm that it consumed the greater part of three hours and was of the most solemn character. Verily, when a Russian is married he is firmly tied. As another thunderous hymn announced the close of the ceremonies, I found that the guests has [sic] been detained a little longer than four and one-half hours. The king’s four daughters now appeared, arms laden with huge loaves, which were cast promiscuously amid the crowd, who seized and devoured them with well-earned hunger. Platters of an oddly compounded cake, but half cooked, followed, and pails of black coffee with a tin dipper in each were constantly circulated, until gallons of it had been consumed. The newly married pair scrambled with the rest for their portions and ate greedily. When all were satisfied, the men formed in one long row, the women in another. Before their door stood the bride and groom. The men advanced one by one to Michael and, kissing his cheek, passed on to their vehicles. The women saluted the bride in a like manner and joined their husbands or fathers. Then, with a prolonged shout of farewell, the whip was applied and horses and teams started in every direction across the prairie to their destination. [sic] Thus ended the most novel wedding it has ever been my lot to witness. The ceremonies had consumed nearly the entire day, and if King Roloff was half as tired as I was at its conclusion, he won’t care to marry many times in one short lifetime.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 11, 1918

Supposyville’s Good Idea

Supposyville for two weeks from
This day must use shank’s mare;
For ’tis vacation time, sweethearts,
For all the horses there!

By twos and twos they marched ’em off
To just the finest hill—
The greenest and the fairest one
In all Supposyville.

With shady trees and purling brooks
And sweetest clover, here
They’re left to rest and roll and graze
And exercise, my dear.

And they can all go barefoot, too—
Just like you girls and boys—
And run around and neigh and play
And make no end of noise.

No one to wake ’em up at dawn,
No “get ups!” and no “whoas!”
To bother them for two long weeks
And, best of all—no clothes.

No collars and no harnesses,
No saddles, bits, or reins,
No heavy loads down dusty roads,
No brushing tangled manes.

Aho! no combing out of tails,
No scrubbing and no currying;
No orders to be carried out,
No waiting ’round or worrying.

And so they won’t be lonely
Or homesick, the Queen and King
Go trudging up there every night
And –m! –m! the things they bring!

The King’s own riding horse is first
To see ’em and he runs
To meet them, followed by the rest,
The big and little ones.

And how they crowd around the two
To eat the apples red,
The carrots and the sugar lumps
Before they go to bed.

“It isn’t fair for them to work
Forever, and the walking
Is good for us old lazy bones,”
The King said. “No use talking.”

And pshaw! you ought to see, sweethearts,
How fit and fine and spry
They look when it is over. ’Tis
A plan we ought to try.

Copyright © 2024 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

OLIVER ELEPHANT'S ADVENTURE

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of Ojo in Oz, "The Wizard of Pumperdink," "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 12, 1920

“Why should I not visit the small two leg?” rumbled Oliver Elephant thoughtfully. “No harm can come to a great fellow like me!” Although he had been warned to keep out of the paths of men always and though men seldom came to the jungle, since his experience with the hidden cave and the little prince everyday jungle life seemed very tame to the big elephant.

Many, many, many years before, a certain prince of India had constructed an underground pathway from his palace to the heart of the jungle and there in a deep cave he had hidden half of his treasure. The prince had long since died, and as no one knew of the secret treasure room the gold lay untouched. Oliver Elephant had come upon the ring that opened the door while grubbing in a pile of dead leaves and had fallen in. Thumping with his trunk on the walls, he had touched another door and gotten out. Later he had taken to the cave with a little native boy who had been chased by Ganda the tiger and this time Oliver Elephant found the door that led back to the prince’s palace, and there he had discovered that the little boy he had rescued was a small prince, in truth the great-great-grandson of the builder of the secret hiding place. Oliver Elephant had escaped before the servants in the garden could capture him, but he had taken a sudden fancy to his small comrade. In fact, he could think of nothing else, even the mysterious underground chamber did not interest him so much as the small brown little boy whom he had carried through the strange passage. He knew nothing of the value of the gems that filled the cave and only thought of it as a safe retreat in time of danger.

So on this morning I started to tell you about, Oliver Elephant set out for the palace of his little chum. It was a long and roundabout way through the jungle, but an elephant can travel as fast as an express train, and it was still early in the day when Oliver Elephant reached the walled garden. Peering through the gates, he saw the little prince and his nurse seated on a stone bench near the wall. Noiselessly Oliver stole to that part of the wall, raised himself on his hind legs and, reaching down with his trunk, lifted the little prince over before the nurse even turned. Holding him high in his trunk, Oliver ran with all his might back to the jungle and the little fellow never even screamed.

“It is the great gray one,” he whispered breathlessly. When Oliver had gone far enough to keep the palace servants from discovering them, he set the little prince down and trumpeted softly his delight at seeing him again.

“We shall have a holiday, little brother,” said Oliver Elephant. And though Mahanali (which is the little prince’s name) did not understand the elephant’s talk, he clapped his hands, and when Oliver set him in a low tree, laughed with delight. Then Oliver Elephant took him to a hidden pool and swam round with the boy on his back. He showed him the homes of many of the jungle creatures and gave him some of the good jungle berries to eat. When he was thirsty Oliver Elephant opened a coconut and the little prince drank the sweet milk. More and more they began to understand each other and invented a language all their own. But when the shadows began to lengthen, the big elephant set the little boy on his back and started on a run for the palace. As they neared the garden gates a great wailing came to them. The prince, according to the nurse, had been taken by an evil spirit and all the servants beat their chests and mourned. The men servants were searching in the bush and the prince’s father had ridden to the nearest town for help.

Quietly the big elephant slipped around to a deserted part of the garden and gently set the little prince on top of the wall. Then waving his big ears Oliver slowly backed into the shadows, and when he was quite out of sight the little prince called to his people.

“I have been with the gray elephant,” he shouted merrily, “and we have had a wonderful adventure together.”

“But if he hadn’t brought you back,” gasped the little prince’s mother, hugging him close and scarcely crediting what she heard. “Your father must kill the bold beast!” The little prince drew himself up stiffly.

“What does a woman know of such matters? I forbid it!” he announced proudly. The servants chuckled at the little fellow’s spirit and when the prince heard the story he gave word that the elephant was to be unmolested. “For he has done us a great service. But mind you watch the boy and see that he is not carried off again!” he commanded and glared so sternly at the nurse that she shook in her shoes. After that the prince was never left alone and a sharp outlook was kept for Oliver Elephant, for, however friendly he seemed, “an elephant,” said the old wise man of the court, “is no proper playmate for a prince.” The little prince, however, had other ideas. “We shall see,” he whispered when the words of the wise man were repeated to him. “We shall see!” And so we shall if my pen carries me back to the wild jungle.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 4, 1918

Supposyville Doings

One day Supposy’s King, my dears,

Sat down with pen and specs and shears

Beneath the castle elm; piled by

Were books and books stacked up sky-high.

“One for each one,” he murmured low,

“But first I’ve got to fix ’em so

They’ll cause no trouble.” Now he blew

A whistle; out ran pages two.

“Here, Trip, you hand these books to me

One at a time, and Skip shall be

Upon the other side to take ’em,

And don’t you drop or bend or break ’em!”

Whatever are they, ducks and dears,

And why the pen and why the shears?

“Supposy folks must learn to spell

And not all upside down pellmell!”

He murmured, settling on his nose

His huge horn specs. “Though each one knows

The letters in the alphabet,

They’re almost certain to forget

To use enough in every word,

And shocking blunders have occurred!”

And so the good old monarch hurries

To fix ’em up with dictionaries.

Names in each one he writes with care,

In letters large and firm and square.

Even the babies in long clothes

Are not forgotten. “Each one grows

So fast, before I scarce can wink

He’s old enough to spill my ink!”

The good King chuckled, and just then

Upset the ink and dropped his pen.

“Ho, ho!” the pages roared with glee,

But not so loud nor long as he.

“I’m growing younger every year;

I’ll be an infant soon, I fear!”

He laughed, then set to work again,

And all the morning plied his pen

Till every name was written. “Trip,

Hand me the shears and now I’ll clip

The sad words out and all the long ones,

And only leave the short and strong ones!”

Yes, there he sat, sweethearts, and cut

Out every single “can’t” and “but,”

And all the sad “good-bys” and “tears,”

And hundreds more, my ducks and dears,

For in Supposy dictionaries

He wants no tears or sighs or worries.

And when he’s done the pages sweep

The bad and sad words in a heap,

And burn them there upon the spot;

And oooh! that fire was awful hot.

But wasn’t that a splendid thing,

And don’t you love that dear old King?

(I do!)

Copyright © 2024 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.