Thursday, June 1, 2017

THE WONDERFUL WIZARD

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the Yucatan, Daughters of Destiny, etc
 
The following lyrics are from the earliest version (1901) of the script that developed into the 1903 Broadway Wizard of Oz. If music was written for them, it doesn't seem to survive. No evidence exists to suggest they were performed.


Oh, he is the wonderful wizard of Oz,
     The wizard of Oz is he,
There isn’t a juggle can cause him a struggle,
     He’s a marvel of mystery!
He’s practiced in sorcery, magical lore
Is never a pother to him any more,
He’s dazzled and frazzled the jays by the score,
He’s the wonderful wizard of Oz.

     Hear me! Fear me!
     Never dare to queer me,
I’m the greatest necromancer ever was!
     All my deeds with magic reek,
     I’m the whole thing so to speak,
I’m the Wonderful Wizard of Oz!

CHORUS:
     Hear him, fear him;
     Never try to queer him,
He’s the greatest necromancer ever was,
     All his deeds with magic reek,
     He’s the whole thing, so to speak,
He’s the wonderful wizard of Oz.


THE FORGETFUL POET
 
By Ruth Plumly Thompson 
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 19, 1920. 

 

The Puzzle Corner


The greatest puzzle of all—what will be in it?
Copyright © 2017 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

Monday, May 1, 2017

ROCKINGHORSE HILL

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Yellow Knight of Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard in Oz, and The Wish Express, etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 15, 1919.


There’s the jolliest mansion on Rockinghorse Hill
(An elf man once showed me the way),
’Tis a couple of smiles and a number of miles
Just beyond the Great Kingdom of Play!

And who do you s’pose it was built for? Heigh-ho!
Why for old and infirm broken toys—
For dolls without wigs and for little lame pigs
Who’ve been played out by girls and by boys!
 

For one-legged bowwows and lambs without tails,
And for rag-tag dolls too—if you please—
Every day they arrive—and my goody alive—
They just look like poor war refugees!

A little fat fairy—who never has wed—
Keeps the home—and the darling old dear
Sees the toys are all mended and properly fed,
And dispenses large doses of cheer!
 

And if you should peek in some fine afternoon,
You’d see Teddy Bears leaning on canes,
And dollies with crutches all sociably talking
Or walking in all of the lanes.

They have dances and teas—and the merriest times
In the Home up on Rockinghorse Hill—
Those old worn-out toys—do you know, girls and boys,
Just to think of it gives me a thrill!


THE FORGETFUL POET
 
By Ruth Plumly Thompson 
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 12, 1920.


Puzzles

The Forgetful Poet is so busy with the last of his Christmas shopping that he cannot stop to think up any new riddles, but he hopes you guessed those last week. The first was easy—XLNC for “his excellency” the ambassador, you know. And, of course, the chimney, down which Old Kriss comes, has a knee and a throat and smokes like a man. And the little couplet should read:

A score of days, fourteen and SIX,
The twenty-fifth is old ST. NICK’S (Day).
 

Copyright © 2017 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

THE WONDERFUL PUMP

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the Yucatan, Daughters of Destiny, etc.

Originally published in American Fairy Tales (1901).
 



Not many years ago there lived on a stony, barren New England farm a man and his wife. They were sober, honest people, working hard from early morning until dark to enable them to secure a scanty living from their poor land.

Their house, a small, one-storied building, stood upon the side of a steep hill, and the stones lay so thickly about it that scarce anything green could grow from the ground. At the foot of the hill, a quarter of a mile from the house by the winding path, was a small brook, and the woman was obliged to go there for water and to carry it up the hill to the house. This was a tedious task, and with the other hard work that fell to her share had made her gaunt and bent and lean.

Yet she never complained, but meekly and faithfully performed her duties, doing the housework, carrying the water and helping her husband hoe the scanty crop that grew upon the best part of their land.

One day, as she walked down the path to the brook, her big shoes scattering the pebbles right and left, she noticed a large beetle lying upon its back and struggling hard with its little legs to turn over, that its feet might again touch the ground. But this it could not accomplish; so the woman, who had a kind heart, reached down and gently turned the beetle with her finger. At once it scampered from the path and she went on to the brook.

The next day, as she came for water, she was surprised to see the beetle again lying upon its back and struggling helplessly to turn. Once more the woman stopped and set him upon his feet; and then, as she stooped over the tiny creature, she heard a small voice say:

"Oh, thank you! Thank you so much for saving me!"

Half frightened at hearing a beetle speak in her own language, the woman started back and exclaimed:

"La sakes! Surely you can't talk like humans!" Then, recovering from her alarm, she again bent over the beetle, who answered her:

"Why shouldn't I talk, if I have anything to say?

"'Cause you're a bug," replied the woman.

"That is true; and you saved my life—saved me from my enemies, the sparrows. And this is the second time you have come to my assistance, so I owe you a debt of gratitude. Bugs value their lives as much as human beings, and I am a more important creature than you, in your ignorance, may suppose. But, tell me, why do you come each day to the brook?"

"For water," she answered, staring stupidly down at the talking beetle.

"Isn't it hard work?" the creature inquired.

"Yes; but there's no water on the hill," said she.

"Then dig a well and put a pump in it," replied the beetle.

She shook her head.

"My man tried it once; but there was no water," she said, sadly.

"Try it again," commanded the beetle; "and in return for your kindness to me I will make this promise: if you do not get water from the well you will get that which is more precious to you. I must go now. Do not forget. Dig a well."

And then, without pausing to say good-by, it ran swiftly away and was lost among the stones.

The woman returned to the house much perplexed by what the beetle had said, and when her husband came in from his work she told him the whole story.

The poor man thought deeply for a time, and then declared:

"Wife, there may be truth in what the bug told you. There must be magic in the world yet, if a beetle can speak; and if there is such a thing as magic we may get water from the well. The pump I bought to use in the well which proved to be dry is now lying in the barn, and the only expense in following the talking bug's advice will be the labor of digging the hole. Labor I am used to; so I will dig the well."

Next day he set about it, and dug so far down in the ground that he could hardly reach the top to climb out again; but not a drop of water was found.

"Perhaps you did not dig deep enough," his wife said, when he told her of his failure.

So the following day he made a long ladder, which he put into the hole; and then he dug, and dug, and dug, until the top of the ladder barely reached the top of the hole. But still there was no water.

When the woman next went to the brook with her pail she saw the beetle sitting upon a stone beside her path. So she stopped and said:

"My husband has dug the well; but there is no water."

"Did he put the pump in the well?" asked the beetle.

"No," she answered.

"Then do as I commanded; put in the pump, and if you do not get water I promise you something still more precious."

Saying which, the beetle swiftly slid from the stone and disappeared. The woman went back to the house and told her husband what the bug had said.

"Well," replied the simple fellow, "there can be no harm in trying."

So he got the pump from the barn and placed it in the well, and then he took hold of the handle and began to pump, while his wife stood by to watch what would happen.

No water came, but after a few moments a gold piece dropped from the spout of the pump, and then another, and another, until several handfuls of gold lay in a little heap upon the ground.

The man stopped pumping then and ran to help his wife gather the gold pieces into her apron; but their hands trembled so greatly through excitement and joy that they could scarcely pick up the sparkling coins.

At last she gathered them close to her bosom and together they ran to the house, where they emptied the precious gold upon the table and counted the pieces.

All were stamped with the design of the United States mint and were worth five dollars each. Some were worn and somewhat discolored from use, while others seemed bright and new, as if they had not been much handled. When the value of the pieces was added together they were found to be worth three hundred dollars.

Suddenly the woman spoke.

"Husband, the beetle said truly when he declared we should get something more precious than water from the well. But run at once and take away the handle from the pump, lest anyone should pass this way and discover our secret."

So the man ran to the pump and removed the handle, which he carried to the house and hid underneath the bed.

They hardly slept a wink that night, lying awake to think of their good fortune and what they should do with their store of yellow gold. In all their former lives they had never possessed more than a few dollars at a time, and now the cracked teapot was nearly full of gold coins.

The following day was Sunday, and they arose early and ran to see if their treasure was safe. There it lay, heaped snugly within the teapot, and they were so willing to feast their eyes upon it that it was long before the man could leave it to build the fire or the woman to cook the breakfast.

While they ate their simple meal the woman said:

"We will go to church to-day and return thanks for the riches that have come to us so suddenly. And I will give the pastor one of the gold pieces."

"It is well enough to go to church," replied her husband, "and also to return thanks. But in the night I decided how we will spend all our money; so there will be none left for the pastor."

"We can pump more," said the woman.

"Perhaps; and perhaps not," he answered, cautiously. "What we have we can depend upon, but whether or not there be more in the well I cannot say."

"Then go and find out," she returned, "for I am anxious to give something to the pastor, who is a poor man and deserving."

Illustration for "The Wonderful Pump" from The St. Louis Republican, May 12, 1901.
So the man got the pump handle from beneath the bed, and, going to the pump, fitted it in place. Then he set a large wooden bucket under the spout and began to pump. To their joy the gold pieces soon began flowing into the pail, and, seeing it about to run over the brim, the woman brought another pail. But now the stream suddenly stopped, and the man said, cheerfully:

"That is enough for to-day, good wife! We have added greatly to our treasure, and the parson shall have his gold piece. Indeed, I think I shall also put a coin into the contribution box."

Then, because the teapot would hold no more gold, the farmer emptied the pail into the wood-box, covering the money with dried leaves and twigs, that no one might suspect what lay underneath.

Afterward they dressed themselves in their best clothing and started for the church, each taking a bright gold piece from the teapot as a gift to the pastor.

Over the hill and down into the valley beyond they walked, feeling so gay and light-hearted that they did not mind the distance at all. At last they came to the little country church and entered just as the services began.

Being proud of their wealth and of the gifts they had brought for the pastor, they could scarcely wait for the moment when the deacon passed the contribution box. But at last the time came, and the farmer held his hand high over the box and dropped the gold piece so that all the congregation could see what he had given. The woman did likewise, feeling important and happy at being able to give the good parson so much.

The parson, watching from the pulpit, saw the gold drop into the box, and could hardly believe that his eyes did not deceive him. However, when the box was laid upon his desk there were the two gold pieces, and he was so surprised that he nearly forgot his sermon.

When the people were leaving the church at the close of the services the good man stopped the farmer and his wife and asked:

"Where did you get so much gold?"

The woman gladly told him how she had rescued the beetle, and how, in return, they had been rewarded with the wonderful pump. The pastor listened to it all gravely, and when the story was finished he said:

"According to tradition strange things happened in this world ages ago, and now I find that strange things may also happen to-day. For by your tale you have found a beetle that can speak and also has power to bestow upon you great wealth." Then he looked carefully at the gold pieces and continued:

"Either this money is fairy gold or it is genuine metal, stamped at the mint of the United States government. If it is fairy gold it will disappear within 24 hours, and will therefore do no one any good. If it is real money, then your beetle must have robbed some one of the gold and placed it in your well. For all money belongs to some one, and if you have not earned it honestly, but have come by it in the mysterious way you mention, it was surely taken from the persons who owned it, without their consent. Where else could real money come from?"

The farmer and his wife were confused by this statement and looked guiltily at each other, for they were honest people and wished to wrong no one.

"Then you think the beetle stole the money?" asked the woman.

"By his magic powers he probably took it from its rightful owners. Even bugs which can speak have no consciences and cannot tell the difference between right and wrong. With a desire to reward you for your kindness the beetle took from its lawful possessors the money you pumped from the well."

"Perhaps it really is fairy gold," suggested the man. "If so, we must go to the town and spend the money before it disappears."

"That would be wrong," answered the pastor; "for then the merchants would have neither money nor goods. To give them fairy gold would be to rob them."

"What, then, shall we do?" asked the poor woman, wringing her hands with grief and disappointment.

"Go home and wait until to-morrow. If the gold is then in your possession it is real money and not fairy gold. But if it is real money you must try to restore it to its rightful owners. Take, also, these pieces which you have given me, for I cannot accept gold that is not honestly come by."

Sadly the poor people returned to their home, being greatly disturbed by what they had heard. 

Another sleepless night was passed, and on Monday morning they arose at daylight and ran to see if the gold was still visible.

"It is real money, after all!" cried the man; "for not a single piece has disappeared."

When the woman went to the brook that day she looked for the beetle, and, sure enough, there he sat upon the flat stone.

"Are you happy now?" asked the beetle, as the woman paused before him.

"We are very unhappy," she answered; "for, although you have given us much gold, our good parson says it surely belongs to some one else, and was stolen by you to reward us."

"Your parson may be a good man," returned the beetle, with some indignation, "but he certainly is not overwise. Nevertheless, if you do not want the gold I can take it from you as easily as I gave it."

"But we do want it!" cried the woman, fearfully. "That is," she added, "if it is honestly come by."

"It is not stolen," replied the beetle, sulkily, "and now belongs to no one but yourselves. When you saved my life I thought how I might reward you; and, knowing you to be poor, I decided gold would make you happier than anything else.

"You must know," he continued, "that although I appear so small and insignificant, I am really king of all the insects, and my people obey my slightest wish. Living, as they do, close to the ground, the insects often come across gold and other pieces of money which have been lost by men and have fallen into cracks or crevasses or become covered with earth or hidden by grass or weeds. Whenever my people find money in this way they report the fact to me; but I have always let it lie, because it could be of no possible use to an insect.

"However, when I decided to give you gold I knew just where to obtain it without robbing any of your fellow creatures. Thousands of insects were at once sent by me in every direction to bring the pieces of lost gold to his hill. It cost my people several days of hard labor, as you may suppose; but by the time your husband had finished the well the gold began to arrive from all parts of the country, and during the night my subjects dumped it all into the well. So you may use it with a clear conscience, knowing that you wrong no one."

This explanation delighted the woman, and when she returned to the house and reported to her husband what the beetle had said he also was overjoyed.

So they at once took a number of the gold pieces and went to the town to purchase provisions and clothing and many things of which they had long stood in need; but so proud were they of their newly acquired wealth that they took no pains to conceal it. They wanted everyone to know they had money, and so it was no wonder that when some of the wicked men in the village saw the gold they longed to possess it themselves.

"If they spend this money so freely," whispered one to another, "there must be a great store of gold at their home."

"That is true," was the answer. "Let us hasten there before they return and ransack the house."

So they left the village and hurried away to the farm on the hill, where they broke down the door and turned everything topsy turvy until they had discovered the gold in the wood-box and the teapot. It did not take them long to make this into bundles, which they slung upon their backs and carried off, and it was probably because they were in a great hurry that they did not stop to put the house in order again.

Presently the good woman and her husband came up the hill from the village with their arms full of bundles and followed by a crowd of small boys who had been hired to help carry the purchases. Then followed others, youngsters and country louts, attracted by the wealth and prodigality of the pair, who, from simple curiosity, trailed along behind like the tail of a comet and helped swell the concourse into a triumphal procession. Last of all came Guggins, the shopkeeper, carrying with much tenderness a new silk dress which was to be paid for when they reached the house, all the money they had taken to the village having been lavishly expended.

The farmer, who had formerly been a modest man, was now so swelled with pride that he tipped the rim of his hat over his left ear and smoked a big cigar that was fast making him ill. His wife strutted along beside him like a peacock, enjoying to the full the homage and respect her wealth had won from those who formerly deigned not to notice her, and glancing from time to time at the admiring procession in the rear.

But, alas for their new-born pride! when they reached the farmhouse they found the door broken in, the furniture strewn in all directions and their treasure stolen to the very last gold piece.

The crowd grinned and made slighting remarks of a personal nature, and Guggins, the shopkeeper, demanded in a loud voice the money for the silk dress he had brought.

Then the woman whispered to her husband to run and pump some more gold while she kept the crowd quiet, and he obeyed quickly. But after a few moments he returned with a white face to tell her the pump was dry, and not a gold piece could now be coaxed from the spout.

The procession marched back to the village laughing and jeering at the farmer and his wife, who had pretended to be so rich; and some of the boys were naughty enough to throw stones at the house from the top of the hill. Mr. Guggins carried away his dress after severely scolding the woman for deceiving him, and when the couple at last found themselves alone their pride had turned to humiliation and their joy to bitter grief.

Just before sundown the woman dried her eyes and, having resumed her ordinary attire, went to the brook for water. When she came to the flat stone she saw the King Beetle sitting upon it.

"The well is dry!" she cried out, angrily.

"Yes," answered the beetle, calmly, "you have pumped from it all the gold my people could find."

"But we are now ruined," said the woman, sitting down in the path beginning to weep; "for robbers have stolen from us every penny we possessed."

"I'm sorry," returned the beetle; "but it is your own fault. Had you not made so great a show of your wealth no one would have suspected you possessed a treasure, or thought to rob you. As it is, you have merely lost the gold which others have lost before you. It will probably be lost many times more before the world comes to an end."

"But what are we to do now?" she asked.

"What did you do before I gave you the money?"

"We worked from morning 'til night," said she.

"Then work still remains for you," remarked the beetle, composedly; "no one will ever try to rob you of that, you may be sure!" And he slid from the stone and disappeared for the last time.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *       *       *       *       *
This story should teach us to accept good fortune with humble hearts and to use it with 
moderation. For, had the farmer and his wife resisted the temptation to display their 
wealth ostentatiously, they might have retained it to this very day.



THE FORGETFUL POET
 
By Ruth Plumly Thompson 
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 5, 1920. 
 
Puzzle Corner

“To begin at the beginning is very proper,” says the Forgetful Poet, and as old riddles should be answered before new ones are made—here goes: The little bees rise beetimes, of course, and NOON and HEAD were the words omitted from the verses.

And now the old dear tells me that if he were addressing a letter to an ambassador he could do it in four letters of the alphabet. To spell the title would require ten, but to spell it by sound would, he insists, take only four. Now, the first thing to find is, What do we call an ambassador? A king is “your royal highness” and the mayor “his honor.” What does one call an ambassador? And when you have found it put it into four letters.

And what is this?

A knee and a throat, sirs,
And yet it’s no man,
Though it smokes like a good one,
Guess what, if you can.

A score of days—fourteen and -----,
The twenty-fifth is old ----- (Day).

[Answers next time.]
 
Copyright © 2017 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

THE STORY OF BARON

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of Grampa of Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard in Oz, and The Wish Express, etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, October 11, 1914.



(For Ned, Who Likes Stories of Horses.)

His name was Baron. He belonged to Krupp, of the Kaiser’s Uhlans. Two hands at least, his powerful shoulders rose above tall the horses in the line. His magnificent head stood out among the waving manes—like the prow of a ship stands out of the sea. He was on his way to the front. “Is this war?” he neighed with pounding heart as the trumpet sounded the call—“GO”—“Is this war?” he kept asking his comrade horses—during the long marches over the rolling hills. From his colthood he had heard men exclaim: “What a horse? What a WAR horse he will make!” All his life he had been dreaming, in a vague way, of this thing called war. When he was being trained to charge—and wheel and stand—he kept asking himself over and over, “Is this war?” The question leapt out of his eyes every day of the wearisome marching.

Then, one day, the Uhlans came to the French frontier own of Lamdreces. They charged the town—and somehow—the great horse realized that this charge was not like the practice charges. He felt a quiver of delight as the long line in a whirl of dust swept down the hill. “Ah,” cried he, throwing back his head—“surely this—is war!” down the narrow streets clattered the Uhlans. But suddenly the air was full of a thousand noises. Machine guns from the roofs and windows poured shot upon the advancing lines. With a rush a mass of English cavalry were hurtling to meet them. Ears back, head high, Baron plunged through the terrible confusion. The gun-powder stung his nostrils—on each side of him horses were rearing and plunging and snorting with fright. Men and horses were falling in hundreds. The cords of his mighty heart tightened. “This—then—was WAR!” With a scream of defiance he flung back his mane and plunged savagely to meet an advancing cavalryman. The man whipped out his sword and swung it at the head of Krupp. Up reared the gallant horse—and saved his master—by receiving the downward thrust in his heart.

Soundlessly he sank to his knees—then rolled heavily upon his side. Just once he raised his head to see Krupp fighting desperately with his back to the wall. He tried to rise—but dropped back with a groan. Something in the iron heart of the great horse snapped. His mighty limbs quivered, then lay forever still. This—was WAR!



THE FORGETFUL POET
 
By Ruth Plumly Thompson 
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 28, 1920.


Puzzles

“What time,” asked a rabbit
With funny red eyes,
“What time may I ask
Do the little bees rise?”

        (Do you know?)

The sun had breakfast in bed, I think,
’Cause he didn’t get up till -----
With a woolen cloud bandage around his -----
He said ’twould be snowing soon!

(And I guess he’s right.)

And now let us explain that the weather is vain because it’s fair most of the time. And the only man it is safe to stick your tongue out at is—the doctor. And the mouse would like to be the man in the moon because he thinks the moon’s made of cheese, which shows he doesn’t know much about moonography.

We clean windows with a chamois and the animal in the verse was an oryx, and if you don’t believe me ask the Forgetful Poet. (If you can find him.)

[Answers next time.] 


Copyright © 2017 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

WITCH'S SONG

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the Yucatan, Daughters of Destiny, etc.
 
From The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Act III, 1901.

A FOREST WITCH appeared in an early draft of the script for what eventually became the Broadway stage hit The Wizard of Oz. Baum wrote the following lyrics for the FOREST WITCH to sing in the Forest of Fighting Trees. The character and scene were cut from the script during work on the show in early 1902.

I’m fearfully wicked,
I’m cheerfully wicked,
I shudder myself when I think
How yearningly wicked,
Discerningly wicked
I am, from nothing I shrink.

I’m thrilling wicked,
I’m killingly wicked,
I don’t care a rap for what’s good.
I’m slashingly wicked,
Abashingly wicked,
I wouldn’t reform if I could.

You may show a deep aversion to a green goods man,
Or cast a vile aspersion on a sneak thief gang,
You may tremble at a murderer, an anarchist or tough,
But none of them compared to me is really up to snuff.

I’m blissfully wicked,
Remissfully wicked,
No crime is too dreadful for me.
I’m snortingly wicked,
Distortingly wicked,
My sinfulness fills me with glee.



THE FORGETFUL POET
 
By Ruth Plumly Thompson 
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 21, 1920.

Puzzle Corner

This week the Forgetful Poet would like to know why is the weather vane.
And he says further that it is only safe to stick out your tongue at one person. Who is he?

What animal do we use to clean windows?

“I wish,” said a mouse
To a sparrow one noon,
“I wish I myself
Were the man in the moon!”

Why?

There once was an amiable -----
Who ate several boxes of Borax!
Yes, that antelope et it, and my! it upset it,
And gave him a pain in his thorax!

The pie puzzles last week gave a good many folks mental indigestion, so the Forgetful Poet wants to answer them right away. First, pie is like a cross old man because it is crusty. It could never grow into a giant because it is made short with shortening. Patti was named after a small pie. An animal added to pie gives us pie-rat and pie is used in geometry and magpie is the bird.

The words left out of the verses were piebald, cap-a-pie, pioneers and mince.

[Answers next time.]



Copyright © 2017 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

THE AMBITIOUS MOLE

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Giant Horse of Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard in Oz, and The Wish Express, etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, January 18, 1920.


Once upon a time there was an ambitious mole who wished to amount to something in the world. He felt sure that there was more to the earth than the dark underground tunnels that his family inhabited, although his father told him repeatedly that there was nothing above the ground worth looking at.

The moles are hard-working little people, and this particular family were employed in a mine and dug early and late for their living. One day as the little mole was at work in a lonely corner of the mine he met the old gnome who employed them and got into a conversation.

The old gnome was in a particularly good humor, having had mushroom pie for his dinner, and as there was no one about he condescended to be pleasant to the little mole boy. When Tommy—that was the mole’s name—asked him about the earth, he described, at great length, the forests and meadows, the trees and blue skies, the sun and the stars, and he even told him about people—which was funny, for gnomes do not usually believe in people.

Tommy could scarcely wait till evening that he might tell his family the wonderful story. But his father fell asleep in the middle of the recital and Mrs. Mole was so busy over her house accounts that she only nodded once in a while without even hearing. Tommy was discouraged, and all the next day he was turning over in his mind ways and means of seeing some of these things for himself.

One day instead of gong to work with is father he pretended to have an errand to do for the old gnome. He dug up and up and up till at last he could poke his head right out. He looked all around; then he was so disappointed that he flopped down on the ground and cried. Imagine!

“Everything’s just the same!” he wailed dismally.

“What’s the same?” A little fairy on her way to visit a sick bird family stopped beside him.

“The gnome said the trees were green and the sky was blue and everything is brown!” wailed the mole again. “Are you a person?”

“Not quite,” laughed the little creature softly, “I’m a fairy!”

“Well, you’re brown, too!” The mole sat up and viewed the little fairy dolefully.

“Why, I’m pink!” cried the fairy indignantly. Then all at once she began hopping around in an excited circle.

“I know what’s the matter! I know what’s the matter!” she laughed. “You wait here!”

Off like a flash she scurried, and just as the mole was about to go down into his hole again she returned with—what do you ’spose? A dear little pair of spectacles.

For, of course, dear heart, a mole is almost blind and everything does look brown to him—that’s why he thinks the whole world is like his dark, damp home underground.

Now these were magic specs and no sooner did Tommy look through them than he saw all the beautiful things of which the gnome had told him—the blue sky, the green trees and, best of all, the dainty little fairy. All day he ran hither and thither, admiring everything he saw, and when night came and the stars came out over the treetops he could not go to sleep at all!

“I will never live underground again!” he said delightedly. And he never did. In fact, he got a position as chief clerk in the fairy bank and lived happily the rest of his days. Isn’t it a pity that all moles cannot have fairy specs!



THE FORGETFUL POET
 
By Ruth Plumly Thompson 
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 14, 1920.

 
Puzzle Corner

Why is pie like a cross old man?

Why could a pie never grow into a giant?

What great opera singer of the last generation was described by a small pie?

If you add an animal to pie what do you have?

How did pie get into the arithmetic?

What bird ends in pie?

And now to occupie your time supply the words to fill this rhyme:

The knight upon a ----- bald steed
And armed all cap-a- -----,
Forth from his donjon deep did ride
To do—to do or die!

The -----ioneers made pastry, dears
We’ve made it ever since.
What pie describes a foppish gait—
Ho! wait—’tis good old -----.

The answers to last week’s puzzles were rolling pin, and a clock is like a working man because it works with its hands and strikes. The answer to the last riddle is caddy.

A wave should have a foot because it has an under toe.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2017 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

THE MAN IN THE MOON

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the Yucatan, Daughters of Destiny, etc.

Originally published in Mother Goose in Prose (1897).


The Man in the Moon came tumbling down,
And enquired the way to Norwich;
He went by the south and burned his mouth
With eating cold pease porridge!

WHAT! have you never heard the story of the Man in the Moon? Then I must surely tell it, for it is very amusing, and there is not a word of truth in it.

The Man in the Moon was rather lonesome, and often he peeked over the edge of the moon and looked down upon the earth and envied all the people who lived together, for he thought it must be vastly more pleasant to have companions to talk to than to be shut up in a big planet all by himself, where he had to whistle to keep himself company.

One day he looked down and saw an alderman sailing up through the air towards him. This alderman was being translated (instead of being transported, owing to a misprint in the law) and as he came near the Man in the Moon called to him and said,

"How is everything down on the earth?"

"Everything is lovely," replied the alderman, "and I wouldn't leave it if I was not obliged to."

"What's a good place to visit down there? enquired the Man in the Moon.

"Oh, Norwich is a mighty fine place," returned the alderman, "and it's famous for its pease porridge;" and then he sailed out of sight and left the Man in the Moon to reflect upon what he had said.

The words of the alderman made him more anxious than ever to visit the earth, and so he walked thoughtfully home, and put a few lumps of ice in the stove to keep him warm, and sat down to think how he should manage the trip.

You see, everything went by contraries in the Moon, and when the Man wished to keep warm he knocked off a few chunks of ice and put them in his stove; and he cooled his drinking water by throwing red-hot coals of fire into the pitcher. Likewise, when he became chilly he took off his hat and coat, and even his shoes, and so became warm; and in the hot days of summer he put on his overcoat to cool off.

All of which seems very queer to you, no doubt; but it wasn't at all queer to the Man in the Moon, for he was accustomed to it.

Well, he sat by his ice-cool fire and thought about his journey to the earth, and finally he decided the only way he could get there was to slide down a moonbeam.

So he left the house and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, for he was uncertain how long he should be gone; and then he went to the edge of the moon and began to search for a good strong moonbeam.

At last he found one that seemed rather substantial and reached right down to a pleasant-looking spot on the earth; and so he swung himself over the edge of the moon, and put both arms tight around the moonbeam and started to slide down. But he found it rather slippery, and in spite of all his efforts to hold on he found himself going faster and faster, so that just before he reached the earth he lost his hold and came tumbling down head over heels and fell plump into a river.

The cool water nearly scalded him before he could swim out, but fortunately he was near the bank and he quickly scrambled upon the land and sat down to catch his breath.

By that time it was morning, and as the sun rose its hot rays cooled him off somewhat, so that he began looking about curiously at all the strange sights and wondering where on earth he was.

By and by a farmer came along the road by the river with a team of horses drawing a load of hay, and the horses looked so odd to the Man in the Moon that at first he was greatly frightened, never before having seen horses except from his home in the moon, from whence they looked a good deal smaller. But he plucked up courage and said to the farmer,

"Can you tell me the way to Norwich, sir?"

"Norwich?" repeated the farmer musingly; "I don't know exactly where it be, sir, but it's somewhere away to the south."

"Thank you," said the Man in the Moon.—But stop! I must not call him the Man in the Moon any longer, for of course he was now out of the moon; so I'll simply call him the Man, and you'll know by that which man I mean.

Well, the Man in the—I mean the Man (but I nearly forgot what I have just said)—the Man turned to the south and began walking briskly along the road, for he had made up his mind to do as the alderman had advised and travel to Norwich, that he might eat some of the famous pease porridge that was made there. And finally, after a long and tiresome journey, he reached the town and stopped at one of the first houses he came to, for by this time he was very hungry indeed.

A good-looking woman answered his knock at the door, and he asked politely,

"Is this the town of Norwich, madam?"

"Surely this is the town of Norwich," returned the woman.

"I came here to see if I could get some pease porridge," continued the Man, "for I hear you make the nicest porridge in the world in this town."

"That we do, sir," answered the woman, "and if you'll step inside I'll give you a bowl, for I have plenty in the house that is newly made."

So he thanked her and entered the house, and she asked,

"Will you have it hot or cold, sir?"

"Oh, cold, by all means," replied the Man, "for I detest anything hot to eat."

She soon brought him a bowl of cold pease porridge, and the Man was so hungry that he took a big spoonful at once.

But no sooner had he put it into his mouth than he uttered a great yell, and began dancing frantically about the room, for of course the porridge that was cold to earth folk was hot to him, and the big spoonful of cold pease porridge had burned his mouth to a blister!

"What's the matter?" asked the woman.

"Matter!" screamed the Man; "why, your porridge is so hot it has burned me."

"Fiddlesticks!" she replied, "the porridge is quite cold."

"Try it yourself!" he cried. So she tried it and found it very cold and pleasant. But the Man was so astonished to see her eat the porridge that had blistered his own mouth that he became frightened and ran out of the house and down the street as fast as he could go.

The policeman on the first corner saw him running, and promptly arrested him, and he was marched off to the magistrate for trial.

"What is your name?" asked the magistrate.

"I haven't any," replied the Man; for of course as he was the only Man in the Moon it wasn't necessary he should have a name.

"Come, come, no nonsense!" said the magistrate, "you must have some name. Who are you?"

"Why, I'm the Man in the Moon."

"That's rubbish!" said the magistrate, eyeing the prisoner severely, "you may be a man, but you're not in the moon—you're in Norwich."

"That is true," answered the Man, who was quite bewildered by this idea.

"And of course you must be called something," continued the magistrate.

"Well, then," said the prisoner, "if I'm not the Man in the Moon I must be the Man out of the Moon; so call me that."

"Very good," replied the judge; "now, then, where did you come from?"

"The moon."

"Oh, you did, eh? How did you get here?"

"I slid down a moonbeam."

"Indeed! Well, what were you running for?"

"A woman gave me some cold pease porridge, and it burned my mouth."

The magistrate looked at him a moment in surprise, and then he said,

"This person is evidently crazy; so take him to the lunatic asylum and keep him there."

This would surely have been the fate of the Man had there not been present an old astronomer who had often looked at the moon through his telescope, and so had discovered that what was hot on earth was cold in the moon, and what was cold here was hot there; so he began to think the Man had told the truth. Therefore he begged the magistrate to wait a few minutes while he looked through his telescope to see if the Man in the Moon was there. So, as it was now night, he fetched his telescope and looked at the Moon,—and found there was no man in it at all!

"It seems to be true," said the astronomer, "that the Man has got out of the Moon somehow or other. Let me look at your mouth, sir, and see if it is really burned."

Then the Man opened his mouth, and everyone saw plainly it was burned to a blister! Thereupon the magistrate begged his pardon for doubting his word, and asked him what he would like to do next.

"I'd like to get back to the Moon," said the Man, "for I don't like this earth of yours at all. The nights are too hot."

"Why, it's quite cool this evening!" said the magistrate.

"I'll tell you what we can do," remarked the astronomer; "there's a big balloon in town which belongs to the circus that came here last summer, and was pawned for a board bill. We can inflate this balloon and send the Man out of the Moon home in it."

"That's a good idea," replied the judge. So the balloon was brought and inflated, and the Man got into the basket and gave the word to let go, and then the balloon mounted up into the sky in the direction of the moon.

The good people of Norwich stood on the earth and tipped back their heads, and watched the balloon go higher and higher, until finally the Man reached out and caught hold of the edge of the moon, and behold! the next minute he was the Man in the Moon again!

After this adventure he was well contented to stay at home; and I've no doubt if you look through a telescope you will see him there to this day.



THE FORGETFUL POET
  
By Ruth Plumly Thompson 
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 7, 1920.
Puzzle Corner

Last week’s answers were: Frost, snow, flakes, chrysanthemum and ice.

ODDS AND ENDS

I heard a pin drop
With a noise like thunder—
A pin? Yes a -----?
Pshaw—no wonder!

Will you tell me why a clock
Is like a working man?
Why a clock should join a union,
That is, tell me if you can!

One on the links and
One on the table?
Read me this riddle, dears—
If you are able?

Why should a wave have a foot?

[Answers next time.]
Copyright © 2017 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.