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.

HOW THE BEGGARS CAME TO TOWN

By L. Frank Baum

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

Originally published in Mother Goose in Prose, 1897.

Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,

The beggars are coming to town:

Some in rags, and some in tags,

And some in velvet gown.

Very fair and sweet was little Prince Lilimond, and few could resist his soft, pleading voice and gentle blue eyes. And as he stood in the presence of the King, his father, and bent his knee gracefully before His Majesty, the act was so courteous and dignified it would have honored the oldest noble man of the court.

The King was delighted, and for a time sat silently regarding his son and noting every detail of his appearance, from the dark velvet suit with its dainty ruffles and collar to the diamond buckles on the little shoes, and back again to the flowing curls that clustered thick about the bright, childish face.

Well might any father be proud of so manly and beautiful a child, and the King’s heart swelled within him as he gazed upon his heir.

“Borland,” he said to the tutor, who stood modestly behind the Prince, “you may retire. I wish to sneak privately with his royal highness.”

The tutor bowed low and disappeared within the ante-room, and the King continued, kindly,

“Come here, Lilimond, and sit beside me. Methinks you seem over-grave this morning.”

“It is my birthday, Your Majesty,” replied the Prince, as he slowly obeyed his father and sat beside him upon the rich broidered cushions of the throne. “I am twelve years of age.”

“So old!” said the King, smiling into the little face that was raised to his. “And is it the weight of years that makes you sad?”

“No, Your Majesty; I long for the years to pass, that I may become a man, and take my part in the world’s affairs. It is the sad condition of my country which troubles me.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the King, casting a keen glance at his son. “Are you becoming interested in politics, then; or is there some grievous breach of court etiquette which has attracted your attention?”

“I know little of politics and less of the court, sire,” replied Lilimond; “it is the distress of the people that worries me.”

“The people? Of a surety, Prince, you are better posted than am I, since of the people and their affairs I know nothing at all. I have appointed officers to look after their interests, and therefore I have no cause to come into contact with them myself. But what is amiss?”

“They are starving,” said the Prince, looking at his father very seriously; “the country is filled with beggars, who appeal for charity, since they are unable otherwise to procure food.”

“Starving!” repeated the King; “surely you are misinformed. My Lord Chamberlain told me but this morning the people were loyal and contented, and my Lord of the Treasury reports that all taxes and tithes have been paid, and my coffers are running over.”

“Your Lord Chamberlain is wrong, sire,” returned the Prince; “my tutor, Borland, and I have talked with many of these beggars the past few days, and we find the tithes and taxes which have enriched you have taken the bread from their wives and children.”

“So!” exclaimed the King. “We must examine into this matter.” He touched a bell beside him, and when a retainer appeared directed his Chamberlain and his Treasurer to wait upon him at once.

The Prince rested his head upon his hand and waited patiently, but the King was very impatient indeed till the high officers of the court stood before him. Then said the King, addressing his Chamberlain,

“Sir, I am informed my people are murmuring at my injustice. Is it true?”

The officer cast an enquiring glance at the Prince, who met his eyes gravely, before he replied,

“The people always murmur, Your Majesty. They are many, and not all can be content, even when ruled by so wise and just a King. In every land and in every age there are those who rebel against the laws, and the protests of the few are ever heard above the contentment of the many.”

“I am told,” continued the King, severely, “that my country is overrun with beggars, who suffer for lack of the bread we have taken from them by our taxations. Is this true?”

“There are always beggars, Your Majesty, in every country,” replied the Chamberlain, “and it is their custom to blame others for their own misfortunes.”

The King thought deeply for a moment; then he turned to the Lord of the Treasury.

“Do we tax the poor?” he demanded.

“All are taxed, sire,” returned the Treasurer, who was pale from anxiety, for never before had the King so questioned him, “but from the rich we take much, from the poor very little.”

“But a little from the poor man may distress him, while the rich subject would never feel the loss. Why do we tax the poor at all?”

“Because, Your Majesty, should we declare the poor free from taxation all your subjects would at once claim to be poor, and the royal treasury would remain empty. And as none are so rich but there are those richer, how should we, in justice, determine which are the rich and which are the poor?”

Again the King was silent while he pondered upon the words of the Royal Treasurer. Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed them, and turned to the Prince, saying,

“You have heard the wise words of my councilors, Prince. What have you to say in reply?”

“If you will pardon me, Your Majesty, I think you are wrong to leave the affairs of the people to others to direct. If you knew them as well as I do, you would distrust the words of your councilors, who naturally fear your anger more than they do that of your subjects.”

“If they fear my anger they will be careful to do no injustice to my people. Surely you cannot expect me to attend to levying the taxes myself,” continued the King, with growing annoyance. “What are my officers for, but to serve me?”

“They should serve you, it is true,” replied the Prince, thoughtfully, “but they should serve the people as well.”

“Nonsense!” answered the King; “you are too young as yet to properly understand such matters. And it is a way youth has to imagine it is wiser than age and experience combined. Still, I will investigate the subject further, and see that justice is done the poor.”

“In the meantime,” said the Prince, “many will starve to death. Can you not assist these poor beggars at once?”

“In what way?” demanded the King.

“By giving them money from your full coffers.”

“Nonsense!” again cried the King, this time with real anger; “you have heard what the Chamberlain said: we always have beggars, and none, as yet, have starved to death. Besides, I must use the money for the grand ball and tourney next month, as I have promised the ladies of the court a carnival of unusual magnificence.”

The Prince did not reply to this, but remained in silent thought, wondering what he might do to ease the suffering he feared existed on every hand amongst the poor of the kingdom. He had hoped to persuade the King to assist these beggars, but since the interview with the officers of the court he had lost heart and despaired of influencing his royal father in any way.

Suddenly the King spoke.

“Let us dismiss this subject, Lilimond, for it only serves to distress us both, and no good can come of it. You have nearly made me forget it is your birthday. Now listen, my son: I am much pleased with you, and thank God that he has given me such a successor for my crown, for I perceive your mind is as beautiful as your person, and that you will in time be fitted to rule the land with wisdom and justice. Therefore I promise, in honor of your birthday, to grant any desire you may express, provided it lies within my power. Nor will I make any further condition, since I rely upon your judgment to select some gift I may be glad to bestow.”

As the King spoke, Lilimond suddenly became impressed with an idea through which he might succor the poor, and therefore he answered,

“Call in the ladies and gentlemen of the court, my father, and before them all will I claim your promise.”

“Good!” exclaimed the King, who looked for some amusement in his son’s request; and at once he ordered the court to assemble.

The ladies and gentlemen, as they filed into the audience chamber, were astonished to see the Prince seated upon the throne beside his sire, but being too well bred to betray their surprise they only wondered what amusement His Majesty had in store for them.

When all were assembled, the Prince rose to his feet and addressed them.

“His Majesty the King, whose kindness of heart and royal condescension is well known to you all, hath but now promised me, seeing that it is my birthday, to grant any one request that I may prefer. Is it not true, Your Majesty?”

“It is true,” answered the King, smiling upon his son, and pleased to see him addressing the court so gravely and with so manly an air; “whatsoever the Prince may ask, that will I freely grant.”

“Then, oh sire,” said the Prince, kneeling before the throne, “I ask that for the period of one day I may reign as King in your stead, having at my command all kingly power and the obedience of all who owe allegiance to the crown!”

“For a time there was perfect silence in the court, the King growing red with dismay and embarrassment and the courtiers waiting curiously his reply. Lilimond still remained kneeling before the throne, and, as the King looked upon him he realized it would be impossible to break his royal word. And the affair promised him amusement after all, so he quickly decided in what manner to reply.

“Rise, oh Prince,” he said, cheerfully, “your request is granted. Upon what day will it please you to reign?”

Lilimond arose to his feet.

“Upon the seventh day from this,” he answered.

“So be it,” returned the King. Then, turning to the royal herald he added, “Make proclamation throughout the kingdom that on the seventh day from this Prince Lilimond will reign as King from sunrise till sunset. And whoever dares to disobey his commands will be guilty of treason and shall be punished with death!”

The court was then dismissed, all wondering at this marvellous decree, and the Prince returned to his own apartment where his tutor, Borland, anxiously awaited him.

Now this Borland was a man of good heart and much intelligence, but wholly unused to the ways of the world. He had lately noted, with much grief, the number of beggars who solicited alms as he walked out with the Prince, and he had given freely until his purse was empty. Then he talked long and earnestly with the Prince concerning this shocking condition in the kingdom, never dreaming that his own generosity had attracted all the beggars of the city toward him and encouraged them to become more bold than usual.

Thus was the young and tender-hearted Prince brought to a knowledge of all these beggars, and therefore it was that their condition filled him with sadness and induced him to speak so boldly to the King, his father.

When he returned to Borland with the tidings that the King had granted him permission to rule for a day the kingdom, the tutor was overjoyed, and at once they began to plan ways for relieving all the poor of the country in that one day.

For one thing, they dispatched private messengers to every part of the kingdom, bidding them tell each beggar they met to come to the Prince on that one day he should be King and he would relieve their wants, giving a broad gold piece to every poor man or woman who asked.

For the Prince had determined to devote to this purpose the gold that filled the royal coffers; and as for the great ball and tourney the King had planned, why, that could go begging much better than the starving people.

On the night before the day the Prince was to reign there was a great confusion of noise within the city, for beggars from all parts of the kingdom began to arrive, each one filled with joy at the prospect of receiving a piece of gold.

There was a continual tramp, tramp of feet, and a great barking of dogs, as all dogs in those days were trained to bark at every beggar they saw, and now it was difficult to restrain them.

And the beggars came to town singly and by twos and threes, until hundreds were there to await the morrow. Some few were very pitiful to behold, being feeble and infirm from age and disease, dressed in rags and tags, and presenting an appearance of great distress. But there were many more who were seemingly hearty and vigorous; and these were the lazy ones, who, not being willing to work, begged for a livelihood.

And some there were dressed in silken hose and velvet gowns, who, forgetting all shame, and, eager for gold, had been led by the Prince’s offer to represent themselves as beggars, that they might add to their wealth without trouble or cost to themselves.

The next morning, when the sun arose upon the eventful day, it found the Prince sitting upon the throne of his father, dressed in a robe of ermine and purple, a crown upon his flowing locks and the King’s scepter clasped tightly in his little hand. He was somewhat frightened at the clamor of the crowd without the palace, but Borland, who stood behind him, whispered,

“The more you can succor the greater will be your glory, and you will live in the hearts of your people as the kind Prince who relieved their sufferings. Be of good cheer, Your Majesty, for all is well.”

Then did the Prince command the Treasurer to bring before him the royal coffers, and to stand ready to present to each beggar a piece of gold. The Treasurer was very unwilling to do this, but he was under penalty of death if he refused, and so the coffers were brought forth.

“Your Majesty,” said the Treasurer, “if each of those who clamor without is to receive a piece of gold, there will not be enough within these coffers to go around. Some will receive and others be denied, since no further store of gold is to be had.”

At this news the Prince was both puzzled and alarmed.

“What are we to do?” he asked of the tutor; but Borland was unable to suggest a remedy.

Then said the aged Chamberlain, coming forward, and bowing low before the little King,

“Your Majesty, I think I can assist you in your difficulty. You did but promise a piece of gold to those who are really suffering and in need, but so great is the greed of mankind that many without are in no necessity whatever, but only seek to enrich themselves at your expense. Therefore I propose you examine carefully each case that presents itself, and unless the beggar is in need of alms turn him away empty-handed, as being a fraud and a charlatan.”

“Your counsel is wise, oh Chamberlain,” replied the Prince, after a moment’s thought; “and by turning away the impostors we shall have gold enough for the needy. Therefore bid the guards to admit the beggars one by one.”

When the first beggar came before him the Prince asked,

“Are you in need?”

“I am starving, Your Majesty,” replied the man, in a whining tone. He was poorly dressed, but seemed strong and well, and the Prince examined him carefully for a moment. Then he answered the fellow, saying,

“Since you are starving, go and sell the gold ring I see you are wearing upon your finger. I can assist only those who are unable to help themselves.”

At this the man turned away muttering angrily, and the courtiers murmured their approval of the Prince’s wisdom.

The next beggar was dressed in velvet, and the Prince sent him away with a sharp rebuke. But the third was a woman, old and feeble, and she blessed the Prince as she hobbled joyfully away with a broad gold-piece clasped tightly within her withered hand.

The next told so pitiful a story that he also received a gold-piece; but as he turned away the Prince saw that beneath his robe his shoes were fastened with silver buckles, and so he commanded the guards to take away the gold and to punish the man for attempting to deceive his King.

And so many came to him that were found to be unworthy that he finally bade the guards proclaim to all who waited that any who should be found undeserving would be beaten with stripes.

That edict so frightened the imposters that they quickly fled, and only those few who were actually in want dared to present themselves before the King.

And lo! The task that had seemed too great for one day was performed in a few hours, and when all the needy had been provided for but one of the royal coffers had been opened, and that was scarcely empty!

“What think you, Borland?” asked the Prince, anxiously, “have we done aright?”

“I have learned, Your Majesty,” answered the tutor, “that there is a great difference between those who beg and those who suffer for lack of bread. For, while all who needed aid were in truth beggars, not all the beggars needed aid; and hereafter I shall only give alms to those I know to be honestly in want.”

“It is wisely said, my friend,” returned the Prince, “and I feel I was wrong to doubt the wisdom of my father’s councilors. Go, Borland, and ask the King if he will graciously attend me here.”

The King arrived and bowed smilingly before the Prince whom he had set to reign in his own place, and at once the boy arose and presented his sire with the scepter and crown, saying,

“Forgive me, oh my King, that I presumed to doubt the wisdom of your rule. For, though the sun has not yet set, I feel that I am all unworthy to sit in your place, and so I willingly resign my power to your more skillful hands. And the coffers which I, in my ignorance, had determined to empty for the benefit of those unworthy, are still nearly full, and more than enough remains for the expenses of the carnival. Therefore forgive me, my father, and let me learn wisdom in the future from the justness of your rule.”

Thus ended the reign of Prince Lilimond as King, and not till many years later did he again ascend the throne upon the death of his father.

And really there was not much suffering in the kingdom at any time, as it was a prosperous country and well governed; for, if you look for beggars in any land you will find many, but if you look only for the deserving poor there are less, and these all the more worthy of succor.

I wish all those in power were as kind-hearted as little Prince Lilimond, and as ready to help the needy, for then there would be more light hearts in the world, since it is “better to give than to receive.”

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, July 28, 1918

Sir Solomon’s Latest Invention

Sir Solomon Tremendous Wise

With somber brows surveys the skies,

No sign of sun for seven days,

But disconcerting blacks and grays,

With rain and wind and fog between.

“This must depress the King and Queen.

The crops, instead of ripening, stand

Draggled and wet throughout the land!”

Quoth Solomon, “The corn in rows

Discouraged and discolored grows.

Instead of mellow heartening yellow,

’Tis pale enough to scare a fellow!

Now why should I, a man of brains,

Be baffled by the wind and rains?”

In thought he spent the day. Next morn,

Which still was gray, a field of corn

The good old wise man sought. He’d brought 

The outcome of his day of thought.

With care he climbed a nearby tree,

And, fastening his invention, he

Climbed down to tell the Court and King

To come. They gathered in a ring.

“This is an engine of newest type

Invented to make the corn grow ripe!”

He solemnly explained, and then

Slowly climbed up his tree again.

The courtiers rubbed their eyes and stared,

For almost anything prepared!

Now Solomon just turned a crank,

Then gave his engine wheel a yank.

The corn began to rustle lightly

And then began to yellow slightly.

The King clapped both his hands, then gazed

Again, astounded and amazed.

A crackling soon commenced to sound;

Uneasily they looked around.

Ha! ho! Next minute each corn ear

Burst from its husks, my duck and dear,

And before the engine could be stopped

About a million of ’em popped.

Whew! down like snow the popcorn showered—

Supposies simply overpowered!

The King crawled from a popcorn hill,

Then ducked, for corn was popping still!

Poor Solomon apologized

And said he hadn’t realized

The power of his new invention—

And other things I need not mention.

The King arose and laughed until

He tumbled down—they’re laughing still!

And what a popcorn feast they had;

And my! The boys and girls were glad.

They ate it hot, they ate it cold,

Sugared, salted, plain and rolled.

And viewing the tremendous yield—

’Tis well Sir S. just tried one field.

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