STRENUOUS BOBBY AND HOW HE BROKE WILLIE WHISKERS TO HARNESS

By W. W. Denslow
Author of Denslow's Scarecrow and Tinman, original illustrator of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Father Goose: His Book, Dot and Tot of Merryland, etc.

Originally published in the St. Louis (Missouri) Daily Globe-Democrat, May 4, 1902.

 

Click image to enlarge.

 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 16, 1917.

 

 

Just ’Fore Christmas in Supposyville

With what a stirring, bustling, whirring
Thrill of preparation
Supposyville makes ready for
Its Christmas celebration.
The couriers and messengers
Pound off—and up and down,
And holly wreaths nod jovially
From every house in town,
While the odors from the chimneys
Waft one straight to fairyland—
Oh, Christmas is a season that
Supposies understand!

And always kind and merry,
Now they simply radiate
A happiness that sets one’s heart
Into its Christmas gait;
Oh, yes, they know about good will
And peace in old Supposyville!

The bells are tolling hourly
The message of the times;
So sweet, so sweet the angels
Seem to sing, and not the chimes;
And with what hearty greetings
The good folk go to and fro,
Piled high with ribboned boxes
And with greens and mistletoe.

The castle clock is festive
In a giant wreath of holly,
And seems each minute to grow more
Excited and more jolly;
The chimneys newly cleaned and swept
Smoke sociably together,
And hope for old Kriss Kringle’s sake
For snowy Christmas weather.
Each lad and lassie’s busy
With a song or piece to learn;
The Yule logs in the fireplace
Brag ’bout the way they’ll burn.
I cannot think without a thrill
Of Christmas in Supposyville!

Copyright © 2022 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

OLIVER ELEPHANT HELPS

By Ruth Plumly Thompson  

Author of The Giant Horse of Oz, "The Wizard of Pumperdink", "King, King! Double King!", etc.

 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 7, 1919.

 

 

Swish—sh! Splash—sh! Oliver Elephant was busy. Filling his trunk with the cool river water and sending it spraying backward, he stood knee-deep in the soft mud of the river bank.

“Wonder what the two-legs do to keep cool and clean—they have no trunk!” he thought to himself. The more he thought about it the more he wondered, until he became so careless that he squirted a vigorous spray of water straight in Tommy Crocodile’s eye. Tommy was usually very patient—but Oliver had interrupted a wonderful dream and he was so cross that the little elephant finished his bath in a hurry and humpety-humped through the forest to his elephant jungleow.

When supper-time came he was still wondering, and ate only a small piece of a wonderful hay pie Mother Elephant had made specially for him. She made him stick out his tongue and felt his pulse and then decided it must be because it was nearly time for school to open and did not bother about him any further.

As for Oliver, he was planning to do a very naughty thing. For “don’t go beyond that grove of trees,” said Mother Elephant. And “don’t go beyond that grove of trees” warned Father Elephant and Uncle Abner. And he was planning to do just that—to find out for himself how the two-legs kept clean and cool.

The next morning early he started out very quietly, pushing aside the branches and underbrush with his swinging trunk, and keeping a sharp lookout for enemies. Once a bad little monkey dropped a cocoa-nut right on his head with a loud “thwack,” and once a big mosquito flew into his big flapping ear, and buzzed loud and long. Otherwise the journey was very dull and Oliver had just filled his trunk for a drink and a bath when he came suddenly almost on top of a group of tents with black two-legs running hither and thither.

Wide-eyed the little elephant watched while they stretched a piece of canvas to four poles and carried enough water from the river to make a very fair bathtub.

“What wouldn’t I give this minute for a good cold shower,” complained a white two-legs to his companion as he started toward their bath.

And then—well that same wicked little monkey that had hit Oliver with the cocoa-nut—stole up behind the big little elephant and pinched his stubby tail very hard indeed. And Oliver, surprised and chagrined, lifted his trunk to trumpet his disapproval of such treatment, and gave those two white men the strangest shower bath of their lives.

“It’s a baby elephant,” some one said excitedly.

Black two-legs and white two-legs started to chase poor Oliver, and he went crash-crashing through the forest and never stopped until he reached dear Mother Elephant and told her the whole story.

“Well, anyhow, Oliver Elephant, you found out how two-legs keep cool and clean. Instead of a trunk they use a pipe with holes in the end and the water sprays them, just as you spray yourself down in the river,” laughed the wise old Mother Elephant.

And Oliver promised never to disobey again—though I’m sure the white men would have appreciated many another jungle shower bath—don’t you think so too?

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 9, 1917. 

 

 

Sir Solomon Tremendous Wise Has Another Idea

Sir Solomon Tremendous Wise
All dubious surveys the skies;
No cloud doth mar its pristine blue;
“There’s just one thing for me to do,”
The sage unto himself doth speak
In some strange language (prob’bly Greek!)
Then gath’ring up his robe of state
He hies him hence at quite a gait.

Sir Solomon claims our close attentions—
Well, chiefly through his queer inventions;
And in his tower on the Hill
He works for all Supposyville.
No problem is too large or small
For him, he tries to solve them all.
His way, still hurrying, he doth take
Down to the edge of Mirror Lake.

Addresses it in language grim;
It shivers at the scorn of him;
So cold his glance and harsh his word,
Pshaw, now, it does seem quite absurd;
Whatever, dears, do you suppose?
That lake just heaved a sigh—then FROZE!
“This,” said Sir Solomon, “is first rate,
High time it is for us to skate.”

Away he waddles with the news;
With silver skates, in threes and twos
The good Supposies reach the lake,
And how they chuckle, mercy sake!
And how they cheer old Mr. Wise
And thank him for his fine surprise;
In rings they skate, and figures fancy
Perform, both marvelous and chancy.

The boys and girls, and merchants, too;
The King and Queen and courtiers flew
On silver heels, while merry peals
Of laughter tell how each one feels;
But, oh! my stars, my eyes, my nose,
My heart, my heels, my head and toes!
There came a creak, and then a snap—
The ice gave way, and in the lap

Of that cold lake the party tumbled,
Head over heels together, jumbled
Like raisins in a pudding—Whew!
How they did splash and splutter, too;
And there upon the bank they dried
Their clothes, and laughed until they cried;
It was, well, such a big surprise;
And don’t blame it on Mr. Wise,
Indeed I’m very sure, dears, ’tis
No parcel of a fault of his;
That lake with such warm smiles was pelted
It couldn’t keep its ice, and melted.

Copyright © 2021 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

WHY THE MANX CAT LOST ITS TAIL

By Ruth Plumly Thompson

Author of Speedy in Oz, "The Wizard of Pumperdink", "King, King! Double King!", etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 18, 1916.

Once upon a time the Manx Cat had as beautiful a tail as any, and she would have had it yet had she not had so long a tongue.

She was a great body to gossip—was this first Manx Cat. She would call upon the neighbors and talk from morning till night—not about pleasant things, mind you, but of all the little disagreeable things she had heard about the other cats of her acquaintance.

So whenever they saw her coming, they would meow sorrowfully: “Here comes that cat with her long tail!” I think they meant tale, but tail and tale were all the same in those old faraway days when the Manx Cat went visiting.

One day the king of the cats, who had a way of going about without his crown and mixing with his subjects, happened to drop in upon the cat family where the Manx Cat was visiting. He wore a slouch hat, and no one dreamed he was a king; and first thing you know old Mrs. Manx had him in the corner telling him all sorts of gossip!

The king pulled his whiskers and glared, but still she kept on talking; indeed, she was so busy chattering that she never noticed that the king was pronouncing a spell under his breath. Well, things went on about as usual for a little time. The Manx Cat still kept visiting and gossiping, but one day when she looked into her cheval glass she noticed—oh, my CATNIP—more than half of her tail was missing. She hurried off to her next door neighbor to tell her the terrible news, but when she saw the lady she became so interested in relating how Mrs. Greypuss had bitten her husband’s left ear that she forgot until a little jerk made her glance round at her tail.  As she did a piece of it broke off; yes, sir, it broke right off. And after that every time she gossiped or told tales another bit of her tail fell off, till it was ALL TOLD—I mean all gone. And not until THEN did she learn to hold her tongue. That is why the Manx Cats today are so quiet and THAT is why there are bob-tailed cats. And whenever we gossip or tell tales, we lose a bit of ourself—really, a bit of the best of us—just as the Manx Cat lost the best of herself when her beautiful long tail broke off.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 11, 1917. 

Winter Evenings in Supposyville

Oh, winter evenings in Supposyville
Aren’t sleepy, dull affairs—
For winter evenings—like all else—
This charming realm—forsooth—prepares.
“For,” says the King, “the daytimes bring,
As every wise man knows,
Their meed of toil—but evenings are
For joy—and sheer repose!”
So in his own quaint, merry way
The King proceeds to fill
The winter evenings with delight
In all Supposyville.
First trot the royal workmen
Briskly through the realm—to see
That each home has its open grate
And cheerful wide chimnee.
A fireplace is the heart of home—
And keeps folks all together,
Takes off the chill and puts a thrill
In stormy winter weather.
Not satisfied with this, the King
Goes searching up and down—
And you’ll agree I’m sure with me—
That underneath his crown
Ideas there are worth having, for
From east and north and west
He’s gathered in the minstrels
And the jugglers—and the best
And finest storytellers
And musicians—every night
This jolly company from the castle
Goes with footsteps light.
Then sounds a knock upon a door
And who, dear, should it be
But a merry singer come to cheer
A little family!
And so it goes; with all the rest
Each to a house goes scurrying
With songs and jokes and merry tales
This blithely company, hurrying.
And as Supposies never know
What night a merry man may call,
It lends a sort of magicness
And fascination to them all.
Think, dear, yourself—how fine ’twould be
If some night right into your hall
A story-telling man would step
And sitting by the fire, tell all
The jolly tales you’d want to hear;
’Tis surely something new
To stay at home and have the plays
And players come to you!
It seems to me, Supposyville’s
A kingdom that we well might model;
I don’t care—if it IS a realm
Existing largely in my noddle.

Copyright © 2021 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

PIETRO AND JOCKO, THE MONK

By W. W. Denslow
Author of Denslow's Scarecrow and Tinman, original illustrator of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Father Goose: His Book, Dot and Tot of Merryland, etc.

Originally published in the St. Louis (Missouri) Daily Globe-Democrat, April 20, 1902.

 

Click image to enlarge.

 

 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 25, 1917.

 

The Supposy Thanksgiving

I’ve heard a deal of funny things,
But never, never, never,
One quite so queer as this, my dear—
This is the queerest ever.
It has to do with that quaint state
Of mind, and ’tis delectable;
Pshaw! In Supposyville the unexpected
Is expectable.
And yet I think they were a bit
Surprised themselves. ’Twas noon,
And for a week before the cooks
Had wrought with knife and spoon,
Preparing all the eatables—
The cakes, and tarts, and pies.
Now, in the overs sizzle all
The turkeys, stuffed life size;
Yes, in that kingdom, dears and ducks,
A baking, boiling, stewing,
A hundred dinners for
Thanksgiving are a brewing.

When all at once the castle bell
Its silver summons peals,
And soon just every one in sight
Has taken to his heels.
All breathlessly there in the court
The populace give ear.
The King upon the balcony
Now speaks: “Oh, people, hear
This proclamation. Heretofore
We’ve kept Thanksgiving Day,
I now do solemnly command
That ye give it away!
For we can keep thanksgiving
Every day—in every year.
Go fetch the dinners—and return
In just an hour—here!”
Oh, what a scrambling—and what haste—
All steaming hot and savory
The hundred hundred dinners
Into hampers go. Some bravery
It took, I will admit,
But merrily they all obey
And in an hour are prepared
To give the day—away.
Now all the horses in the town
And all the carts are taken—
And merrily they hie them off
To villages forsaken.
And how the people gasp and stare
As hamper after hamper
Come tumbling down—through many a town
The good Supposies scamper.
And what a lark and joy it was
With each to do his part
In sacrificing all—they made
A feast day for the heart.
It seems to me that they are right—
To keep Thanksgiving Day—
Is selfish, and I sometimes wish
We’d all give it away.

Copyright © 2021 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

I'VE NEVER HAD ENOUGH

By L. Frank Baum 

(Author of The Road to Oz, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the Yucatan, Daughters of Destiny, etc.)

and George Scarborough

From the musical comedy The Pipes o' Pan. Originally published in The Musical Fantasies of L. Frank Baum by Alla T. Ford and Dick Martin, 1958.

 

 

I've Never Had Enough

MIDAS & SILENUS: (Singing)

Don't talk to me of temperance,

It won't do any good:

For I believe in drinking just

As every boozer should!

The trickle of the liquid

As it leaps into the glass

Is the only sort of music, now,

That's got a bit of class!

It don't make any difference

The kind of booze it is:

If whiskey, wine or brandy,

A foamy stein or phizz;

A cock-tail or a high-ball—

I'll not get in a huff—

I'll drink it down and yell for more:

I've never had enough!

Chorus:

I've never had enough, I've never had enough!

I drink it by the barrel, but I've never had enough!

Get busy, Mister Waiter, bring on the liquid stuff,

Or I will fight

Because tonight

I'm going to get enough!

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 18, 1917.

 

 

A Whimsical Holiday in Supposyville

You’d never guess—you’d never know
The feast that happens ’fore Thanksgiving—
Supposies—dear, I sometimes think
Are just the quaintest people living!

The quaintest and the kindest
And the cheerfulest—besides.
Ah—happy is the mortal man
Who in that realm abides.

Well, well—to get back to that feast,
By Royal Proclamation
The King appoints a day of play
For creatures of all station.

“For shall the patient horse who serves
Work on without reward?
And shall no meed of pleasure come
To those who grace our board?”

Thus spoke his Majesty—straight off
A creature holiday’s appointed
Whereby the pigs and lambs and such
May sport themselves in double jointed

Unrestrain-ed joy—and feast
Upon the choicest in the land—
And lie abed till 12 o’clock—
And ’pon my word they understand.

The ax is hidden far away—
And not a pig nor goose—
Nor lamb nor steer is eaten,
For ’tis called the Day of Truce.

Supposies fare on vegetables—
While horse and oxen graze,
And pull the heavy loads themselves
And think how well on other days

The creature folk serve them,
And clearly they point out—
How little enough it is—one day—
For things to turn about!

The lads and lassies through the woods
Drop dainties for each squirrel and bird—
And every doggie has his bone
And has his day—upon my word!

They do things with a thoroughness
And grace—and I declare—
If I were not myself I’d like
To be a bow-wow there!

Copyright © 2021 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE ELEPHANTS DECIDE

By Ruth Plumly Thompson 

Author of Speedy in Oz, "The Wizard of Pumperdink", "King, King! Double King!", etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 13, 1916.

 

 

The night was still and sultry, the air choking with the tang of gunpowder and the sullen heat of the tropics. A great battle had been fought that day; those who were left slumbered in their tents; in the camp there was no sound except the restless shifting of the elephants and the rattle of the chains about their ankles. I cannot tell you, sweethearts, where the camp was, for that would never do, but perhaps you who have been watching the war news will know without my telling.

The sentryman had made his round and one of the battery elephants, seeing his light grow dim and dimmer, raised his trunk: “Brothers,” whispered he, “it is enough. Let us return to our own people, for man is no longer master!” There was silence for a few moments, the big creatures swaying to and fro and shifting from foot to foot.

“How long have you served man, Wangunga?” It was a newly trained and younger elephant who spoke. “Forty years,” boomed the great beast. “I have helped him clear the forests and build his cities!” “And I! And I!” Like a sigh, the echo swept down the long line. “I have helped him build and conquer the forest, but help him destroy and conquer his brothers I will not. It is enough. I return to my people. Will my bothers come?” “I, too, have had enough—enough of this fire and death. I will come!” wheezed Neidra, who stood shoulders and head above them all. “I will come!” “And I! And I!” called the others, throwing up their trunks and breathing heavily. “Come, then!” Wangunga was already tugging at his chain. “Come, we will return no more!”

“Wait! Wait! Would you leave them to die?’ Above the rattling chains rose the voice of Emperor, the oldest in the service. “There be little children waiting for their daddies and women—many women who weep. I have carried the Sahib’s son in my trunk. Shall I leave my master to die? The war madness—the madness of the sun is upon man, but for that, shall we leave them to perish?” A long silence followed.

“But, old one, what would you have us do? To go is madness, perhaps, but to stay is death!” whimpered one of the younger elephants. “I have a plan. We will go, but we will take death with us, we will drag the cannons to the river and push them[in]; the guns we will break. This we will do in our own camp and in the camp of yonder men who came against us today!”

“Heeeyah! There speaks a chief!” whistled Wangunga softly. “Ready, brothers, ready!”

Next minute a shrill cry rang through the camp “The elephants, the elephants have gone mad!” Out tumbled the sleepy soldiers, making for trees and rushing toward the river, for it is certain death to face an elephant stampede. And such they truly believed it to be. With grunts and rumbles and little squeals of rage the great beasts rushed at the cannon, pushing them down to the river, crunching the guns like matchsticks beneath their feet. Chains that had held for years snapped like straws, then off like a whirlwind swept the herd with trumpetings that thrilled the enemy’s camp with a terror that the battle had never inspired.

Wangunga shrilled the news to the other elephants in this camp and they joined with their brothers. The cannons clanked and jolted, the guns snapped and the soldiers trembled, and not till the last gun was useless and the last cannon swallowed by the yellow river did the great gray herd pause.

Disarmed and astonished, shaking like leaves in a tempest, the soldiers saw the herd swing into line and charge into the darkness with the precision of an army. One shrill farewell and they had melted like mist in the night, gone to return no more. “For man,” as Wangunga had said, “was no longer master!”
 

 

 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 11, 1917. 

Busy Times in Supposyville

Housecleaning’s done, and every one
Now turns his thoughts ahead;
For much indeed is yet to do
Before the month is sped.

The winter togs are taken out
And beaten with a will;
They do things so, as well you know,
In old Supposyville.

But that’s not what is causing
All the bustle and commotion;
Come, can’t you give a guess or two,
Or haven’t you a notion?

Well! Well! I’ll tell you what is up;
Just six weeks off, in fact,
Six weeks and two short days besides,
If one must be exact.

Why, Christmas, dears and ducks, my loves!
And, whew! the time is short;
And as the King said to the Queen,
“There’s things of every sort

“To be attended to, ’twould not
Be fair to leave it all
To old St. Nick, so let’s be quick
And plan our Christmas ball.”

Wherever two or three are gathered
Whispering’s the rule,
And all the boys and girls are busy
Working after school

On gifts for so and so; the shelves
In every pantry groan;
Why, just a glance would make one dance,
There’s every dainty known.

The ducks and turkeys all penned up
Are stuffing for the feast,
And couriers and pages dash
Both north and west and east.

For so in old Supposyville they shop,
And oh, what treasures
Are stowed away for Christmas Day,
That day of fun and pleasures.

And so much joy and jollity
Is in anticipation
That Christmas happens forty times
At least in preparation.

I think we’d better take the hint
From quaint Supposyville,
And do our shopping early,
And preparing—(I think I will!)

Copyright © 2021 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

A COLD DAY ON THE RAILROAD

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

Originally published in the Chicago Times-Herald. Transcribed from the Norfolk Virginian, June 13, 1895.

"The coldest day I ever knew," said the stranger, "was when I traveled up the branch to Glinton last winter. I knew it was cold when I saw the fireman get on top the engine with a shovel to shovel away the smoke as fast as it froze. Soon after we started the conductor entered the car, knocked his head against the side of the door to break off his breath, and yelled 'Tickets!' before it froze again. But it was no use. The word only penetrated a few feet and stuck fast in the atmosphere, but, as we could all see clearly, we could not help noticing that word 'tickets' frozen up in the front end of the car, and we were ready when the smiling conductor passed along. He smiled because he couldn't help it. He wore that expression when he encountered the ozone, and it stuck to him. The poor fellow hit his hand against the seat in front of me and broke his little finger off as clean as if it had been an icicle. It rattled down on to the floor, but he picked it up calmly and put it in his vest pocket. He was used to that run."

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 4, 1917.

 

A Narrow Escape for the King and Queen of Supposyville

A pair of purple breeches, dears,
Upon a line careening,
Caused all the trouble, for those steeds
Just failed to catch their meaning;
And though an accident is rare
In old Supposyville,
I tell you now; indeed, I vow,
’Twas with an awful thrill
The townfolk saw their highnesses
A-dashing down the street,
A-bouncing up and down upon
The royal carriage seat;
The footmen they were missing,
Strewn here and there behind;
As for the King and Queen, they’re in
A parlous state of mind!
The steeds plunged on, the sparks just flew—
So did the geese, and people, too.
“Alas! Alack! they’ll all be spilt,
Their highnesses will sure be kilt!”
The good dames wailed. Now down the steep
Embankment to the sea they sweep,
Those plunging steeds; with faces covered
Upon the hill Supposies hovered.
But came no splash, and came no cries;
With startled, unbelieving eyes
The townfolk look, and in midair
Beheld the horses plunge and rare;
But harmlessly; for, understand,
They’re safely in the giant’s hand.
Looking from his wall, he’d seen
The coach and steeds and King and Queen;
And leaning halfway over town
Had quick as lightning bent him down
And picked them up, just in the nick
Of time, and while the horses kick
Safely he set the Queen and King
Upon the ground; and in a ring
The good Supposies dance and cheer—
Now wasn’t that just fine, my dear!
The King was so delighted that
Right there upon the spot
He gave his second best gold crown;
’Twas generous, was it not?
The giant wears it for a ring;
And really more and more
He comes to love and watch the merry
Kingdom there, next door.
 

Copyright © 2021 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.