THE RUNAWAY SHADOWS

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Woggle-Bug Book, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the South Seas, etc.

Originally published May 5, 1901.


I
The Frost King came down to breakfast one morning in a merry mood.

"Do you know what day it is?" said he to his son Jack.

"No, your Majesty," answered Jack, who was busily eating fried icicles.

"It is my birthday," he said.

"Ah!" cried Jack, springing to his feet. "Then it is the Coldest Day of the Year."

"Exactly!" replied his father. "So to-day, my dear boy, you may mix with the Earth People and play your pranks upon them to your heart's content. Many exposed noses and ears will be ready for you to nip, and many toes and fingers to pinch; so you will easily manage to keep busy."

"I'll start at once!" exclaimed Jack; "for I do not wish to miss an hour of this merry day."


II
Said the little Prince of Thumbumbia: "I want to go out and play."

"It is extremely cold, your Highness," remonstrated the chief nurse, uneasily.

"That does not matter," answered the Prince. "I have furs. So I will go out of doors to play; and my cousin, the Lady Lindeva, will go with me."

"Our men-at-arms declare it is the Coldest Day of the Year," remarked the chief nurse; "and naughty Jack Frost will be abroad."

The Prince of Thumbumbia stamped his small foot.

"The furs!" he cried, imperiously.

So the chief nurse sighed and summoned her maids, to whom she gave orders to fetch the furs. The Prince and his dainty cousin, little Lady Lindeva, were wrapped from head to foot in soft, rich furs, so when the maids were through with them, only their eyes and the tips of their noses were exposed. Then a shivering guardsman opened the front door of the castle just wide enough for them to get through, and they joined their mittened hands and walked out into the big courtyard.

The sun shone brilliantly, but so intense was the cold that even the soldiers who guarded the walls had gone within their little turreted houses and none had dared brave the severe weather save the two self-willed children.

As they toddled across the stone pavement the sun cast dark shadows behind them, which clung close to the children's heels whether they went fast or slow.

The furs succeeded in keeping out the cold, but the Prince and Lady Lindeva found little to interest them in the courtyard, and began to realize the folly of venturing out.

Then merry Jack Frost came that way, and upon seeing the youngsters decided to pinch their ears. But these he found covered up. Next he thought he would nip their noses; but at the first attempt the little ones withdrew them into their furs. Jack Frost was really puzzled. He couldn't get at them anywhere.

Just at this time the prince and his cousin saw a snow-bird sitting upon the battlements and ran across the court to catch it. When they moved Jack Frost noticed the shadows following them, and a clever idea came into his head.

"I'll freeze the shadows!" he said to himself, with a laugh.

So, while the little ones stood still to watch the snow-bird, naughty Jack breathed softly upon the two shadows, which were holding hands exactly as the children did. Soon they became solid and rounded out into form, for the only reason shadows are so flat and helpless is because they are not solid. Being now frozen into shape they became greatly interested in themselves, and Jack Frost stopped long enough to put a mischievous notion into their heads.

"Let's run away," whispered the prince's shadow to that of the Lady Lindeva.

"All right; let's!" was the soft answer.

They glanced over their shoulders and then gave a look at the prince and his cousin, to whom they knew very well they belonged. But the children were intently watching the bird and had no thought for such trifling things as shadows.

Noting this, the two shadows slowly glided away, leaped the great wall with ease and ran in the direction of the Forest of Burzee. Jack Frost stood watching them as they moved swiftly over the snow, and he laughed joyously at the success of his stratagem.

The runaway shadows never stopped till they had reached the forest and gone some distance among the trees. Then, indeed, they paused to rest and recover their breaths; but each still held the other's hand and they kept close together.

Kahtah, the great tiger of Burzee, lay upon the limb of a tree and sleepily opened his eyes from time to time to look about him.

Suddenly he pricked up his ears and began moving his long tail from side to side.

"The Prince of Thumbumbia and the Lady Lindeva have come to the forest!" he growled, softly. "I can see their shadows, so the children must be just behind that clump of bushes. Surely it was my good luck that brought them here, for I am hungry today and they will do excellently for dinner."

Then he thrust his sharp claws from their sheaths, bared his big yellow teeth and gave a mighty spring that landed him exactly behind the clump of bushes where the children, according to their shadows, ought to have been.

But he struck the frozen ground and found no one there. And the shadows laughed at him.

"You were fooled that time, Kahtah!" they cried; and when the tiger turned upon them fiercely they ran away through the trees and left him.

Soon after they met with a ryl, which asked:

"Why have you run away from your owners?"

"For sport," replied the prince's shadow.

"And because we are tired with tagging after some one else," added the Lady Lindeva's shadow.

"Ah, I see," remarked the ryl, looking at them with a wise expression; "you are frozen solid now, and think you amount to something. But you don't. When the weather changes and you thaw out you will fade into the air and become lost forever. That will be bad. And the children will have no shadows ever after. That will be bad, too. Can't you see you are acting foolishly?"

The shadows hung their heads and looked ashamed.

"My advice to you," continued the ryl, "is to return to the castle as quickly as possible and join yourselves to the prince and the little girl as you were before. It is far better to tag after those high-born children than to become nothing at all. And in truth you are only shadows, who can not expect to become anything better, although you will grow bigger as your masters grow."

For a moment there was silence; then the Lady Lindeva's shadow whispered to her companion:

"The ryl is right. Let us return at once."

"Very well," replied the prince's shadow. "We have had a good run and been independent for once in our lives. But I do not care to fade into the air and become nothing at all!"

So they turned around and went back to the castle.

III
After the shadows had left them the little prince and his cousin decided it was too cold to remain out of doors, and the snow-bird had flown away; so they returned to the big entrance of the castle and the guard let them in. But scarcely had they reached the hall and allowed the maids to remove their furs, when a loud shout was heard and a cavalcade of horsemen rode up to the castle and dismounted in the courtyard. With them was a splendid carriage, drawn by four milk-white steeds.

The leader of these men, who were all noblemen and courtiers, entered the hall of the castle, and having bowed low before the prince he said:

"I am grieved to announce that his majesty, the king, has just died. His nearest of kin are yourself, prince, and your cousin, the Lady Lindeva. But since you are a boy, and she is a girl, we have decided to offer to you the rule of this mighty kingdom. If you will graciously ride with us to the city you shall be crowned before sunset." Then he kneeled before the prince and awaited his answer.

"I am sorry the king, my good uncle, is dead," said the boy. "But often I have thought I should like to be a king myself. So I thank you all and shall return with you to the city."

The chief nurse then replaced his soft furs and he walked out to enter the carriage which stood in waiting.

But when he stood in the bright sunshine one of the courtiers exclaimed:

"Why, the prince has no shadow!"

At this all eyes were turned upon the boy, and they saw that he alone of them all cast no shadow upon the pavement.

Silence then fell upon them, till one, more bold than the rest, said:

"It will never do to make him king; for when it is known he has no shadow the people will lose all respect for him and consider him less than a human."

"That is true," said another. "No one would obey a king so poor that he has no shadow."

"For this reason," declared the leader of the party, "we must make Lady Lindeva queen, and set her to reign over the kingdom in place of the unfortunate prince."

To this all were agreed, though many expressed regret. So the prince, who had been fully as much astonished at the loss of his shadow as any of the others, was led back into the castle and the Lady Lindeva brought forth in his stead.

But when the girl came into the sunshine the courtiers were shocked to discover that she had no more shadow than the prince. Whereupon they were puzzled how to act, and finally decided to return to the city and report the matter to Earl Highlough, who was chief man in all the kingdom.

When this great and wise statesman heard that neither the prince nor his cousin cast a shadow in the sunlight he refused to believe the report, and announced that he would himself go to the Castle of Thumbumbia and investigate the matter.

And while he was upon the way the runaway shadows stole back to the castle and sought out the boy and girl, resolving never to leave them again. The warmth of the room soon drew the frost from the shadows, and rendered them so limp and flat that they were really glad to stick close to the heels of their owners.

The Earl of Highlough presently arrived with a great train of courtiers and attendants, and at once requested the Prince of Thumbumbia to step out into the sunshine of the courtyard. This the prince did, feeling sadly the humiliation of having no shadow.

But, behold! no sooner came he into the sun than he cast a long, black shadow behind him; and the courtiers applauded his triumph, and with loud shouts hailed him as their king.

IV
The records state that for many years the new king walked daily within the gardens of his palace in order to make sure he had not again lost his shadow. Even after he grew to manhood, and by wise rule gained the love and respect of his subjects, whenever he happened to walk out with the Lady Lindeva - now his queen - there were both accustomed to glance over their shoulders with anxious looks.

But the shadows, having learned wisdom from the ryl, never deserted them again, and Jack Frost, having new tricks to play, forgot all about the annoyance he had once caused His Royal Highness the King.

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, March 25, 1917.

The Forgetful Poet's Puzzles

One of the boys wrote that the Forgetful Poet was not the only one who was a Balboa. He said that he himself was at sea a long time before he guessed those riddles the Forgetful Poet sent us last week. A good many of you sent in correct lists, and here is one of them:

Shoe-horn.
Potato patch.
Ear of corn.
Dumb-bell.
Elephant or tree trunk.
Lady's train.
Wing of a building.
Shoe trees or clothes tree.
Clothes horse.
Feet on a tape measure.
Shoe tongues.

Here is a verse he sent us this week, and it looks as if we all would have a long sea voyage.

A flag that didn't wave
I saw today, and then a frog
That neither croaked nor jumped,
Also a bark without a dog!
A dog without a bark, besides
A clock that wouldn't go;
A goose that never honks,
A needle never known to sew,
A finger that's not pointed,
A cup not used for tea,
A nut you really couldn't eat,
A bee that's not a bee,
A flower that would like to dance,
An eye that cannot see,
And now, my dears and ducks, perchance
You'll tell them all to me!

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2003 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE LITTLE PRINCE AND THE FAITHFUL BLUEBIRD

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Hungry Tiger of Oz, "The Artful Arab", King Kojo, etc.

Originally serialized in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, April 9 through April 28, 1916.


In that far country to the south, where flowers bloom all the year and the woods are still wild, free and unspoiled by the hand of man, live the bluebirds. Above the rush of the mighty Amazon, from the tops of the vine-covered trees, their songs drop like pearls, mingling with those of the humming birds till the whole forest thrills with gladness. The panther on his way to drink pauses to listen, the trembling doe in the thicket lifts its shy head, forgetting for one moment its many enemies. The crocodiles drag themselves out of the river mud and lie blinking in the sun listening. For the whole forest loves the birds.

But now the bluebirds have gathered for their northern flight, for the long journey to our own land, to bring to man their message of gladness and cheer. The king of the bluebirds is calling each by name and the rocks on the banks of the river are aflutter with color as each answers the call. "Ready!" he sings out at last. A flash of blue, a whirr of wings and a thousand have flung themselves into the air. "Good-by! Good-by!" call the creatures of the forest sadly. "Come back soon! Come back soon!" "We will!" cry the bluebirds. "We will!"

Over dense forests festooned with flowering vines, over sandy deserts and shimmering lakes, over cities and towns they fly, stopping each day for food and short rests and long enough to trill their happy songs to all people by the way. The third day of their flight brought them to the sea and before it grew quite dark they would reach a little island where they could spend the night. But the sky clouded and grew black. The wind rose with a dismal howl, the rain came in big pelting drops. "We must go back!" cried the king, "and must fly swiftly to reach the shore ahead of the storm!" Buffeted by the wind and blinded by the rain the bluebirds whirled back toward the land. In the darkness the king lost his way. Hither and thither they flew, this way and that, till suddenly they crashed against a sharp wall and fell panting, not into the sea, but upon sharp rocks. Where could they be? "It must be an island, a rocky island!" gasped the king. "Keep close to the wall, my poor birdlings"

The storm was short and violent and the moon coming from behind a rift in the clouds, shone on a tall and gloomy castle - was it a castle, though? What castle would have walls so thick and gray, windows so small and narrow; who would build a castle upon bleak rocks in the midst of a lonely sea? "It is a prison, a dungeon!" shuddered one. "See the barred gates and windows!" "Oh, that we might beat down its cruel walls with our wings!" sighed another. "Let us sing - it is all that we can do - and perhaps our song may cheer some weary heart within."

So. flying upon the walls and perching upon the window sills they sang of the beautiful forest where they lived, of the sunbeams dancing on the rippling waters, of the little white clouds drifting across the blue sky, of the wind sighing among the trees and kissing the flowers - oh, it was a beautiful song!

And in the dreary prison the men awakened. "What can it mean?" each thought to himself, for it was many a long year since they had heard the bluebirds - and bluebirds singing in the night - "what could it mean?" "It is a sign," whispered one. "I shall again be free!" murmured another. A pale and dark-haired boy pressed his white face eagerly against the bars. Even the stern jailer, counting his savings in the little sitting room in the tower, paused to listen and then to sigh. But the song ended, the night sped and the bluebirds with it. No, not all. Bruised by the cruel rocks and exhausted by the wind, one of the gentle little creatures lay in the courtyard of the dreary prison.

Next day when the prisoners were walking 'round the yard, the boy who had listened at the window the night before, saw it lying there. So quickly that the guard was not aware that he had moved, he picked it up and thrust it into his bosom.

Back again in his cell, he fed it part of his hard, black bread and made it a warm nest of straw in a corner hidden away from the jailer. And in a day or so the bird came to and he told it all his troubles. He was a prince, this dark-haired boy, kept prisoner by his stepmother, the false Queen of Bema, who made all believe that he was dead, so that her own son might rule his kingdom, and no man knew of the prison in the sea. The little bluebird listened sympathetically. "Set me free and I will help you!" she pleaded, but the boy could not bear to let her go. "You may never come back - you may forget!" he would say, shaking his head sadly.

The poor little creature, who had to be whisked out of sight every time the heavy tread of the guard sounded in the hall, and who could not sing for fear of being discovered, drooped and sickened, though she tried bravely not to show it. And at last the boy could stand it no longer.

While the little prince drooped sadly in his prison tower, the bluebird was flying off toward the south again. Over land and sea, over strange countries never visited before, she flew. And each night when she paused to rest she asked the creatures and birds if they knew where the Kingdom of Bema lay, and always they shook their heads "No!" Poor little bird, lonely and homesick, she traveled on - and on. When the picture of the pleasant orchards in the north, where she and her comrade birds were wont to spend the summer, became too strong she would bravely think of the cold damp prison cell and of the little prince who saved her life. And because no one can really try with all his heart without succeeding, one night she was rewarded. A gentle deer, attracted by her song, ventured out of the thicket, and when the bluebird asked her usual question he shook his head joyfully.

He himself lived in the palace parks of the Kingdom of Bema, which lay just the other side of the forest, and he told the bluebird of the little prince who had died and of the new prince who turned his dogs into the park to plague the rabbits and squirrels. And when the bluebird told him that the little prince was not dead but imprisoned by the wicked queen, the deer bounded into the air with joy. "Come," said he, "let us hasten back and spread the news!"

Next morning the queen was awakened by the singing of a bird. Over and over it sang the same song and muffle her ears in the silk bed clothes as she might she could not drown the song.

"The air is fragrant here and warm,
Oh, wicked queen what have you done?
In prison cold midst mice and mold,
He languishes -the king's OWN son!

The waves beat on his tower drear,
Whilst flowers bloom all joyous here.
And WHO has sent him there. Repent!
Oh, wicked queen, repent! repent!   It was the bluebird. Louder and more persistent grew the song. The queen fidgeted and tossed, and, finally, springing out of bed, summoned her lady in waiting. "Have the gardener choke that miserable bird!" she commanded. The lady in waiting went a-scurrying, the queen's slipper flying after her, and the gardener and the gardener's boy, the chief butler and cook and the footmen besides were soon climbing the tree in a vain attempt to execute her majesty's command. But the little bluebird merely hopped from branch to branch, going higher and higher and at last flew off toward the park.

Next day, before the sun had risen, she was back again, singing, and indeed every morning till the queen wept with rage. The ministers and courtiers had nothing but praise for the cheerful little bluebird. They began to listen attentively to her song and look suspiciously at the queen. "Perhaps the little prince is not dead," they said one to another.

But it was so slow and sometimes the bluebird grew discouraged. "If I could only do something besides sing!" she would mourn to the gentle forest folk. "Will no one ever help me?" Then one day as she sat singing a beautiful young girl paused to listen.

"He is not dead, but weak and weary;
He languishes in a prison dreary!"    trilled the bluebird in sorrowful tones. The girl looked up, then raised her arms imploringly. "Who is not dead; is it my king?"

"Of him, indeed, I tidings bring;
It is your king - of him I sing!"    Down flittered the bluebird and nestling on her shoulder told her of the prison tower in the midst of the sea. Then Teckla told the bluebird how she and the little prince had always played together in the forest, how he had crowned her with daisy wreaths and how they had played at king and queen together, how she had missed him and wept when she heard of his death. "I will help him!" she promised as she bade the bluebird farewell. "But we must be careful, for if the queen suspects aught I shall be put to death."

Every day after that the bluebird visited the maiden, who lived in a humble cottage in the forest with her ancient father, who was keeper of the park. And always she was spinning. Spinning, spinning, from the first streak of day until the sun sank down to bed, and the busier her wheel whirred the happier grew the song of the bird, who either perched upon her shoulder or darted hither and thither among the bright flowers of the garden. What was the maiden doing?

The summer was almost over and Teckla had ceased her spinning. Indeed, nothing had been seen of her for a fortnight. The little bluebird, too, had gone and the queen slept peacefully in the early mornings with no accusing song to vex her. Great preparations were afoot in the Kingdom of Bema - triumphal arches and platforms were being erected, all the court ladies and gentlemen spent most of their time with the tailors and costume makers, and such cooking and baking went on in the royal kitchen as you never before have heard of!

For the coronation was at hand and the son of the wicked queen was to be crowned king. The bad prince himself spent most of his time counting the heads he would have cut off when he came to the throne, and under all the grand preparations there was an uneasiness among the people. " 'Tis the cruel king he'll be making!" the old women remarked over their garden fences. "Would that our good king had not died and his son with him!" mourned the old men gathered in the marketplaces. The king's second wife had never been popular with the people and her son and the king's stepson less so. But there seemed no help for matters, and shrugging their shoulders they resolved to make the best of it.

But what has become of our little bluebird? Fast as the wind, she is flying back to the dismal tower in the sea. In her beak is a tiny ball - and what do you think it is? A silken rope, fine and light as cobweb, but strong as iron wire, a rope spun by the forest maiden to save her king.

And while the little bird flies over the deep blue sea, Teckla is hurrying on her father's old mare to the king of the next realm. Day and night she rides and comes at last to his palace and tells him the whole story - how the queen had imprisoned the real king in the tower so that her own son may rule.

"Odds ostriches!" exclaims his majesty. "My ships and swords to the rescue!" Which was his way of saying that he would help.

That very night, with silken sails all spread, his fastest ship put out to sea, and two nights later it lay silently, at anchor under the prince's window.

The little prince had grown thinner and paler than ever during the sultry summer months, for he believed the bluebird had forgotten him. Imagine then his joy when one morning he heard her sweet song. Next minute she had blown through the bars of the window and perched on the stone sill. "Come - be quick - the ship is waiting below - bend open the bars and escape!" she twittered, hopping anxiously to and fro.

They waited till the guard had passed, then seizing the bars with all his strength, the prince forced them apart and tying the slender cord to the sill, he flung himself out, and hand over hand, lowered himself down the steep wall into the waiting ship. Then up went the sails and away sped the ship before the guards knew what was happening. And what a rejoicing, what a merry time there was there to be sure!

Meanwhile, the day of the coronation had arrived - the grand procession had started from the palace and was slowly wending its way toward the chapel, between lines of bowing peasants and amid such a trumpet blasting and drum beating that it's a wonder folks were not deafened. But heigh-ho! What is this? From the edges of the town sounds more music, trampling of horses and an even louder drum-beating accompaniment.

Everybody turned, even the queen, and as they did, around the corner galloped the grandest company you can imagine, five pages in gold rode first, then the little prince on a pitch-black horse with the little forest maiden on a snow-white one riding at his side, decked out all in silks and satins, then the king of the next realm in his purple and ermine robes, with 50 guardsmen in satin breeches, and after that so many lords and dukes and such that it gives me a headache even to think of them.

"Way! Give way! Give way to your king!" shrilled the five pages - and the queen's retinue was forced back, for this splendid company slowed down not a whit and like as not would have ridden right over them. At least, that is the way it looked. And soon the people began to recognize the prince and set up such a shouting that the confusion was worse than ever.

Things would have gone badly with the wicked queen and her son had not the real prince interfered. As it was, they were sent far away to an island where they could do no more harm and the real prince was crowned and ruled wisely and well over the Kingdom of Bema for many, many years, with the little forest maiden to help him, for he lost no time in making her queen The bluebird came every spring to visit them, and what do you think of that for a story?

THE FORGETFUL POET

 
By Ruth Plumly Thompson

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

 
The Forgetful Poet's Puzzles

The Forgetful Poet says that Mr. G. Ography may think himself the only Columbus in the puzzle field, but he himself is a Balboa, and just to prove his claims he has sent us some of his own discoveries, which I admit, are odd enough:

'Tother day as I looked around,
All sorts of puzzling things I found,
A horn that never yet was blown,
A patch that patched not, though 'twas sown,
An ear that couldn't hear a thing,
A bell I've never known to ring,
A trunk that never yet was tagged,
A train that no man ever flagged,
Wings that flew not, trees that grew not,
Horses, too, that never do trot,
Feet that not a step could walk,
Tongues who're never known to talk.
All these things I saw--if you
Will look a bit you'll see them, too!

Send in a list of the things you find to the Forgetful Poet, care of the Boys and Girls' Department.

Last week's puzzle answers were: Moscow, Cowpens and Haiti. Hartford, Liverpool, Chester, Idaho, Iowa, Plymouth, Pyrenees, Pennsylvania, Toronto and Toledo, Erie--and did any of you find any other parts of a man as you glanced over your maps?

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2003 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE KING WHO CHANGED HIS MIND

By L. Frank Baum 
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Woggle-Bug Book, The Woggle-Bug Sheet Music Book, etc.

Original publication unknown, circa 1901.


There once lived a King of Arol who possessed a most terrible temper, so that people spoke of him in whispers as "the Mad King." To his face they bowed low and fearfully, for he had a bad habit of ordering his executioner to cut off a head, now and then, upon the slightest provocation - or with no provocation at all. The least thing was liable to excite his anger, and when there was nothing to be angry about he was so annoyed that he invented something.

This fierce and unreasoning King of Arol held absolute sway over his people, and none in all his dominions dared cross his mood or interfere with his cruelties. So he grew more wicked as he grew older, and all the members of his court who were able to escape his executioner became thin and worn with worry and anxiety.

Now the one thing that most often aroused the king's anger was the sight of a child. He hated every one of them. Mothers would run to their doors with terrified faces when the king passed along, and drag their little ones into the houses until the wicked monarch was well out of sight. But as there is always a great number of children in every land, it was impossible that all should escape the sharp eyes of the king, and many a poor little innocent was severely beaten and bruised by the king's attendants when it chanced to get in the way of the royal train.

"I hate children!" his Majesty would growl; "I hate 'em! I hate 'em! Keep them out of my way!"

You may be sure the children - and all the fathers and mothers as well - hated him in return. But they feared him, too.

The king had a young and pretty wife, whom he abused and ill-treated, as he did every one else. And he had a little son, the heir to his throne, whom he had never seen more than twice, and only then to scowl upon and order out of his sight. The poor queen was so fearful on her darling boy's account that she kept him in a far-off wing of the palace, where he remained unnoticed and probably forgotten by his unnatural father.

This was a wise act, for the king's hatred of children seemed to grow more bitter every day, and finally, when a little girl happened to frighten his horse, the cruel monarch became so violently enraged that he ordered his executioner to throw every child that lived in the City of Arol over the wall into the sea. And he signed the order with his royal seal, and set the day of the execution the next Thursday.

"I shall never be able to do it alone," said the royal executioner, trembling at the enormity of the crime. "There are many hundreds of children in the city. Must all perish?"

"Not one shall remain alive!" answered the king, fiercely. "If you need help my royal guards shall assist you. And if one child escapes you and remains alive on Thursday night, I will have you and your men hanged by the neck!"

Now, this terrible command was given on Tuesday, just two days before the children were doomed to perish in the waters of the sea, and the news quickly spread to every part of the city. Parents began wailing and tearing their hair in bitter grief, and sobs and moans of anguish were heard on every side.

The queen, filled with horror, ran to her lord and king.

"Surely you will not drown your own and only child!" she exclaimed.

"Surely I will!" retorted the king.

"Oh, spare him! spare him!" cried the stricken queen, throwing herself upon her knees and raising her hands in supplication.

The king gave a cruel laugh and turned to his executioner:

"It is my command," said he, "that this woman's child be drowned the first of all!"

Then he spurned the half-fainting queen from his presence, and the guards carried her, weeping and nearly crazed with grief, to her own rooms.

But the beautiful queen did not long despair. She resolved to make every possible effort to save her child and thwart the king's murderous will. And after some thought she disguised herself in a long cloak, that no one might know her, and crept through the streets to the dwelling of a mysterious woman named Hallita, of whom she had determined to seek counsel.

Hallita had only recently come to live in the City of Arol, and no one knew her history; but the people regarded her with much awe and respect because of her stately manner and kindly countenance. The queen found her sitting in her simple dwelling and at once told Hallita of the king's cruel edict that all the children of the city should be thrown into the sea, and that his own little son should be sacrificed first of all. And then she asked the strange woman what she might do to save her darling from so dreadful a fate.

After a moment's thought Hallita said:

"I will tell you my secret. Formerly I was one of the fairies that inhabit the Groves of Trom, and lived happily with my sisters for many years. But one day, being in a mischievous mood, I thoughtlessly broke one of the laws of the fairies, and as a punishment our queen commanded I should live among mortals, in mortal form, until I had saved a hundred mortal lives. This I have until now despaired of accomplishing; but if I can turn the king from his purpose and induce him to change his mind, I will have saved many more than a hundred mortal lives and can return to my beloved Groves of Trom and resume my life as a fairy. Therefore will I do my utmost to save your child and all the other little ones in this unhappy town. Bring the little prince here as soon as it is dark, and he shall be securely hidden."

The queen hurried back to the palace with a much lighter heart than when she had left it, and as soon as it grew dark she led the little Prince and a trusted governess to Hallita's dwelling, where the good woman concealed him in an underground chamber that was comfortably furnished and lighted by thousands of fireflies placed close together on festoons of flowers that hung from the ceiling. Here the child, with his governess to attend him, was left to enjoy himself, and the queen kissed her boy good by and returned quickly to the palace, as Hallita had bidden her.

On the morning of the next day, which was Wednesday, the king sat alone in his room, sullen and brooding. He had almost come to regret having condemned so many children to death; but he kept muttering that he hated children, and that he had never in his life changed his mind when once he had resolved to do a thing, however evil it might be.

Suddenly Hallita entered the room and stood before the king, who at once became enraged that any one should dare to interrupt his privacy.

"You shall die for this!" he cried out; but the woman looked fearlessly into his face and an-swered:

"You shall also die, unless you recall your wicked order to throw the children into the sea."

Something in her appearance or her words made the king uneasy, for he asked:

"Who are you that dares threaten me with death?"

"My name is Hallita," she replied, "and my powers are far greater than yours can ever be, king though you are. Spare the children and I will leave you unharmed; but if you dare slay one of the innocent little ones I will surely put you to death."

Never before in his lifetime had the king been spoken to in this manner, and the woman's words, instead of warning him, filled him with a furious anger.

"The children shall die - every one of them!" he cried out. "I never change my mind, and I dare you to oppose my will!"

Hallita saw it was useless to argue with so unreasonable a person. She raised her right hand and waved it thrice in the likeness of a circle.

Instantly the king's form shrank away and grew less until he because the same size as his little son, the Prince. Also his features changed into the likeness of his own child and his clothing was transformed from kingly raiment to the dress of a boy.

The astounded monarch then sprang from his throne with a shriek of terror, and stamped his little foot upon the floor.

"How dare you!" he shouted to Hallita, but so shrill and childlike was his voice that he stopped short in sudden fear, and presently burst into childish tears.

The king's guards now came hurrying into the room but were surprised to find only a strange woman and a child whom they thought to be the prince.

"Take the boy to his mother," Hallita said to them, "for the king will be angry if he finds him here."

So the guards dragged the king, yelling and struggling, into the apartments of the queen, where one of them said to him:

"Unless you remain quiet the king will not wait until tomorrow to kill you."

"I am the king myself, you fool!" cried the boy. But the guard only laughed at him.

"Prepare for death," the man continued, "and do not forget that tomorrow you will be the first child cast into the sea. It is the king's command, and his majesty never changes his mind."

When the guards had gone away the king asked of the queen:

"Who am I, madam?"

"You are my little son," said the queen, concealing her surprise at the transformation; "and you are condemned by your cruel father, the king, to be slain tomorrow morning."

"No, no, no!" shouted the king, as furiously as his little voice would allow; "you are all wrong. I am the king himself!"

For answer the queen brought to him a mirror, and when the king had looked upon it he became silent; for he saw that his form was the form of a child, and he began to realize that by his own decree he was in danger of being drowned on the morrow.

But when he tried to convince the queen that he was transformed she pretended not to believe he was other than her child. And when he continued to protest she called a nurse-maid and told her to take charge of the boy and make him obey.

This nurse-maid was by nature cross and short of temper, so that no sooner had she brought the king into the nursery than she soundly boxed his ears and threatened him with a switch unless he stopped talking nonsense.

"Be a good child tonight," she said at last, coaxingly, "for tomorrow you are to die, and then you will be sorry you did not behave when you had the chance."

When she had left him alone, the king, who had taken the serving-woman's rebukes with astonishing meekness, sat himself down and became exceedingly thoughtful. He had never in his life imagined anything one-half so dreadful as the position in which he was now placed. No one seemed to have a doubt but that he was the child he appeared, and another day was likely to see him perish miserably by his own command.

The more he thought about it the more unjust this murderous command seemed to him to be, and he earnestly wished he might find a way to prevent his executioner from carrying it out.

Thought is a very good thing for one who has been naughty or wicked, and the king thought deeply all through the rest of the day, with most excellent results. For one thing, he decided that killing children because they annoyed him was absolutely cruel and not to be allowed, and he also decided that it is a wise thing for a king to change his mind once in a while, just as other folk do. And he came to believe that children who had cross nurse-maids were as much to be pitied as he had formerly blamed them, and he determined that if he could escape his unhappy fate he would always thereafter treat his own child with kindness and consideration.

And in the end he thought out a clever plan to save his life.

When it grew dark the cross nurse-maid brought him a supper of bread and milk and then put him to bed. But the king did not sleep. He lay awake until everything was quiet and then crept out of bed and felt his way in the darkness through all the rooms and passages until he reached the royal council chamber. This he entered, and, standing on tiptoe, reached a candle from the table and lighted it. Then he pushed a chair up to his desk, and, climbing upon the seat, managed to open a drawer and find a sheet of paper and the royal seal. This seal was made of virgin gold and set with precious jewels.

Very slowly, for his fingers were small to hold a pen, he wrote upon the paper as follows:

"The edict of death to the children of the City of Arol is hereby revoked by the order of the king."

This he signed and sealed with the royal seal, and then he carried it to the chamber where the royal executioner slept and pinned it fast to the door, as high up as he could manage to reach.

After doing this the king felt greatly relieved. He blew out the candle and went back to bed again, for he well knew that his orders would be obeyed and that no children would suffer death on Thursday morning.

There was great joy throughout the City of Arol next morning when the executioner publicly declared that the king had changed his mind, for once in his life, and decided to spare the little children.

The fairy who had called herself Hallita came to the palace and restored the king to his former manly shape; and then she went joyfully away to the Groves of Trom, having earned her freedom by saving so many human lives.

And the first thing the king did was to send for his little son, the prince, whom he treated with much tenderness, and he earnestly implored the queen to forgive him for his former wickedness and neglect. And because she was a good woman she forgave him readily and never had cause to regret it in after years.

For when the king discovered how much real happiness he could find in the society of his queen and his pretty child, he would frequently say to himself: "How glad I am that the fairy made me think, and that having thought, I resolved to change my mind!"

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson

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

Mr. G. Ography's Puzzle Corner

Mr. G. Ography is a regular Columbus for discovering things. He says that he found a domestic animal in a city of Russia, that he stabled it in a place where a battle of the Revolution took place and fed it with a small republic, which sounds uncommonly odd to me. What do you think?

He also says that he could make a man, or nearly so, from different places in the world. Without any trouble at all he found a heart, a liver, a chest, two eyes, a mouth and knees, a vein and several toes. Where did he find them? Some are in cities, some in States, bodies of water, and one in a mountain range. How many more parts of a man can you find? For the longest list there will be a special reward.

Last week's answers were Hungary, Lyons and Rome, Derby, Ulster and New Jersy, Georgia, Balkan, Berne.

Send in your answers to Mr. G. Ography, care of the Boys and Girls' Department Public Ledger. The boy or girl having the best record for the month will be president of the Puzzle Club and will receive the grand prize.

[Answers next time. No presidency will be offered--this is a historical presentation of Thompson's writings.]

Copyright © 2003 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SCARECROW

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Hungry Tiger of Oz, "The Artful Arab", King Kojo, etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 19, 1916.


Forlornly in a chilly field
The scarecrow stood and shivered.
Long-drawn and sad, the owl's weird notes
Upon the night air quivered.

"My work is done!" the scarecrow mourned;
"I've served full half a year.
The corn is in, and I alone
Am left forgotten here!

"The winds grow colder every day,
And in my rags and tatters
I'll have to brave them. No one seems
To think a scarecrow matters!

"Who cares for me?" the old owl heard,
And answered, "Who-o-o? Who? Who-o-o-o?"
No wonder that the scarecrow felt
So melancholy--whew!

But all at once the earth around
The scarecrow man was shaken.
When human folk desert one, dears,
'Tis then the fairies waken!

And dancing in a magic ring,
On toes as light as heather,
The fairies softly called, "We care!"
And curtsied all together.

And round and round, and back and forth,
And turning all about,
They flit, till even fairy feet
Begin to feel tired out.

Then, dropping on the ground, they chant
A dreamy, drowsy spell,
And straightway in the cornfield there
A magic thing befell!

For the scarecrow shrunk and shrunk,
Till just the proper size
To play with fairy folk, and then,
Before the very eyes

Of the solemn owl, he skipped away,
Just melted out of sight
With the other fairies--and, perhaps,
You'll see them all some night!

THE FORGETFUL POET

 

By Ruth Plumly Thompson

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

The Puzzle Corner

Mr. G. Ography was quite astonished that you guessed his sentences so easily, but he is sure you will find these much harder. And I think so, too.

What three places do you find here:
Hungary lions rome.
Where would you go if you wanted a new hat, a new coat and a sweater? Here are three more:
George--a ball can burn.
Of course, all the places are not spelled correctly, but they SOUND right.

[Answers next time.] 
 

Copyright © 2003 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

DEATH BY DINGBATS

By Lauren Lynn McGraw
Co-author of Merry Go Round in Oz and The Forbidden Fountain of Oz.

This is the first publication of this excerpt from an unfinished mystery novel.



CHAPTER ONE
When I was a kid, I used to watch an old TV show called The Naked City. At the end, they'd show a big-city skyline, and a portentous voice would say, "There are a million stories in The . . . NAKED . . . CITY. And this . . . was only one of them." I liked the idea that anybody's life could turn into drama, but I felt different about it when it happened to me.


The day the whole thing started, the city of Westbank seemed to be keeping its clothes buttoned up to the neck. I sat in front of my computer, staring alternately at my headline: Future Development: Who Pays? and the information supplied by the City Engineer, and trying to think of a way to lead into the story. I'd been stymied so long that the screen saver came on, replacing my words with winged toasters and floating toast.

Westbank is one of my best clients. It's a small city about ten miles outside of Portland; a bedroom community, struggling with too much growth and too little identity. I write, design and produce their monthly newsletter, plus any miscellaneous brochures and flyers they need.

Freelancing isn't the most secure way to make a living, but it gives me time to paint. Rousseau may have worked full time at the Customs office, but I don't care - I don't think you can develop as an artist if you only paint on weekends. After I got out of art school, I tried to find a well-paid part time job, but there weren't any. I worked full time for several years, had some interesting jobs, but when I was making enough money to rent studio space - Catch 22 - I hardly ever had time to go there. So I finally decided to take the plunge into freelancing, and so far it's worked pretty well. I do jobs for several small cities in the metro area, none of them more than half an hour away from northeast Portland, where I live.

Working at home has a few disadvantages, but mostly I love it. My office is in the big front bedroom (I sleep in the back one) with windows looking out into an old lilac tree that's scrubby in winter but bursts into gorgeous dark-purple bloom in the spring.

My house is small - only two bedrooms - but the rooms are big and square, with high ceilings and plenty of windows. It was built around the turn of the century, probably as servants' quarters or a mother-in-law cottage for the big house next door, and it has all kinds of nice stuff, like a plate rail in the dining room, a bay window in the living room, and a little upstairs porch. Best of all, the basement is dry and well-lighted and big enough to use as a studio. It's the first house I've ever owned all by myself.

Living alone still seems like heaven after the years I spent with Nick. We never got married - once was enough, for me - but after seven years of living together, the disentangling of emotions and property are as difficult and painful as in a regular divorce. Worse, we'd had trouble selling our house, and had to stay together for an extra year before we could get our money out and split. The minute I got my share of the equity, I went out to hunt down a place of my very own. The mortgage payment takes most of my available cash, but I don't grudge a penny of it.

I caught myself gazing vacantly out past the budding lilac at the gray sky beyond. It was one of those gloomy March days that go from clouds to rain and back again all day long, sometimes with a little hail thrown in for variety. I dragged my attention back to Westbank's land use problems. The City Engineer's words weren't inspiring: ". . . Westbank has prepared service provision plans for the future development of lands within the Urban Growth Boundary and the City of Westbank Boundaries. . . . Approximately 800 acres of vacant buildable land are available for future urban development, and have been activated by the City as predominantly residential in use."

I groaned, then jumped as the phone shrieked suddenly from the desk behind me. I reached for it with relief.

"Angie Quinn, may I help you?" I said automatically.

"Hi, Angie, this is Joe, Rose City Typesetting. How are you, anyway?"

His big, generous voice seemed to balloon out of the receiver, and I smiled. When you hear Joe Hannigan on the phone, you imagine a large, florid man in his forties. When you see him in the flesh it's a shock, like hearing tuba noises from a flute: he's slight and sixtyish, with the bright blue eyes and wide, humorous mouth of an aging leprechaun.

"Hey, Joe! I'm doing fine. How about you?"

"Fine, fine. We miss you, though. Hardly ever see you since you got that fancy computer and started setting your own type."

"I know," I said. "It's lonely sometimes. Is that why you called? To cheer me up?"

"Nope, I've got something for you," he boomed. "Remember that old type case I showed you? Well, we're finally getting rid of all our metal type, so you can have a drawer if you still want one."

Worf, my cat, thundered up the stairs and landed on the desk in front of me. He seems to think the phone is dangerous, and likes to keep an eye on me while I use it.

"Oh, great! Sure, I still want it. You mean right away?" Worf nudged my arm, his green eyes huge. I stroked him reassuringly.

"Any time. I'm cleaning out the type now, but no hurry."

I looked at my watch. Almost three o'clock. I had to go out to Westbank for a meeting at four, and I was still in my old blue sweats, but I really wanted that type drawer. Its shallow compartments would make a great display case for all my most precious little doodads. It was destined for the bare spot on my living room wall.

"I'd love to come and get it tonight, Joe, but I don't think I'd be able to get there before five-thirty - maybe quarter to six if the traffic's bad."

"No problem, I'll be here. Just ignore the Closed sign and come on up; I'll leave the door unlocked."

"Are you sure? I don't want to put you to any extra trouble."

"No, no, glad to do it!"

I hung up, glanced at my watch again and abandoned Westbank's land use problems with relief. Maybe I'll be more inspired tomorrow, I thought, as I yanked off my sweatshirt and headed for the bedroom. I don't meet my clients face to face very often, so I don't keep much of a business wardrobe. I get a lot of mileage out of an oversized black knit blazer, paired with black knit pants or a skirt. It was pants today, with my favorite coral sweater and some big copper earrings. I stepped back from the mirror to get a full-length view: yes, the black was still doing a great job of hiding my extra pounds. I flashed a smile at myself, showing both dimples.

"Smart, businesslike, and slightly dashing, don't you think?" I asked Worf, who had transferred himself to my dressing table. He stared, then suddenly pressed the top of his head against my stomach. I can't resist him when he does that, so of course I petted him and said various silly and adoring things. His fur is beautifully soft and thick, black tabby stripes over a warm ginger-brown almost the same shade as my hair. I've had him since he was four weeks old, and he thinks I'm his mother; quite different from my other cat, Sheba, who seems to think she's my mother - or maybe my employer. Her attitude toward Worf is unambiguous: she can't stand him.

It took me about twenty-five minutes to drive to Westbank on I-205, and I spent most of it dodging trucks and commuters and wondering why Jonathan had asked to meet with me. He's the city finance director, but he's also in charge of the newsletter, by some inscrutable twist of municipal logic. We get along fine, but we usually do our business via phone, FAX, and email, and only see each other once a month when he delivers the raw material to my office. He'd said something about wanting me to edit his budget document, but I'd done that before without a meeting and couldn't see why it required one this time. I zipped in front of a ponderous fuel truck and turned off at the Westbank exit.

Westbank doesn't maintain a lot of formality. When I arrived at the Finance Department, there was no one at the front desk, so I leaned over the counter and waved at Kelly, the nearest clerk. She looked up from a pile of purchase orders and grinned, showing the slight gap between her two front teeth. With her freckled nose and blond ponytail she looked about twelve years old.

"Hi, Angie! Haven't seen you in a long time! You here to see Jonathan?"

I admitted that I was.

"Just a second, I'll make sure he's there. . . ." She punched a few buttons on her phone and spoke briefly. "He'll be right out. Hey, I liked that article you wrote about the Police Department. You know, the one where Officer Weinmann caught the duck? I really got a kick out of it."

"Oh, yeah," I said, "Hill Street Blues Meets Wild Kingdom. I liked it too. Thanks, Kelly, it's nice to know somebody actually reads the things."

Jonathan appeared, dapper as ever in gray pants and a blue Oxford cloth shirt, thick black hair neatly combed. With his narrow, bony face and heavy brows, he looks intense and slightly intimidating - at least until he smiles.

He escorted me politely back to his office: probably all of eight feet away. As usual, every available surface was covered with papers; bulging file folders, scribbled notes on yellow legal pads, vast bound stacks of green-and-white striped computer paper. An unsteady pile of books included catchy titles like Westbank Municipal Codes, and Statement of Taxes Levied in Clackamas County. Yellow post-it notes clung to the wall, telephone and desk blotter in random groups, like a flock of migratory butterflies.

I accepted a paper cup of coffee, then looked around for some place to set it down, but the computer keyboard and the calculator were the only bare spots in the office. My fingers were getting hot. I transferred the cup to my left hand and smiled at Jonathan, who was leafing through some papers, his heavy brows pulled together. "Is this a test? If I figure out what to do with the cup, it proves my fitness to be employed by the City of Westbank?"

He started, the eyebrows shooting halfway up to his hairline. "I'm sorry," he said, swiftly clearing a small spot on the desk. "Here, how's this? Would you like some sugar or something? Sorry everything's in such a mess, but I'm coming down to the wire on this year's budget, and. . . ."

"I'm fine," I said, staring at him. It's not like Jonathan to fuss and babble; not like him to miss a joke, either.

"Okay." He took a breath, then reached for a thick document held together with two black metal clamps. "Here's this year's budget document. The narrative's mostly the same as last year, but I've got some new stuff stapled in there, and you'll need to rewrite those parts and make sure the whole thing fits together. You did a great job last year; just do it again and we'll probably win another GFOA award. You still have the text from last year on disk?"

His manner returned to normal as we discussed computers, deadlines and the progress of the current newsletter, and I was getting ready to leave when he suddenly said, "Angie. One more thing."

He leaned forward, his voice quiet. "This may not affect you at all, and certainly not for some time, but I think it's only right to let you know. City Council has approved Phil's - the City Manager's - request for a full time Public Information Officer position. The ad will appear in the Oregonian next Sunday."

It took me a second, then I said, "You're saying Phil will want this new person to do the newsletter." No wonder he'd jumped when I joked about my fitness to be employed by the City. My stomach began quietly tying itself in knots.

"I don't know what his plans are," - his voice was carefully neutral - "he hasn't confided in me; but it's possible he'll want to do it that way."

"Yes," I said, "it would be logical." My voice sounded calm, even casual, but I guess Jonathan wasn't fooled.

"If it were up to me, Angie, you'd be doing it forever! You've done a great job; everybody likes it." He smiled warmly and gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Maybe this new person will have sense enough to know that you don't fix something that isn't broken."

I gathered purse and papers and got up. "Maybe so, Jonathan. I hope so."

I was on my way out when Kelly called to me. "Angie! If you can wait a second, we'll have a check for you; Gail's just running them through the protector."

"Sure, I can wait." I went over to stand beside her and watch Gail feed checks through a small machine that buzzed like an angry wasp as it stamped each one with an amount and a signature.

Kelly nodded at the thick document in my hand. "Jonathan keeping you busy?"

"Yeah, for now, anyway." I hesitated, then went on. "Maybe there won't be so much for me to do when Phil hires this new PR person, though."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. Like a PR person is just what we need, when we're all jammed into this little building, bursting at the seams, and the cops are working double shifts and the library's cutting their hours. And that position wasn't in the budget, either. You know why I think he wants a PR person?"

"Why?"

She lowered her voice. "Damage control. He's already done a lot of stuff people don't like, and he's sucking up to the big developers, and then there was that awful thing with Pat, in the Planning Department. . . . of course, that wasn't his fault. . . ."

I nodded. Nine months before, Pat Glazer, the City Planner, had arrived at work on a Tuesday morning, locked her office door and shot herself in the head.

"And they still don't know why she did it?"

Kelly shook her head, her pert face sober. "I guess her son was really broken up; he'd just graduated from some big ivy-league college. Like, 'Look, Mom, I made it,' and then boom, she shoots herself."

Gail turned from the machine then, holding out my check. "There you go, Angie; you just saved us a stamp."

The familiar pale-green oblong seemed suddenly precious and significant, as I realized there might not be many more.


I drove back to Portland with my head in a whirl. The Westbank newsletter doesn't bring in a lot of money, but it's steady: a few hundred dollars every month, regular as clockwork. When you're self-employed, a job like that can mean the difference between sink and swim. I do newsletters for Braddock and Canyon City, too, but they're both quarterlies. All my other projects are sporadic, subject to bureaucratic whims and sudden budget cuts. So far, it's always evened out by the end of the year, but without Westbank's steady trickle to get me through the lean months, I could be in real trouble.

I thought of my house payment and cursed Phil Blashfield and his as-yet-nameless Public Information Officer. Ever since Phil had taken over as City Manager, things had been changing at Westbank, and not for the better, as far as I could tell. But why did he have to mess up my life?

It was drizzling again as I crossed the Fremont Bridge, and the combination of cloud cover and fading light made the trees and grass look vividly green, almost fluorescent, as I threaded my way through the network of narrow residential streets that edge the northwest industrial area. It was five-thirty-five when I pulled up in front of the Joe's building on Seventeenth. The Closed sign was up, but the heavy front door opened to my habitual hearty shove, and at the top of the stairs a faint light filtered through the frosted glass panel in Rose City's door. I started up the dark stairs, calling "Joe?"

I thought I heard footsteps, but no one answered. When I got to the top, I knocked perfunctorily, then went in. The lights were on in the front room, and big manila envelopes were neatly arranged on the high counter, each labeled with a client's name. Where was Joe? I moved forward, peering toward the glassed-in workroom at the back, but why would he be in there with the lights off?

A stab of pain in the sole of my foot told me I'd stepped on something small and hard. Swearing under my breath, I picked up a tiny block of metal carved with a pointing hand.

"A dingbat," I said to myself, then jumped as I heard a harsh gargling breath.

I rounded the end of the counter with one giant step and froze. The type case stood a few feet away, empty slots where its shallow drawers had been. A few empty drawers leaned against the wall; one, still spilling metal type, lay smashed at my feet. Behind the counter, Joe Hannigan sprawled on the floor, face down, his white hair matted with blood.


CHAPTER TWO
My first reaction was a sort of interior wail: "Oh, NO-O-O-O-O! Not Joe! Not me - I don't know what to do!" Idiotically, I even looked around as if hoping to see someone - my mother, my sister, the Marines - coming to my rescue. Then Joe drew another ragged breath, and I yanked myself back to adulthood and headed for the phone, dialing 9-1-1 with a finger that shook only slightly.

The dispatcher was patience itself, and I managed to give her most of the pertinent facts, at least who, what, and when. She already seemed to know where, though she did ask me to confirm the street address. I was so rattled, I had to look at one of the manila envelopes to make sure.

I described Joe's condition as well as I could, peering reluctantly at his half-hidden face and bloody hair. No, I told her, I didn't think he could have fallen; I thought he'd been hit. Well, because of the way he was lying, and from the bump on his head. Yes, I told her, he was still bleeding. Yes, quite a lot. No, not spurting.

The dispatcher suggested some things I could do - monitor his breathing, apply direct pressure with a clean dry cloth (only where was I supposed to find any such thing in a type shop?) - and suddenly her calm, passionless tone was infuriating. Here's Joe lying on the floor, hurt and bloody and maybe dying, and she's reading the First Aid manual. When she asked if I wanted to stay on the phone until help arrived, I almost shouted, "No!" then added hastily, "Thank you." Heaven forbid I should be rude, even with the world collapsing.

The minute I hung up I was sorry. Without that link to another human being, the room seemed bigger and emptier. I was on my own. What should I do first? I thought of calling Joe's family, then realized I had no idea how to reach them. I thought he had a wife, but I didn't know her name or where they lived.

I could look for that clean cloth, I thought vaguely. Instead, I knelt down by Joe. His head was still bleeding a little, though more slowly, I thought. Blood had run into the deep creases that webbed the back of his neck, and his breathing sounded awful. A bubble of emotion welled up in my chest and burst out my mouth in a sort of dry sob. Oh god, I thought, not now! I shut my mouth tight before anything else could escape and strained my ears, hoping to hear sirens, but there was nothing.

I drew a deep breath, willing myself to shut up, be calm, and gently laid a hand on Joe's back. "Joe," I said, "I'm here. Don't worry, you'll be okay. I'm going to try to find something to stop that bleeding now."

I got up. He looked small and frail, lying there on the green linoleum, and I realized how much the personality I thought of as "Joe" depended on his big voice and bright blue eyes. As I stared around the room, looking for some cache that might conceal a clean dry cloth, I remembered how nice he'd been to me, from the very first. Who could have done this to him?

The back of my neck prickled as I remembered the footsteps I'd heard. What if the person who had done it were still around? There was no place to hide in the front room, but the darkened back room was another story.

I've always despised those movies where the plucky heroine goes charging right into the dark stairway or sinister laboratory where you know something horrible is going to grab her. When I see them on TV I tend to yell, "Don't go in there, Stupid!" but now I was beginning to understand. I did not want to go into that back room, but I had to try to help Joe.

I approached the workroom doorway, the tightness between my shoulder blades mounting at every step. Cautiously, I peered in. Some light from the front room came through the glass, but the big machines and tall worktables provided plenty of possible hiding places. Gritting my teeth, I leaned forward and stretched my arm as far as it would go until one finger touched the light switch. I flipped it on and froze. There was no movement; no sound but Joe's harsh breathing. I let out my own breath, eased cautiously into the room and looked around, but there was no one there. The gray metal door in the far wall was locked; I rattled it to make sure. A second door led to a small unisex bathroom. I checked it out with the same arm-reaching/spine-tingling technique I'd used for the workroom and was relieved to find it empty of head-bashers and well supplied with paper towels: not the scratchy tan kind, but the white, waffle-patterned kind. They weren't cloth, but they were clean and dry, so I grabbed a handful and went back to Joe. I folded several towels into a pad and pressed it against the wound, gingerly at first, then harder. I murmured "Sorry, Joe," in case it was hurting him, and tried to cushion his forehead from the floor with my other hand. His skin was warm, and his forehead fitted neatly into my palm. The contact was oddly intimate, and I felt a surge of protectiveness.

Where was the ambulance? Where were the cops? I craned my neck, trying to see out the window. It seemed like I'd been waiting a long time, but when I looked at the clock on the wall I saw it had only been a few minutes. They had to be here soon.

Maintaining my pressure on the wound, I looked around, my eyes flitting restlessly from the spilled type on the floor to the empty wooden drawers against the wall to my left. Had one of those been meant for me? Sure enough, there was a piece of paper taped to one, with "Angie" on it in bold black letters. It looked like a good drawer: lots of little compartments, different shapes and sizes. By stretching my neck and squinting I could just read the yellowed label by the wrought iron drawer pull: 16-72 pt Aurora, Alt. Char.

I remembered the little pointing hand I'd stepped on, and scrunched down to look at the label on the smashed drawer. Sure enough, it read, Ornaments, Dingbats, 36-72 pt. Joe had charmed me years ago by telling me that the little stars and arrows and curlicues were called dingbats. Could he have been bashed on the head with his own dingbat drawer? It seemed terribly wrong. I listened to his labored breath and tried not to look at his blood-soaked hair, and then, finally, I heard the sirens.


The door opened, and all at once the room was full of large, competent people in uniform. Four police officers first, then paramedics and firemen - six of them. This was rescue beyond my wildest dreams. I leaned against the counter, watching as two paramedics knelt beside Joe, checking his vital signs and muttering alternately into a radio and to each other. Two police officers left the room, apparently to search the rest of the building. Another, a tall black woman, crouched by the broken type drawer and examined it carefully, then began to prowl quietly, taking notes. Her partner, a heavyset man with graying sandy hair and mustache, approached me.

"You made the call, Ma'am?" he asked. Up close, he looked huge and intimidating; also extremely neat. His uniform shirt was freshly ironed; his shoes were shiny; his badge said Parnell.

"Yes."

"I'll need to ask you a few questions," he said, flipping open a small notebook and giving me a mechanical half-smile.

The questions weren't hard; they started with my name and address and went on to the events of the last half hour, which I'm sure I'll remember till I'm ninety-five. All the firemen stood around and listened intently. I tried to be coherent and cooperative, but I was distracted, watching the paramedics as they worked over Joe, strapping him to a board, fitting a band around his forehead and attaching an IV to his arm. When they began moving him onto a gurney, I burst out, "What's going to happen to him now?"

Parnell stopped in mid-question. "Well . . . they'll take him to the hospital."

"Yeah, but which one? And aren't you going to call his wife or somebody and let them know?"

He recovered his official manner. "This is currently an assault situation. If there had been a fatality, the Medical Examiner would contact the next of kin, but since the victim is alive. . . . no."

I stared. "But . . . you mean he'll be there all by himself, and nobody will even know where he is?"

Parnell looked slightly disconcerted, even defensive. "Well, I would assume that the hospital would attempt to contact the family, but I can't say for sure what their procedures would be," he said stiffly.

My backbone sagged. I was tired and hungry and longed for home, but I couldn't abandon Joe yet.

"Which hospital are they taking him to?" I asked.


When I pulled into my driveway several hours later, I felt as if I'd been gone for days. Joe was still alive, still unconscious. I'd stayed at the hospital, badgering nurses and Admissions clerks until they'd assured me his wife was on her way. I switched off the headlights and sat for a minute, feeling oddly squeamish about going into the dark house, then gasped as small shape materialized on the hood in front of me. Sheba peered in through the windshield.

Normally, I would have laughed, but in my wrung-out condition, it didn't seem very funny. Wearily, I unfastened my seat belt and picked up my purse. "Okay, your Serene Highness, I'm coming."

When I got out of the car she stared at me searchingly until I bent down for a quick nose-to-nose inspection. Then, having apparently satisfied herself that I was all right, she herded me efficiently into the house, pausing impatiently when I stopped to lock and chain the door, then headed straight to the kitchen, where we were met by Worf. While he rubbed against my ankles and emitted throaty "rowls" of hunger and encouragement, she perched on a tall stool and supervised, giving an occasional lick to her tortoiseshell coat and graciously overlooking my tired fumbles. I gave them tuna to apologize for my tardiness, and leaving them hunched enthusiastically over their bowls, I grabbed a handful of pretzels and went upstairs, turning on every light I passed.

One of the best things about my house is the bathtub. It's an old-fashioned clawfoot, so long and deep I can stretch out and submerge to the neck without any danger of overflow. I turned the hot water on full blast and added a generous blob of my precious German bubble bath, a gift from my niece, Dina. This was an occasion worthy of its healing powers.

As soon as the bubbles had reached a reasonable level, I slid cautiously into the tub, inhaling the herb-scented steam. I felt stiff and old, every minute of my thirty-eight years and then some, and I never wanted to see the inside of Rose City Typesetting - or any hospital - ever again. I reached for a washcloth, and suddenly found myself shaking, while all the fear and sadness I'd suppressed for the past two hours swelled up into my throat in one giant lump. I pressed the washcloth over my face, lay back in the comforting warmth, and let myself cry.

Half an hour later, boiled, shriveled, pink-eyed and somewhat restored, I sat on my living room couch eating scrambled eggs and toast with a large glass of pinot grigio. It was good wine; too good to drink with scrambled eggs, some might say, but to them I say Phooey. This might not have been the worst day of my life, but it was probably in the top three - and I needed some pampering. It was almost enough to make me homesick for Nick. The thing about living with a partner, even an indifferent one, is that there's usually someone there to listen to your tale of woe and offer sympathy, or at least distract you.

For the first time, my beloved house felt empty and lonely. There were too many windows, and too many dark corners. I decided that when I could afford it, I'd replace the lace curtains with something more substantial. I had a book open on my lap, but I kept seeing Joe's limp body and bloody hair instead of the words on the page. I shook my head hard enough to make the brains rattle and considered calling my sister. She'd offer sympathy, all right - but did I want it badly enough to pay the price? Rosemary's a good person and I love her; it's just that I've spent so many years trying to struggle out from under her sisterly wing that I hate to take a step back for any reason. I stared at the phone and debated.

The whump of the cat door startled me. There was a wild scrabble of claws on the hardwood floor, and Worf and Sheba sped by in a demented blur, her nose an inch from his tail. They made a flying circuit of the room, barely missing my shoulder as they levitated over the couch, then launched themselves up the stairs, leaving the hall rug askew and me clutching my plate. A minute later Sheba descended unhurriedly, leaped gracefully to the coffee table in front of me and began to wash her left hip.

"Come on, Baby," I coaxed, "come keep me company." I put down my plate and patted my lap invitingly.

She drew her fragile body up to its full height and stared regally down her brindled nose - Helen Hayes as the dowager Tsarina - then jumped down from the table. Obviously she had other plans. I sighed. I was halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell clanged, making me jump a foot. "Who could that be?" I muttered, glancing at my watch. Almost nine o'clock.

Cautiously, I peered out one of leaded glass panels that flank my front door. The porch light illuminated a smallish dark-haired woman, standing half-turned toward the street. She carried a clipboard and looked non-threatening, so I put the chain on and opened the door.

"Hi," I said tentatively.

She swung around, showing beautiful teeth in a wide, pleased smile. "Hi! Oh, you are here! I'm sorry to stop by so late; I was here earlier, but you weren't home, so when I got back from talking to everybody else and saw your light on, I thought I'd just see. . . . I'm your neighbor; from the big yellow house up the block? I've seen you around, but I don't think we've ever been introduced. I'm Clio Richardson."

I took a step back, opening the door a little wider. I liked her smile and slight southern accent, and she didn't look like an ax-murderer or a magazine salesperson, but you never know. I kept my hand on the knob.

"I'm Angie Quinn," I answered cautiously. "It's nice to meet you."

"So Angie, do you have a minute to talk?"

"Uh, well, it's late, and I've had kind of a bad day. . . . What's it about?"

The smile disappeared and the black-fringed eyes grew earnest. The accent intensified. "I wouldn't bother you, but it really is important for the neighborhood. It's going to affect all of us, and we've got to do something right away. Did you know they're trying to tear down six big old houses - good houses, not a thing wrong with them! - and bulldoze the lots, and put up a whole lot of fancy, tacky row houses, right here on our street? Just so some slimy developer can make a profit? I'm really worried about what's going to happen to the people who live in those houses, and what's going to happen to all the big trees, and to our street. This is a great neighborhood, but if we don't do something, it's never going to be the same!"

I unhooked the door chain. "Come on in," I said.


CHAPTER THREE
By the time Clio left, I knew a lot more about neighborhood politics, "slimy developers" and high-density housing than I had before, and as I shut the door behind her I discovered that I'd also found the distraction - and even, indirectly, the support - I'd been wanting. Somehow, the horrible events of the day had receded to manageable proportions, and the idea of pouring out my woes to Rosemary seemed strange and quirky.

As I got ready for bed, I deliberately kept my mind on neighborhood politics, the "strategy meeting" I'd agreed to attend, and Clio herself. Something about her appealed to me, and I toyed with the thought that we might eventually be friends as well as neighbors.

I got into bed and prepared to read myself to sleep with The Greek Myths, by Robert Graves, my standard soporific. It's interesting enough to keep me from getting up and finding something else, and boring enough to make me sleepy fairly soon. As I opened Volume One to Chapter 35, "The Giants' Revolt," Worf leaped onto the bed and settled down for a vigorous bath, leaning heavily against my hip. I was grateful for the company, but it was like being in bed with a minor earthquake.

"Hey, buddy," I said, "lie still and I'll read you a story. Listen: 'Enraged because Zeus had confined their brothers, the Titans, in Tartarus, certain tall and terrible giants, with long locks and beards, and serpent-tails for feet . . .' Sounds sort of like Officer Parnell, doesn't it?" He stared at me over the furry bulge of his stomach, hind leg at half-mast, for approximately two seconds before resuming his ablutions. Hoping the bath would be short, I went on reading - silently - and by the time I'd gotten to Chapter 38, "Deucalion's Flood," Worf was stretched warm and purring against my side, and I could hardly keep my eyes open. In spite of the horrible day I'd had, I fell asleep almost instantly.


I woke at 7:30 the next morning to find that the millennium had apparently come; both the cats were on my bed, peacefully sleeping less than a yard apart. I was astounded; also a little uneasy, because the only thing separating them was my body, and I didn't think their détente would outlast their awakening. I lay still, sleepily pondering the hazards of being in the middle of a hiss-and-swat session, and waited for the rest of my brain to wake up. When it did, I was sorry. Yesterday came back full force, looking even worse in retrospect.

I groaned, waking both cats. Worf thudded hastily to the floor, where he was immediately seized by a series of waking-up sneezes. Sheba stretched thoroughly, then jumped down and sauntered past him with a contemptuous glance.

I felt like pulling the pillow over my head and staying where I was, but instead I threw back the covers and headed for the shower. I still had a newsletter to write - though it might be the last one - and besides, now that the cats were awake, they'd pester me until I fed them.

As soon as I was dressed, I called the hospital and asked for news. Joe was still alive, the nurse told me, and still unconscious. If she knew any more than that, she wasn't telling. I hung up, feeling depressed and frustrated, and went downstairs to get fresh water and a can of Beef Banquet (for them) and corn flakes and coffee (for me).

Breakfast is a wonderful thing. By the time I'd finished my coffee, I was feeling more cheerful. After all, I told myself, he's still alive; he's just as likely to get better as to get worse. And surely Westbank won't fire me after all these years.

I'd been working for over an hour, and had the land-use article almost whipped, when the phone rang.

"Uh, Angie? This is Mel Springer, Rose City Typesetting."

My stomach gave a slight lurch. "Oh, hi, Mel. What's happening? Is Joe. . . ."

"No, no," he said quickly, "Joe's still the same. We're just trying to keep things going here . . . everybody's kind of in shock. Ellie was with him all night, I guess, but she was so upset she didn't think to call me until this morning. She says you're the one who found him, is that right?"

"Yeah. Gosh, I'm sorry . . . I guess I should have tried to call you, but things were so confused. . . ." I felt a twinge of guilt; I hadn't even given Mel a thought last night. I was vaguely aware that Joe had a partner, but our paths hadn't crossed much. I hadn't even known his last name until now.

"That's okay; you did fine. No, the reason I called is . . . well, the cops told me what happened last night, but it was sort of bare-bones. I was hoping you'd tell me your version; maybe fill in the details. And there's a type drawer here with your name on it; maybe we could get together?"

"I probably can't tell you much more than the police did, Mel," I said slowly, "but I can tell you what I saw, of course. Uh . . . I suppose you want me to come over there?"

"I'm sorry to ask," he said apologetically, "but things are pretty crazy here today, and I don't feel like I can leave."

We arranged to meet in half an hour; might as well get it over with, I thought. I abandoned my article in mid-sentence, put on some lipstick, added a leopard-print scarf to my taupe pants and yellow sweater, and was on my way. I made a brief detour to Coffee People, and fortified by a double Cappuccino, arrived at the type shop right on time.

I climbed the stairs in slow motion, then paused with my hand on the door. "Come on, Quinn," I told myself bracingly, "that was last night. This is now."

I pushed open the door and was confronted with a scene so reassuringly normal and familiar that the events of last night seemed like a dream. The broken drawer and spilled type were gone; there was no trace of blood on the green linoleum, and the pale sun shone through the windows. Machinery clicked and hummed, papers rattled, people moved purposefully back and forth. The only incongruous note was Mel, who sat at Joe's desk behind the high counter, making corrections on a pile of type galleys. Seeing me, he tossed the pencil down and heaved himself to his feet, making the battered old swivel chair squeak protestingly. He came toward me, automatically passing a palm over his bald spot.

"Angie! Thanks for coming." He was smiling, but his round face was pale and creased with anxious lines. "Come on back to my office; it's quieter."

He led me to a glassed-in cubicle sparsely furnished with a desk, file cabinets, and a gray metal bookcase full of ledgers. I took the chair he offered and looked around curiously while he settled himself behind the desk. There wasn't much to see; three of the walls were glass from waist-height on up; the fourth held a bulletin board plastered with notes and type samples, and a wall calendar with a beautiful four-color photograph of Mt. Hood. Probably a freebie from some printer. I squinted, trying to read the logo at the bottom of the page: Adlard Properties. No, not a printer. Mel cleared his throat and I forgot the calendar as I turned to face him.

Now that he had my attention, he seemed reluctant to start. He moved a pile of invoices, picked up a letter opener and put it down again, and finally spoke. "This is a terrible thing." The words came out slowly, separately, as if each weighed ten pounds. He paused, then added, "Joe and I have been partners for twenty years." He put his finger carefully down on the very tip of the silver letter opener and began twirling it in precise half-circles: 180 degrees to the right, 180 degrees to the left. He shook his head, let the knife drop, leaned forward. "Well. Would you mind just . . . going through it from the beginning?"

I told the story the same way I'd told it to Officer Parnell - just the facts, Ma'am - soft-pedaling the gore and leaving out my own fears and general wimpiness. He didn't interrupt, though he drew in his breath sharply when I mentioned hearing the footsteps. As soon as I finished, he asked, "You say you didn't see anyone? You're sure?"

"No, nobody."

His eyes probed mine. "No impressions, who it might have been?"

I shook my head. "No, sorry."

He leaned back, sighing explosively. "The cops seem to think someone came in to try to rob the place, but I can't buy it. We don't keep cash around, and most of our equipment is too big to steal. It just doesn't make sense."

"Maybe when Joe wakes up. . . ." I said hopefully.

"Yeah." He sighed again, passed his hand over his bald spot, and stood up abruptly. "Well, Angie, I sure appreciate your coming down here, and of course everything you did for Joe."

I muttered some kind of confused disclaimer, but his voice went on, topping mine as he turned and reached into the space between his desk and the wall, pulling out a type drawer. "Anyway, here's your drawer; least we can do is make sure you get that. You parked close? Want me to carry it out for you?"

I assured him I was perfectly capable of hoisting a whole fifteen pounds or so, asked him to keep me posted on Joe's condition, and before you could say "dingbat," I was out on the sidewalk, awkwardly clutching the drawer to my bosom while the tag that said "Angie" fluttered in my face.

I cast a puzzled glance up at the typeshop windows. "Here's your hat, what's your hurry," I muttered. Was it my imagination, or had I just been given the bum's rush?

I was still trying to decide as I drove back across the Broadway Bridge, sparing an automatic snarl for the still-under-construction Blazer Dome that was blighting the edge of my neighborhood. I'm not a basketball fan, though you can practically be lynched for admitting it in this town, and I resent having my tax money used to tie up traffic and rake in more money for a bunch of bloated sports gods.

My mood improved as soon as I turned into my own tree-lined street, and I decided I'd misinterpreted Mel's behavior. After all, he was busy; he was worried; what did I expect?

I wrestled the type drawer into the house and decided to clean it up a little before I went back to work. Those cute little compartments had collected a lot of dust over the years, and it took me a good twenty minutes with a damp rag. I should have stopped there, but I spent another fifteen minutes hunting for screw eyes and picture wire and rigging it all up, and by the time I actually hung it on the living room wall, I'd invested almost an hour that would have been better spent meeting my deadline. I did a fast pickup of tools, hardware and wire snippets, then stopped halfway to the wastebasket with Joe's tag in my hand. I turned it over: just a beat-up sheet of scrap paper, with some crossed-out typing on the back. Joe's bold black capitals had bled through; you could read my name from either side. I knew I was being silly, but somehow I couldn't throw it out - not yet. I opened the door of my grandmother's steeple clock, and stuck it in behind the pendulum along with a shriveled horse chestnut and Worf and Sheba's old ID tags. Since the clock stopped working five years ago I've gotten in the habit of using it to store oddball things that don't seem to belong anywhere else. I shut the little pointed door and looked at my watch. Time for a quick lunch, then back to work. With any luck, I could get the newsletter finished and off to Jonathan before the end of the day. Then I could go to Clio's "strategy meeting" with a clear conscience.

Copyright © 2003 Lauren Lynn McGraw. All rights reserved.

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson 

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

The Puzzle Corner

"Why does the letter B in the word jubilee resemble a secret known only to us two?" Because it is between you and I. Yes, that is the answer to the first of last week's puzzles and WAR is the answer to the other.

Now, what animal fond of climbing ends in a flower?

Mr. G. Ography says that three places are hiding in this sentence: Can Ada rush a bell fast? and three more in this: Carl's bad and 'es chilly. There are two here: Cal cut a turkey! There are four here: Have Anna Glass go grease china.

Send your answers to Mr. G. Ography, care of the Boys' and Girls' Department, Public Ledger.

[Answers next time. Please do not send answers to Hungry Tiger Press.]

Copyright © 2003 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.