LETTERS IN THE SAND

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

Chapter Three excerpted from Ozma of Oz, 1907.


Walking a little way back from the water's edge, toward the grove of trees, Dorothy came to a flat stretch of white sand that seemed to have queer signs marked upon its surface, just as one would write upon sand with a stick.

"What does it say?" she asked the yellow hen, who trotted along beside her in a rather dignified fashion.

"How should I know?" returned the hen. "I cannot read."

"Oh! Can't you?"

"Certainly not; I've never been to school, you know."

"Well, I have," admitted Dorothy; "but the letters are big and far apart, and it's hard to spell out the words."

But she looked at each letter carefully, and finally discovered that these words were written in the sand:

"BEWARE THE WHEELERS!"

"That's rather strange," declared the hen, when Dorothy had read aloud the words. "What do you suppose the Wheelers are?"

"Folks that wheel, I guess. They must have wheelbarrows, or baby-cabs or hand-carts," said Dorothy.

"Perhaps they're automobiles," suggested the yellow hen. "There is no need to beware of baby-cabs and wheelbarrows; but automobiles are dangerous things. Several of my friends have been run over by them."

"It can't be auto'biles," replied the girl, "for this is a new, wild country, without even trolley-cars or tel'phones. The people here haven't been discovered yet, I'm sure; that is, if there ARE any people. So I don't b'lieve there CAN be any auto'biles, Billina."

"Perhaps not," admitted the yellow hen. "Where are you going now?"

"Over to those trees, to see if I can find some fruit or nuts," answered Dorothy.

She tramped across the sand, skirting the foot of one of the little rocky hills that stood near, and soon reached the edge of the forest.

At first she was greatly disappointed, because the nearer trees were all punita, or cotton-wood or eucalyptus, and bore no fruit or nuts at all. But, bye and bye, when she was almost in despair, the little girl came upon two trees that promised to furnish her with plenty of food.

One was quite full of square paper boxes, which grew in clusters on all the limbs, and upon the biggest and ripest boxes the word "Lunch" could be read, in neat raised letters. This tree seemed to bear all the year around, for there were lunch-box blossoms on some of the branches, and on others tiny little lunch-boxes that were as yet quite green, and evidently not fit to eat until they had grown bigger.

The leaves of this tree were all paper napkins, and it presented a very pleasing appearance to the hungry little girl.

But the tree next to the lunch-box tree was even more wonderful, for it bore quantities of tin dinner-pails, which were so full and heavy that the stout branches bent underneath their weight. Some were small and dark-brown in color; those larger were of a dull tin color; but the really ripe ones were pails of bright tin that shone and glistened beautifully in the rays of sunshine that touched them.

Dorothy was delighted, and even the yellow hen acknowledged that she was surprised.

The little girl stood on tip-toe and picked one of the nicest and biggest lunch-boxes, and then she sat down upon the ground and eagerly opened it. Inside she found, nicely wrapped in white papers, a ham sandwich, a piece of sponge-cake, a pickle, a slice of new cheese and an apple. Each thing had a separate stem, and so had to be picked off the side of the box; but Dorothy found them all to be delicious, and she ate every bit of luncheon in the box before she had finished.

"A lunch isn't zactly breakfast," she said to Billina, who sat beside her curiously watching. "But when one is hungry one can eat even supper in the morning, and not complain."

"I hope your lunch-box was perfectly ripe," observed the yellow hen, in a anxious tone. "So much sickness is caused by eating green things."

"Oh, I'm sure it was ripe," declared Dorothy, "all, that is, 'cept the pickle, and a pickle just HAS to be green, Billina. But everything tasted perfectly splendid, and I'd rather have it than a church picnic. And now I think I'll pick a dinner-pail, to have when I get hungry again, and then we'll start out and 'splore the country, and see where we are."

"Haven't you any idea what country this is?" inquired Billina.

"None at all. But listen: I'm quite sure it's a fairy country, or such things as lunch-boxes and dinner-pails wouldn't be growing upon trees. Besides, Billina, being a hen, you wouldn't be able to talk in any civ'lized country, like Kansas, where no fairies live at all."

"Perhaps we're in the Land of Oz," said the hen, thoughtfully.

"No, that can't be," answered the little girl; because I've been to the Land of Oz, and it's all surrounded by a horrid desert that no one can cross."

"Then how did you get away from there again?" asked Billina.

"I had a pair of silver shoes, that carried me through the air; but I lost them," said Dorothy.

"Ah, indeed," remarked the yellow hen, in a tone of unbelief.

"Anyhow," resumed the girl, "there is no seashore near the Land of Oz, so this must surely be some other fairy country."

While she was speaking she selected a bright and pretty dinner-pail that seemed to have a stout handle, and picked it from its branch. Then, accompanied by the yellow hen, she walked out of the shadow of the trees toward the sea-shore.

They were part way across the sands when Billina suddenly cried, in a voice of terror:

"What's that?"

Dorothy turned quickly around, and saw coming out of a path that led from between the trees the most peculiar person her eyes had ever beheld.

It had the form of a man, except that it walked, or rather rolled, upon all fours, and its legs were the same length as its arms, giving them the appearance of the four legs of a beast. Yet it was no beast that Dorothy had discovered, for the person was clothed most gorgeously in embroidered garments of many colors, and wore a straw hat perched jauntily upon the side of its head. But it differed from human beings in this respect, that instead of hands and feet there grew at the end of its arms and legs round wheels, and by means of these wheels it rolled very swiftly over the level ground. Afterward Dorothy found that these odd wheels were of the same hard substance that our finger-nails and toe-nails are composed of, and she also learned that creatures of this strange race were born in this queer fashion. But when our little girl first caught sight of the first individual of a race that was destined to cause her a lot of trouble, she had an idea that the brilliantly-clothed personage was on roller-skates, which were attached to his hands as well as to his feet.

"Run!" screamed the yellow hen, fluttering away in great fright. "It's a Wheeler!"

"A Wheeler?" exclaimed Dorothy. "What can that be?"

"Don't you remember the warning in the sand: 'Beware the Wheelers'? Run, I tell you--run!"

So Dorothy ran, and the Wheeler gave a sharp, wild cry and came after her in full chase.

Looking over her shoulder as she ran, the girl now saw a great procession of Wheelers emerging from the forest--dozens and dozens of them--all clad in splendid, tight-fitting garments and all rolling swiftly toward her and uttering their wild, strange cries.

"They're sure to catch us!" panted the girl, who was still carrying the heavy dinner-pail she had picked. "I can't run much farther, Billina."

"Climb up this hill,--quick!" said the hen; and Dorothy found she was very near to the heap of loose and jagged rocks they had passed on their way to the forest. The yellow hen was even now fluttering among the rocks, and Dorothy followed as best she could, half climbing and half tumbling up the rough and rugged steep.

She was none too soon, for the foremost Wheeler reached the hill a moment after her; but while the girl scrambled up the rocks the creature stopped short with howls of rage and disappointment.

Dorothy now heard the yellow hen laughing, in her cackling, henny way.

"Don't hurry, my dear," cried Billina. "They can't follow us among these rocks, so we're safe enough now."

Dorothy stopped at once and sat down upon a broad boulder, for she was all out of breath.

The rest of the Wheelers had now reached the foot of the hill, but it was evident that their wheels would not roll upon the rough and jagged rocks, and therefore they were helpless to follow Dorothy and the hen to where they had taken refuge. But they circled all around the little hill, so the child and Billina were fast prisoners and could not come down without being captured.

Then the creatures shook their front wheels at Dorothy in a threatening manner, and it seemed they were able to speak as well as to make their dreadful outcries, for several of them shouted:

"We'll get you in time, never fear! And when we do get you, we'll tear you into little bits!"

"Why are you so cruel to me?" asked Dorothy. "I'm a stranger in your country, and have done you no harm."

"No harm!" cried one who seemed to be their leader. "Did you not pick our lunch-boxes and dinner-pails? Have you not a stolen dinner-pail still in your hand?"

"I only picked one of each," she answered. "I was hungry, and I didn't know the trees were yours."

"That is no excuse," retorted the leader, who was clothed in a most gorgeous suit. "It is the law here that whoever picks a dinner-pail without our permission must die immediately."

"Don't you believe him," said Billina. "I'm sure the trees do not belong to these awful creatures. They are fit for any mischief, and it's my opinion they would try to kill us just the same if you hadn't picked a dinner-pail."

"I think so, too," agreed Dorothy. "But what shall we do now?"

"Stay where we are," advised the yellow hen. "We are safe from the Wheelers until we starve to death, anyhow; and before that time comes a good many things can happen."

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 10, 1917. 

 
Patriotic Puzzles

Mr. G. Ography was much surprised to find how many grown-up folks did not recognize the flags of our ALLIES. He said he was sure the boys and girls would, and I am sure, too. Write the country beneath the flag and put in the colors in crayon or paints. Mail to Mr. G. Ography, and for every correct one there will be a prize.

The authors and poets which completed the Forgetful Poet's verses were Mark Twain, Hall Crain, Eugene Field, Grimm and Burns.

[Answers next time. The flags above represent the allies of the United States of America during World War I. This is a historical presentation of Ruth Plumly Thompson's writing, so please don't mail in entries. No prizes will be awarded.]

Copyright © 2004 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE STORY OF A STONE LION

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

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 10, 1916.


Once upon a time a proud and haughty stone lion lived in a garden. He stood at the end of a lovely walk and from his high stone base looked disdainfully at every one who passed. How proud and haughty he was you could never imagine unless you had seen him. With his cold eyes looking sternly at the garden wall and his stone head reared scornfully in the air, he stood year after year, through sun and showers and snow--always the same.

The birds came in the spring and built their nests, the flowers peeped shyly from their garden beds, bloomed and sweetened the air with their fragrance as the birds made it lovely with their songs; but children came into the garden to play and the stone lion never noticed them. Fall came and turned the leaves to gold and red, the birds flew away again and the chill November winds heaped the leaves in little piles at the lion's feet. Then down whirled the snow and covered the garden with its lovely mantle of white. Again the children came running out to play, but still the stone lion heeded nothing, and, thinking his cold thoughts, stood proudly alone.

Then one spring two little robins fluttered down upon the lion's head. "Same old garden," chirped the first robin, "for here is the LION!" "Oh, isn't it sweet to come back? Oh, isnt it lovely?" And for very happiness the second little robin began to twitter so merrily that 'tis a wonder the stone lion did not melt upon the spot. But he did nothing of the kind and paid no attention to the little birds, till one stuck its head on one side and said: "Why, you poor old lion you, it must be dreadful to be made of stone and never to move about, nor sing, nor be happy!" What was that? Were these poor, little, insignificant robins pitying HIM? Why,k the very idea, the impudence! The stone lion fairly shook with rage, but, being stone, of course, said nothing. Just then a little squirrel whisked across the lawn and stopped to call "Howde" to the robins. "I was just saying to Reddy how dreadful it must be for this lion," chirped the robin sociably. "Never to move, nor talk; never to do ANYTHING. Why, it's sad, that's what it is!" The squirrel shook his head thoughtfully. "That's so," said he. "But he'll last a long time. Why, he might stay here for CENTURIES; at least, that's what Solomon Owl tells me!"

"Centuries! Centuries!" scoffed the little robin. "Why, I'd rather be a robin for FIVE minutes than a stone lion for a HUNDRED YEARS!" Which statement so astonished the proud lion that he almost fell off of his pedestal. What was all this talk, anyway? Wasn't if enough to stand grandly aloof? Wasn't it enough for him to BE in the garden for the people to admire? From being angry he grew curious. He began to notice the birds in the garden, to listen to their songs and wonder what they saw when they flew over the high wall. He watched the squirrel whisking from tree to tree, and it somehow made him feel old and stiff. The children came and picked flowers, and a lively little puppy tumbled about with them. "My," thought the stone lion. "How nice it would be to roll in the grass and run down the path and out of the gate! What COULD be on the other side, now?" Indeed, he grew so interested and curious about the life in the garden that he quite forgot to be proud and self-satisfied. He wished he could turn around so he would not miss what was going on back of him; and, OH, how he longed to talk to the merry little robins who perched on his back every afternoon and told strange stories of the countries they visited. Then summer went so quickly the stone lion could hardly believe it when the last bird had gone and the last flower had fallen. He grew lonely, and one night he could contain himself no longer and he wept--REAL tears, too, for he wasn't stone inside any more. And the tears trickled down into the home of the Fairy of the Garden. And it didn't take her long to find out, honeys; and next thing she had waved her wand and the stone lion was gone. On his stone pedestal perched a gay little robin, and as it looked it spread its wings and flew up and up and away over the garden wall. The Fairy had granted the wish in the lion's heart, for the lion had been saying over and over again, "I had rather be a live robin than a STONE LION. I had rather live than last." Better a robin for five minutes than a stone lion for five centuries! And I think so, too!

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 3, 1917

Some More Riddles That Rhyme

The Forgetful Poet says that some folks think there is more rhyme than reason in his verses, but that the boys and girls know just what he means. And I believe you do, judging from the answers that come tumbling into the office on Monday mornings. He says that the blanks this week should be filled in by authors and poets. Well, did you ever?

The Tale of a Stolen Cake

Oh, once a laddie stole a cake
And ran with might and main,
Tripped down and fell. Ah, dear! Ah, well!
He broke the cake in ------.
The baker caught him. I regret
To say, he used his ------,
Which in a passion he did wield
Till the lad escaped across the ------.
The baker looking very ------
Declared he'd tell his dad on him.
While on his shop his back he turns
Alas! his largest plum pie ------.

Send your answers to the Forgetful Poet, care of the Public Ledger. The Forgetful Poet wishes to compliment Hamor Michener on his correct answers, also Miss Jean Page.

[Answers next time. Last time's answers: gnu, bear, deer, ?]

Copyright © 2004 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF THE KING'S HEAD

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

The Second Surprise from The Magical Monarch of Mo, 1903.


A good many years ago the Magical Monarch of Mo became annoyed by the Purple Dragon,which came down from the mountains and ate up a patch of his best chocolate caramels just as they were getting ripe.

So the King went out to the sword tree and picked a long, sharp sword, and tied it to his belt and went away to the mountains to fight the Purple Dragon.

The people all applauded him, saying one to another: "Our King is a good king. He will destroy this naughty Purple Dragon and we shall be able to eat the caramels ourselves."

But the Dragon was not alone naughty; it was big and fierce and strong, and did not want to be destroyed at all.

Therefore the King had a terrible fight with the Purple Dragon, and cut it with his sword in several places, so that the raspberry juice which ran in its veins squirted all over the ground.

It is always difficult to kill dragons. They are by nature thick-skinned and tough, as doubtless everyone has heard. Besides, you must not forget that this was a Purple Dragon, and all scientists who have studied deeply the character of dragons say those of a purple color are the most disagreeable to fight with. So all the King's cutting and slashing had no other effect upon the monster than to make him angry. Forgetful of the respect due to a crowned king, the wicked Dragon presently opened wide its jaws and bit His Majesty's head clean off from his body. Then he swallowed it.

Of course the King realized it was useless to continue the fight after that, for he could not see where the Dragon was. So he turned and tried to find his way back to his people. But at every other step he would bump into a tree which made the naughty Dragon laugh at him. Furthermore, he could not tell in which direction he was going, which is an unpleasant feeling in any circumstances.

At last some of the people came to see if the King had succeeded in destroying the Dragon, and found their Monarch running around in a circle, bumping into trees and rocks, but not getting a step nearer home. So they took his hand and led him back to the palace, where everyone was filled with sorrow at the sad sight of the headless King. Indeed, his devoted subjects, for the first time in their lives, came as near to weeping as an inhabitant of the Valley of Mo can.

"Never mind," said the King cheerfully, "I can get along very well without a head, and, as a matter of fact, the loss has its advantages. I shall not be obliged to brush my hair, or clean my teeth, or wash my ears. So do not grieve, I beg of you, but be happy and joyful as you were before." Which showed the King had a good heart; and, after all, a good heart is better than a head, any day.

The people, hearing him speak out of the top of his neck (for he had no mouth), immediately began to laugh, which in a short time led to their being as happy as ever.

But the Queen was not contented.

"My love," she said to him, "I cannot kiss you any more, and that will break my heart."

Thereupon the King sent word throughout the Valley that anyone who could procure for him a new head should wed one of the princesses.

The princesses were all exceedingly pretty girls, and so it was not long before one young man made a very nice head out of candy and brought it to the King. It did not look exactly like the old head, but the face was very sweet, nevertheless; so the King put it on and the Queen kissed it at once with much satisfaction.

The young man had put a pair of glass eyes in the head, with which the King could see very well after he got used to them.

According to the royal promise, the young man was now called into the palace and asked to take his pick of the princesses. They were all so sweet and ladylike that he had some trouble in making a choice, but at last he took the biggest, thinking that he would thus secure the greatest reward, and they were married amid great rejoicing.

But a few days afterward the King was caught out in a rainstorm, and before he could get home his new head had melted in the great shower of lemonade that fell. Only the glass eyes were left, and these he put in his pocket and went sorrowfully to tell the Queen of his new misfortune.

Then another young man who wanted to marry a princess made the King a head out of dough, sticking in the glass eyes; and the King tried it on and found that it fitted very well. So the young man was given the next biggest princess.

But the following day the sun chanced to shine extremely hot, and when the King walked out it baked his dough head into bread, at which the monarch felt very lightheaded. And when the birds saw the bread they flew down from the trees, perched on the King's shoulder and quickly ate up his new head. All but the glass eyes.

Again the good King was forced to go home to the Queen without a head, and the lady firmly declared that this time her husband must have a head warranted to last at least as long as the honeymoon of the young man who made it, which was not at all unreasonable in the circumstances.

So a request was sent to all loyal subjects throughout the Valley asking them to find a head for their King that was neat and substantial.

In the meanwhile the King had a rather hard time of it. When he wished to go anyplace he was obliged to hold out in front of him, between his thumbs and fingers, the glass eyes, that they might guide his footsteps. This, as you may imagine, made his Majesty look rather undignified, and dignity is very precious to every royal person-age.

At last a wood chopper in the mountains made a head out of wood and sent it to the King. It was neatly carved, besides being solid and durable. Moreover, it fitted the Monarch's neck to a T. So the King rummaged in his pocket and found the glass eyes, and when these were put in the new head the King announced his satisfaction.

There was only one drawback--he couldn't smile, as the wooden face was too stiff, and it was funny to hear His Majesty laughing heartily while his face maintained a solemn expression. But the glass eyes twinkled merrily and everyone knew that he was the same kindhearted Monarch of old, although he had become, of necessity, rather hardheaded.

Then the King sent word to the wood chopper to come to the palace and take his pick of the princesses, and preparations were at once begun for the wedding.

But the wood chopper, on his way to the court, unfortunately passed by the dwelling of the Purple Dragon and stopped to speak to the monster.

Now it seems that when the Dragon had swallowed the King's head, the unusual meal made the beast ill. It was more accustomed to berries and caramels for dinner than to heads, and the sharp points of the King's crown (which was firmly fastened to the head) pricked the Dragon's stomach and made the creature miserable. After a few days of suffering the Dragon disgorged the head and, not knowing what else to do with it, locked it up in a cupboard and put the key in its pocket.

When the Dragon met the wood chopper and learned he had made a new head for the King and as a reward was to wed one of the princesses, the monster became very angry. It resolved to do a wicked thing, which will not surprise you when you remember the beast's purple color.

"Step into my parlor and rest yourself," said the Dragon politely. Wicked people are most polite when they mean mischief.

"Thank you, I'll stop for a few minutes," replied the wood chopper; "but I cannot stay long, as I am expected at court."

When he had entered the parlor the Dragon suddenly opened its mouth and snapped off the poor wood chopper's head. Being warned by experience, however, it did not swallow the head, but placed it in the cupboard. Then the Dragon took from a shelf the King's head and glued it on the wood chopper's neck.

"Now," said the beast, with a cruel laugh, "you are the King! Go home and claim your wife and your kingdom." The poor wood chopper was much amazed, for at first he did not really know which he was, the King or the wood chopper.

He looked in the mirror and, seeing the King, made a low bow. Then the King's head thought: "Who am I bowing to? There is no one greater than the King!" And so at once there began a conflict between the wood chopper's heart and the King's head.

The Dragon was mightily pleased at the result of its wicked stratagem, and, having pushed the bewildered wood chopper out of the castle, immediately sent him on his way to the court.

When the poor man neared the town the people ran out and said: "Why, this is the King come back again. All hail, your Majesty!"

"All nonsense!" returned the wood chopper. "I am only a poor man with the King's head on my shoulders. You can easily see it isn't mine, for it's crooked. The Dragon didn't glue it on straight."

"Where, then, is your head?" they asked. "Locked up in the Dragon's cupboard," replied the poor fellow, beginning to weep.

"Here," cried the King's head, "stop this! You mustn't cry out of my eyes! The King never weeps."

"I beg pardon, Your Majesty," said the wood chopper meekly, "I'll not do it again."

"Well, see that you don't," returned the head more cheerfully.

The people were greatly amazed at this, and took the wood chopper to the palace, where all was soon explained.

When the Queen saw the King's head she immediately kissed it, but the King rebuked her, saying she must kiss only him.

"But it is your head," said the poor Queen.

"Probably it is," replied the King, "but it is on another man. You must confine yourself to kissing my wooden head."

"I'm sorry," sighed the Queen, "for I like to kiss the real head best."

"And so you shall," said the King's head. "I don't approve your kissing that wooden head at all."

The poor lady looked from one to the other in perplexity. Finally a happy thought occurred to her.

"Why don't you trade heads?" she asked.

"Just the thing!" cried the King and, the wood chopper consenting, the exchange was made. The Monarch of Mo found himself in possession of his own head again, whereat he was so greatly pleased that he laughed long and merrily.

The wood chopper, however, did not even smile. He couldn't because of the wooden face. The head he had made for the King he now was compelled to wear himself.

"Bring hither the princesses," commanded the King. "This good man shall choose his bride at once, for he has restored to me my own head."

But when the princesses arrived and saw that the wood chopper had a wooden head, they each and all refused to marry him, and begged so hard to escape that the King was in a quandary.

"I promised him one of my daughters," he argued, "and a King never breaks his word."

"But he hadn't a wooden head then," explained one of the girls.

The King realized the truth of this. Indeed, when he came to look carefully at the wooden head, he did not blame his daughters for not wishing to marry it. Should he force one of them to consent, it was not unlikely she would call her husband a blockhead--a term almost certain to cause trouble in any family.

After giving the matter deep thought, the King resolved to go to the Purple Dragon and oblige it to give up the wood chopper's head.

So all the fighting men in the kingdom were got together, and, having picked ripe swords off the sword trees, they marched in a great body to the Dragon's castle.

Now the Purple Dragon realized that if it attempted to fight all this army it would perhaps be cut to pieces, so it retired within its castle and refused to come out.

The wood chopper was a brave man.

"I'll go in and fight the Dragon alone," he said. And in he went. By this time the Dragon was both frightened and angry, and the moment it saw the man it rushed forward and made a snap at his head.

The wooden head came off at once, and the Dragon's long, sharp teeth got stuck in the wood and would not come out again, so the monster was unable to do anything but flop its tail and groan.

The wood chopper now ran to the cupboard, took out his head and placed it upon his shoulders where it belonged. Then he proudly walked out of the castle and was greeted with loud shouts by the army, which carried him back in triumph to the King's palace.

And, now that he wore his own head again, one of the prettiest of the young princesses willingly agreed to marry him, so the wedding ceremony was performed amid great rejoicing.

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 27, 1917.

Some Puzzles

Well, howdedo, and these are the answers to last week's riddles. The boy and girl names in the flowers: Jack-in-the-pulpit, Johnny-jump-up, May-apple, Jonquil (John), Daisy, Sweet William, Lily, Violet and Rose. The missing words or rather trees in Mr. Forgetful Poet's poem: Spruce, date, beech, pine, fir and yew.

He said he'd never seen a flying horse, but that he's seen a horse fly. I wonder how many of you can fill in this poem of his. This time the missing words are animals.

About Tom's Suit

His suit was ------,
A stylish blue--
Since he has IT to wear--
His other one, of good home-spun,
He really cannot ------!

But then, see here,
This suit was ------
Don't ------ me to wear it.
His mother sighed, and so he tried
His very best to spare it.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2004 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE CHIMNEY ELVES

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

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 13, 1914.


If we're all by our lonesome,
And all by ourselves -
I'll tell you a tale
Of some comical elves.
They live in the chimneys
As quiet as mouses
In the very tip-toppety
Top of our houses.
They live in the chimneys,
And little elf stairs
Lead up and down
And everywheres,
To little elf rooms
In the chimney wall -
With elfin beds
And elf chairs small!
And here these comical
Gray little elves
Keep house with their babies
Their wives and themselves!
But let me tell you,
They only stay
In the houses where good
Little children play.
Sometimes at night
When we all are sleeping,
Down the chimney
The elves come creeping;
And just like merry
Girls and boys
They play with the dolls
And the other toys.
Or, sometimes they skip
With a hoppety-hop
Up their elfin stairs
And come out on top
Of the chimneys, and each
On his silver guitar
Sings his quaint elfin song
To his favorite star.
Or other times
When the wind is high
They ride their smoke horses
Across the blue sky!
But NOW - Oh, now
They're busy as bees -
They have no time
For things like these!
They're watching, listening,
Looking, peeping
For Good St. Nick
A record keeping
Of all good children -
And dears, Oh, hark!
On the chimney tops
They'll put a mark
To guide St. Nicholas
And his sleigh
To good children's chimneys
Right away!
And that is why
Since we're all by ourselves
I've told you the tale
Of these comical elves.

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 20, 1917.

The Puzzle Department

Every one enjoyed Mr. G. Ography and the Forgetful Poet's puzzle last week and much to their surprise hundreds of correct answers tumbled in. The cities were Wheeling, Mobile, Cologne, Paris, Salem, Stockholm and Rome.

How many boy and girl names can you find among the flowers? The Forgetful Poet found ten. Did you ever see a flying horse?

A Poem About Mr. Jones

Now, Mr. Jones walked out, my dears,
So gay and neat and ------ ;
I'm pretty sure somehow he's got
A pretty good excuse

For his apparel, and he hurries
So he won't be late;
Aha, I think with Mistress Brown
He has a little ------.

Down toward the sea he makes his way
And there upon the ------
Waits Mistress Brown. I told you so,
Not long he takes to reach

Her side. Says he, "When I'm away
From you I really ------.
Do you suppose you might consent
To evermore be mine?"

Miss Brown pushed back her white fox ------
And said she guessed he'd do for her;
I can't be sure that this is true,
But I think, she added, I love ------!

The Forgetful Poet says that the missing words are trees. How can words be trees? Well, I leave it to you, for I think you understand the dear chap better than I do.

[Answers next time.]

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

BUSINESS HOURS

By Jack Snow
Author of The Magical Mimics of Oz, "Spectral Snow", "The Magic Sled", etc.

Originally published in Dark Music and Other Spectral Tales, 1947.


Johnny slouched in the shadows against the rough brick of a tumbledown building. There was nothing unusual about the building, for all the buildings in this tenement section not far from the Bowery in New York were tumble-down. Nor was there anything unusual about Johnny, unless you took a second look and that led you to his eyes. There was something still left in them. Not all the booze and bumming of five years could crowd out the ghosts that lived in Johnny's eyes. They whispered to you that here was a man who might have been somebody--might have amounted to a great deal instead of just something. But now--well, Johnny had been told many times that. he was "his own worst enemy." In that role he made war on himself with innumerable bottles.

Johnny slouched in shadow against the cold building, listening to the tolling of the midnight hour by a bell in a nearby church. Johnny counted off the strokes. With each one he grew colder, and more miserable--hungrier--but most of all--more and more in need of a drink--many drinks. Sobriety was playing a devil's tune on Johnny's taut nerves. Those nerves might have been manufactured in Switzerland, so tense were they, so finely coiled and ready to unspring and pitch Johnny into an inferno of hallucination. Johnny knew this and he shuddered--not with the cold or the snow that was falling gently, and which he could feel through the holes in his shoes.

At the last toll of the bell, Johnny looked up in surprise. The city block had been almost in darkness, save for two pale street lamps. But now a shop across the street had come alive. Its windows were blazing with light. Johnny stared incredulously and lurched across the street to the shop. It was an antique shop. One glance told him that. Above the door flapped an iron sign with the words THE GATEWAY ANTIQUE SHOP--OPEN FROM MIDNIGHT TO DAWN. Strange business hours, thought Johnny, but then these antique dealers were queer birds. Johnny decided he would go in. Maybe the guy was lonesome and would let him get warm. Maybe--maybe he might even have a bottle.

Johnny lifted the latch and stepped inside. Yes, it was warm. He breathed the musty air gratefully.

"Good evening, Sir," a soft, well modulated voice spoke. Johnny saw a wispish figure of a man not more than 5 feet tall smiling at him from across a counter. The man was bald and had a small moustache that was white, and blue eyes that sparkled with friendliness. Johnny liked him.

"You are just in time," he said, "I wondered who would be my customer tonight. My name's Smith--one of the many Smiths," the little man rattled on, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes.

"Glad to meet you, my name's Johnny Harrison," Johnny said aloud, thinking to himself that Smith--or whatever his name might be--was going to be mighty disappointed if he thought he was a customer. The only antiques Johnny was interested in were in cellars and were covered with cobwebs.

Johnny was aware of the insistent ticking of a hugely towering Grandfather's clock in the rear of the shop. It punctuated their words with its dull thuds, marking the seconds.

Evidently Mr. Smith was aware of it, too, for he said, "The hour is passing swiftly, we had better get on with business."

"Look," said Johnny, stalling for time, "don't you keep very peculiar business hours--opening your shop at midnight and closing it at dawn?"

"Not at all, not at all," replied Mr. Smith. "That gives me exactly six hours and they are by far the best hours--the hours that are most suitable for my business. Now, if you will come with me." Johnny sighed. What was the use? "Mr. Smith," he said, "I'm not a customer. I haven't any money." The old guy must be a little crazy not to see these things, Johnny thought. Anyone could look at him and tell he was just a stumblebum--certainly not a purchaser of expensive antiques. "I'm not interested in money," Mr. Smith replied surprisingly in his soft, impassive voice. "And you are my customer, else you would not have come into my shop."

The little man took Johnny's arm and led him farther into the shop, behind the counter. He touched an electric switch and Johnny could see that the shop was filled with ancient lamps--myriads of them all shedding mellow beautiful lights of rich and lambent hues. In the middle of this array of what even Johnny recognized as priceless antique lamps, stood a huge old fashioned upholstered chair and a table loaded with books.

"You will sit down," Mr. Smith was urging, "and make yourself comfortable in the chair. You will find the books to your taste, I am sure."

Incredulously Johnny slumped into the soft warm depths of the great chair. He gasped, unable to frame a question that would express his bewilderment.

The little man spoke with quiet assurance as though these happenings were the most normal in the world. "The first two hours from midnight until 2 o'clock are the lamp-light hours. They are quite naturally given over to the pleasures of relaxation and reading, by lamplight. You will enjoy yourself for these two hours and then we will pass on to the next hour. Until then I will leave you."

With that Mr. Smith vanished--went out as might the light of one of his lamps.

He must have stepped through a doorway or down a stairway, reasoned Johnny. Oh, well, this certainly was better than being out in the cold. He hoped no one else came in the shop. And then he looked at the books on the table beside his chair. It couldn't be! But they were--all the books that he had read and loved as a child! They were all there--"At the Back of the North Wind," "The Princess and the Goblin," "The Wind Boy," "The Wizard of Oz," "The Wind in the Willows," Poe's Poems and Stories, Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses." Johnny's eyes misted over as he stared at the well-loved volumes. The core of childhood that remains in all humans, no matter how many their years, swelled and throbbed. The years dropped from Johnny like unclean garments. He began reading. He roamed the lonely sea shore with ghostly Annabel Lee. He traveled the night world in the wondrous hair of North Wind. He ventured into goblin haunted mines with little Princess Irene. In the company of the purple-winged Wind Boy, he sprang gladly into that clear land which hovers just over earth. He wandered with Dorothy down the yellow brick road to the marvelous Emerald City of Oz.

And all the time, remote, distant in his thoughts, the clock ticked, dully, relentlessly. It didn't occur to Johnny to wonder that he was no longer hungry--nor thirsty. Mr. Smith was standing beside him. Johnny looked up. "It is two o'clock," the old man announced gently. "I see you have enjoyed the two hours of lamplight."

Johnny started to speak but his jaw fell in amazement. Where were the lamps? Where was the chair and the books? They were gone. In their place was a huge banquet table. Places were set for two. Even Johnny with no knowledge of antiques could see that the table, its china, silver and linen service were worth a King's ransom. But that scarcely impressed him. It was the food that set his mouth watering and his eyes bulging. All at once he was again so hungry and so thirsty that he forgot his wonder at this apparition of the banquet table.

Calmly Mr. Smith was seating himself in one of the high-backed antique chairs, motioning for Johnny to occupy the other.

Beyond astonishment or questions Johnny sat down.

"Two to three--this is the hour of banqueting," stated Mr. Smith, as if speaking by rote, as he filled a bowl with thick green split pea soup from an ancient silver tureen and handed it to Johnny. The soup, indeed all the food that he ate during that enchanted hour, was the most delicious Johnny had ever tasted. There was breast of guinea hen, succulent roast pheasant, oysters that set the ocean rolling in his ears as he ate them, roasts of beef and tender ham, all accompanied by exquisitely prepared vegetables, salads and greens, breads, rolls, ending with marvelous cakes and pies. And with it all, a variety of wines from age-musty bottles, the exact vintage and flavor to complement each service of food. And as the wines were only the complement of the foods, they produced no sense of intoxication, only a warm glow of well being.

Just as Johnny was beginning to feel that he could eat no more, Mr. Smith urged, "We just have time for our coffee and brandy. Only a few more minutes of the hour remain." So the two drank their rich, brown, mellow flavored coffee and sipped their sweet liqueur.

Johnny sighed with contentment. Now it was time to ask questions. He was filled with assurance and well being. The old man was an expert magician--a trickster of the first water and he evidently was amusing himself by displaying his legerdemain to Johnny.

Well, Johnny didn't mind. But he did want some explanations. He was about to speak when the huge old Grandfather's clock struck three. Johnny blinked. Gone was the banquet table, gone its costly burden and gone the two chairs. What had come in their place made Johnny forget his questions. He was in a mellow old Colonial living room. Opposite him a fire blazed in a great hearth. Before the fire were drawn two great old oaken chairs. Their backs were to him, but Johnny could see that one of them was occupied by a woman. Slowly, Johnny crossed the deeply polished old floors to the fireplace. The woman in the chair was--a girl.

"From three to four," Mr. Smith was speaking imperturbably, "is the hour of companionship and memories. I leave you now to your company and memories."

Johnny hesitated, but already Mr. Smith had vanished as incredibly as before. The girl in the chair smiled at Johnny. A basket of embroidery work rested on her lap. In soft accents she invited him to occupy the great chair next hers. Johnny seated himself and stared. Slowly, oh so slowly, he was remembering. This ancient room, this lovely young girl--somehow, someplace he had known them long, long ago. And then suddenly the gates opened and he was carried along on a flood of memory. She had been his High School sweetheart--simple, naive and wholesome. Through many a winter evening she and Johnny had sat just as they were now in this room, reading and helping each other with their home work. Johnny recalled with a pang how he had looked upon her as rather dull and uninteresting. He had left her, looking for gaudier charms. Now he was awestruck by the girlish simplicity and sweetness of her. What they talked about now, he scarcely knew. Their words were muted with memories, echoing from distant years. It wasn't long though until Johnny had clasped her slim hands in his and their eyes were bright with a friendship made of a special kind of understanding and beauty. The girl's eyes were china blue, and wide, her hair the most gossamer of gold and her figure at that lovely state of development that just presages the blossoming into womanhood.

In what seemed far less than an hour, the Grandfather's clock struck 4. Johnny was not surprised now--but he was regretful. The girl and all the room was gone. Now was the time for Johnny to demand an explanation of Mr. Smith. He wanted to know who the girl was and where he might find her.

Mr. Smith was standing at his side. Before Johnny could speak he pointed and said softly, "Four to five is the hour of love." And he was gone.

This couldn't be. The old man was carrying his tricks too far. Where the girl and her divan had been, stood an ancient, antique bed with a canopy and drapes drawn. Beside the bed was a soft night light. Johnny approached the bed quietly and stared through the fine, thin drapes. He could discern the sleeping figure of a woman, beautiful beyond words, with long black hair trailed over her pillow and her round breasts lifting and falling as she breathed. Something seemed to tell Johnny that she was waiting--waiting to be awakened with a kiss--a sleeping beauty--and he was Prince Charming. Johnny's blood raced through his veins. His breathing was deep and fast. He slipped from his clothes and parted the draperies of the bed.

There was a faint music, deep, passionate and soul stirring. It throbbed and thrummed through Johnny's brain and coursed through his body. He moved to its rhythm. The woman heard it too. They were two dancers, superbly skilled and matched.

The music had stopped, Johnny felt that he was rising from the depths of dark, cool waters that laved his flesh and filled his whole body and being with a sense of ecstasy. The waters clung to him, caressed his skin and eddied about him fondly.

And then he was floating on the surface. Somewhere a clock was striking--one--two--three--four--five. Johnny opened his eyes. Gone was the chamber and the secret, canopied bed. He was lying on a narrow cot with a single woolen blanket covering his body. His clothing lay in a heap on the floor beside the cot. All was darkness and gloom about him. Mr. Smith was standing by the cot. He was saying, "And this is the last of my six business hours--the hour before the dawn--the darkest of all hours--the hour of sleep." As the little man pronounced the word sleep, Johnny was filled with an overpowering weariness, it closed down over him like a vast cloud. His eyes were shut and his last conscious thought was that if he could but open them he would not see Mr. Smith. There was no fighting this weariness, it was too overpowering, too all mastering. Johnny didn't want to fight. He was so tired--so desperately tired. He sighed and welcomed the hour of Sleep.


* * *
It was shortly after six o'clock and the first dirty grey of dawn was showing reluctantly through the night shadows of the tenement section, when the cop on the beat saw it in the vacant lot. It was the nude body of a man. Beside him was a heap of worn clothing. The cop cursed. The bum must have frozen himself on purpose The snow had stopped just after midnight and the mercury had plummeted to ten below zero. It was that now. The cop shivered in his great coat. The guy must have undressed and lay down on that heap of junk. And just gone off to sleep--death. The cop turned to call an ambulance.

He didn't notice that the pile of junk consisted of a battered old lamp, the skeleton of a cheap upholstered chair, an old table with one leg missing, a few torn and ragged copies of children's books, some broken dishes and bent tinware, a battered part of an ancient sofa, shreds of a woman's dress, a few ice stiff filaments of what had once been a woman's negligee, and the springless frame of an old cot.

Nor did he notice that Johnny slept in deep peace; there was a smile, not frozen in his face, but there of its own right.

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 13, 1917.

Red-Ripe Puzzles -- Nothing a Guess

Mr. G. Ography and the Forgetful Poet have gotten their heads together and these surprising verses are the result. They are very proud of their puzzle and assure me that it is MORE than a masterpiece. Well, well, we shall not differ with them; indeed, we shall say it is two masterpieces in one. Mr. G. Ography says that the blanks are to be filled in with cities, and though he has not put them in order, one is in West Virginia, one in Germany, one in France, one in Alabama, one in Massachusetts, one in Sweden and one in Italy.

A Poem Concerning John

One day while John to Dovertown
Lightheartedly was ____,
An auto _____ ran him down.
Poor John lay dazed, yet feeling
A pain in one arm as they
Picked him up he had to moan,v Whereat the ladies generously
Revived him with ____.

At the hospital they set his arm
And put it in a cast,
A plaster ____ one. I hope
He'll get well very fast,
For he has several new toy boats
And wants to go and ____.
Besides there's none to call the cows,
His poor dad has to trail 'em.
For from the hillside every night
John drives the live ____,
And now they're missing him, I guess,
For far and wide they ____.

The answer to last week's puzzle were cowslip, snowdrops, orchid, crocus, dogwood, four o'clock and daisy. Hamor Michener is again president of the Puzzle Club. Send in your answers to Mr. G. Ography, care of the Boys' and Girls' Department, or in care of Miss R. P. Thompson. There will be two prizes for the two correct and most neatly written lists this week.

[Answers next time.]

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

THE PRINCESS OF TIPPYTOWN

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of Kabumpo in Oz, "The Dragon of Pumperdink", King Kojo, etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 24, 1917.


Once upon a time, in a dear little city called Tippytown, lived a dear little princess, just about as big as a gillyflower, and all of her subjects thought that exactly the right height for a princess to be--and I do myself. Not very many people lived in the city of Tippytown; indeed, there were but six houses in all. In one lived Mr. Timothy Mouse and in one lived Mr. Tom Frog and in another lived Jerry Dog and in another Captain Cat and in still another lived Commodore Duck and in the last house lived a wood elf--that is, once in a while he stayed there when he was not away off in the forest.

As you can imagine, a town with such delightful inhabitants could not help being a happy one, and they all got along most comfortably till it happened. You can almost guess what happened, and I need hardly tell you that it had to do with marrying, for whoever heard of a princess without hearing in the next breath of all the folks who are determined to marry her?

Mr. Timothy Mouse decided first, and hastened off to break the news to Mr. Tom Frog. "Congratulate me, Tommy," said he, "for I am quite determined to marry our princess." Poor Tommy Frog swallowed several times and rolled his eyes upward, then all at once he gave a little hop. "Have you asked her?" he gulped anxiously. Timothy twinkled his whiskers and allowed that he had not yet, at which Tim gave a sigh of relief and said he'd just go along, too, for he also was minded to wed, They had not gone far before they met Jerry and no sooner had he heard the news than he fell in behind them, for he was quite sure that none of thrm could make the princess so happy as he could. Captain Cat, seeing the procession, held up his paw and upon learning the nature of their errand likewise expressed himself as being deeply in love with the little princess, while Commodore Duck came waddling after in a great state of mind to think that the others had dared to do what he himself had done--namely, to fall in love. So they went, creeping and hopping and stepping and waddling, to the dear little palace, each quite sure she would choose himself.

The little princess was swinging in a hammock of woven grass fastened to two tiger lily stalks, and she sat up pretty straight, I can tell you, when each of the five had asked her to marry him. "How shall I decide?" puzzled the poor little princess, "and where, oh, where is the little wood elf?" But she let nothing of this appear in her face, and clicking her tiny little heels together, declared she would marry the one who paid her the fairest compliment.

"Ah!" cried the frog, falling on one knee, "you are as beautiful as mud!"

"Mud!" echoed the little Princess dismally. "How horrid!"

"You are as toothsome as a bone!" cried the dog, edging closer. The princess shivered and for the first time noticed how sharp Jerry dog's teeth were. "Nay, she is as lovely as a lake!" quacked Commodore Duck, flapping his wings; but Captain Cat hissed scornfully, declaring her as "Rich as a saucer of cream!" "Sharp as stale cheese!" squeaked Timothy, and they all began screeching their compliments louder and louder, till the little princess was obliged to hold her ears. And just then along hurried the bright little wood elf. He seemed to know just what was going on. (I think he was listening.) "Fair as the little star shining yonder over the purple hills!" whispered the little fellow in her ear.

The princess thought of the mud and the bone and the big lake, of the saucer of cream and the stale cheese. THEN she looked at the little star shining so very faintly far off above them all and she put her hand in the hand of the wood elf and away they scampered to the deep, dark forest, to live happily ever afterward in the heart of a tree. And to this day the mouse and the frog and the duck and the dog and the cat cannot tell why she did not marry them. But I know--do not you? They were thinking--not of what she liked best--and their compliments were selfish. The wood elf, who had often seen the little princess gazing off up in the sky, guessed that she loved the stars better than anything else and trusted a little star to tell her his message, and you see it did!

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 6, 1917.

The Puzzle Corner

The Forgetful Poet has written a masterpiece. He says it is a masterpiece and it is impolite to contradict, so we'll say nothing. All the blanks are to be filled in by flowers. See how many of you can complete the dear fellow's poem.

A Few Flowery Phrases

I saw a ___ ___ in a field
While Sam was milking, and
Although 'twas spring, frost took a fling
And ___ ___ on the land.

Beside a stream a nanny goat
Grazed hungrily--and hid
Behind her in the underbrush
I saw her child ___!

The farmer put a scarecrow up,
Which frightened all of us,
But scared the blackbirds most of all
And made the old ___!

The ___ ___ bark at ___ o'clock
To waken up the lazy.
And who can guess the flowers here

Is certainly a ___!

[Answers next time.]

[Solution to last month's puzzle:

Delightful spring is here again,
The fruit tree blossoms fall.
And from on elm tree comes the
Robin's cheery spring time call!

The boys play baseball on the lot,
And from the hat rack swing
The hats and mitts and roller skates
That prove that it is spring.

Each maiden has a lovely hat
To swim the boys are going,
The careless find the newly painted
Fences most annoying!

I'm feeling awfully fit and trim
And ready for vacation
And send my love to all of you
The pride of this great nation!]

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

ELIZA AND THE LOZENGES

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

An episode from the Queer Visitors from the Marvelous Land of Oz comic page, February 19, 1905.
[This story takes place during the visit of a group of Oz characters to the United States of America.]


Mr. Jubb was a very small man, who was ashamed of his size, for Mrs. Jubb was so large that she seemed a giantess beside him, whenever they walked out together. Naturally, Mrs. Jubb was also ashamed of being so exceedingly big, and so it was that this otherwise happy couple were rendered constantly miserable by their disparity of size.

Therefore, Mr. Jubb went to the Wogglebug one day and said: "O, Wise and Considerate Insect! Will you not make me taller and my wife shorter, so that we will become properly mated?" And, after some thought, the Wogglebug replied: "It seems to me that your request is only reasonable. So, here in this roll you will find four lozenges that are quite pleasant to take. Eat the first lozenge, and you will begin to grow big. When you are big enough, then eat the second lozenge, which will cause you to stop growing. The other two are for your wife. When she eat the first she will begin to grow small, and when she is small enough to suit her fancy, she must eat the last lozenge, which will cause her to remain always just that size. Do you understand the directions?"

"Yes," returned the little man, "but how about my clothes? Will they grow with me?"

"To be sure," answered the Wogglebug; "that is one of the great merits of these magic lozenges."

"Thank you! Thank you very much, indeed!" cried the delighted Mr. Jubb, and he took the roll of lozenges and hastened home with them.

Now, the Jubbs had a little girl, named Eliza, who was taller than her father and shorter than her mother, and had a strange habit of getting into mischief.

While Mr. Jubb was explaining to his wife about the wonderful lozenges which the Wogglebug had given him, Eliza saw them lying upon the parlor table, and carried them away with her, thinking they were candy.

She ate the first lozenge as she walked down the lane back of her house, and before she realized what had happened she found she was tall enough to look over the high hedge beside the lane. This made her pause in surprise; but she continued to grow, and now could look right into the middle of a cherry tree. Indeed, it startled the child to find herself so big, and she began to be much alarmed as she realized she was still growing.

The tops of the houses were on a level with her chin by this time, and her feet had become so big that she stepped one foot over into the next street, to keep from getting crowded in the lane.

It was now that Mr. Jubb ran out of the house, crying: "Where's my lozenges? Where's Eliza?" But there was no need to ask the last question--for there stood Eliza--'most as big as a mountain, so that no one could fail to see her. She was crying, too, she was so frightened, and one of her teardrops splashed down upon poor Mr. Jubb's head and nearly drowned him, before he could scramble out of the pond it made.

"Eat another lozenge!" he screamed, knowing quite well what had caused Eliza to grow; but the girl'head was so high in the air that she could not hear him.

Still she grew--bigger and bigger every minute! All the village people were in the streets watching her, and Eliza was afraid of hurting them; for her left heel had already crowded a barn from its foundation and her right toes were spreading into Deacon Migg's orchard and breaking down the trees.

What lucky idea induced the girl to eat the next lozenge just then I do not know, but she did eat it--and stopped growing--which was certainly a fortunate thing.

Little Mr. Jubb, anxious and distressed, now tried to tell the child to eat another of the lozenges, knowing it would cause her to grow small again. But she could not hear him from her elevation, although he used a megaphone, and she was afraid to stoop lest she might lose her balance and fall upon the town--which would have caused terrible havoc. So her father out the hook-and-ladder company, and climbed up the dizzy height until he was close to the hand that hung down at her side. Then the girl took the little man carefully in her fingers and raised him up to her ear, where he at once shouted: "Eat the next lozenge--quick!"

Without hesitation she obeyed, and began to grow small as rapidly as she had grown big. She replaced her father upon the top round of the ladder, and he hurriedly descended to the ground, amidst the cheers of the spectators.

Smaller and smaller now grew Eliza, until she had to step her right foot back into the lane again. By and by she was no bigger than her mother, and finally she reached her former size--the size she had been before she fooled with the magic lozenges.

Then her father commanded her to eat the last of the lozenges, and she obeyed--to the great relief of her distressed and loving parents and the satisfaction of the crowd.

Of course, this ended Eliza's astonishing exhibition of magic, and afterward her father and mother were so glad to have their child restored to them that they agreed not to mourn over the loss of the lozenges, but to gladly remain the sizes that nature had made them, and be content with their lot.

And the Wogglebug said to himself: "I am often sorry for those poor mortals, but perhaps it is a fortunate thing that foolish and careless people do not understand the grave and important Secrets of Magic." 

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, April 22, 1917.

The Puzzle Corner

A surprising number of you guessed all the flowers in the Forgetful Poet's riddle bouquet. Here they are: Phlox, hollyhocks, marigold, rose and forget-me-not. He says he cannot refrain from writing poetry in the spring, that he just bubbles over with verses. Some of these sound as if they had bubbled over, and I hope you can find out what is the matter. Some of the words seem to be out of their lines, or something.

A Word on Spring

Delightful spring is here again,
The baseball blossoms fall.
And from on hat rack comes the
Robin's cheery spring time call!

The boys play fruit tree on the lot,
And from the elm tree swing
The hats and mitts and roller skates
That prove that it is spring.

Each maiden has a lovely swim
To hat the boys are going,
The careless find the newly painted
Fences most annoying!

I'm feeling awfully fit and trim
And ready for vacation
And send my love to all of you
The pride of this great nation!

[Answers next time.]

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