THE TRAMP DOG AND THE MONARCH'S LOST TEMPER

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, John Dough and the Cherub, The Treasure of Karnak, and The Visitors from Oz, etc.

Originally published in The Magical Monarch of Mo, 1903.


One day the Monarch of Mo, having nothing better to do, resolved to go hunting blackberries among the bushes that grew at the foot of the mountains.

So he put on an old crown that would not get tarnished if it rained, and, having found a tin pail in the pantry, started off without telling anyone where he was going.

For some distance the path was a nice, smooth taffy, that was very agreeable to walk on, but as he got nearer the mountains the ground became gravelly, the stones being gumdrops and fragments of rock candy; so that his boots, which had been a little green when he picked them, began to hurt his feet.

But the King was not easily discouraged and kept on until he found the blackberry bushes, when he immediately began to fill his pail. The berries were remarkably big and sweet.

While thus occupied he heard a sound of footsteps coming down the mountainside, and presently a little dog ran out from the bushes and trotted up to him.

Now there were no dogs at all in Mo, and the King had never seen a creature like this before. Therefore he was greatly surprised, and said, "What are you, and where do you come from?"

The dog also was surprised at this question, and looked suspiciously at the King's tin pail. Many times wicked boys had tied such a pail to the end of his tail. In fact, that was the reason he had run away from home and found his way, by accident, to the Valley of Mo.

"My name is Prince," replied the dog gravely, "and I have come from a country beyond the mountains and the desert."

"Indeed! Are you in truth a prince?" exclaimed the Monarch. "Then you will be welcome in my kingdom, where we always treat nobility with proper respect. But why do you have four feet?"

"Because six would be too many," replied the dog.

"But I have only two," said the King.

"I am sorry," said the dog, who was something of a wag, "because where I come from it is more fashionable to walk on four feet."

"I like to be in the fashion," remarked the King thoughtfully, "but what am I to do, having only two legs?"

"Why, I suppose you could walk on your hands and feet," returned the dog with a laugh.

"So I will," said the King, being pleased with the idea; "and you shall come to the palace with me and teach me all the fashions of the country whence you came."

The King got down on his hands and knees, and was delighted to find he could get along in this way very nicely.

"How am I to carry my pail?" he asked.

"In your mouth, of course," replied the dog.

This suggestion seemed a happy one. The King took the pail in his mouth and they started back toward the palace. But when His Majesty came to the gumdrops and rock candy they hurt his hands and knees, so that he groaned aloud. But the dog only laughed. Finally they reached a place where it was quite muddy. Of course the mud was only jelly, but it hadn't dried up since the last rain. The dog jumped over the place nimbly enough, but when the King tried to do likewise he failed, and came down into the jelly with both hands and knees, and stuck fast.

Now the Monarch had a very good temper, which he carried in his vest pocket, but as he passed over the gum-drop pebbles on his hands and knees this temper dropped out of his pocket and, having lost it, he became very angry at the dog for getting him into such a scrape.

So he began to scold, and when he opened his mouth the pail dropped out and the berries were all spilled. This made the dog laugh more than ever, at which the King pulled himself out of the jelly, jumped to his feet and began to chase the dog as fast as he could. Finally the dog climbed a tall tree where the King could not reach him, and when safe among the branches he looked down and said, "See how foolish a man becomes who tries to be in fashion rather than live as nature intended he should! You can no more be a dog than I can be a king, so hereafter, if you are wise, you will be content to walk on two legs."

"There is much truth in what you say," replied the Monarch of Mo. "Come with me to the palace, and you shall be forgiven. Indeed, we shall have a fine feast in honor of your arrival."

So the dog climbed down from the tree and followed the King to the palace, where all the courtiers were astonished to see so queer an animal, and made a great favorite of him.

After dinner the King invited the dog to take a walk around the grounds of the royal mansion, and they started out merrily enough. But the King's boots had begun to hurt him again; for, as they did not fit, being picked green, they had rubbed his toes until he had corns on them. So when they reached the porch in front of the palace the King asked, "My friend, what is good for corns?"

"Tight boots," replied the dog, laughing, "but they are not very good for your feet."

Now the King, not yet having found his lost temper, became exceedingly angry at this poor jest; so he rushed at the dog and gave it a tremendous kick.

Up into the air like a ball flew the dog, while the King, having hurt his toe by the kick, sat down on the doorstep and nursed his foot while he watched the dog go farther and farther up, until it seemed like a tiny speck against the blue of the sky.

"I must have kicked harder than I thought," said the King ruefully. "There he goes, out of sight, and I shall never see him again!"

He now limped away into the back garden, where he picked a new pair of boots that would not hurt his feet, and while he was gone the dog began to fall down again. Of course he fell faster than he went up, and finally landed with a crash exactly on the King's doorstep. But so great was the force of the fall and so hard the doorstep that the poor dog was flattened out like a pancake, and could not move a bit.

When the King came back he said, "Hullo! Some kind friend has brought me a new door mat as a present."

He leaned down and stroked the soft hair with much pleasure. Then he wiped his feet on the new mat and went into the palace to tell the Queen.

When Her Majesty saw the nice soft door mat she declared it was too good to be left outside, so she brought it into the parlor and put it on the floor before the fireplace.

The good King was sorry he had treated the dog so harshly, and for fear he might do some other dreadful thing he went back to the place where he had lost his temper and searched until he found it again, when he put it carefully away in his pocket where it would stay.

Then he returned to the palace and entered the parlor, but as he passed the mat, his new boots were so clumsy he stumbled against the edge and pushed the mat together into a roll.

Immediately the dog gave a bark, got up on its legs and said, "Well, this is better! Now I can breathe again. While I was so flat I could not draw a single breath."

The Monarch and his Queen were much surprised to find that what they had taken for a mat was only the dog that had fallen so flat on their doorstep, but they could not forbear laughing at his queer appearance. For, as the King had kicked the mat on the edge, the dog was more than six feet long, and no bigger around than a lead pencil, which brought its front legs so far from its rear legs that it could scarcely turn around in the room without getting tangled up.

"But it is better than being a door mat," said the dog, and the King and Queen agreed with him in this.

Then the King went away to tell the people he had found the dog again, and when he left the palace he slammed the front door behind him. The dog had started to follow the King out, so when the front door slammed it hit the poor animal so sharp a blow on the nose that it pushed his body together again; and, lo and behold! there was the dog in his natural shape, just as he was before the King kicked him.

After this the dog and the King agreed very well, for the King was careful not to kick, since he had recovered his temper, and the dog took care not to say anything that would provoke the King to anger.

And one day the dog saved the kingdom and all the Valley of Mo from destruction, as I shall tell you another time.


THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 21, 1919.

Rhyming Riddles

Get out your puzzle-guessers and see if you can tell--

What has four legs, yet cannot walk;
One foot besides a head?
If I should finish out this rhyme--
I'd say it was a _____!

What grows in the ground,
And has many eyes,
Yet nary a bit can they see?
We have them for dinner
Most every night, now--
What in the world can they be?

And what has two hands
And a jolly found face
That tells us when we shall go every place?
It runs all the time,
And yet runs standing still,
And works for us all with
A jolly good will.

What has a head,
Yet never uses it?
Indeed I think it
Quite abuses it.
It drives, but
Does not drive a horse--
If I'd tell you what
You'd guess, of course,
For it takes a ___
To drive a ___,
And what it drives
Will rhyme with pail!

The first letter's B,
The last letter's T;
There are two in the middle
And the whole sails the sea!

Answers to the Forgetful Poet's Verses about wars two weeks ago:
Roses.
Civil.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2012 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

STORY OF A TREE

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Royal Book of Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard of Oz, The Wish Express, "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 28, 1920.


It had been one of the tallest trees in the forest, and the proudest! But now! The great scarred trunk--all that was left of the mighty forest hero--shivered with disgust and looked unhappily at the green pine tree across the road. How it envied her--standing securely behind the fence of the small city garden.

She would not be cut down and shorn of her green branches and carried far from her native ground. She made him think of the tall pine trees that had stood beside him in the deep forest on the mountain side. Dimly he could see the waving tops of his old comrades. They had not carried him too far for that, fortunately.

He still felt dizzy and flurried from his experiences, and paid no attention to the buzzing that seemed continually going on over his head.

Perhaps the little pine tree sensed his feeling of strangeness, for, waiting until the street was deserted, she called across:

"Hello, Mr. Tree; so you are the new telegraph pole! My, how tall you are!"

"Don't call me a tree," sighed the tree trunk; "I'm nothing but a great piece of wood, with all the life gone!"

"Oh, no you're not," smiled the little tree wisely; "you've only lost your leaves and branches and you're used to going without leaves in winter anyway. Really, now, you're quite handsome, so white and straight!"

"Am I?" said the pole slowly. "But what is all this cross-work and wires overhead and this buzzing?"

"Why, you don't even know what you are, you important person!" chuckled the little tree, and began laughing softly to herself. Just then a whole company of boys and girls came running down the street, and the conversation stopped. But the big tree began to think of the little tree's words. That surely was so about his being used to going without leaves; perhaps there was still something for him to do after all. He puzzled over it a long time. Without branches, he was of no use to the birds, and without branches he cast not a mite of shadow, so what use was he? He had heard the old trees in the forest talk of the time when they should be used for building; but here he was stuck straight up in the air; surely he was not a building! He must talk some more to that little tree across the way.

That evening, when the street was dark and quiet, he called across to the pine tree, and pretty soon he was telling her all about his life on the mountain side, of the great storms and winds that swept over them, of the forest animals and birds and of all his comrades in leaves.

"Very fine," agreed the little pine tree, "but you are much more useful now. How I envy you, for I never could be tall enough to do your work nor play so big a part in the affairs of the world."

"What do you mean?" asked the pole again.

"That you are one of the sentinels of the earth on guard always, standing ready to send the messages of men flying from one end of the world to the other. That buzzing you hear above are the words of men that you help to send flying through space telling the East what is happening in the West and the West what is happening in the East, ready to spread an alarm in time of danger and carry good news to those who wait. Listen!"

The tall pole thrilled with excitement and tried to guess what each tremor over the wires meant, and it was not long before he could read those flying taps as well as the men who sent them, and how he and the little pine tree would rejoice when the news was good and how solemn and sorry they were when the news was bad.

So interested was the great tree that it forgot it was unhappy, and when it thought of the long, long ranks of telegraph poles standing guard from one end of the country to the other, a thrill of pride made it straighten up as tall as it could. And it never tired nor grew weary. "This," thought the tree, "is life!"

One day from the far-away mountainside, a great column of smoke rose and a hot, dry smell drifted into the little valley town.

"Oh!" groaned the pole, "my comrades are doomed; see, it is a fire on the mountainside! What shall I do! What shall I do!"

"Wait," cried the little tree breathlessly. "What you have seen surely will be seen by others; get ready, for the message will come. Call to your comrade below that there will be a rush call in a moment, and bid him pass along the word."

Scarcely had the little tree ceased speaking before the message for help flashed along the wires. How quickly those gallant sentinels tossed it along the line, and how quickly the response from the valley came. The battle with the flames was fought and won, and the tall pole, watching the smoke die away, felt so happy that he could hardly keep from running across the street to embrace the little pine tree. The forest was saved and his friends--and he had helped.

What a wonderful life mine is!" he sighed happily. "And so is every life of service."

THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 7, 1919.

For the Riddle Bugs

First and foremost you'll want the answers to last week's riddles. Well, here they are: foothills, millwheel, Sir Launfal, Shylock and buzz-saw.

Here are some of the Forgetful Poet's new riddles assorted. Serious, worse and otherwise.

What Wars?

Some well-loved flowers
Name a war
Fought in England
Long ago.
A word that means polite
Will give
Another war you know,
    (Or ought to.)
And after you've unriddled that
Tell why an ant is like a rat?      And
It does not shut
 And yet it is a gate,
And everybody has one
 Let me state.
    (Even you!)
[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2012 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

GEORGE WASHINGTON

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, John Dough and the Cherub, The Treasure of Karnak, and The Visitors from Oz, etc.

Originally published in Father Goose: His Book, 1899.


When George Washington was young
And full of energy,
He took his little hatchet
And chopped a cherry tree.

His father grew quite angry,
This sorry sight to see,
For he was very fond indeed
Of that same cherry tree.

And so he questioned Georgie:
"Who did this thing?" said he.
"I cannot tell a lie," said George,
"I chopped the cherry tree!"

The father then wept tears of joy,
At such brave honesty:
"Your truthfulness is worth far more
Than one small cherry tree."

And when his father walked away
George seized the ax with glee
And hacked away 'till he had felled
Another cherry tree.

His father now returned in haste,
took Georgie on his knee,
And said "I'll teach you to destroy
My pretty cherry tree!"

"Don't spank!" cried George; "I'll tell the truth,
For still I'll honest be;
'Twas I, dear father, took the ax
And chopped the cherry tree."

"Oh, ho!" Said Mr Washington
"Unless I punish thee
Thy truth will cost to me the loss
Of every cherry tree!"

'Twas full a week before poor George
Sat down with any ease,
His father sold the hatchet
And saved his cherry-trees.


THE FORGETFUL POET
  By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 31, 1919.

Several Riddles and Rhymes

With the help of some bookworms I have managed to puzzle out the Forgetful Poet's riddles. The book people were Romeo, King Lear, Nicholas Nickleby, Pickwick. The Forgetful Poet sent us just one verse this week. He is too busy having fun to write more, I s'pose. Here it is:

I saw a foot that never shoe would fit,
Upon a word that rhymes, perforce, with thrill.
I saw four wings upon an object not
A bird, nor hat. Indeed, it was a -----.

A summer dress material and a word meaning to tumble will give one of King Arthur's knights. Which one?

A word meaning modest and part of a door will give one of the characters from the "Merchant of Venice." Which one?

What tool is like a bee?

And that's all.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2012 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

ONE AT NIGHT BY CANDLE LIGHT

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Royal Book of Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard of Oz, The Wish Express, "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 28, 1920.


"It's come!" whispered Betty excitedly to Marion, as the two hurried into the study hall, "and we'll get permission to go to the station, and then we'll slip it in somehow when no one's looking and - "

"Miss Jones, will you kindly stop talking!" snapped the teacher in charge, and Betty with a little wink subsided behind her history book. But who could study with Christmas vacation so near and all sorts of festivities afoot, some of them known to the faculty and some not?

"It'll be the Jim-dandiest spread that ever saw the candle light!" exulted Betty as they hurried to the next class.

During the afternoon Betty's special chums received little messages scribbled on pieces of composition paper:

"One tonight by candle light!"

And at 4 o'clock the two girls, having obtained permission to go to the village drug store, set off for the postoffice with all speed.

Boxes were forbidden at Springdale School for so much candy and cakes were sent to the scholars that Miss Ross had been obliged to stop all of them, or, as she said, have the whole school in the infirmary. But Betty, determined to have one mighty feast before the holidays, had written home for a very special box to be sent to the postoffice addressed merely to "B. Jones." So Betty's mother had followed instructions, and when the two girls arrived at the postoffice and inquired for a box the unsuspecting postmistress handed over a simply huge crate.

"If I'd a known this was yours I'd have sent it along with the rest of the school mail," she explained apologetically. "But it didn't have the school's name on, so I just held it here. What is it?" she asked curiously.

"Just some things for my room," chuckled Betty wickedly.

"We'll have a nice time smuggling this in," said Marion uneasily. "Why do you suppose your mother sent a crate?"

"To keep the pies from getting smashed. And you just leave it to me," said Betty airily.

Half-way down the lane the girls met the grocery wagon and, after a lengthy parley with the boy, Betty persuaded him to take the box in along with the order and leave it in a seldom-used closet in the hall. And before nightfall the mysterious box was safely secreted beneath Betty's bed.

There had been no time to do more than take off the top lid. "But I can trust mother, she knows how to pack a regular box," said Betty proudly.

That night as the old school clock in the office pointed to 1 there was a breathless tiptoed rush through the halls, and without a single creak the twelve pajama clad feasters arrived in Betty's room.

The curtains were down, the keyhole and crack beneath the door carefully stuffed and one big candle sent its flickering beams over the merry faces.

"Now then," whispered Betty, "get ready for some real eats!" She plunged her hand in the box, dragging out the first object that came to hand.

The girls leaned forward as she unwrapped the paper, then Betty herself gave a loud shriek and dropped the object with all speed. No wonder! It was a large bony skull.

With one accord the girls began to scramble away from the box. Loud footsteps down the hall told them that Miss Brown, the teacher in charge of the floor, was already awakened by Betty's scream.

"Wh—what do you 'spose it is?" shuddered Betty, looking at the skull in the spooky candle light.

"Looks like a dinosaur," volunteered a braver member of the company, examining the great bony hollow-eyed head.

"It's a joke," hissed Marion angrily. "Betty Jones, I'll never speak to you again - I'll"

"Sh-h," warned Betty, "here she comes! Let's stand together now, whatever happens."

"Young ladies," came the voice of Miss Brown. Next instant she was standing angrily in their midst.

The box caught her eye immediately.

"Haven't feasts been forbidden? What does this mean?"

Without noticing the skull, she reached into the box and drew out a large package. The paper fell off as she lifted it up, and with starting eyes she found herself clasping a long, flat bone.

"It isn't a feast," put in Betty desperately. "It's a secret meeting. Please, Miss Brown, don't tell on us. It's a secret society - the - the Inferior Order of Fossils."

"W-ell!" Miss Brown showed signs of relenting. "If you go right to bed - " Before she had finished the feasters had melted away into the darkness and Miss Brown, smothering what sounded to Betty like a laugh, retired to her room.

"Wonder what she'd say if she knew it was a real fossil?" gulped Betty, edging away from the box. "And I've got to sleep with it!"

The next morning brought a very pale Betty to the breakfast table, and when Miss Ross called from the office that she was wanted on the phone her knees fairly shook.

"Are you B. Jones?" asked a pleasant voice over the wire.

"Y-es," faltered Betty.

"Well - so am I," continued the nice voice. "And I understand that you got a box yesterday - er - Miss Jones, I fear there has been some mistake - er - I was expecting a rare specimen and I seem to have drawn a - er - pie and other delightful things. Shall I bring it over?"

"If you'll take your box you can keep mine," whispered Betty, looking frantically over her shoulder.

"I didn't know you knew Mr. Benjamin Jones. He's a great man, Betty, an authority on prehistoric life," said Miss Ross, coming into the room as Betty hung up the receiver.

"Yes'm!" said Betty meekly. But later she agreed that he was. For when Mr. Jones called there was something so merry in his brown eyes that Betty told him the whole story and he insisted upon being elected to the Inferior Order of Fossils on the spot. To the astonishment of Miss Ross, he invited Betty and eleven of the other girls to spend the next afternoon with him. And there, with due ceremony, the right box was produced and, with added dainties furnished by his sister, the party had a regular feast. Moreover, Mr. Jones promised to show the members the curious fossil when it was mounted and to initiate them into some of the mysteries of prehistoric remains.


THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 24, 1919.

The Forgetful Poet's Riddles

The games that the dear fellow tried to puzzle you with last week were pool (surely a game for fishes), anagrams, hopscotch, cricket, squash and hearts. An animal that might be used for pie is the doe.

This week the Forgetful Poet has given us some book people to puzzle out.

FROM SHAKESPEARE

An Italian city
An E and an -----?
Will give a young lover
Whom all of us know.

Will give a king o'ertaken
By poverty and grief, by all
He loves and trusts forsaken?

FROM DICKENS

A very small coin
And the second letter
Will give a small laddie
Who might have fared better

A tool used for laborers, 'Course I mean -----? The part of a lamp that Is lit, or the ----?

Will give a wise gentleman
Greatly renowned
For his wit and his wisdom
And learning profound.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2012 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

A KIDNAPPED SANTA CLAUS

By L. Frank Baum
Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, John Dough and the Cherub, The Treasure of Karnak, and The Visitors from Oz, etc.

Originally published in The Delineator, December 1904.


Santa Claus lives in the Laughing Valley, where stands the big, rambling castle in which his toys are manufactured. His workmen, selected from the ryls, knooks, pixies and fairies, live with him, and every one is as busy as can be from one year's end to another.

It is called the Laughing Valley because everything there is happy and gay. The brook chuckles to itself as it leaps rollicking between its green banks; the wind whistles merrily in the trees; the sunbeams dance lightly over the soft grass, and the violets and wild flowers look smilingly up from their green nests. To laugh one needs to be happy; to be happy one needs to be content. And throughout the Laughing Valley of Santa Claus contentment reigns supreme.

On one side is the mighty Forest of Burzee. At the other side stands the huge mountain that contains the Caves of the Daemons. And between them the Valley lies smiling and peaceful.

One would think that our good old Santa Claus, who devotes his days to making children happy, would have no enemies on all the earth; and, as a matter of fact, for a long period of time he encountered nothing but love wherever he might go.

But the Daemons who live in the mountain caves grew to hate Santa Claus very much, and all for the simple reason that he made children happy.

The Caves of the Daemons are five in number. A broad pathway leads up to the first cave, which is a finely arched cavern at the foot of the mountain, the entrance being beautifully carved and decorated. In it resides the Daemon of Selfishness. Back of this is another cavern inhabited by the Daemon of Envy. The cave of the Daemon of Hatred is next in order, and through this one passes to the home of the Daemon of Malice - situated in a dark and fearful cave in the very heart of the mountain. I do not know what lies beyond this. Some say there are terrible pitfalls leading to death and destruction, and this may very well be true. However, from each one of the four caves mentioned there is a small, narrow tunnel leading to the fifth cave - a cozy little room occupied by the Daemon of Repentance. And as the rocky floors of these passages are well worn by the track of passing feet, I judge that many wanderers in the Caves of the Daemons have escaped through the tunnels to the abode of the Daemon of Repentance, who is said to be a pleasant sort of fellow who gladly opens for one a little door admitting you into fresh air and sunshine again.

Well, these Daemons of the Caves, thinking they had great cause to dislike old Santa Claus, held a meeting one day to discuss the matter.

"I'm really getting lonesome," said the Daemon of Selfishness. "For Santa Claus distributes so many pretty Christmas gifts to all the children that they become happy and generous, through his example, and keep away from my cave."

"I'm having the same trouble," rejoined the Daemon of Envy. "The little ones seem quite content with Santa Claus, and there are few, indeed, that I can coax to become envious."

"And that makes it bad for me!" declared the Daemon of Hatred. "For if no children pass through the Caves of Selfishness and Envy, none can get to MY cavern."

"Or to mine," added the Daemon of Malice.

"For my part," said the Daemon of Repentance, "it is easily seen that if children do not visit your caves they have no need to visit mine; so that I am quite as neglected as you are."

"And all because of this person they call Santa Claus!" exclaimed the Daemon of Envy. "He is simply ruining our business, and something must be done at once."

To this they readily agreed; but what to do was another and more difficult matter to settle. They knew that Santa Claus worked all through the year at his castle in the Laughing Valley, preparing the gifts he was to distribute on Christmas Eve; and at first they resolved to try to tempt him into their caves, that they might lead him on to the terrible pitfalls that ended in destruction.

So the very next day, while Santa Claus was busily at work, surrounded by his little band of assistants, the Daemon of Selfishness came to him and said:

"These toys are wonderfully bright and pretty. Why do you not keep them for yourself? It's a pity to give them to those noisy boys and fretful girls, who break and destroy them so quickly."

"Nonsense!" cried the old graybeard, his bright eyes twinkling merrily as he turned toward the tempting Daemon. "The boys and girls are never so noisy and fretful after receiving my presents, and if I can make them happy for one day in the year I am quite content."

So the Daemon went back to the others, who awaited him in their caves, and said:

"I have failed, for Santa Claus is not at all selfish."

The following day the Daemon of Envy visited Santa Claus. Said he: "The toy shops are full of playthings quite as pretty as those you are making. What a shame it is that they should interfere with your business! They make toys by machinery much quicker than you can make them by hand; and they sell them for money, while you get nothing at all for your work."

But Santa Claus refused to be envious of the toy shops.

"I can supply the little ones but once a year - on Christmas Eve," he answered; "for the children are many, and I am but one. And as my work is one of love and kindness I would be ashamed to receive money for my little gifts. But throughout all the year the children must be amused in some way, and so the toy shops are able to bring much happiness to my little friends. I like the toy shops, and am glad to see them prosper."

In spite of the second rebuff, the Daemon of Hatred thought he would try to influence Santa Claus. So the next day he entered the busy workshop and said:

"Good morning, Santa! I have bad news for you."

"Then run away, like a good fellow," answered Santa Claus. "Bad news is something that should be kept secret and never told."

"You cannot escape this, however," declared the Daemon; "for in the world are a good many who do not believe in Santa Claus, and these you are bound to hate bitterly, since they have so wronged you."

"Stuff and rubbish!" cried Santa.

"And there are others who resent your making children happy and who sneer at you and call you a foolish old rattlepate! You are quite right to hate such base slanderers, and you ought to be revenged upon them for their evil words."

"But I don't hate 'em!" exclaimed Santa Claus positively. "Such people do me no real harm, but merely render themselves and their children unhappy. Poor things! I'd much rather help them any day than injure them."

Indeed, the Daemons could not tempt old Santa Claus in any way. On the contrary, he was shrewd enough to see that their object in visiting him was to make mischief and trouble, and his cheery laughter disconcerted the evil ones and showed to them the folly of such an undertaking. So they abandoned honeyed words and determined to use force.

It was well known that no harm can come to Santa Claus while he is in the Laughing Valley, for the fairies, and ryls, and knooks all protect him. But on Christmas Eve he drives his reindeer out into the big world, carrying a sleighload of toys and pretty gifts to the children; and this was the time and the occasion when his enemies had the best chance to injure him. So the Daemons laid their plans and awaited the arrival of Christmas Eve.

The moon shone big and white in the sky, and the snow lay crisp and sparkling on the ground as Santa Claus cracked his whip and sped away out of the Valley into the great world beyond. The roomy sleigh was packed full with huge sacks of toys, and as the reindeer dashed onward our jolly old Santa laughed and whistled and sang for very joy. For in all his merry life this was the one day in the year when he was happiest - the day he lovingly bestowed the treasures of his workshop upon the little children.

It would be a busy night for him, he well knew. As he whistled and shouted and cracked his whip again, he reviewed in mind all the towns and cities and farmhouses where he was expected, and figured that he had just enough presents to go around and make every child happy. The reindeer knew exactly what was expected of them, and dashed along so swiftly that their feet scarcely seemed to touch the snow-covered ground.

Suddenly a strange thing happened: a rope shot through the moonlight and a big noose that was in the end of it settled over the arms and body of Santa Claus and drew tight. Before he could resist or even cry out he was jerked from the seat of the sleigh and tumbled head foremost into a snowbank, while the reindeer rushed onward with the load of toys and carried it quickly out of sight and sound.

Such a surprising experience confused old Santa for a moment, and when he had collected his senses he found that the wicked Daemons had pulled him from the snowdrift and bound him tightly with many coils of the stout rope. And then they carried the kidnapped Santa Claus away to their mountain, where they thrust the prisoner into a secret cave and chained him to the rocky wall so that he could not escape.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Daemons, rubbing their hands together with cruel glee. "What will the children do now? How they will cry and scold and storm when they find there are no toys in their stockings and no gifts on their Christmas trees! And what a lot of punishment they will receive from their parents, and how they will flock to our Caves of Selfishness, and Envy, and Hatred, and Malice! We have done a mighty clever thing, we Daemons of the Caves!"

Now it so chanced that on this Christmas Eve the good Santa Claus had taken with him in his sleigh Nuter the Ryl, Peter the Knook, Kilter the Pixie, and a small fairy named Wisk - his four favorite assistants. These little people he had often found very useful in helping him to distribute his gifts to the children, and when their master was so suddenly dragged from the sleigh they were all snugly tucked underneath the seat, where the sharp wind could not reach them.

The tiny immortals knew nothing of the capture of Santa Claus until some time after he had disappeared. But finally they missed his cheery voice, and as their master always sang or whistled on his journeys, the silence warned them that something was wrong.

Little Wisk stuck out his head from underneath the seat and found Santa Claus gone and no one to direct the flight of the reindeer.

"Whoa!" he called out, and the deer obediently slackened speed and came to a halt.

Peter and Nuter and Kilter all jumped upon the seat and looked back over the track made by the sleigh. But Santa Claus had been left miles and miles behind.

"What shall we do?" asked Wisk anxiously, all the mirth and mischief banished from his wee face by this great calamity.

"We must go back at once and find our master," said Nuter the Ryl, who thought and spoke with much deliberation.

"No, no!" exclaimed Peter the Knook, who, cross and crabbed though he was, might always be depended upon in an emergency. "If we delay, or go back, there will not be time to get the toys to the children before morning; and that would grieve Santa Claus more than anything else."

"It is certain that some wicked creatures have captured him," added Kilter thoughtfully, "and their object must be to make the children unhappy. So our first duty is to get the toys distributed as carefully as if Santa Claus were himself present. Afterward we can search for our master and easily secure his freedom."

This seemed such good and sensible advice that the others at once resolved to adopt it. So Peter the Knook called to the reindeer, and the faithful animals again sprang forward and dashed over hill and valley, through forest and plain, until they came to the houses wherein children lay sleeping and dreaming of the pretty gifts they would find on Christmas morning.

The little immortals had set themselves a difficult task; for although they had assisted Santa Claus on many of his journeys, their master had always directed and guided them and told them exactly what he wished them to do. But now they had to distribute the toys according to their own judgment, and they did not understand children as well as did old Santa. So it is no wonder they made some laughable errors.

Mamie Brown, who wanted a doll, got a drum instead; and a drum is of no use to a girl who loves dolls. And Charlie Smith, who delights to romp and play out of doors, and who wanted some new rubber boots to keep his feet dry, received a sewing box filled with colored worsteds and threads and needles, which made him so provoked that he thoughtlessly called our dear Santa Claus a fraud.

Had there been many such mistakes the Daemons would have accomplished their evil purpose and made the children unhappy. But the little friends of the absent Santa Claus labored faithfully and intelligently to carry out their master's ideas, and they made fewer errors than might be expected under such unusual circumstances.

And, although they worked as swiftly as possible, day had begun to break before the toys and other presents were all distributed; so for the first time in many years the reindeer trotted into the Laughing Valley, on their return, in broad daylight, with the brilliant sun peeping over the edge of the forest to prove they were far behind their accustomed hours.

Having put the deer in the stable, the little folk began to wonder how they might rescue their master; and they realized they must discover, first of all, what had happened to him and where he was.

So Wisk the Fairy transported himself to the bower of the Fairy Queen, which was located deep in the heart of the Forest of Burzee; and once there, it did not take him long to find out all about the naughty Daemons and how they had kidnapped the good Santa Claus to prevent his making children happy. The Fairy Queen also promised her assistance, and then, fortified by this powerful support, Wisk flew back to where Nuter and Peter and Kilter awaited him, and the four counseled together and laid plans to rescue their master from his enemies.

It is possible that Santa Claus was not as merry as usual during the night that succeeded his capture. For although he had faith in the judgment of his little friends he could not avoid a certain amount of worry, and an anxious look would creep at times into his kind old eyes as he thought of the disappointment that might await his dear little children. And the Daemons, who guarded him by turns, one after another, did not neglect to taunt him with contemptuous words in his helpless condition.

When Christmas Day dawned the Daemon of Malice was guarding the prisoner, and his tongue was sharper than that of any of the others.

"The children are waking up, Santa!" he cried. "They are waking up to find their stockings empty! Ho, ho! How they will quarrel, and wail, and stamp their feet in anger! Our caves will be full today, old Santa! Our caves are sure to be full!"

But to this, as to other like taunts, Santa Claus answered nothing. He was much grieved by his capture, it is true; but his courage did not forsake him. And, finding that the prisoner would not reply to his jeers, the Daemon of Malice presently went away, and sent the Daemon of Repentance to take his place.

This last personage was not so disagreeable as the others. He had gentle and refined features, and his voice was soft and pleasant in tone.

"My brother Daemons do not trust me overmuch," said he, as he entered the cavern; "but it is morning, now, and the mischief is done. You cannot visit the children again for another year."

"That is true," answered Santa Claus, almost cheerfully; "Christmas Eve is past, and for the first time in centuries I have not visited my children."

"The little ones will be greatly disappointed," murmured the Daemon of Repentance, almost regretfully; "but that cannot be helped now. Their grief is likely to make the children selfish and envious and hateful, and if they come to the Caves of the Daemons today I shall get a chance to lead some of them to my Cave of Repentance."

"Do you never repent, yourself?" asked Santa Claus, curiously.

"Oh, yes, indeed," answered the Daemon. "I am even now repenting that I assisted in your capture. Of course it is too late to remedy the evil that has been done; but repentance, you know, can come only after an evil thought or deed, for in the beginning there is nothing to repent of."

"So I understand," said Santa Claus. "Those who avoid evil need never visit your cave."

"As a rule, that is true," replied the Daemon; "yet you, who have done no evil, are about to visit my cave at once; for to prove that I sincerely regret my share in your capture I am going to permit you to escape."

This speech greatly surprised the prisoner, until he reflected that it was just what might be expected of the Daemon of Repentance. The fellow at once busied himself untying the knots that bound Santa Claus and unlocking the chains that fastened him to the wall. Then he led the way through a long tunnel until they both emerged in the Cave of Repentance.

"I hope you will forgive me," said the Daemon pleadingly. "I am not really a bad person, you know; and I believe I accomplish a great deal of good in the world."

With this he opened a back door that let in a flood of sunshine, and Santa Claus sniffed the fresh air gratefully.

"I bear no malice," said he to the Daemon, in a gentle voice; "and I am sure the world would be a dreary place without you. So, good morning, and a Merry Christmas to you!"

With these words he stepped out to greet the bright morning, and a moment later he was trudging along, whistling softly to himself, on his way to his home in the Laughing Valley.

Marching over the snow toward the mountain was a vast army, made up of the most curious creatures imaginable. There were numberless knooks from the forest, as rough and crooked in appearance as the gnarled branches of the trees they ministered to. And there were dainty ryls from the fields, each one bearing the emblem of the flower or plant it guarded. Behind these were many ranks of pixies, gnomes and nymphs, and in the rear a thousand beautiful fairies floated along in gorgeous array.

This wonderful army was led by Wisk, Peter, Nuter, and Kilter, who had assembled it to rescue Santa Claus from captivity and to punish the Daemons who had dared to take him away from his beloved children.

And, although they looked so bright and peaceful, the little immortals were armed with powers that would be very terrible to those who had incurred their anger. Woe to the Daemons of the Caves if this mighty army of vengeance ever met them!

But lo! coming to meet his loyal friends appeared the imposing form of Santa Claus, his white beard floating in the breeze and his bright eyes sparkling with pleasure at this proof of the love and veneration he had inspired in the hearts of the most powerful creatures in existence.

And while they clustered around him and danced with glee at his safe return, he gave them earnest thanks for their support. But Wisk, and Nuter, and Peter, and Kilter, he embraced affectionately.

"It is useless to pursue the Daemons," said Santa Claus to the army. "They have their place in the world, and can never be destroyed. But that is a great pity, nevertheless," he continued musingly.

So the fairies, and knooks, and pixies, and ryls all escorted the good man to his castle, and there left him to talk over the events of the night with his little assistants.

Wisk had already rendered himself invisible and flown through the big world to see how the children were getting along on this bright Christmas morning; and by the time he returned, Peter had finished telling Santa Claus of how they had distributed the toys.

"We really did very well," cried the fairy, in a pleased voice; "for I found little unhappiness among the children this morning. Still, you must not get captured again, my dear master; for we might not be so fortunate another time in carrying out your ideas."

He then related the mistakes that had been made, and which he had not discovered until his tour of inspection. And Santa Claus at once sent him with rubber boots for Charlie Smith, and a doll for Mamie Brown; so that even those two disappointed ones became happy.

As for the wicked Daemons of the Caves, they were filled with anger and chagrin when they found that their clever capture of Santa Claus had come to naught. Indeed, no one on that Christmas Day appeared to be at all selfish, or envious, or hateful. And, realizing that while the children's saint had so many powerful friends it was folly to oppose him, the Daemons never again attempted to interfere with his journeys on Christmas Eve.


THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 17, 1919.

The Riddle Guesser's Corner

Before we start any new riddles we must answer our last ones. The answers were hulls, Bedowins and poodle.

GAMES

Fishes don't play games
As a general rule;
But if they did, well,
They might play -----.

A girl's name will give a game.

A rabbit's gait, plus a thrifty race, will give a game played by boys and girls.

A lively little insect will give an English game.

An organ of the body names a card game.

WHAT ANIMAL?

A creature very gentle
And extremely wild and shy,
Will give a mixture used for bread,
For muffins, cake and pie.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2011 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

A THANKSGIVING PROCESSION

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Royal Book of Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard of Oz, The Wish Express, "King, King! Double King!" etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, November 22, 1914.


Last night as I entered the Town of Sleep
I saw the wonderfull'st sight -
A grand procession came marching by
Through the yellow candle light!
A grand Procession - Oh, there, my dears -
Were all the things we EAT
Thanksgiving Day, and they marched away
To a Sugar Band SO sweet
That as the music struck the air
It turned into lollypops straightway - there!
The Turkey stumped on his drumsticks
With his neck tucked under his wing
And I heard him say in a stuffy way,
"I'm full of EVERYTHING!"
The celery stalked on either side
And its tops waved to and fro with pride!
The vegetables rode in their dishes
As if they were Queens and Kings,
While behind, like pages, the olives skipped
The nuts and the fruit and things!
Two abreast the Pumpkin Pies
Came winking their dozen slits for eyes,
Plum Pudding round as a cannon ball
Came rolling and steaming behind them all.
While after that - in sixes and eights -
Marched the spoons and forks and the knives and plates.
Now I wonder if YOU were there that night
And saw them marching by candle light?
It seems to me - I did get a peep
Of you boys and girls in the Town of Sleep!


THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 10, 1919.

Riddles in Rhyme for Summer Time

The Forgetful Poet was evidently too busy with his camp work to write a letter, so he just sent us these rhyming riddles. Having been at camp myself, I know there is not much time for letter writing, so we shall have to forgive him, I 'spose.

The answers to his last week's riddles were: The Ottoman empire, or Turkey; the Lapps, Indian tribes, Crow and Sioux.

GUESS WHAT?

Peas and ships have 'em.
And if you're not dull
You'll know right away
I'm referring to -----.

A piece of furniture plus a letter,
A word that means succeed,
Will give an Arab, and a very
Restless one indeed.

An expression of scorn
And a valley, I vow,
Will give you a pert
Little curly bow-wow.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2011 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

OZ AD NAUSEAM

By Dick Martin
Author of The Ozmapolitan of Oz, illustrator of Merry Go Round in Oz, The Magic Map, and The Visitors from Oz, etc.

Originally published in No 10, June 1972.


Founded on and continuing the Famous Oz Stories by L. Frank Baum,
Ruth Plumly Thompson, John R. Neill, Jack Snow, Rachel Cosgrove, Eloise Jarvis McGraw, Lauren McGraw Wagner, etc., etc.

(With profuse apologies to nobody)

"Oh, Hell!" said Dorothy, viciously stubbing out her cigarette in an emerald ash-tray.

"That is no way for a Princess of Oz to talk, dear," Ozma rebuked gently.

The two girls were enjoying a heart-to-heart talk, as girls will, in the privacy of Ozma's lovely patio garden in the Royal Palace of Oz.

"You must remember," Ozma went on, "we all have positions to maintain, irksome as they may be."

"I b'lieve p'raps that's just what's so aggr'vating," Dorothy sighed. "How can we poss'bly be 'spected to keep it up all the time?"

Ozma smiled: "Here you are, a great big grown-up girl of seventy-three, still affecting that 'cute' diction. Apparently Professor Wogglebug's Elocution Pills haven't been doing you much good."

"Well, they make me kinda dizzy. I don't like to take them," complained the little Kansas girl.

"They wouldn't make you so dizzy, if you would swallow them with water instead of martinis," Ozma returned, with some tartness. "And that's another thing I've wanted to talk to you about, dear. Your Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are just as concerned as I am about your drinking."

Tears appeared in the little girl's blue eyes, and Ozma kissed her cheek.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said. "I don't mean to be an old crosspatch. Forgive me."

Dorothy smiled and wiped her tears away with a gossamer handkerchief of spun emeralds. She lit another cigarette, and Ozma continued:

"You see, dear, we've become Images. We're terribly important to Thousands of American Children. And we can't just say 'To Hell with Thousands of American Children,' because they're important to us, too! We owe it to them to continue being the simple, good, unaffected people we really are." Ozma took another sip of her martini and frowned. "Jellia Jamb is certainly getting careless - there's much too much vermouth in this."

"I think it's the Wizard's Oz-gin," declared Dorothy. "Unlike the 'ported stuff -" ("Imported, dear," Ozma interpolated.) "- it hasn't much kick. That's why the vermouth comes through so strong. Honestly! Wizzy and his Oz-gin experiments - he's got every bathtub in the Palace full of them!"

The garden echoed with the girls' silvery, tinkling laughter.

"Well, well! What's all this?" boomed a jovial voice. The merry, kindly, twinkling-eyed face of the wonderful Wizard of Oz appeared in the bower, framed in dangling sprays of roses. Jellia Jamb's face appeared alongside it.

"Jellia, my girl," he said, "I'm afraid we've been maligned!" He gave her a wink and a friendly slap, and the little maid ran off, giggling delightedly.

The trio became serious.

"I guess Ozma's right," Dorothy sighed. "If all those Thousands of American Children want to 'den'fy with us -" ("Identify, dear," said Ozma.) "- we've got to live up to it. Still, it would be nice if we could quit being 'quaint.' I mean, have tel'phones, and auto'biles, and such, like they do."

"Be sensible, darling," said Ozma. "Can you picture yourself in a Mercedes-Benz or a Jaguar, on our bumpy old Yellow Brick Roads? Of course not! The old Sawhorse-powered Red Wagon is what they want, anyway!"

"And don't forget, my dear," put in the Wizard, "my famous Wishing Pills can take you anywhere you want to go, or get you anything you want to have!"

"Pills, pills, pills," sighed Dorothy.

"Of course!" exclaimed Ozma triumphantly. "Pills, pills, pills! Pills for everything - just like America!"

"But we don't need pills for everything!" Dorothy objected.

"Certainly not!" smiled Ozma. "I've seen you making eyes at that nice young Munchkin boy in Professor Wogglebug's geozify class. That's Nature's Magic."

"But I'm a mortal, and he's a fairy," said Dorothy, blushing prettily. "But not that kind of fairy, I mean!" she added anxiously.

Ozma's silvery laughter tinkled. (Or, if you prefer, her tinkling laughter silvered.)

"Of course not!" Ozma said. "And so, I have invited him to dine with us this evening. I've placed him next to you at the table. Make the most of it - but be discreet, Dorothy dear."

"That's right," laughed the Wizard, "don't forget those Thousands of American Children!"

They all joined in a hearty laugh. Dorothy finished off her martini, and threw the olive to her little dog, Toto (whose silvery, tinkling bark added to the general merriment).

The two girls rose - a trifle unsteadily - and linked arms.

"And now," said Ozma, "if the Wizard will excuse us, we must retire and dress for dinner. Glinda the Good, the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, and all the rest of our dear, tired old friends will be here this evening."

THE FORGETFUL POET   By Ruth Plumly Thompson  Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, August 3, 1919.

Some Rhyming Riddles

The Forgetful Poet sent in the answers to his poetry puzzles and the following riddles in rhyme. He says he expects to spend August at camp. I wonder whether he will like it?

VARIOUS RACES!

An article of furniture
To rest the feet upon
Will give an Empire, and
An ally of the vanquished Hun!

Part of the body will give a race
Who live in a very far Northern place.
You've heard of them yourself, perhaps,
And wondered why men called them -----?

This Indian tribe you surely know
Named for a bird, the thieving ------?
A girl's name, quite old fashioned, too,
Will give another tribe, the -----?
Of course, it is not spelled the same,
But see if you can guess the name.

The poems referred to in last Sunday's verses, in the order in which they appeared were: "The One Hoss Shay," by Oliver Wendell Holmes; "Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight," Rose Thorpe: "Sheridan's Ride," T. B. Read; "True Woman," William Wordsworth; "Planting the Apple Tree," William Cullen Bryant; "Ill [sic] Penseroso," Milton; "How They Brought the Good News From Ghent," Browning; "The Boys," O. W. Holmes; "Bill and Joe," O. W. Holmes; "Love of Country," Walter Scott; "Old Aunt Mary's," Riley; "Bannockburn," Robert Burns.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2011 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.