THE TALE OF TERRY TOM TURTLE

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, August 19, 1917.


Terry Tom Turtle was a good-hearted old bachelor marine who kept a salt shop down in the ocean bed. His salt taffies were known for miles ’round and all the fish and deep sea creatures patronized his shop. Of course, you know that the sea folks love salt just about as much as we love candy, so no wonder Tom had a pile of shells, which is sea talk for money. Every Saturday night Wilfred Whale bought a ton of salt taffy for his children and left five hundred little pink shells to pay for them, and every Saturday night Tom took those and all the other shells he had received during the week to Solomon Swordfish’s Interoceanical Bank, which was not only guarded by watch-dogfish, but by a company of swordfish soldiers. Terry Tom Turtle always felt easier in his mind after he had deposited his shells, because there are no end of robbers in the sea kingdom and a marauding band of octopuses had been operating in his neighborhood and grabbed about everything in sight.

So Tom, feeling quite contented and happy, stretched himself out to read the Seaweed Review and went to sleep so sound and fast that he never wakened up till 10 o’clock Monday morning and only wakened then because some one was hammering loudly upon the shop door. “Must be a customer!” yawned Tom, waddling across to the door. Tom, you know, was one of these huge big turtles, most six feet tall, that you have often see in pictures, so no wonder he waddles. Well, waddle or not, he got to the door and who should be there but Solomon Swordfish. “Robbers!” gasped Solomon, flopping over on one fin and rolling his eyes in toward his nose. “What?” shrieked Terry T. T. (you don’t mind if I abbreviate, I hope.) “Where are the watch-dogfish and the guard?” “G-ug-gone!” gurgled Solomon miserably.

At that Terry T. T.’s eyes snapped angrily and giving his shell a hitch, he plunged out of the shop. “Wait till I catch ’em!” he rumbled, swimming off to the bank as fast as he could go.

What a sight met Terry Tom’s gaze! Two frightful-looking monsters with tails extending up—up and out of sight—standing on their two hind legs pulling the shells and pearls and other precious property out of the safe deposit caves of the Interoceanical Bank. All the officials of the bank, the watch dogs and swordfish guard had retired to a twenty-yard distance and were watching the robbery with bulging eyes, but making no attempt to interfere. “Cowards!” hissed Terry Tom, cutting through the water like a submarine. Snap came his teeth against the leg of one of the monsters, but nothing happened. “Incased in shells!” mumbled Tom, swimming out of the way, “but they must have some soft spots and I’ll keep at ’em till I find ’em!” The monsters were much annoyed by the frequent rushes of Terry Tom. They consulted together a few minutes, then one of them pulled his tail—his own tail I mean—and taking up a piece of wood held it out toward the giant turtle. Scarcely seeing what he was doing Terry made another snap and this time his teeth closed on something soft. “I’ll never let go!” raged Tom, with his eyes fast shut. And he never did. For the next minute the monster began to rush upward through the water and as Tom was determined not to let go, he rushed along.

I wish this story had a different ending, for I hate to tell you that Tom ended in the soup. But that’s what happened and you might as well know it. As soon as the diver, for the monsters were divers, as I suppose you have guessed long ago—as soon as the diver reached the surface there was a loud whack, the last Tom ever felt, and the next day there was turtle soup for everybody on board. Pshaw! Too bad, but Tom should not have thought so much of his money, or rather his shells.

THE FORGETFUL POET

 

By Ruth Plumly Thompson

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 20, 1920.

 

The Puzzle Corner

Before we start any further nonsense we had better answer last week’s riddles. Camp kit, peacock and Persian. Of course a cat would talk Persian if it really did talk.

Now this week the Forgetful Poet has decided to say it with berries, and all the blanks in the following verses may be filled in by berries, if you please:

My ----- sister has a dress
Of very finest -----
And goes to dances, while I stay
At home and find it dull!

She is eighteen and I am eight,
And then my brother -----
Hies off to camp, and I’m left out
Of that, which is worse still!

“Don’t be a -----,” my mother says.
“’Tis foolish to be -----!”
I’d give a lot to be a very
Little girl like you.

And can you finish this poem?

There was a young eland name Ella,
Who played very well on the -----
And made heaps of gold, so at least I was told
By a trustworthy, seafaring -----.

[Answers next time.] 

 

Copyright © 2016 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE CHINA TEA CUP

By Jack Snow
Author of The Magical Mimics of Oz, The Shaggy Man of Oz, Spectral Snow, etc.
 
Originally published in Dark Music and Other Spectral Tales, 1947.


Let the Bodhisattva look upon all things as having the nature of space—as permanently equal to space; without essence, without substantiality.—Saddharma Pundarika.

Mr. Deeping halted before the window of the musty little antique shop almost as if he had glimpsed an old acquaintance’s face inside. The window was grimy though lined with trickling streaks of relative cleanliness produced by a recent shower. Deeping’s gaze remained fixed, his eyes held tight to one tiny object among the conglomerate heap that shouted and struggled for preeminence in their dreary glass cell. It was a cup—a tea cup. It lay in a corner close to a yellow, warped set of books; a candelabra with eight sticks and a mournfully rusted sword hilt.

Deeping squinted through the dust and lowering twilight. Evidently the cup had figures on it, impossible to say what, for they were sadly obscured with thick grime. Unlovely and forlorn as was its appearance there was yet something about the tiny cup, something ephemeral, fragile that was thrillingly beautiful to Deeping. As he stood there he devoured its lines with his eyes. Thin as a leaf, delicate, bell-like he knew it would ring sweet and true if tapped. Like the tendril of a young green vine its slender handle leapt from the side and formed an oval scarcely large enough for the passage of a child’s little finger. It was like a dew drop crystallized and bestowed with immortality.

Deeping gazed a few minutes longer and then sighed with admiration and entered the shop where he purchased the cup for half a dollar and was in an agony of apprehension lest the ancient who attended him would allow the prize to slip from his trembling fingers and smash on the floor.

Deeping left the shop and was filled with a pleasant sense of exaltation—as if he had captured something irresistible to him, something enticingly fleeting. He carried his treasure in his right hand. At times he smoothed the crinkled wrapping paper reassuringly over its graceful surface. The evening was warm and soft—like velvet and spangled with peering stars. People passed usually in little groups of two or three conversing quietly. They were dressed lightly and their soft-toned words floated over the warm hush of the evening like oil poured into a goblet of amber colored nectar.

But Deeping neither saw these ghostly humans nor heard their low babble. He carried his head erect so that his gaze just missed the tops of the buildings and went on up to the stars and moon. He was happy tonight, his work at the office was finished. Now he was free, he had found a treasure, there was a full moon and a chance for a long ramble tonight. Ah—why not be happy? His eyes were kind when he smiled.

Now he was ascending the steps of a large brick building and making his way through dusky corridors to his rooms. They were in the far rear of the building where he could seclude himself with little or no danger of disturbance. And there were two windows free from the city’s skyline through which the dawn had more than once ebbed over the sill and painted the pages of Deeping’s book with grey fingers.

Deeping closed and locked the door and immediately unfolded the paper from the cup. He set about removing the grime from its surface—the task he had been anticipating in every pleasurable manner at each step of his homeward journey. From the faucet he drew a basin of luke warm water and into this he placed the cup and proceeded with elaborate care to rub the grease and dust from it by means of a soft bit of silk. Gently he bathed and polished. Finally the last clinging traces of grime had yielded to his persistence and he swathed the cup in a soft towel and dried it revelling the while in the deep lustre thus revealed. Sighing happily he seated himself at the table placing the cup before him and gazed voluptuously at it. It shone translucently with a thin bluish glow like the veins of the hand except where the painted figures occurred with their contrasting hues. And these figures— Deeping’s eyes glistened as he inspected them minutely for the first time. On one side of the cup appeared a huge scarlet blossom, a monster poppy, with a forest of tiny trees behind it. This was enough to absorb the most shrinking interest—this great six petalled staring flower with the background of pygmean giants; yet when Deeping turned the other side of the cup toward him he was even more intrigued and captivated. For on this side the flora representation had given way entirely to a swarm of fireflies—botaru.

These marvelous little insects were done exquisitely, Deeping saw, by a hand that must have been unbelievably tiny and adept. Although they spread over the side of the cup like a living cloud their lights were represented as they should have been—some green, some pale tea colored, some blue, and some so brilliant as to be white. Deeping recalled a fragment of Japanese poetry. He whispered it softly to the bare room.

“For the willow tree the season of budding would seem to have returned in the dark—look at the fireflies!”

For many minutes he sat in content dreaming and weaving many fantasies about his treasure. He tried to count the fireflies but he soon grew bewildered and gave it up. It was like lying on one’s back and trying to number the stars of a clear night. He wondered at the disproportion between the flower and the forest of trees. Perhaps this was some struggling artist’s mode of expressing revolt. Turning the tables as it were. Certainly the flower grew resplendently and the trees almost cowered. Sometimes the soul of man is such a flower, thought Deeping, blossoming out like a giant flora in the jungle, but usually it is so tiny, so fragile, so easily wilted—. Deeping paused in his fragmentary musing and listened to the clock strike ten.

Then he yawned and began the preparation of a bit of supper before bed. Cold meat he found in the refrigerator and tea was only the matter of a few minutes devoted to the heating of water. Presently his repast was before him. Cold beef, bread and butter and tea. He ate heartily, for so absorbed had he been in the allurements of the cup that he had entirely forgotten his evening meal. The tea tasted extraordinarily fine and Deeping was fond of it even at its worst. He had sipped two cups and was making ready to pour himself a third when a sudden forceful suggestion leapt at him, struck him, as confounding as it was startling. Certainly he had not thought of it—impossible. It came from somewhere else—somewhere outside. Like the pictures conjured by a caterwauling that breaks into one’s dreams and hurls them into the abyss of nightmares. It was blasphemous—it opposed all his ideals. Yet he was fascinated—powerless to resist. His hand was reaching slowly, as if by stealth to deceive his sensibilities, across the table toward the china cup. He grasped it, and lifted it toward him. His right hand had with a synchronizing movement raised the teapot and inclined it so that the spout was filled with the pale liquid. The cup was directly beneath the pot’s spout and with a groan Deeping felt his right hand tipping the pot still more. The pale tea flowed in a. clear stream until the cup was slightly over half full. Deeping replaced the tea pot and raised the cup to his lips. How exquisitely delicate was the sheer rim of the cup. Its pressure was scarcely perceptible to the lips. It was like drinking nectar that flowed from a faint pair of dream lips.

Deeping sipped in rapture for a moment and then as if finding the pleasure too great for him lowered the cup from his lips and gazed into it. And then he started and nearly dropped the cup from his trembling fingers. For gazing at him from the transparent yellow liquid was the image or reflection of a face not his own. He glanced about the room but he was alone. Trembling with the sudden shock he gazed again into the cup. It was the face of a girl—a beautiful girl and the reflection seemed to be that of a living face for the glow of life shone from the cheeks and the eyes were lighted with the flame of the spirit. Deeping’s emotions were curious. They passed analysis. He was frightened, bewildered, startled and thrilled. And none of these mental sensations predominated. He was a prey to all their talons at once. Reason became chaos. Panic awaited only the slightest cranny through which to slip and prance with cloven hoof to its own wild tunes.

Deeping threw out the tea, rinsed the cup and poured fresh tea. The face smiled up at him in no wise perturbed by his rudeness. Was it merely an hallucination? Then by what induced? He lifted his hand to his forehead; he had no fever; nor did he feel ill. He never drank. Cautiously he glanced again into the cup of tea. The surface of the liquid was free from ripples. It lay glassy clear, and there as perfectly as that formed in a mirror was the reflection of the girl’s face. Deeping gazed at her intently. Finally he spoke to her and even motioned with his hands but she was entirely unaware of his efforts although at moments which sent a sharp thrill through Deeping their eyes met in a sudden instantaneous glance.

Deeping wondered if the girl would be visible to others. But he could not endure that. What if she were not? What if they laughed at him? He would be mad—they would tell him so. And how could he disbelieve? He sat thinking, turning his mind first this way and then that, until the grey, misty dawn began to flow into the sky and then he nodded and slept unhappily in his chair.

After a few hours he awoke stiff and ill. With deliberate aim he avoided both visual and physical contact with the cup while washing and making himself ready for work. He was halfway out the door when he turned and stole back into the room. He walked uncertainly to the table where he had left the cup the night before and gazed full into it. His face paled—there she was. Her face calm and white as alabaster, her black hair mantled and devised as if for a cloudy background for her somber beauty. Her eyebrows curved into her forehead like twin question marks. Her full, broad lips awaiting were slightly parted. Her eyes, thin and narrow, were closed and their lashes lay like the fringe of a coverlet over her cheeks. She was sleeping. Deeping stood for a moment in awed silence and then turned and as silently left the room.

The next several weeks of Deeping’s life were composed of flashes of half disclosed ecstasy and long hours of throbbing, black misery. He had fallen in love. And it was with the image in the tea cup. His passionate, hopeless desire left him thin and wan and his eyes shone bright—. No longer did he seek to find a reason for or to explain away the image in the cup. He was not even disturbed nor surprised by it now. Such rational emotions were crowded from his mind by the glamor of love. He was cast about with a spell.

He purchased a little silver chest lined with silk and velvet and in this temple of idolatry he kept the cup. He found that the girl slept during his daytime and was awake at night; therefore, he reasoned, the original whose “projection” this was must dwell on the other side of the world. She might as well have dwelt in a golden castle on the farther side of the moon. She was unreachable, unattainable. At moments he wept, begged and implored her to come from the cup and present herself to him. But she did not, and the very consideration of her doing so sent Deeping into a trembling ecstasy of contemplation.

Many of Deeping’s nights were sleepless; indeed, the majority of them were, and his days were filled with the automatic discharge of his office work. He was aware only of the intense fire that was burning within him, of his love, his desire and the allure of the image. He had arrived at the point where reality was beginning to shade off into dreams, there was a wildness, a vagueness about things that seemed only natural to him.

One evening quite late he was sitting at the table just as he had been the first time he had seen the reflection. The little china cup was filled with tea, the flower bloomed unwillingly, the fireflies gleamed in their nebulous flight unceasingly. The warm soft summer air crept over the window sills and barely rustled the thin draperies with its delicate intrusion. Outside the moon had begun waning after the voluptuous fullness of the night before. People walked about on the pavements below and muttered. Occasionally one spoke louder than his companion and once someone shouted. Deeping stared haggardly into the cup. His lips moved and his tongue crept over them and in and out of his mouth. Suddenly his eyes gleamed like coals in a hot furnace; he leapt to his feet seizing the cup between his palms. His mouth twitched and his face blanched deathly white as he lifted the cup to his lips and drank its contents to the last drop. He stared into the cup. It was empty. He poured it full of tea. Only the thin depth of the pale liquid glimmered up at him. Deeping laughed, a queer strained laugh. His hair crept back on his scalp and he shivered as if chilled with a sudden spray. His face was grey and its lines drawn taut with emotion and desire pulling on one end and Reason struggling on the other. His laughter grew shriller—it convulsed him so that he shook and tottered under its weight. He tore off his clothing and threw himself on the bed. He was laughing, sobbing, the wild laughter of despair.

Sleep closed about him almost immediately. It was as if a greedy animal had devoured him, leaving him no time for the reflection that ordinarily precedes slumber. Then came oblivion—deep silence—oblivion and blackness. For ages endless and viewless he seemed to lie in blackness, lost and drenched in its murky waters. Gradually he rose to the surface. Was it quite blackness? Was not that a rift, a break? Ah! now it grew more distinct—a peculiar silver fluffiness. It was night, to be sure, and there were storm clouds and the sky was black as ink. Now it was breaking even more; near the center it seemed to be suffused with a dim nebulous glow; a ghostly light such as is cast into the sky of a clear night by the myriad pinpoint gleamings of the milky way. And there surrounded in this phantom light was a figure—a human figure. It was she. For the first time the beauty of her body was revealed to him. Supple and tender she was like the branch of a young green tree and full of grace and promise. He lifted his eyes to her face. It shone, gleamed like a star in the fury of its first fire. Her face was troubled and her lips moved as if she were speaking to him.

He strained his ears and listened intently. Her voice came to him from a remote distance; she might have stood in infinity—her words could have been no feebler nor thinner. He was tortured for fear he would lose them altogether; his effort to catch the faintest vibration was weakening, intense. And there were long spaces—pauses be-tween the words that caused him an agony of suspense.

She seemed to waver, to fade away and then return like a low nocturnal wind. At moments her form grew misty and dissolved almost completely away in the dark somber billows. Deeping’s brow was covered with perspiration.

“You have done a great wrong,” she said with infinite sadness and pity in her voice—pity for him. “You have swallowed my soul, my double that has lived and will live through all ages.” She hesitated, and Deeping was suddenly seized with a nameless horror and dread of the pity and enigmatical tenderness of her face. “You must die,” she added softly, “by your own will. It is the only way my soul can be released.” She sobbed and Deeping saw tears of pity drop from her eyes like soft rain from the clouds.

She was gone. Only the black sky with its thick gloomy clouds remained. Deeping turned in his bed as if to shut out the sight of it and groaned.

The woman who cared for Deeping’s rooms came the next morning, letting herself in with her key and found Deeping fully dressed arid stretched on the floor dead. She did not lose her head nor behave foolishly as women generally do in the presence of unexpected and unaccounted for death but immediately summoned a doctor who could do no more than lay the death to mercurial poisoning. Evidently Deeping had awakened, dressed himself and swallowed the mercury tablets during the night. His face was considerably distorted.

Since Deeping had no relations and apparently no close friends the landlady phoned Mr. Groves, Deeping’s superior at the office. Groves arrived a short time after he was called. The doctor had gone. He sat alone in the little room with the body. It had been laid on the bed and a spread draped over it. Groves gazed at the white shape outlined on the bed with a melancholy fixity. He would miss Deeping but he felt no real grief or sorrow because j of his death. He had been a good worker, a capable I helper, but a man of little power, little personality. He might have been called timid. And certainly he should have had friends or someone to take charge in a case like this. Groves felt that this was slightly overstepping the bounds of business courtesy.

Groves sighed and began a minute inventory of the room’s furnishings. However, there was no great pleasure in checking and appraising so meanly fitted a, room as this. His gaze settled on the table by his chair where stood a teapot with a cup beside it. Groves poured himself a cup of the cold tea. After enjoying one or two sips of the liquid he lowered the cup and gazed in curiosity at its odd design.

But his curiosity changed to horror the next instant and the cup slipped from his fingers and smashed into fragments on the floor. For there glimmering up at him from the depths of the yellow liquid was the image of Deeping’s face and pressed close to his own their lips meeting in a passionate caress was that of a girl with black hair and high, thin eyebrows.

THE FORGETFUL POET

 

By Ruth Plumly Thompson

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 13, 1920.

The Puzzle Corner

The nicknames for the people of the states mentioned last week were: Hoosiers, Indiana; Foxes, Maine; Tar Heels, North Carolina; Panhandlers, West Virginia; Web Feet, Oregon; Fly-Up-the-Creeks, Florida, and Beaneaters, Massachusetts.

The words omitted from the little verse about the Lizard—were Lizzie and all.

All campers are in need of it.
(A pet name for a cat?) Yes -----?

A vegetable and fowl ’twill take
To give this bird, and no mistake?
What bird?

What language would a kitten speak if it talked?

NONSENSE RHYMES

For you to finish.

There once was a turtle named -----
Who managed the Meadowville ferry.
He never was late nor made customers -----
So he grew very rich and quite -----?

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2016 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

THE SINGING MONARCH

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Wishing Horse of Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard of Oz, The Wish Express, "King, King! Double King!" etc.
 
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 26, 1918.


In the Clef Kingdom, just two rests and a pause beyond the Scale Domain, lives the singing monarch.

And in all the countries you have ever been, never was there a merrier fellow than he—nor a queerer one!

At the gates of his kingdom stands a shepherd who watches alike the king’s flocks and the king’s highway, letting no man enter there without passing the test.

No sooner does a stranger appear than the shepherd strikes his tuning-fork upon the golden gate and bids the stranger match it with his voice.

And if the voice be flat or sharp, too loud or too harsh, the shepherd shakes his head and the stranger is not admitted, for the man or maid whose voice is not pleasant to the ear has no place in the Clef Kingdom.

Only the sweet and gentle voiced may enter. But once inside the golden gates—how delightful! What singing and dancing and merry-making, and stranger still, no gold is needed there—no gold at all.

If you want aught, you sing for it, and the finest dinners and silk coats may be had for a song.

And constant singing has so affected the merry folk that they are happy all the time and ready to dance at the slightest provocation.

The King himself goes singing and tip-toeing about with the broadest smile in the world, always listening for new notes and always followed by the court fiddlers.

And the only crimes punishable in this strange land are the following; Hoarseness, scolding, loud talking and sadness.

And who has committed one of the first three must keep silent and speak no word for a month, and whoever persists in sadness is banished for a year. So no wonder there is naught to hear but pleasantness and that the merry folk take such care not to catch cold.

Imagine being punished for having a cold, dears and ducks! Could you hold your tongues for a month? Not for a minute, I’ll wager.

But after all, this is no story. One day there came to the gates a Princess riding upon a white mare. The shepherd struck his tuning-fork upon the gold bars and asked her sing, but the Princess shook her head. Now it chanced that the King happened to be standing there behind the shepherd, and so beautiful was the Princess, so sweet and so fair that his royal heart pounded against his ribs. He bowed low and begged her to comply with the slight formality and enter his kingdom and test its hospitality.

The Princess again shook her head, and the King, beside himself with anxiety lest he never see her again, was about to fling wide the gates, when the chief and royalist prime minister stepped forward and whispered long and earnestly in his majesty’s ear.

The King motioned for the Princess to excuse him and hurrying back to his castle summoned all the wise men in the realm to his assistance. For it was very clear that if the law be set aside and the maiden admitted without the tests, then must all other strangers also be admitted. The King shuddered at the thought of his pleasant kingdom invaded by loud and nasal-twanged folk; then thinking of the Princess he groaned, for never had a maiden so taken his fancy and already he was determined to make her his Queen.

The wise men argued this and that, and the King, to keep his sweet guest from running away, sent his finest singers to the gates and ordered a golden tray of dainties to be carried out to her.

The Princess gravely accepted these delicate attentions, while the arguing of the wise men grew so excited that they all were in danger of breaking the law of the land. At the end of a half-hour they had arrived at no decision, and the King, tearing his hair, wished in his heart he had never made such a law. No wonder! The Princess was turning her horse’s head back toward the hills whence she had come.

The shepherd seeing this whispered hastily to the King; then, before his majesty could say so much as “Sirrah!” or “By me troth,” he was on the other side of the gate and next minute had struck the Princess a stinging blow across the hands with his crook!

Never a sound uttered the Princess—but the King! For the first time in the history of the kingdom he screamed with rage, he stamped with fury and would surely have choked the poor shepherd had not the wise men pulled him off.

“Wait, your majesty! It is as I thought. The maiden has no voice, therefore may enter our kingdom without interfering with the law. Had she been deceiving us surely my blow would have brought forth a cry. But, see, your majesty, the lady is dumb! Is it not so, Princess?”

Never a word answered the Princess, but two tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the white mare’s silver harness.

Without waiting for more, the King flung open the golden gates and himself led the mare into the kingdom.

And wonder upon wonders, no sooner had he done so than the maiden flung back her head and sang so enchantingly that even the little birds hushed their notes to listen.

If the King were in love before, he was head over heels in love now.

“Love me ever, love me long,
And more than a song,
And more than a song!
For myself love me ever,
For my singing, never—
That is wrong!”

trilled the Princess, and all the courtiers nodded their heads. Yes, they were married, and, as the King loved the Princess when he thought she had no voice at all and loved her for herself, as she had bidden him do, they lived happily, oh, so happily, ever after!

THE FORGETFUL POET

 

By Ruth Plumly Thompson 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, June 6, 1920.

 

The Puzzle Corner

I guess the Forgetful Poet has gone off fishing for he never turned up at all this week, so I’ll have to tell you the answers to his puzzles myself. The Bear State was Arkansas; the Beaver State Oregon; the Wolverine State Michigan, and the Gopher State Minnesota.

The people from many of the states are nicknamed, too. Can you tell which are which. From what states do the Hoosiers, Foxes, Tar Heels, Panhandlers, Web Feet, Fly-up-the-Creeks and Bean Eaters come?

Besides all this the June Bug would like to know

How many hums in a humming bee?
How many stones in a cherry tree?
How many straws in a strawberry—
Ask Mr. Robin, but don’t ask me.

And can you fill in the missing words:

There once was a lizard
Named -----
Who climbed a high -----
Then grew dizzy.
She fell from the wall,
I believe that is -----;
To be brief, I’m
Uncommonly busy.

[Answers next time.]

 

Copyright © 2016 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

 

THE SCARECROW PRESENTS A MAGIC AUTOMOBILE TO A LITTLE GIRL

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

Originally published January 1, 1905. Included in The Visitors from Oz.
 

Now, although the queer people from Oz had come to the United States on a pleasure trip, they were greatly pleased when an opportunity arose for any of them to do a kindly act.

The Scarecrow was walking one day along a street where the houses were set close together and only the poorer classes of people dwelt. And soon he found, sitting upon a doorstep, a pretty little girl who had covered her face with her hands and was crying softly—as if to herself—in a very affecting manner.

The good Scarecrow was very sorry to see the child so grieved, so he sat down beside her and said:

“Tell me, my dear, why you are so sorrowful?”

“I—I wants a—a—a automobile!” sobbed the girl.

“Good gracious! An automobile! Then why don’t you have one?” asked the Scarecrow, somewhat surprised that so small a child should want so large a toy.

“Because my pop’s too poor to buy me one,” she answered, looking at her new friend in amazement that he should ask such a question.

“In that case, my dear, you shouldn’t want an automobile,” said the Scarecrow, gravely.

“But I do—I do!” sobbed the child, and began crying again.

Her tears were too much for the Scarecrow. “Very well; dry your eyes, and I’ll give you an automobile—since that is the only thing that will make you happy,” said he.

The girl thought her queer companion was making fun of her; but he was not, indeed. He knew what an automobile was, for he had curiously noted one of the big red ones going along the street only that morning. So all he had to do was to walk to the curbstone, where by means of a few magic words accompanied by the magical gestures that are usually required, he created an automobile that was exactly the same as the one he had seen.

The little girl sprang to her feet with a cry of astonish-ment; for there, before her door, stood a beautiful big red touring-car, fitted up with leather cushions and handsome em-broidered dust-robes and lunch and golf baskets and sparkling silver lanterns, and all the things that the most expensive automobiles possess!

“There,” said the Scarecrow, “I will make you a present of this automobile. It is your very own, to do what you like with it; and I hope it will make you happy.”

Then he bade her good-bye and walked away, soon disappearing around a corner. The girl half expected to see the automobile disappear, too, but it did not. It still stood before her, big and beautiful enough to delight the heart of a millionaire.

Now, this child had especially wanted an automobile because she believed it impossible for her ever to possess one, and now that the coveted machine was before her she had no idea what to do with it. She was still staring at it when her father came home from his work to get his dinner. The man couldn’t refuse to believe the wonderful story the girl told him, for there stood the automobile to prove it, and he had often heard of the magical powers possessed by the people from Oz. But he was greatly perplexed, nevertheless.

“We haven’t any barn to keep it in,” said he, “nor any clothes good enough to wear while riding in such a swell chariot. And it would cost more than I earn to feed it with gasoline. I think we ought to sell it, and buy coal for the winter. Anyhow, I’ve got to get back to work now, and we’ll talk it over when I come home tonight.”

But the girl was quite indignant at the idea of selling her beautiful automobile, and when her father had gone away and a crowd of admiring children from all over the neighborhood had congregated to gaze upon the wonderful thing, she proudly informed them that she was about to take a ride.

“Let me run it! Let me run it for you!” shouted a dozen boys, at once. Not one of them knew anything about an automobile, but most boys are willing to undertake any task that is really dangerous; so the girl thoughtfully selected one who had divided his stick of candy with her that very morning.

She climbed to a back seat and drew an embroidered robe over her faded gingham dress, and the barefooted boy chauffeur proudly mounted in front and gave a glance at the machinery.

“Get out of the way, you dubs!” he shouted to the crowd of children, who were spellbound with awe—and then he shut his teeth tight together and pushed over the lever.

Slowly the huge machine, like a thing of life, moved down the street; then it gathered headway, and, as the crowd shouted and cheered, the boy, swelling with pride, put the lever over as far it would go. Next instant the magic automobile was flying down the street like a red streak of lightning swaying the while from side to side and bumping furiously over the broken pavement.

At first the girl had hard work to catch her breath. Then she screamed:

“Stop it! Stop it!”

But the boy didn’t know how to stop it. Pale, but courageous, he seized the steering wheel and swung the machine around a corner. They were getting into more frequented streets, and the teams they passed crept close to the sidewalks as the great red monster whirled by them.

“It can’t last long!” thought the girl, gasping for breath.

And it didn’t.

They were building a house down the street, and big piles of brick had been placed far out into the roadway. Perhaps an expert automobilist could have avoided the obstruction with ease; but the boy, wild-eyed and frightened, abandoned hope.

Next minute there was a crash and a scream. The girl flew into the air, made a graceful curve, and fell flat into a big box of soft mortar the workmen had prepared. The boy flew higher, and landed in a sitting position on a scaffold of the new house—breathless, but unhurt. As for the magic automobile, it was a crumpled mass of red slivers and twisted steel and tag-ends of leather; for it struck the brick-pile squarely, and what remained of it could be called by no especial name.

The boy caught a ride on a delivery wagon and was soon back home again; but the workmen pulled the little girl from the mortar-box, and scraped her off as well as they could in the time they had to spare, and she finally walked away in a very subdued frame of mind.

“That Scarecrow was right,” she reflected, shivering also at the thought of what her mother would say about her soiled clothes. “Nobody—not even a little girl—has any right to want a thing they ought not to have. What I really need is a good switching, and the chances are that I’ll get it when I get home!”

THE FORGETFUL POET

 

By Ruth Plumly Thompson

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 30, 1920.

 
The Puzzle Corner

The states referred to in last week’s verses were: Ohio, Maryland, Mississippi, Illinois, Minnesota, Pennsylvania, Maine, Louisiana, California, Massachusetts, Tennessee, Wisconsin, Washington, Connecticut, Arkansas and Kansas.

Do you know what state is meant by the “Bear State” and the “Beaver State,” the “Wolverine” and the “Gopher”? The Forgetful Poet seems to be on speaking terms with his geography lately. Are you?

The dear chap is terribly worried. He has composed two lines of verse about a dragon and cannot for the life of him finish it. I told him that some of you would do it for him. “Do you think they would?” he asked anxiously. “Try them,” I suggested. And so he did. Here are the unfinished lines. The best answer will be published later:

There was an old dragon named Hannah,
Who swallowed an unripe banana—

(I don’t wonder he couldn’t finish it, do you?)

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2016 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

A KOMICAL LITTLE STORY

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of Speedy in Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard of Oz, The Wish Express, "King, King! Double King!" etc.
Illustrated by Frank Godwin

Originally published in the Phildelphia Public Ledger,  October 12, 1919.

HEIGHO—there was once a Kingdom where the sky was always blue—the King always kind and the people always happy! They sang from morning till night—the King louder than all the rest. He even sang in his sleep. Yes—really! So, no wonder it happened—no wonder at all!

Listen—one morning as the fiddlers were fiddling the jolliest tune imaginable and the King singing away for dear life—my stars!—his voice, his beautiful voice—cracked and broke into about twenty pieces. Think of it! The fiddlers stopped fiddling—the Queen wept and called for her smelling salts—the wise men came hurrying from every direction. Some said—“Do this”—and some said, “Do that”—but nobody did anything till the old Court Doctor arrived.

He put on his horn spectacles and looked down the King’s throat. “Say AH—!” ordered the little man. Then he shook his head and began looking all around.

“Where are the pieces?” he cried in a loud voice—“The King’s voice is broken and cannot be mended till we find the pieces.” Every one looked and looked—but nobody could find them till all at once the Doctor spied the King’s pet duck. “Aha!” he roared, pointing at the poor creature—“So YOU have eaten the pieces—well then the King must eat YOU!”

So he did—though very sorrowfully, in a huge pasty—and would you believe it—his voice did mend—but ever afterward it had a strange sound—almost—yes, almost like the quack of his duck—but as the Doctor said over and over—the only way to mend a voice is to assemble the pieces, for a voice is one thing that cannot be put in splints. And he is perfectly right about that.

THE FORGETFUL POET

 

By Ruth Plumly Thompson

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 23, 1920.

 
The Puzzle Corner

The Forgetful Poet seems to be full of ideas in the spring. The answers to his various rhymes and riddles last week were palette, and a hen would feather stitch if she sewed. The missing clothing from his verses were pumps, hose, cap, waist, suit and boot.

The week he begs to state that his puzzles are very stately. I do not know just what he means, but perhaps he has concealed some states in these ridiculous lines. They may be abbreviated.

A Comical State of Affairs

O, send for Henry Prim, Md.,
Miss Ellen is quite ill,
Said Minn to pa and then to me
Oh, la, my child, keep still!

Sweet Cal, she had a mass of hair
Tenn times her share, I wis!
’Tis hard to wash and quite a care
To Cal, I’m sure it is.

Conn had a little Noah’s Ark,
I have a little store
With salt and scales and sample cans
And oilcloth on the floor.

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2015 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

HOW THE FIRST STOCKINGS WERE HUNG BY THE CHIMNEYS

By L. Frank Baum

Author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Boy Fortune Hunters in the Yucatan, 

Daughters of Destiny, etc.

Excerpted from The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus, 1902.


When you remember that no child, until Santa Claus began his travels, had ever known the pleasure of possessing a toy, you will understand how joy crept into the homes of those who had been favored with a visit from the good man, and how they talked of him day by day in loving tones and were honestly grateful for his kindly deeds. It is true that great warriors and mighty kings and clever scholars of that day were often spoken of by the people; but no one of them was so greatly beloved as Santa Claus, because none other was so unselfish as to devote himself to making others happy. For a generous deed lives longer than a great battle or a king's decree of a scholar's essay, because it spreads and leaves its mark on all nature and endures through many generations.

The bargain made with the Knook Prince changed the plans of Claus for all future time; for, being able to use the reindeer on but one night of each year, he decided to devote all the other days to the manufacture of playthings, and on Christmas Eve to carry them to the children of the world.

But a year's work would, he knew, result in a vast accumulation of toys, so he resolved to build a new sledge that would be larger and stronger and better-fitted for swift travel than the old and clumsy one.

His first act was to visit the Gnome King, with whom he made a bargain to exchange three drums, a trumpet and two dolls for a pair of fine steel runners, curled beautifully at the ends. For the Gnome King had children of his own, who, living in the hollows under the earth, in mines and caverns, needed something to amuse them.

In three days the steel runners were ready, and when Claus brought the playthings to the Gnome King, his Majesty was so greatly pleased with them that he presented Claus with a string of sweet-toned sleigh-bells, in addition to the runners.

"These will please Glossie and Flossie," said Claus, as he jingled the bells and listened to their merry sound. "But I should have two strings of bells, one for each deer."

"Bring me another trumpet and a toy cat," replied the King, "and you shall have a second string of bells like the first."

"It is a bargain!" cried Claus, and he went home again for the toys.

The new sledge was carefully built, the Knooks bringing plenty of strong but thin boards to use in its construction. Claus made a high, rounding dash-board to keep off the snow cast behind by the fleet hoofs of the deer; and he made high sides to the platform so that many toys could be carried, and finally he mounted the sledge upon the slender steel runners made by the Gnome King.

It was certainly a handsome sledge, and big and roomy. Claus painted it in bright colors, although no one was likely to see it during his midnight journeys, and when all was finished he sent for Glossie and Flossie to come and look at it.

The deer admired the sledge, but gravely declared it was too big and heavy for them to draw.

"We might pull it over the snow, to be sure," said Glossie; "but we would not pull it fast enough to enable us to visit the far-away cities and villages and return to the Forest by daybreak."

"Then I must add two more deer to my team," declared Claus, after a moment's thought.

"The Knook Prince allowed you as many as ten. Why not use them all?" asked Flossie. "Then we could speed like the lightning and leap to the highest roofs with ease."

"A team of ten reindeer!" cried Claus, delightedly. "That will be splendid. Please return to the Forest at once and select eight other deer as like yourselves as possible. And you must all eat of the casa plant, to become strong, and of the grawle plant, to become fleet of foot, and of the marbon plant, that you may live long to accompany me on my journeys. Likewise it will be well for you to bathe in the Pool of Nares, which the lovely Queen Zurline declares will render you rarely beautiful. Should you perform these duties faithfully there is no doubt that on next Christmas Eve my ten reindeer will be the most powerful and beautiful steeds the world has ever seen!"

So Glossie and Flossie went to the Forest to choose their mates, and Claus began to consider the question of a harness for them all.

In the end he called upon Peter Knook for assistance, for Peter's heart is as kind as his body is crooked, and he is remarkably shrewd, as well. And Peter agreed to furnish strips of tough leather for the harness.

This leather was cut from the skins of lions that had reached such an advanced age that they died naturally, and on one side was tawny hair while the other side was cured to the softness of velvet by the deft Knooks. When Claus received these strips of leather he sewed them neatly into a harness for the ten reindeer, and it proved strong and serviceable and lasted him for many years.

The harness and sledge were prepared at odd times, for Claus devoted most of his days to the making of toys. These were now much better than the first ones had been, for the immortals often came to his house to watch him work and to offer suggestions. It was Necile's idea to make some of the dolls say "papa" and "mama." It was a thought of the Knooks to put a squeak inside the lambs, so that when a child squeezed them they would say "baa-a-a-a!" And the Fairy Queen advised Claus to put whistles in the birds, so they could be made to sing, and wheels on the horses, so children could draw them around. Many animals perished in the Forest, from one cause or another, and their fur was brought to Claus that he might cover with it the small images of beasts he made for playthings. A merry Ryl suggested that Claus make a donkey with a nodding head, which he did, and afterward found that it amused the little ones immensely. And so the toys grew in beauty and attractiveness every day, until they were the wonder of even the immortals.

When another Christmas Eve drew near there was a monster load of beautiful gifts for the children ready to be loaded upon the big sledge. Claus filled three sacks to the brim, and tucked every corner of the sledge-box full of toys besides.

Then, at twilight, the ten reindeer appeared and Flossie introduced them all to Claus. They were Racer and Pacer, Reckless and Speckless, Fearless and Peerless, and Ready and Steady, who, with Glossie and Flossie, made up the ten who have traversed the world these hundreds of years with their generous master. They were all exceedingly beautiful, with slender limbs, spreading antlers, velvety dark eyes and smooth coats of fawn color spotted with white.

Claus loved them at once, and has loved them ever since, for they are loyal friends and have rendered him priceless service.

The new harness fitted them nicely and soon they were all fastened to the sledge by twos, with Glossie and Flossie in the lead. These wore the strings of sleigh-bells, and were so delighted with the music they made that they kept prancing up and down to make the bells ring.

Claus now seated himself in the sledge, drew a warm robe over his knees and his fur cap over his ears, and cracked his long whip as a signal to start.

Instantly the ten leaped forward and were away like the wind, while jolly Claus laughed gleefully to see them run and shouted a song in his big, hearty voice:

       "With a ho, ho, ho!
       And a ha, ha, ha!
And a ho, ho, ha, ha, hee!
       Now away we go
       O'er the frozen snow,
As merry as we can be!

       There are many joys
       In our load of toys,
As many a child will know;
       We'll scatter them wide
       On our wild night ride
O'er the crisp and sparkling snow!"

Now it was on this same Christmas Eve that little Margot and her brother Dick and her cousins Ned and Sara, who were visiting at Margot's house, came in from making a snow man, with their clothes damp, their mittens dripping and their shoes and stockings wet through and through. They were not scolded, for Margot's mother knew the snow was melting, but they were sent early to bed that their clothes might be hung over chairs to dry. The shoes were placed on the red tiles of the hearth, where the heat from the hot embers would strike them, and the stockings were carefully hung in a row by the chimney, directly over the fireplace. That was the reason Santa Claus noticed them when he came down the chimney that night and all the household were fast asleep. He was in a tremendous hurry and seeing the stockings all belonged to children he quickly stuffed his toys into them and dashed up the chimney again, appearing on the roof so suddenly that the reindeer were astonished at his agility.

"I wish they would all hang up their stockings," he thought, as he drove to the next chimney. "It would save me a lot of time and I could then visit more children before daybreak."

When Margot and Dick and Ned and Sara jumped out of bed next morning and ran downstairs to get their stockings from the fireplace they were filled with delight to find the toys from Santa Claus inside them. In face, I think they found more presents in their stockings than any other children of that city had received, for Santa Claus was in a hurry and did not stop to count the toys.

Of course they told all their little friends about it, and of course every one of them decided to hang his own stockings by the fireplace the next Christmas Eve. Even Bessie Blithesome, who made a visit to that city with her father, the great Lord of Lerd, heard the story from the children and hung her own pretty stockings by the chimney when she returned home at Christmas time.

On his next trip Santa Claus found so many stockings hung up in anticipation of his visit that he could fill them in a jiffy and be away again in half the time required to hunt the children up and place the toys by their bedsides.

The custom grew year after year, and has always been a great help to Santa Claus. And, with so many children to visit, he surely needs all the help we are able to give him.

THE FORGETFUL POET

 

By Ruth Plumly Thompson 

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 16, 1920.

 The Puzzle Corner

Well, sir, you all know your weights and measures and the answers to last week’s verses. Howsomever, I’ll put them in. They were: Gill, yard, quire, ounce, foot, pound, rod, grain and reams.

And now I’d like to have you note
An artist’s tool is in your throat.
(Which one?)

If a hen should sew might not she choose
A simple ----- stitch to use.

SOME WELL-KNOWN WORDS  

All of the missing words in this poem may be worn at some time or other.

Now man the -----
Get out the -----
The ship’s afire
The sea has rose!
(What shocking grammar.)
The farmer hoped to -----tivate
Sweet Anne, he’d try at any rate,
And without ----- of time or money
He went to call upon her, honey,
Her father frowned upon his -----
And sent him off betimes to -----.

Why is a hen like a writer?

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2015 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.

CHRISTMAS WITH THE PRINCE

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Author of The Royal Book of Oz, Ozoplaning with the Wizard in Oz, and The Wish Express, etc.

Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, December 21, 1919.


A week before Christmas and nothing had been done about it! No, sir, not one thing! All the scribes and wise men of the court had been poring over catalogues for months, and the prime minister had visited every shop in the kingdom, but here it was, as I say, the week before Christmas and nothing done.

Instead of jollity and cheer the whole kingdom was plunged in gloom. And all because—well, I’m sure you will laugh at the idea—the young Prince of Pumperdink could not find a single thing he wanted for Christmas. There he sat at a golden table and there before him lay a long, white scroll, headed thusly—“Christmas List of His Most Royal Highness, the Prince of Pumperdink.”

A continual stream of courtiers passed through the room, each one with a suggestion, but at each the prince would sigh deeply and shake his head.

“Have that already. Have dozens of those. No—no—NO!”

And out the courtiers would tiptoe, for the prince was growing so cross that not infrequently he flung the golden ornaments on his desk after the offending lords and ladies. Shocking, I admit, but, nevertheless, true!

“What’s the good of Christmas when you won’t get any presents!” he grumbled. “And last year I received the same things I did the year before that—”

“But your majesty has already everything that heart can desire!” mildly observed Jan, the court jester.

“But his highness the king demands that I write this list, as he spent two months shopping for me last year and still found nothing that I had not already. Can none of you blockheads about here do anything?” the prince screamed, his patience entirely exhausted.

“I’ll look into the matter,” chuckled the jester, refusing to be ruffled, and turning a somersault which made the prince smile in spite of himself.

“Why are you the only one who has not suggested anything to me?” exclaimed the boy, suddenly.

“You never asked me,” laughed the jester. “Let the wise men of the country solve the problem—for they tell me I know nothing but nonsense.”

Just then a page from the king came timidly into the hall and asked the prince if his list was ready, as the king and queen could not wait any longer.

“NO!” roared the prince, with such a threatening gesture that the poor little page fell over backward. Thumping on the table, the prince called loudly for the scribes and wise men, who were busily at work in the next room.

“Write this list—and at once!” he ordered. “And see that there is nothing on it that I have already!”
The old wise men seized the list with trembling hands and retired in great confusion. My, how un-Christmassy everything was. One would think that this prince was a terrible chap. But, really, at other times no one could be more considerate and charming.

Jan sighed and looked out the window, where a lot of peasant’s children were rolling in the snow. “Would your majesty care to skate this afternoon?” he asked. “Or we might go see the Christmas players in the village,” he suggested, brightly.But the prince only shook his head and stared glumly into the fire. The jester continued to look out of the window—truly it was a problem and truly his young master needed helping. But could he, a humble jester, hope to solve a question that even the wise men gave up as hopeless? He drummed on the pane absently, and continued to watch the merry youngsters below. Then, all at once he sprang into the air and snapped his fingers with glee.

“I have it—I have it!” he exulted, hopping around on one foot.

The prince looked up in surprise. “What?” he asked curiously.

“Why, the answer to your riddle,” laughed Jan. “Listen—” He whispered long and earnestly in the prince’s ear and next thing the two went rushing out of the room together.

“The royal coach at once—at once—do you hear me?” called the prince.

“At once, at once, and lively please. And mind your q’s and mind your p’s,” trilled Jan, hopping after the prince.

The footmen ran this way and that, and next thing the great coach of state, with ten prancing horses, came rattling up to the door.

“We’ll drive ourselves, thank you,” said the prince, and while everyone stared with wide eyes, Jan and he ran up to the prince’s apartment.

Down they came, with arms full of rich robes, and games, and books, and toys of every sort you have ever imagined. Then up and down ten times more, till not a single thing but the beds and chairs remained, ran the two.

They piled it helter-skelter into the coach, and with a wild whoop drove off toward the village. Was there ever such a gay ride? To right and left the prince tossed his treasures among the cheering peasant children, while Jan held in the high-stepping white horses.

Then back they galloped for a second load and a third. Even the royal stables were visited and all the prince’s pet ponies trotted out and given to the little children.

And fun! Why, the prince had never had so much fun in all his royal young life. “Why, this is a regular Christmas!” he beamed, as he and Jan trotted the tired horses back. The cheers of the village still sounded in their ears, and the joy on the faces of boys and girls who had received the gifts was no greater than the happiness reflected on the faces of Jan and the prince.

“Christmas is giving,” chuckled the jester. “And NOW, Prince Pauper, what a Christmas list we shall write together, so that the king and queen will also have the happiness of giving to you.” And what a list it was, indeed, for the prince had kept only his dog and needed everything, from buckled shoes to collar buttons.

“I’ll do this every year,” laughed the Prince of Pumperdink. And I hope he will, don’t you?

THE FORGETFUL POET

By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, May 9, 1920.

The Puzzle Corner

The nicknames of the great people referred to last week did not puzzle many of you and there were so many right lists that there is hardly any use in putting the answers here. “The Little Colonel” was Napoleon, “Old Hickory” Andrew Jackson, “The Bard of Avon” Shakespeare, “The Border Minstrel” Sir Walter Scott, “Rough and Ready” Zachary Taylor, “The Great Commoner” William Pitt, “The Quaker Poet” Whittier, “The Maid of Orleans” Joan of Arc, “The Great Emancipator” Abraham Lincoln, “Poor Richard” Benjamin Franklin. The book people were Glumdalclitch and Tiny Tim.

The Forgetful Poet says it is time he weighed and measured his words. He has done so in the following poem and you will find the missing ones in some weights and measures.

Jack and ----- they fell quite hard,
They had no pump in their back-----.
Why did they run, may I in-----?
Pray, was the water for a fire?

Oh, if they’d had an ----- of wit,
They never would have run with it.
They lost their -----ing, I’ll be bound
One got a bump, and one a -----.

Another character quite odd
Is Simon and his fishing ------.
Poor Simon really was too dense,
He didn’t have a ----- of sense!
But here I’m writing ----- and -----
Of foolishness myself, it seems!

[Answers next time.]

Copyright © 2015 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.