The Collected Works of L. Frank Baum (Illustrated). L. Frank Baum

of brains,” observed the boy. “Perhaps, as the Magician said, you have an overdose, and they may not agree with you.”

      “What had you to do with my brains?” asked Scraps.

      “A lot,” replied Ojo. “Old Margolotte meant to give you only a few—just enough to keep you going—but when she wasn’t looking I added a good many more, of the best kinds I could find in the Magician’s cupboard.”

      “Thanks,” said the girl, dancing along the path ahead of Ojo and then dancing back to his side. “If a few brains are good, many brains must be better.”

      “But they ought to be evenly balanced,” said the boy, “and I had no time to be careful. From the way you’re acting, I guess the dose was badly mixed.”

      “Scraps hasn’t enough brains to hurt her, so don’t worry,” remarked the cat, which was trotting along in a very dainty and graceful manner. “The only brains worth considering are mine, which are pink. You can see ‘em work.”

      After walking a long time they came to a little brook that trickled across the path, and here Ojo sat down to rest and eat something from his basket. He found that the Magician had given him part of a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese. He broke off some of the bread and was surprised to find the loaf just as large as it was before. It was the same way with the cheese: however much he broke off from the slice, it remained exactly the same size.

      “Ah,” said he, nodding wisely; “that’s magic. Dr. Pipt has enchanted the bread and the cheese, so it will last me all through my journey, however much I eat.”

      “Why do you put those things into your mouth?” asked Scraps, gazing at him in astonishment. “Do you need more stuffing? Then why don’t you use cotton, such as I am stuffed with?”

      “I don’t need that kind,” said Ojo.

      “But a mouth is to talk with, isn’t it?”

      “It is also to eat with,” replied the boy. “If I didn’t put food into my mouth, and eat it, I would get hungry and starve.

      “Ah, I didn’t know that,” she said. “Give me some.”

      Ojo handed her a bit of the bread and she put it in her mouth.

      “What next?” she asked, scarcely able to speak.

      “Chew it and swallow it,” said the boy.

      Scraps tried that. Her pearl teeth were unable to chew the bread and beyond her mouth there was no opening. Being unable to swallow she threw away the bread and laughed.

      “I must get hungry and starve, for I can’t eat,” she said.

      “Neither can I,” announced the cat; “but I’m not fool enough to try. Can’t you understand that you and I are superior people and not made like these poor humans?”

      “Why should I understand that, or anything else?” asked the girl. “Don’t bother my head by asking conundrums, I beg of you. Just let me discover myself in my own way.”

      With this she began amusing herself by leaping across the brook and back again.

      “Be careful, or you’ll fall in the water,” warned Ojo.

      “Never mind.”

      “You’d better. If you get wet you’ll be soggy and can’t walk. Your colors might run, too,” he said.

      “Don’t my colors run whenever I run?” she asked.

      “Not in the way I mean. If they get wet, the reds and greens and yellows and purples of your patches might run into each other and become just a blur—no color at all, you know.”

      “Then,” said the Patchwork Girl, “I’ll be careful, for if I spoiled my splendid colors I would cease to be beautiful.”

      “Pah!” sneered the Glass Cat, “such colors are not beautiful; they’re ugly, and in bad taste. Please notice that my body has no color at all. I’m transparent, except for my exquisite red heart and my lovely pink brains—you can see ‘em work.”

      “Shoo—shoo—shoo!” cried Scraps, dancing around and laughing. “And your horrid green eyes, Miss Bungle! You can’t see your eyes, but we can, and I notice you’re very proud of what little color you have. Shoo, Miss Bungle, shoo—shoo—shoo! If you were all colors and many colors, as I am, you’d be too stuck up for anything.” She leaped over the cat and back again, and the startled Bungle crept close to a tree to escape her. This made Scraps laugh more heartily than ever, and she said:

      “Whoop-te-doodle-doo!

      The cat has lost her shoe.

      Her tootsie’s bare, but she don’t care,

      So what’s the odds to you?”

      “Dear me, Ojo,” said the cat; “don’t you think the creature is a little bit crazy?”

      “It may be,” he answered, with a puzzled look.

      “If she continues her insults I’ll scratch off her suspender-button eyes,” declared the cat.

      “Don’t quarrel, please,” pleaded the boy, rising to resume the journey. “Let us be good comrades and as happy and cheerful as possible, for we are likely to meet with plenty of trouble on our way.”

      It was nearly sundown when they came to the edge of the forest and saw spread out before them a delightful landscape. There were broad blue fields stretching for miles over the valley, which was dotted everywhere with pretty, blue domed houses, none of which, however, was very near to the place where they stood. Just at the point where the path left the forest stood a tiny house covered with leaves from the trees, and before this stood a Munchkin man with an axe in his hand. He seemed very much surprised when Ojo and Scraps and the Glass Cat came out of the woods, but as the Patchwork Girl approached nearer he sat down upon a bench and laughed so hard that he could not speak for a long time.

      This man was a woodchopper and lived all alone in the little house. He had bushy blue whiskers and merry blue eyes and his blue clothes were quite old and worn.

      “Mercy me!” exclaimed the woodchopper, when at last he could stop laughing. “Who would think such a funny harlequin lived in the Land of Oz? Where did you come from, Crazy-quilt?”

      “Do you mean me?” asked the Patchwork Girl.

      “Of course,” he replied.

      “You misjudge my ancestry. I’m not a crazy-quilt; I’m patchwork,” she said.

      “There’s no difference,” he replied, beginning to laugh again. “When my old grandmother sews such things together she calls it a crazy-quilt; but I never thought such a jumble could come to life.”

      “It was the Magic Powder that did it,” explained Ojo.

      “Oh, then you have come from the Crooked Magician on the mountain. I might have known it, for—Well, I declare! here’s a glass cat. But the Magician will get in trouble for this; it’s against the law for anyone to work magic except Glinda the Good and the royal Wizard of Oz. If you people—or things—or glass spectacles—or crazy-quilts—or whatever you are, go near the Emerald City, you’ll be arrested.”

      “We’re going there, anyhow,” declared Scraps, sitting upon the bench and swinging her stuffed legs.

      “If any of us takes a rest,

      We’ll be arrested sure,

      And get no restitution

      ‘Cause the rest we must endure.”

      “I see,” said the woodchopper, nodding; “you’re as crazy as the crazy-quilt you’re made of.”

      “She really is crazy,” remarked the Glass Cat. “But that isn’t to be wondered at when you remember how many different things she’s made of. For my part, I’m made