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

in a jiffy.”

      “Chewing isn’t tiresome; it’s fun,” maintained the Woozy. “I always chew the honey-bees when I catch them. Give me some bread and cheese, Ojo.”

      “No, no! You’ve already eaten a big dinner!” protested the Shaggy Man.

      “May be,” answered the Woozy; “but I guess I’ll fool myself by munching some bread and cheese. I may not be hungry, having eaten all those things you gave me, but I consider this eating business a matter of taste, and I like to realize what’s going into me.”

      Ojo gave the beast what he wanted, but the Shaggy Man shook his shaggy head reproachfully and said there was no animal so obstinate or hard to convince as a Woozy.

      At this moment a patter of footsteps was heard, and looking up they saw the live phonograph standing before them. It seemed to have passed through many adventures since Ojo and his comrades last saw the machine, for the varnish of its wooden case was all marred and dented and scratched in a way that gave it an aged and disreputable appearance.

      “Dear me!” exclaimed Ojo, staring hard. “What has happened to you?”

      “Nothing much,” replied the phonograph in a sad and depressed voice. “I’ve had enough things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock a department store and furnish half a dozen bargain-counters.”

      “Are you so broken up that you can’t play?” asked Scraps.

      “No; I still am able to grind out delicious music. Just now I’ve a record on tap that is really superb,” said the phonograph, growing more cheerful.

      “That is too bad,” remarked Ojo. “We’ve no objection to you as a machine, you know; but as a music-maker we hate you.”

      “Then why was I ever invented?” demanded the machine, in a tone of indignant protest.

      They looked at one another inquiringly, but no one could answer such a puzzling question. Finally the Shaggy Man said:

      “I’d like to hear the phonograph play.”

      Ojo sighed. “We’ve been very happy since we met you, sir,” he said.

      “I know. But a little misery, at times, makes one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony, what is this record like, which you say you have on tap?”

      “It’s a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands the common people have gone wild over it.”

      “Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then it’s dangerous.”

      “Wild with joy, I mean,” explained the phonograph. “Listen. This song will prove a rare treat to you, I know. It made the author rich—for an author. It is called ‘My Lulu.’”

      Then the phonograph began to play. A strain of odd, jerky sounds was followed by these words, sung by a man through his nose with great vigor of expression:

      “Ah wants mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu;

      Ah wants mah loo-loo, loo-loo, loo-loo, Lu!

      Ah loves mah Lulu, mah coal-black Lulu,

      There ain’t nobody else loves loo-loo, Lu!”

      “Here—shut that off!” cried the Shaggy Man, springing to his feet. “What do you mean by such impertinence?”

      “It’s the latest popular song,” declared the phonograph, speaking in a sulky tone of voice.

      “A popular song?”

      “Yes. One that the feeble-minded can remember the words of and those ignorant of music can whistle or sing. That makes a popular song popular, and the time is coming when it will take the place of all other songs.”

      “That time won’t come to us, just yet,” said the Shaggy Man, sternly: “I’m something of a singer myself, and I don’t intend to be throttled by any Lulus like your coal-black one. I shall take you all apart, Mr. Phony, and scatter your pieces far and wide over the country, as a matter of kindness to the people you might meet if allowed to run around loose. Having performed this painful duty I shall—”

      But before he could say more the phonograph turned and dashed up the road as fast as its four table-legs could carry it, and soon it had entirely disappeared from their view.

      The Shaggy Man sat down again and seemed well pleased. “Some one else will save me the trouble of scattering that phonograph,” said he; “for it is not possible that such a music-maker can last long in the Land of Oz. When you are rested, friends, let us go on our way.”

      During the afternoon the travelers found themselves in a lonely and uninhabited part of the country. Even the fields were no longer cultivated and the country began to resemble a wilderness. The road of yellow bricks seemed to have been neglected and became uneven and more difficult to walk upon. Scrubby underbrush grew on either side of the way, while huge rocks were scattered around in abundance.

      But this did not deter Ojo and his friends from trudging on, and they beguiled the journey with jokes and cheerful conversation. Toward evening they reached a crystal spring which gushed from a tall rock by the roadside and near this spring stood a deserted cabin. Said the Shaggy Man, halting here:

      “We may as well pass the night here, where there is shelter for our heads and good water to drink. Road beyond here is pretty bad; worst we shall have to travel; so let’s wait until morning before we tackle it.”

      They agreed to this and Ojo found some brushwood in the cabin and made a fire on the hearth. The fire delighted Scraps, who danced before it until Ojo warned her she might set fire to herself and burn up. After that the Patchwork Girl kept at a respectful distance from the darting flames, but the Woozy lay down before the fire like a big dog and seemed to enjoy its warmth.

      For supper the Shaggy Man ate one of his tablets, but Ojo stuck to his bread and cheese as the most satisfying food. He also gave a portion to the Woozy.

      When darkness came on and they sat in a circle on the cabin floor, facing the firelight—there being no furniture of any sort in the place—Ojo said to the Shaggy Man:

      “Won’t you tell us a story?”

      “I’m not good at stories,” was the reply; “but I sing like a bird.”

      “Raven, or crow?” asked the Glass Cat.

      “Like a song bird. I’ll prove it. I’ll sing a song I composed myself. Don’t tell anyone I’m a poet; they might want me to write a book. Don’t tell ‘em I can sing, or they’d want me to make records for that awful phonograph. Haven’t time to be a public benefactor, so I’ll just sing you this little song for your own amusement.”

      They were glad enough to be entertained, and listened with interest while the Shaggy Man chanted the following verses to a tune that was not unpleasant:

      “I’ll sing a song of Ozland, where wondrous creatures dwell

      And fruits and flowers and shady bowers abound in every dell,

      Where magic is a science and where no one shows surprise

      If some amazing thing takes place before his very eyes.

      Our Ruler’s a bewitching girl whom fairies love to please;

      She’s always kept her magic sceptre to enforce decrees

      To make her people happy, for her heart is kind and true

      And to aid the needy and distressed is what she longs to do.

      And then there’s Princess Dorothy, as sweet as any rose,

      A lass from Kansas, where they don’t grow fairies, I suppose;

      And there’s the brainy Scarecrow, with a body stuffed with straw,

      Who utters words of wisdom rare that fill us all with awe.

      I’ll not forget Nick Chopper, the Woodman made of