Chapter Six

The Journey

Ojo had never traveled before and so he only knew

that the path down the mountainside led into the

open Munchkin Country, where large numbers of

people dwelt. Scraps was quite new and not

supposed to know anything of the Land of Oz, while

the Glass Cat admitted she had never wandered very

far away from the Magician’s house. There was only

one path before them, at the beginning, so they

could not miss their way, and for a time they

walked through the thick forest in silent thought,

each one impressed with the importance of the

adventure they had undertaken.

Suddenly the Patchwork Girl laughed. It was

funny to see her laugh, because her cheeks

wrinkled up, her nose tipped, her silver button

eyes twinkled and her mouth curled at the

corners in a comical way.

“Has something pleased you?” asked Ojo, who was

feeling solemn and joyless through thinking upon

his uncle’s sad fate.

“Yes,” she answered. “Your world pleases me, for

it’s a queer world, and life in it is queerer

still. Here am I, made from an old bedquilt and

intended to be a slave to Margolotte, rendered

free as air by an accident that none of you could

foresee. I am enjoying life and seeing the world,

while the woman who made me is standing helpless

as a block of wood. If that isn’t funny enough to

laugh at, I don’t know what is.”

“You’re not seeing much of the world yet,

my poor, innocent Scraps,” remarked the Cat.

“The world doesn’t consist wholly of the trees

that are on all sides of us.”

“But they’re part of it; and aren’t they pretty

trees?” returned Scraps, bobbing her head until

her brown yarn curls fluttered in the breeze.

“Growing between them I can see lovely ferns

and wild-flowers, and soft green mosses. If the

rest of your world is half as beautiful I shall be

glad I’m alive.”

“I don’t know what the rest of the world is

like, I’m sure,” said the cat; “but I mean to

find out.”

“I have never been out of the forest,” Ojo

added; “but to me the trees are gloomy and sad

and the wild-flowers seem lonesome. It must be

nicer where there are no trees and there is room

for lots of people to live together.”

“I wonder if any of the people we shall meet

will be as splendid as I am,” said the Patchwork

Girl. “All I have seen, so far, have pale,

colorless skins and clothes as blue as the country

they live in, while I am of many gorgeous colors—

face and body and clothes. That is why I am bright

and contented, Ojo, while you are blue and sad.”

“I think I made a mistake in giving you so many

sorts 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 hack 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-tedoodle-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, Crazyquilt?”

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

“Of course,” he replied.

“You misjudge my ancestry. I’m not a crazyquilt; 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 crazyquilt; 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 crazyquilts—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 crazyquilt you’re made of.”

“She really is crazy,” remarked the Glass Cat.

“But that isn’t to he wondered at when you

remember how many different things she’s made of.

For my part, I’m made of pure glass—except my

jewel heart and my pretty pink brains. Did you

notice my brains, stranger? You can see em work.”

“So I can,” replied the woodchopper; “but I

can’t see that they accomplish much. A glass cat

is a useless sort of thing, but a Patchwork Girl

is really useful. She makes me laugh, and laughter

is the best thing in life. There was once a

woodchopper, a friend of mine, who was made all of

tin, and I used to laugh every time I saw him.”

“A tin woodchopper?” said Ojo. “That is

strange.”

“My friend wasn’t always tin,” said the man,

“but he was careless with his axe, and used to

chop himself very badly. Whenever he lost an arm

or a leg he had it replaced with tin; so after a

while he was all tin.”

“And could he chop wood then?” asked the boy.

“He could if he didn’t rust his tin joints. But

one day he met Dorothy in the forest and went with

her to the Emerald City, where he made his

fortune. He is now one of the favorites of

Princess Ozma, and she has made him the Emperor of

the Winkies—the Country where all is yellow.”

“Who is Dorothy?” inquired the Patchwork Girl.

“A little maid who used to live in Kansas, but

is now a Princess of Oz. She’s Ozma’s best

friend, they say, and lives with her in the royal

palace.”

“Is Dorothy made of tin?” inquired Ojo.

“Is she patchwork, like me?” inquired Scraps.

“No,” said the man; “Dorothy is flesh, just as I

am. I know of only one tin person, and that is

Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman; and there will

never be but one Patchwork Girl, for any magician

that sees you will refuse to make another one like

you.”

“I suppose we shall see the Tin Woodman, for we

are going to the Country of the Winkies,” said the

boy.

“What for?” asked the woodchopper.

“To get the left wing of a yellow butterfly.”

“It is a long journey,” declared the man, “and

you will go through lonely parts of Oz and cross

rivers and traverse dark forests before you get

there.”

“Suits me all right,” said Scraps. “I’ll get a

chance to see the country.”

“You’re crazy, girl. Better crawl into a rag-bag

and hide there; or give yourself to some little

girl to play with. Those who travel are likely to

meet trouble; that’s why I stay at home.”

The woodchopper then invited them all to

stay the night at his little hut, but they were

anxious to get on and so left him and continued

along the path, which was broader, now, and

more distinct.

They expected to reach some other house before

it grew dark, but the twilight was brief and Ojo

soon began to fear they had made a mistake in

leaving the woodchopper.

“I can scarcely see the path,” he said at last.

“Can you see it, Scraps?”

“No,” replied the Patchwork Girl, who was

holding fast to the boy’s arm so he could

guide her.

“I can see,” declared the Glass Cat. “My eyes

are better than yours, and my pink brains—”

“Never mind your pink brains, please,” said

Ojo hastily; “just run ahead and show us the

way. Wait a minute and I’ll tie a string to you;

for then you can lead us.”

He got a string from his pocket and tied it

around the cat’s neck, and after that the creature

guided them along the path. They had proceeded in

this way for about an hour when a twinkling blue

light appeared ahead of them.

“Good! there’s a house at last,” cried Ojo.

“When we reach it the good people will surely

welcome us and give us a night’s lodging.” But

however far they walked the light seemed to get

no nearer, so by and by the cat stopped short,

saying:

“I think the light is traveling, too, and we

shall never be able to catch up with it. But here

is a house by the roadside, so why go farther?”

“Where is the house, Bungle?”

“Just here beside us, Scraps.”

Ojo was now able to see a small house near

the pathway. It was dark and silent, but the boy

was tired and wanted to rest, so he went up to

the door and knocked.

“Who is there?” cried a voice from within.

“I am Ojo the Unlucky, and with me are

Miss Scraps Patchwork and the Glass Cat,” he

replied.

“What do you want?” asked the Voice.

“A place to sleep,” said Ojo.

“Come in, then; but don’t make any noise,

and you must go directly to bed,” returned the

Voice.

Ojo unlatched the door and entered. It was

very dark inside and he could see nothing at all.

But the cat exclaimed: “Why, there’s no one

here!”

“There must be,” said the boy. “Some one

spoke to me.”

“I can see everything in the room,” replied the

cat, “and no one is present but ourselves. But

here are three beds, all made up, so we may as

well go to sleep.”

“What is sleep?” inquired the Patchwork Girl.

“It’s what you do when you go to bed,” said Ojo.

“But why do you go to bed?” persisted the

Patchwork Girl.

“Here, here! You are making altogether too

much noise,” cried the Voice they had heard

before. “Keep quiet, strangers, and go to bed.”

The cat, which could see in the dark, looked

sharply around for the owner of the Voice, hut

could discover no one, although the Voice had

seemed close beside them. She arched her back

a little and seemed afraid. Then she whispered

to Ojo: “Come!” and led him to a bed.

With his hands the boy felt of the bed and

found it was big and soft, with feather pillows

and plenty of blankets. So he took off his shoes

and hat and crept into the bed. Then the cat

led Scraps to another bed and the Patchwork

Girl was puzzled to know what to do with it.

“Lie down and keep quiet,” whispered the

cat, warningly.

“Can’t I sing?” asked Scraps.

“Can’t I whistle?” asked Scraps.

“Can’t I dance till morning, if I want to?”

asked Scraps.

“You must keep quiet,” said the cat, in a soft

voice.

“I don’t want to,” replied the Patchwork Girl,

speaking as loudly as usual. “What right have you

to order me around? If I want to talk, or yell, or

whistle—”

Before she could say anything more an unseen

hand seized her firmly and threw her out of the

door, which closed behind her with a sharp

slam. She found herself bumping and rolling in

the road and when she got up and tried to open

the door of the house again she found it locked.

“What has happened to Scraps?” asked Ojo.

“Never mind. Let’s go to sleep, or something

will happen to us,” answered the Glass Cat.

So Ojo snuggled down in his bed and fell

asleep, and he was so tired that he never

wakened until broad daylight.