"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 n.o.body else loves loo-loo, Lu!"

"Here--shut that off!" cried the s.h.a.ggy 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 under-brush 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 s.h.a.ggy Man, halting here:

"We may as well pa.s.s 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 Sc.r.a.ps, 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 Gla.s.s 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 amus.e.m.e.nt."

They were glad enough to be entertained, and listened with interest while the s.h.a.ggy 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 la.s.s 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 Tin, Whose tender heart thinks killing time is quite a dreadful sin, Nor old Professor Woggle-Bug, who's highly magnified And looks so big to everyone that he is filled with pride.

Jack Pumpkinhead's a dear old chum who might be called a chump, But won renown by riding round upon a magic Gump; The Sawhorse is a splendid steed and though he's made of wood He does as many thrilling stunts as any meat horse could.

And now I'll introduce a beast that ev'ryone adores-- The Cowardly Lion shakes with fear 'most ev'ry time he roars, And yet he does the bravest things that any lion might, Because he knows that cowardice is not considered right.

There's Tik-Tok--he's a clockwork man and quite a funny sight-- He talks and walks mechanically, when he's wound up tight; And we've a Hungry Tiger who would babies love to eat But never does because we feed him other kinds of meat.

It's hard to name all of the freaks this n.o.ble Land's acquired; 'Twould make my song so very long that you would soon be tired; But give attention while I mention one wise Yellow Hen And Nine fine Tiny Piglets living in a golden pen.

Just search the whole world over--sail the seas from coast to coast-- No other nation in creation queerer folk can boast; And now our rare museum will include a Cat of Gla.s.s, A Woozy, and--last but not least--a crazy Patchwork La.s.s."

Ojo was so pleased with this song that he applauded the singer by clapping his hands, and Sc.r.a.ps followed suit by clapping her padded fingers together, although they made no noise. The cat pounded on the floor with her gla.s.s paws--gently, so as not to break them--and the Woozy, which had been asleep, woke up to ask what the row was about.

"I seldom sing in public, for fear they might want me to start an opera company," remarked the s.h.a.ggy Man, who was pleased to know his effort was appreciated. "Voice, just now, is a little out of training; rusty, perhaps."

"Tell me," said the Patchwork Girl earnestly, "do all those queer people you mention really live in the Land of Oz?"

"Every one of 'em. I even forgot one thing: Dorothy's Pink Kitten."

"For goodness sake!" exclaimed Bungle, sitting up and looking interested. "A Pink Kitten? How absurd! Is it gla.s.s?"

"No; just ordinary kitten."

"Then it can't amount to much. I have pink brains, and you can see 'em work."

"Dorothy's kitten is all pink--brains and all--except blue eyes. Name's Eureka. Great favorite at the royal palace," said the s.h.a.ggy Man, yawning.

The Gla.s.s Cat seemed annoyed.

"Do you think a pink kitten--common meat--is as pretty as I am?" she asked.

"Can't say. Tastes differ, you know," replied the s.h.a.ggy Man, yawning again. "But here's a pointer that may be of service to you: make friends with Eureka and you'll be solid at the palace."

"I'm solid now; solid gla.s.s."

"You don't understand," rejoined the s.h.a.ggy Man, sleepily. "Anyhow, make friends with the Pink Kitten and you'll be all right. If the Pink Kitten despises you, look out for breakers."

"Would anyone at the royal palace break a Gla.s.s Cat?"

"Might. You never can tell. Advise you to purr soft and look humble--if you can. And now I'm going to bed."

Bungle considered the s.h.a.ggy Man's advice so carefully that her pink brains were busy long after the others of the party were fast asleep.