The Marvelous Land of Oz
and interesting specimen. Do any of you know what a Woggle-Bug is?’
“‘No!’ yelled the scholars, in chorus.
“‘Then,’ said the Professor, ‘I will get out my famous magnifying-glass
and throw the insect upon a screen in a highly-magnified condition,
that you may all study carefully its peculiar construction and become
acquainted with its habits and manner of life.’
“He then brought from a cupboard a most curious instrument, and before
I could realize what had happened I found myself thrown upon a screen
in a highly-magnified state—even as you now behold me.
“The students stood up on their stools and craned their heads forward
to get a better view of me, and two little girls jumped upon the sill
of an open window where they could see more plainly.
“‘Behold!’ cried the Professor, in a loud voice, ‘this highly-magnified
Woggle-Bug; one of the most curious insects in existence!’
“Being Thoroughly Educated, and knowing what is required of a cultured
gentleman, at this juncture I stood upright and, placing my hand upon
my bosom, made a very polite bow. My action, being unexpected, must
have startled them, for one of the little girls perched upon the
window-sill gave a scream and fell backward out the window, drawing her
companion with her as she disappeared.
“The Professor uttered a cry of horror and rushed away through the door
to see if the poor children were injured by the fall. The scholars
followed after him in a wild mob, and I was left alone in the
school-room, still in a Highly-Magnified state and free to do as I
pleased.
“It immediately occurred to me that this was a good opportunity to
escape. I was proud of my great size, and realized that now I could
safely travel anywhere in the world, while my superior culture would
make me a fit associate for the most learned person I might chance to
meet.
“So, while the Professor picked the little girls—who were more
frightened than hurt—off the ground, and the pupils clustered around
him closely grouped, I calmly walked out of the school-house, turned a
corner, and escaped unnoticed to a grove of trees that stood near”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the Pumpkinhead, admiringly.
“It was, indeed,” agreed the Woggle-Bug. “I have never ceased to
congratulate myself for escaping while I was Highly Magnified; for even
my excessive knowledge would have proved of little use to me had I
remained a tiny, insignificant insect.”
“I didn’t know before,” said Tip, looking at the Woggle-Bug with a
puzzled expression, “that insects wore clothes.”
“Nor do they, in their natural state,” returned the stranger. “But in
the course of my wanderings I had the good fortune to save the ninth
life of a tailor—tailors having, like cats, nine lives, as you probably
know. The fellow was exceedingly grateful, for had he lost that ninth
life it would have been the end of him; so he begged permission to
furnish me with the stylish costume I now wear. It fits very nicely,
does it not?” and the Woggle-Bug stood up and turned himself around
slowly, that all might examine his person.
“He must have been a good tailor,” said the Scarecrow, somewhat
enviously.
“He was a good-hearted tailor, at any rate,” observed Nick Chopper.
“But where were you going, when you met us?” Tip asked the Woggle-Bug.
“Nowhere in particular,” was the reply, “although it is my intention
soon to visit the Emerald City and arrange to give a course of lectures
to select audiences on the ‘Advantages of Magnification.’”
“We are bound for the Emerald City now,” said the Tin Woodman; “so, if
it pleases you to do so, you are welcome to travel in our company.”
The Woggle-Bug bowed with profound grace.
“It will give me great pleasure,” said he “to accept your kind
invitation; for nowhere in the Land of Oz could I hope to meet with so
congenial a company.”
“That is true,” acknowledged the Pumpkinhead. “We are quite as
congenial as flies and honey.”
“But—pardon me if I seem inquisitive—are you not all rather—ahem!
rather unusual?” asked the Woggle-Bug, looking from one to another with
unconcealed interest.
“Not more so than yourself,” answered the Scarecrow. “Everything in
life is unusual until you get accustomed to it.”
“What rare philosophy!” exclaimed the Woggle-Bug, admiringly.
“Yes; my brains are working well today,” admitted the Scarecrow, an
accent of pride in his voice.
“Then, if you are sufficiently rested and refreshed, let us bend our
steps toward the Emerald City,” suggested the magnified one.
“We can’t,” said Tip. “The Saw-Horse has broken a leg, so he can’t bend
his steps. And there is no wood around to make him a new limb from. And
we can’t leave the horse behind because the Pumpkinhead is so stiff in
his Joints that he has to ride.”
“How very unfortunate!” cried the Woggle-Bug. Then he looked the party
over carefully and said:
“If the Pumpkinhead is to ride, why not use one of his legs to make a
leg for the horse that carries him? I judge that both are made of
wood.”
“Now, that is what I call real cleverness,” said the Scarecrow,
approvingly. “I wonder my brains did not think of that long ago! Get to
work, my dear Nick, and fit the Pumpkinhead’s leg to the Saw-Horse.”
Jack was not especially pleased with this idea; but he submitted to
having his left leg amputated by the Tin Woodman and whittled down to
fit the left leg of the Saw-Horse. Nor was the Saw-Horse especially
pleased with the operation, either; for he growled a good deal about
being “butchered,” as he called it, and afterward declared that the new
leg was a disgrace to a respectable Saw-Horse.
“I beg you to be more careful in your speech,” said the Pumpkinhead,
sharply. “Remember, if you please, that it is my leg you are abusing.”
“I cannot forget it,” retorted the Saw-Horse, “for it is quite as
flimsy as the rest of your person.”
“Flimsy! me flimsy!” cried Jack, in a rage. “How dare you call me
flimsy?”
“Because you are built as absurdly as a jumping-jack,” sneered the
horse, rolling his knotty eyes in a vicious manner. “Even your head
won’t stay straight, and you never can tell whether you are looking
backwards or forwards!”
“Friends, I entreat you not to quarrel!” pleaded the Tin Woodman,
anxiously. “As a matter of fact, we are none of us above criticism; so
let us bear with each others’ faults.”
“An excellent suggestion,” said the Woggle-Bug, approvingly. “You must
have an excellent heart, my metallic friend.”
“I have,” returned Nick, well pleased. “My heart is quite the best part
of me. But now let us start upon our Journey.
They perched the one-legged Pumpkinhead upon the Saw-Horse, and tied
him to his seat with cords, so that he could not possibly fall off.
And then, following the lead of the Scarecrow, they all advanced in the
direction of the Emerald City.
Old Mombi indulges in Witchcraft
They soon discovered that the Saw-Horse limped, for his new leg was a
trifle too long. So they were obliged to halt while the Tin Woodman
chopped it down with his axe, after which the wooden steed paced along
more comfortably. But the Saw-Horse was not entirely satisfied, even
yet.
“It was a shame that I broke my other leg!” it growled.
“On the contrary,” airily remarked the Woggle-Bug, who was walking
alongside, “you should consider the accident most fortunate. For a
horse is never of much use until he has been broken.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Tip, rather provoked, for he felt a warm
interest in both the Saw-Horse and his man Jack; “but permit me to say
that your joke is a poor one, and as old as it is poor.”
“Still, it is a Joke,” declared the Woggle-Bug; firmly, “and a Joke
derived from a play upon words is considered among educated people to
be eminently proper.”
“What does that mean?” enquired the Pumpkinhead, stupidly.
“It means, my dear friend,” explained the Woggle-Bug, “that our
language contains many words having a double meaning; and that to
pronounce a joke that allows both meanings of a certain word, proves
the joker a person of culture and refinement, who has, moreover, a
thorough command of the language.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Tip, plainly; “anybody can make a pun.”
“Not so,” rejoined the Woggle-Bug, stiffly. “It requires education of a
high order. Are you educated, young sir?”
“Not especially,” admitted Tip.
“Then you cannot judge the matter. I myself am Thoroughly Educated, and
I say that puns display genius. For instance, were I to ride upon this
Saw-Horse, he would not only be an animal he would become an equipage.
For he would then be a horse-and-buggy.”
At this the Scarecrow gave a gasp and the Tin Woodman stopped short and
looked reproachfully at the Woggle-Bug. At the same time the Saw-Horse
loudly snorted his derision; and even the Pumpkinhead put up his hand
to hide the smile which, because it was carved upon his face, he could
not change to a frown.
But the Woggle-Bug strutted along as if he had made some brilliant
remark, and the Scarecrow was obliged to say:
“I have heard, my dear friend, that a person can become over-educated;
and although I have a high respect for brains, no matter how they may
be arranged or classified, I begin to suspect that yours are slightly
tangled. In any event, I must beg you to restrain your superior
education while in our society.”
“We are not very particular,” added the Tin Woodman; “and we are
exceedingly kind hearted. But if your superior culture gets leaky
again—” He did not complete the sentence, but he twirled his gleaming
axe so carelessly that the Woggle-Bug looked frightened, and shrank
away to a safe distance.
The others marched on in silence, and the Highly Magnified one, after a
period of deep thought, said in an humble voice:
“I will endeavor to restrain myself.”
“That is all we can expect,” returned the Scarecrow pleasantly; and
good nature being thus happily restored to the party, they proceeded
upon their way.
When they again stopped to allow Tip to rest—the boy being the only one
that seemed to tire—the Tin Woodman noticed many small, round holes in
the grassy meadow.
“This must be a village of the Field Mice,” he said to the Scarecrow.
“I wonder if my old friend, the Queen of the Mice, is in this
neighborhood.”
“If she is, she may be of great service to us,” answered the Scarecrow,
who was impressed by a sudden thought. “See if you can call her, my
dear Nick.”
So the Tin Woodman blew a shrill note upon a silver whistle that hung
around his neck, and presently a tiny grey mouse popped from a near-by
hole and advanced fearlessly toward them. For the Tin Woodman had once
saved her life, and the Queen of the Field Mice knew he was to be
trusted.
“Good day, your Majesty,” said Nick, politely addressing the mouse; “I
trust you are enjoying good health?”
“Thank you, I am quite well,” answered the Queen, demurely, as she sat
up and displayed the tiny golden crown upon her head. “Can I do
anything to assist my old friends?”
“You can, indeed,” replied the Scarecrow, eagerly. “Let me, I intreat
you, take a dozen of your subjects with me to the Emerald City.”
“Will they be injured in any way?” asked the Queen, doubtfully.
“I think not,” replied the Scarecrow. “I will carry them hidden in the
straw which stuffs my body, and when I give them the signal by
unbuttoning my jacket, they have only to rush out and scamper home
again as fast as they can. By doing this they will assist me to regain
my throne, which the Army of Revolt has taken from me.”
“In that case,” said the Queen, “I will not refuse your request.
Whenever you are ready, I will call twelve of my most intelligent
subjects.”