Kabumpo in Oz, Ruth Plumly Thompson [the snowy day read aloud TXT] 📗

Meanwhile strange things had been happening in Ozma’s palace. For the people inside it had been a very mean time indeed. During Ruggedo’s run to the mountains of Ev, they had almost been shaken out of their wits and when he sat down upon the mountain top there was not a person nor piece of furniture standing in the whole palace. Courtiers and servants who were not knocked senseless lay shaking in their beds or huddled in corners and under sofas and chairs, just as they had fallen when the first terrible crash lifted the palace into the air.

Ozma’s four poster bed had collapsed, pinning the little Fairy Princess under a mass of silk hangings and curtain poles. Being a fairy, Ozma was unhurt, but not being able to move, nor to reach her Magic Belt or even make herself heard, she was forced to lie perfectly still and wait for help.

In Dorothy’s sitting room there was not a sound but the ticking of the Copper Man’s machinery. Trot and Betsy Bobbin had knocked their heads together so smartly that they were unconscious. Sir Hokus had been hurled violently against Tik Tok and the poor Knight had known nothing since. Dorothy lay quietly beside him, an ugly bruise on her forehead, where the emerald clock had landed.

“Scraps!” called the Scarecrow, sometime after the rumble and tumble had ceased, “are you there?”

“No, here!” gasped the Patch Work Girl, sitting up cautiously. She had bounced all around the room and finally rolled into a corner quite close to the Scarecrow himself. She put out her cotton hand as she spoke and touched him.

“How fortunate we are unbreakable,” said the Scarecrow, pressing her cotton fingers convulsively and trying to peer out through the intense blackness of the room. “What happened?”

“Earthquake!” shivered Scraps. “And maybe it’s not over!”

“Must have knocked everybody silly,” said the Scarecrow huskily.

“Except us,” giggled the Patch Work Girl. “We couldn’t be knocked silly ‘cause we were silly in the first place.”

“Now, don’t make jokes, please,” begged the Scarecrow. “This is serious. Besides, I want to think.”

“All right,” said Scraps cheerfully. “I don’t-but I’m going to feel around and see if I can find the matches. There used to be some candles on the mantel and-” As she spoke, Scraps fell headlong over Sir Hokus of Pokes and as luck would have it her cotton fingers closed over a small gold match box. Picking herself up carefully, Scraps struck a match on Sir Hokus’ armor and looked anxiously around the room.

“They need water,” said the Patch Work Girl, wrinkling up her patchwork forehead.

“So will you if you don’t blow out that match!” cried the Scarecrow in alarm, for Scraps continued to hold the match till it burned to the very end. He jumped up clumsily and puffed out the light just in time. Scraps promptly lit another and as she did so the Scarecrow saw a tall blue candle sticking out of the waste basket.

“Here,” said the Straw Man nervously. “Light this and stand it on the mantel there.” By the flickering candle light the Scarecrow and Scraps tried to set Dorothy’s room to rights. They dragged the mattress from the bed-room and placed the little girls on it, side by side. Sir Hokus was too heavy to move, so they merely loosened his armor and put a sofa cushion under his head. Then, just as Scraps was going for some water, the room began to tremble again.

“I told you it wasn’t over,” cried Scraps, flinging both arms about the Scarecrow s neck. And as they rocked to and fro she shouted merrily:

“Shaker! Shaker! Who art thee,

To shake a castle like a tree?

Shaker! Shaker! Go away

And come again some other day!”

“Now, Scraps,” begged the Scarecrow, steadying the Patch Work Girl with one hand and catching hold of a table with the other, everything depends on us. Do try to keep your head!”

“Keep my head!” shrilled Scraps, as the room tilted over and slid all the furniture sideways. “I’ll be lucky if I keep my feet. Whoopee! Here we go!” And go they did with a rush into the farthest corner. Slowly the room righted itself and everything grew quiet again.

“I know what I’m going to do,” said the Scarecrow determinedly. “Before anything else happens I’m going to see what has happened already.”

“How?” asked Scraps, bouncing to her feet.

“The Magic Picture,” gasped the Scarecrow. “You bring the candle, Scraps, like a good girl. You’re less liable to take fire than I am. Then we’ll come back and help Dorothy and the others.”

“Good idea,” said Scraps, taking the candle from the mantel. Breathlessly the two tip-toed along the hall to Ozma’s apartment. On the wall in one of Ozma’s rooms hangs the most magic possession in Oz. It is a picture representing a country scene, but when you ask it where a certain person is, immediately he is shown in the picture and also what he is doing at the time.

“So,” murmured the Scarecrow, as they gained the room in safety, “if it tells where other people are, it ought to tell us where we are ourselves.”

Drawing aside the curtain that covered the picture the Scarecrow demanded loudly, “Where are we?”

Scraps held the candle so that its flickering rays fell directly on the picture. Then both jumped in earnest, for in a flash the face of Ruggedo, the wicked old gnome King, appeared, on his head a great, green towering sort of hat.

The Scarecrow seized the candle from Scraps and held it closer to the picture. He squinted up one eye and almost rubbed his painted nose off.

“Great Kinkajous!” spluttered the Straw Man distractedly. “That’s a palace on his head-an Emerald palace-Ozma’s palace!”

“But how?” asked Scraps, her suspender button eyes almost dropping out. “He’s nothing but a gnome. He’s-”

Before Scraps could finish her sentence the palace began to tilt forward and they both fell upon their faces. Then the picture jerked loose and fell with a clattering slam on their heads, followed by such ornaments as had not already tumbled down before. Through it all Scraps held the candle high in air and fortunately it did not go out, despite the turmoil.

In a few moments the palace stopped rocking and a muffled call from Ozma sent the Scarecrow and Scraps hurrying to her bedside. After some trouble, for they were both flimsily made, they managed to free the little Princess of Oz from the poles and bed curtains.

“Goodness!” sighed Ozma, looking around at the terrible confusion.

“Not goodness, but badness,” said the Scarecrow, settling his hat firmly, “and Ruggedo is at the bottom of it and of us.” He quickly explained to Ozma what he had seen in the Magic Picture.

Slipping on a silk robe, Ozma followed them into the next room. When the picture had been rehung, they all looked again. This time Ozma asked where the palace was. Immediately the old Gnome King appeared and there could be no mistake-the palace was set squarely on his head. The picture did not show the real size of Ruggedo nor of the palace, but it was enough.

“He must have sprung into a giant,” gasped Ozma, scarcely believing her eyes. “Oh, what shall we do?”

“The first thing to do is to keep him quiet. Every time he shakes his head it tumbles us about so,” complained the Scarecrow, plumping up the straw in his chest. “And we must look after Dorothy and Betsy and Trot.”

“And Sir Hokus,” added the Patch Work Girl, flinging out one hand. “He’s yearning to slay a giant. ‘Way for the Giant Killer!”

Without waiting for the others Scraps ran back to Dorothy’s sitting room. Lighting another candle, for all the lights in the palace were out, Ozma and the Scarecrow followed.

“Odds Goblins!” gasped the Knight, as they entered. He was sitting up with one hand to his head.

“Not goblins-giants!” cried the Patch Work Girl, with a bounce, while Ozma ran for some water to restore her three little friends.

“Where?” puffed the Knight, lurching to his feet.

“Beneath you,” said the Scarecrow, clutching at a wisp of straw that stuck out of his head. “Say! Some one wind up Tik Tok. There’s a lot of thinking to be done here and his head works very well, even if it has wheels inside.”

Sir Hokus, though still a bit dizzy, hastened to wind up all the Copper Man’s keys.

“Thanks,” said Tik Tok immediately. “Give me a lift up, Hokus.” The Knight obligingly helped the Copper Man to his feet. Then both stared in amazement at the topsy turvy room. Even in the dim candle light they could see that something very serious had occurred.

Jack Pumpkinhead picked himself up out of a corner, looking very much dazed.

Just then Dorothy opened her eyes, and Betsy and Trot, spluttering from the water the Patch Work Girl was pouring on their heads, sat up and wanted to know what had happened. In a few words Ozma told them what the magic picture had revealed.

“Ruggedo to a giant’s grown

And set us on his head.

We’ve made some headway, you’ll admit,

Since we have gone to bed!”

-shouted Scraps, who was growing more and more excited.

“Rug-ge-do will never re-form,” ticked the Copper Man sadly.

“But what are we going to do?” wailed Dorothy. “Suppose he leans over and spills us all out?”

“I shall take my sword,” said Sir Hokus, speaking very determinedly, and backing toward the window as he spoke, “climb down, and slay the villain.” He