L. Frank Baum - Oz 23 Read online

  Jack Pumpkinhead Of Oz (Oz 23) L. Frank Baum

  This book is affectionately dedicated to my aunt Joe.

  Ruth Plumly Thompson

  CHAPTER 1 Peter and the Pirate’s Sack

  THE RAIN beat heavily on the roof, swirled down the side walks and made tumbling torrents of the gutters. Turning from the window in disgust, Peter dropped his baseball mitt on the library sofa and started glumly toward the stair. No practice today, doggone it! Why couldn’t it rain on Mondays and be clear on Saturdays for a change?

  How was he to have the team in trim for the big match if this sort of thing kept up?

  Kicking crossly at each step, Peter progressed toward the attic. Not to waste the day, he resolved to have a look at his fishing tackle. The thought of the fishing trip he was soon to take with his grandfather cheered him considerably and by the time he had switched on the attic light and dragged out the old chest where he kept his treasures, he was whistling softly to himself. On top of the chest lay two coarse sacks. They were neatly folded in half and as Peter lifted them off he gave an amused little chuckle.

  “I wonder what’s happened in Oz lately,” mused Peter, sitting down in front of the chest with the sacks on his lap. “I wonder whether Ozma knows what I did with the pirate’s gold pieces and whether the Gnome King has got into any more mischief.” And thinking of that enchanting and enchanted Kingdom, Peter forgot all about his fishing tackle.

  Now many of you may have read or heard of the marvelous Land of Oz, but Peter had really been there; had met the Scarecrow and the wonderful Wizard; had kept the Gnome King from conquering theEmeraldCityand even discovered a pirate ship full of treasure. The pirate who owned the ship had once been a real pirate, so when Ozma, the little girl ruler of Oz, transported Peter and the treasure back to Philadelphia, two of the bags of gold had been real gold and these bags had come with him. These very sacks that Peter held across his knees had once bulged with gold pieces. And those of Peter’s friends and relations who had sniffed at the story of his amazing journey to Oz never had been able to explain them away.

  Peter’s grandfather, with whom the little boy lived, had not tried to explain them, for Peter’s grandfather was old enough to believe almost anything. So he and Peter had spent one bag of gold very gaily on a trip to the coast, on motorcycles for Peter and his best friends, on a club house for the team, on canoes and some more things, too. The other bag they had changed intoUnited Statesdollars and put into the bank, so that Peter might go to college and other important places when he was grown. And now, with the rain drumming steadily on the roof, Peter fell to dreaming again of Oz, of its curious Kings and castles, its wizards and witches and magic transformations. Could it have been two years ago that he and the Gnome King escaped fromRunawayIsland?

  “I wish,” sighed Peter, giving the top sack a little shake, “I wish I could go back to Oz sometime. Hello! What’s this?” In the corner of the top sack he felt something hard and round and thrusting in his hand drew out a thin shiny piece of gold. “Why, here’s one we didn’t find,” chuckled Peter, holding it up to the light. “It’s not so large as the others. I believe I’ll keep it for a lucky piece.” Resting his head against a small trunk, Peter sank back and was soon lost in pleasant reveries. “Gee whiz!” he breathed at last, flipping the pirate’s coin into the air. “It certainly would be great to go to Oz again. I wish I were there right now!” As the gold piece dropped into Peter’s palm, Peter himself dropped Out of sight. At least, he was no longer in the attic, or inPhiladelphiaeither, for that matter. He was, to be perfectly truthful, standing before a small yellow cottage in the middle of a pumpkin field, and the whole trip, reflected Peter, staring around a bit wildly, had taken no longer than one puff and swallow. A drop such as this was enough to make a body puff and swallow several times, so he did. Then, having regained a little of his composure, he looked uncertainly at the yellow house.

  It was shaped like an enormous hollowed out pumpkin, but had several windows and a front door, so Peter walked boldly up the steps and knocked twice. He could hear footsteps running about inside and presently a head was thrust out the second story window.

  “Who’s there?” asked the owner of the house, staring down curiously. “It’s me, er~r it’s I!” Peter, remembering his grammar corrected himself quickly.

  At this, the owner of the house, in order to have a better look at his visitor, leaned so far out the window that Peter gave a sharp cry.

  “Oh look out!” he called warningly, for the man’s head seemed ready to fall off, was falling off, in fact.

  “I am looking out,” it called cheerfully, as it turned over and over in the air.

  “That’s just the trouble! Catch my head will you?” And next minute Peter found himself clasping a large pumpkin head in both arms.

  “Did you say your name was Cy?” asked the head, staring up inquiringly. “Well carry me indoors, Cy. You’ll find my body around somewheres.”

  “This must be Oz,” choked Peter, with an excited little gasp and, kicking open the door, he hurried into the cottage. A tall awkward body sprawled on the floor and there was certainly something familiar about the hollow eyes staring so pleasantly into his own.

  “My body has fallen down the stairs,” observed the pumpkin head calmly. “It should have waited for me, for nobody should be without a head.” Peter agreed heartily with this last statement and, setting the head on the table, he pulled the awkward figure to its feet and then, standing on a chair, pressed the head carefully on the wooden peg that served for a neck.

  “Why it’s Jack Pumpkinhead!” he cried delightedly. “Didn’t I meet you in Ozma’s palace two years ago? Don’t you remember me?” Jack looked doubtfully down at the little boy. “I’m afraid that I don’t,” he answered seriously. “You see, I have had several new heads since then, and am not very good at remembering.”

  “Never mind. I remember you!” Peter smiled kindly at the awkward fellow and, squeezing his wooden fingers, went on. “My name is Peter and~”

  “I thought you said your name was Cy,” objected Jack in a puzzled voice. “Oh no I didn’t,” explained Peter, a little vexed at the pumpkin head’s stupidity. “I said it’s I at the door.”

  “Cy at the door and Peter in the house. How dreadfully confusing,” mumbled Jack, putting one hand to his head to see if it was on straight. “Have you a different name for every place you go?”

  “Oh call me Peter!” exclaimed the little boy impatiently, “and if you’ll just tell me the way to the Emerald City I’ll not bother you any more. I’m anxious to see Ozma and Dorothy again.”

  “Are you a friend of Ozma’s?” interrupted Jack in high excitement. “Well, I’ll do anything for a friend of Ozma’s. Ozma is my father!” Running to the door Jack clattered down the steps, beckoning for Peter to follow him.

  “Father!” cried Peter, with a little burst of laughter, and then realizing one could not expect too much sense from a pumpkin head, he hurried out of the cottage. The pirate’s sack still hung over his arm and, tossing it gaily over one shoulder, Peter stepped quickly after Jack, and clapped him on his shoulder.

  “By the way, how did you reach Oz?” Picking his way carefully between the rows of pumpkins, Jack paused and turned his head with both hands so he could look back at Peter. Briefly Peter told him of finding the last coin in the pirate’s sack, how he had wished to be in Oz and suddenly found himself standing before the yellow cottage. “It must have been a magic coin,” muttered Jack Pumpkinhead, starting on again. “I tell you,” he gave an excited skip, “that gold coin was a piece of change. You wished to come to Oz for a change and here you are!”

  “Yes,” agreed Peter slowly. “But where is th
e gold piece?” “You can’t have the change and the gold piece too,” reproved Jack, wagging his wooden finger, “and you’d rather have the change, now wouldn’t you?” Peter nodded and glanced sharply at Jack. His head seemed to be working better. Jack returned Peter’s look with a long, steady stare. “Do you know,” he said, stepping deliberately over a high fence onto a gold paved highway,

  “You remind me more and more of my dear father.”

  “Your dear father,” exploded Peter, sitting down on the top rail of the fence. “I thought a while ago you told me that Princess Ozma was your father.”

  “She is,” answered Jack, marching calmly along the highway.

  “But Ozma’s a girl,” shouted Peter indignantly, catching up with Jack. “How could a girl be your father and how could I remind you of Ozma?”

  “Ozma was not always a girl,” explained Jack mysteriously. “Once Ozma was a boy like you. I see you have never heard my strange story,” finished Jack in a hurt voice-looking reproachfully down at Peter. Though Peter had met Jack Pumpkinhead at Ozma’s palace he had to admit that he knew nothing of his interesting history. So, as they sauntered slowly along the highway, Jack told how Ozma, as a baby had been stolen by Mombi, the witch and transformed into a boy named Tip. For nearly nine years, Tip had lived in Mombi’s hut, entirely ignorant of the fact that he was the real ruler of Oz. It was to scare Mombi that Tip had first manufactured the Pumpkinhead Man. Jack’s wooden arms and legs had been skillfully carved from strong saplings. His body, made of a tough piece of bark, was pinned together with wooden pegs. A larger peg served Jack for a neck and a carved pumpkin made his head. With some old clothes he found in Mombi’s attic, Tip had dressed the queer figure and stood him in the bend of the road to scare the old witch on her return from a visit to the crooked wizard’s.

  “Well, was Mombi scared?” inquired Peter, looking admiringly at Jack’s jointed wrists and ankles and thinking what a smart boy Ozma must have been.

  “At first,” admitted Jack slowly. “At first! Then, wishing to try out some of the magic she had traded with the wizard she sprinkled me with the powder of life and immediately I came to life and have been alive ever since,” he finished modestly.

  “But what happened to Tip?” begged Peter, for he felt that the most exciting part of the story was to come.

  “Well,” continued Jack with a solemn shake of his head, “as Mombi threatened to turn Tip to a marble statue, we both ran away that night, taking the powder of life with us.

  Next morning Tip found a sawhorse standing in a wood and, sprinkling it with some of the powder, brought it to life as Mombi had done me. On this strange steed we reached the Emerald City and helped the Scarecrow, who was then Emperor, escape from Jinjur’s army of girls, who had captured the capitol. After many curious adventures we reached the palace of Glinda, the Good Sorceress of the South. We begged her to help us restore the Scarecrow to his throne, but Glinda, by referring to her magic records, discovered that Ozma was the rightful ruler of the Kingdom. Returning to the Emerald City, Glinda forced Mombi to disenchant Tip, Tip became Ozma and Ozma, as you well know, has been our gracious little sovereign ever since.”

  “What a shame,” breathed Peter kicking at a stone, ‘I should think she’d much rather have stayed a boy.”

  “So should I,” agreed Jack, “but as I am only a pumpkin head my opinion is probably of no value. I certainly have no reason to complain,” he went on cheerfully.

  “Ozma gave me the fine cottage which you saw this morning and I spend all my time growing new heads. Before one pumpkin spoils, I quickly carve myself another and have had dozens of heads in my day, which makes me a personage, even in Oz. This head I’m now wearing will last quite a long time for it’s still a bit green.

  “Well, it looks all right,” said Peter, smiling up at Jack.

  “Do you think so?” Jack’s carved grin seemed to grow even broader at Peter’s polite remark. “If it were not for my joints, I’d be as good as anyone,” he confided, tapping his chest proudly. “But walking wears out my joints so I never walk far at a time.”

  “Is it far to the Emerald City?” Shading his eyes Peter blinked down the gay gold highway and then turned rather anxiously to his cheerful companion. He certainly did not want good natured Jack to wear Out any joints on his account.

  “No distance at all,” retorted Jack, with a stiff wave ahead. “Around that bend the houses and trees will be green, for we will be on the outskirts of the capitol, and from there it is but a step to the palace.” At Jack’s word Peter gave a satisfied little sigh. It was all coming back-his geozify. Oz! How well he remembered that great oblong Kingdom, divided into four smaller kingdoms, with the Emerald City in the exact center. In the Eastern Winkie Country of Oz, the houses, fences, fruit and flowers were all yellow; in the Southern Quadling Country they were red. In the Northlands of the Gillikens they were purple and in the Western Kingdom of the Munchkins they were blue. From the daffodils in all the fields and the round yellow farm houses, Peter knew they were in the Winkie Country, but at the next turning they should find the green trees and parks surrounding the loveliest city in Oz.

  Thinking of this enchanting spot, its gay and jolly inhabitants and the welcome he was sure to find in the palace, Peter quickened his steps, reaching the bend of the road far ahead of Jack. But instead of flowering gardens and green parkways the highway ended abruptly in a high red brick wall. There was a small black door in the wall. In red letters on this door were two words-“Enter Here.” Peter was staring uncertainly at these directions when Jack caught up with him.

  “Well Cy! What now?” he demanded merrily. “See, I remembered you were Cy, at the door. Ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!”

  “Oh do try to be sensible,” begged Peter in an annoyed voice. “Can’t you see that this wall is red? We must be in the Quadling Country, Jack. You’ve come the wrong way and we’re lost! Now, the question is whether to go back the way we came or go through this door and try to find a short cut to the Emerald City.”

  “I was afraid this head was not quite ripe enough,” mumbled Jack in a worried voice. “Perhaps if we go through this door and turn straight North we’ll find the Emerald City just as quickly as if we turn back.”

  “Perhaps,” echoed Peter doubtfully. Then, as he was beginning to feel an overpowering curiosity as to what might be on the other side of the wall, he opened the black door and stepped through.

  CHAPTER 2 The Chimney Villains

  NOW I’m Santy Claus,” mumbled Jack, feeling around for his head. Both he and Peter had stepped off into space and tumbled together down a long dark passageway.

  “We’ve fallen down a chimney,” continued Jack, finding his head and settling it firmly on his shoulders. “I must say this is a great way to enter a city.”

  “It is a grate,” said Peter, with a little groan, for he was sitting astride a pair of iron fire dogs, “but how do you know it’s a city?” Fortunately there was no fire burning in the grate and, picking up the pirate’s sack, Peter stepped out into a large red square. Jack had to bend almost double to get out at all and as he straightened up a sign hanging on the outside of the chimney caught his attention.

  “Please shut the grate after you,” directed the sign. Being an obliging fellow, Jack pulled the handle at the right and a sliding black screen completely closed off the opening. Dusting the soot from his frayed coat, Jack joined Peter.

  “Nothing but chimneys,” marvelled the little boy with a low whistle. “I’ve often seen houses without chimneys but never chimneys without houses.” The square was simply bristling with chimneys, all red and of every shape, size and description. They seemed to sprout like queer flowers from the red flags that paved the square. Chimneys! Chimneys! Chimneys! So close together there was scarcely space to walk. “Who could possibly live here?” said Peter, with a scornful sniff.

  “Whee! Whee-ee! We do!” A hundred high voices answered his question. They seemed to issue from the chimneys themsel
ves, and as Jack and Peter peered anxiously upward strange smoky figures began to spiral out of the chimney tops and float in a dark mass over their heads. They looked like evil genii or goblins who had long been imprisoned in magic bottles. Their shapes and faces changed constantly and as a whole horde of them dropped downward, Peter stepped closer to Jack. “They’re only smoke,” he explained reassuringly.

  “Yes, dear Peter,” quavered Jack, “but smoke is most injurious to pumpkins! Oh my head! My poor poor head!” Peter had no time to sympathize with Jack, for at that moment a crowd of Smokies surrounded them. Their eyes were spitered sparks and, snatching at Peter and Jack with their long shadowy arms, they began to hiss and puff threateningly.

  “Can you curl?” demanded one, snapping his eyes close to Peter. “Can you curl, and do a double spiral? Can you make soot and smoulder?”

  “No! No! No!” coughed Peter, snatching out his handkerchief and waving it wildly about his head. “Go away! Go away. You’re making me all black.”

  “Ha, Ha, Ha!” shrieked a great smoky giant. “That’s the color you should be. This is Chimneyville, but wait till you see our Soot Sooty down below. Come to our Sooty and see how black and beautiful you will become.”

  “We won’t,” cried Jack Pumpkinhead defiantly, “we won’t come or become. If this is Chimneyville, then you are Chimney-villains. Go away you black monsters. We refuse to visit your old Sooty. Go away, go away. You’re smoking my beautiful head.” Trying to cover his head with his arms, Jack backed against a chimney, but his words only seemed to infuriate the Smokies. Swelling with rage, they surged forward.