The Collected Works of L. Frank Baum (Illustrated). L. Frank Baum

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СКАЧАТЬ was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their party. At first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought decided him not to make friends.

      “We are traveling on important business,” he declared, “and you’ll excuse me if I say we can’t be bothered.”

      “How very impolite!” exclaimed the phonograph.

      “I’m sorry; but it’s true,” said the boy. “You’ll have to go somewhere else.”

      “This is very unkind treatment, I must say,” whined the phonograph, in an injured tone. “Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended to amuse people.”

      “It isn’t you we hate, especially,” observed the Glass Cat; “it’s your dreadful music. When I lived in the same room with you I was much annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and grumbles and clicks and scratches so it spoils the music, and your machinery rumbles so that the racket drowns every tune you attempt.”

      “That isn’t my fault; it’s the fault of my records. I must admit that I haven’t a clear record,” answered the machine.

      “Just the same, you’ll have to go away,” said Ojo.

      “Wait a minute,” cried Scraps. “This music thing interests me. I remember to have heard music when I first came to life, and I would like to hear it again. What is your name, my poor abused phonograph?”

      “Victor Columbia Edison,” it answered.

      “Well, I shall call you ‘Vic’ for short,” said the Patchwork Girl. “Go ahead and play something.”

      “It’ll drive you crazy,” warned the cat.

      “I’m crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel out the music, Vic.”

      “The only record I have with me,” explained the phonograph, “is one the Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It’s a highly classical composition.”

      “A what?” inquired Scraps.

      “It is classical music, and is considered the best and most puzzling ever manufactured. You’re supposed to like it, whether you do or not, and if you don’t, the proper thing is to look as if you did. Understand?”

      “Not in the least,” said Scraps.

      “Then, listen!”

      At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and Scraps began to laugh.

      “Cut it out, Vic,” she said. “That’s enough.”

      But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo seized the crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However, the moment the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine again and began winding it up. And still the music played.

      “Let’s run!” cried Scraps, and they all started and ran down the path as fast as they could go. But the phonograph was right behind them and could run and play at the same time. It called out, reproachfully:

      “What’s the matter? Don’t you love classical music?”

      “No, Vic,” said Scraps, halting. “We will passical the classical and preserve what joy we have left. I haven’t any nerves, thank goodness, but your music makes my cotton shrink.”

      “Then turn over my record. There’s a rag-time tune on the other side,” said the machine.

      “What’s rag-time?”

      “The opposite of classical.”

      “All right,” said Scraps, and turned over the record.

      The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble of sounds which proved so bewildering that after a moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron into the gold horn and cried: “Stop—stop! That’s the other extreme. It’s extremely bad!”

      Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on.

      “If you don’t shut off that music I’ll smash your record,” threatened Ojo.

      The music stopped, at that, and the machine turned its horn from one to another and said with great indignation: “What’s the matter now? Is it possible you can’t appreciate rag-time?”

      “Scraps ought to, being rags herself,” said the cat; “but I simply can’t stand it; it makes my whiskers curl.”

      “It is, indeed, dreadful!” exclaimed Ojo, with a shudder.

      “It’s enough to drive a crazy lady mad,” murmured the Patchwork Girl. “I’ll tell you what, Vic,” she added as she smoothed out her apron and put it on again, “for some reason or other you’ve missed your guess. You’re not a concert; you’re a nuisance.”

      “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” asserted the phonograph sadly.

      “Then we’re not savages. I advise you to go home and beg the Magician’s pardon.”

      “Never! He’d smash me.”

      “That’s what we shall do, if you stay here,” Ojo declared.

      “Run along, Vic, and bother some one else,” advised Scraps. “Find some one who is real wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In that way you can do some good in the world.”

      The music thing turned silently away and trotted down a side path, toward a distant Munchkin village.

      “Is that the way we go?” asked Bungle anxiously.

      “No,” said Ojo; “I think we shall keep straight ahead, for this path is the widest and best. When we come to some house we will inquire the way to the Emerald City.”

      8. The Foolish Owl and the Wise Donkey

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      On they went, and half an hour’s steady walking brought them to a house somewhat better than the two they had already passed. It stood close to the roadside and over the door was a sign that read: “Miss Foolish Owl and Mr. Wise Donkey: Public Advisers.”

      When Ojo read this sign aloud Scraps said laughingly: “Well, here is a place to get all the advice we want, maybe more than we need. Let’s go in.”

      The boy knocked at the door.

      “Come in!” called a deep bass voice.

      So they opened the door and entered the house, where a little light-brown donkey, dressed in a blue apron and a blue cap, was engaged in dusting the furniture with a blue cloth. On a shelf over the window sat a great blue owl with a blue sunbonnet on her head, blinking her big round eyes at the visitors.

      “Good СКАЧАТЬ