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

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СКАЧАТЬ of,” asserted the Tin Woodman. “The butterflies are among the prettiest of all created things, and they are very sensitive to pain. To tear a wing from one would cause it exquisite torture and it would soon die in great agony. I would not permit such a wicked deed under any circumstances!”

      Ojo was astounded at hearing this. Dorothy, too, looked grave and disconcerted, but she knew in her heart that the Tin Woodman was right. The Scarecrow nodded his head in approval of his friend’s speech, so it was evident that he agreed with the Emperor’s decision. Scraps looked from one to another in perplexity.

      “Who cares for a butterfly?” she asked.

      “Don’t you?” inquired the Tin Woodman.

      “Not the snap of a finger, for I have no heart,” said the Patchwork Girl. “But I want to help Ojo, who is my friend, to rescue the uncle whom he loves, and I’d kill a dozen useless butterflies to enable him to do that.”

      The Tin Woodman sighed regretfully.

      “You have kind instincts,” he said, “and with a heart you would indeed be a fine creature. I cannot blame you for your heartless remark, as you cannot understand the feelings of those who possess hearts. I, for instance, have a very neat and responsive heart which the wonderful Wizard of Oz once gave me, and so I shall never—never—never permit a poor yellow butterfly to be tortured by anyone.”

      “The yellow country of the Winkies,” said Ojo sadly, “is the only place in Oz where a yellow butterfly can be found.”

      “I’m glad of that,” said the Tin Woodman. “As I rule the Winkie Country, I can protect my butterflies.”

      “Unless I get the wing—just one left wing—” said Ojo miserably, “I can’t save Unc Nunkie.”

      “Then he must remain a marble statue forever,” declared the Tin Emperor, firmly.

      Ojo wiped his eyes, for he could not hold back the tears.

      “I’ll tell you what to do,” said Scraps. “We’ll take a whole yellow butterfly, alive and well, to the Crooked Magician, and let him pull the left wing off.”

      “No, you won’t,” said the Tin Woodman. “You can’t have one of my dear little butterflies to treat in that way.”

      “Then what in the world shall we do?” asked Dorothy.

      They all became silent and thoughtful. No one spoke for a long time. Then the Tin Woodman suddenly roused himself and said:

      “We must all go back to the Emerald City and ask Ozma’s advice. She’s a wise little girl, our Ruler, and she may find a way to help Ojo save his Unc Nunkie.”

      So the following morning the party started on the journey to the Emerald City, which they reached in due time without any important adventure. It was a sad journey for Ojo, for without the wing of the yellow butterfly he saw no way to save Unc Nunkie—unless he waited six years for the Crooked Magician to make a new lot of the Powder of Life. The boy was utterly discouraged, and as he walked along he groaned aloud.

      “Is anything hurting you?” inquired the Tin Woodman in a kindly tone, for the Emperor was with the party.

      “I’m Ojo the Unlucky,” replied the boy. “I might have known I would fail in anything I tried to do.”

      “Why are you Ojo the Unlucky?” asked the tin man.

      “Because I was born on a Friday.”

      “Friday is not unlucky,” declared the Emperor. “It’s just one of seven days. Do you suppose all the world becomes unlucky one-seventh of the time?”

      “It was the thirteenth day of the month,” said Ojo.

      “Thirteen! Ah, that is indeed a lucky number,” replied the Tin Woodman. “All my good luck seems to happen on the thirteenth. I suppose most people never notice the good luck that comes to them with the number 13, and yet if the least bit of bad luck falls on that day, they blame it to the number, and not to the proper cause.”

      “Thirteen’s my lucky number, too,” remarked the Scarecrow.

      “And mine,” said Scraps. “I’ve just thirteen patches on my head.”

      “But,” continued Ojo, “I’m left-handed.”

      “Many of our greatest men are that way,” asserted the Emperor. “To be left-handed is usually to be two-handed; the right-handed people are usually one-handed.”

      “And I’ve a wart under my right arm,” said Ojo.

      “How lucky!” cried the Tin Woodman. “If it were on the end of your nose it might be unlucky, but under your arm it is luckily out of the way.”

      “For all those reasons,” said the Munchkin boy, “I have been called Ojo the Unlucky.”

      “Then we must turn over a new leaf and call you henceforth Ojo the Lucky,” declared the tin man. “Every reason you have given is absurd. But I have noticed that those who continually dread ill luck and fear it will overtake them, have no time to take advantage of any good fortune that comes their way. Make up your mind to be Ojo the Lucky.”

      “How can I?” asked the boy, “when all my attempts to save my dear uncle have failed?”

      “Never give up, Ojo,” advised Dorothy. “No one ever knows what’s going to happen next.”

      Ojo did not reply, but he was so dejected that even their arrival at the Emerald City failed to interest him.

      The people joyfully cheered the appearance of the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow and Dorothy, who were all three general favorites, and on entering the royal palace word came to them from Ozma that she would at once grant them an audience.

      Dorothy told the girl Ruler how successful they had been in their quest until they came to the item of the yellow butterfly, which the Tin Woodman positively refused to sacrifice to the magic potion.

      “He is quite right,” said Ozma, who did not seem a bit surprised. “Had Ojo told me that one of the things he sought was the wing of a yellow butterfly I would have informed him, before he started out, that he could never secure it. Then you would have been saved the troubles and annoyances of your long journey.”

      “I didn’t mind the journey at all,” said Dorothy; “it was fun.”

      “As it has turned out,” remarked Ojo, “I can never get the things the Crooked Magician sent me for; and so, unless I wait the six years for him to make the Powder of Life, Unc Nunkie cannot be saved.”

      Ozma smiled.

      “Dr. Pipt will make no more Powder of Life, I promise you,” said she. “I have sent for him and had him brought to this palace, where he now is, and his four kettles have been destroyed and his book of recipes burned up. I have also had brought here the marble statues of your uncle and of Margolotte, which are standing in the next room.”

      They were all greatly astonished at this announcement.

      “Oh, let me see Unc Nunkie! СКАЧАТЬ