20. The Monkeys Have Trouble
“Now,” said the Wizard, “we must start for home. But how are we
going to carry that big gold flower-pot? Cap’n Bill can’t lug it all
the way, that’s certain.”
“No,” acknowledged the sailor-man; “it’s pretty heavy. I could carry
it for a little while, but I’d have to stop to rest every few minutes.”
“Couldn’t we put it on your back?” Dorothy asked the Cowardly Lion,
with a good-natured yawn.
“I don’t object to carrying it, if you can fasten it on,” answered
“If it falls off,” said Trot, “it might get smashed an’ be ruined.”
“I’ll fix it,” promised Cap’n Bill. “I’ll make a flat board out of
one of these tree trunks, an’ tie the board on the lion’s back, an’
set the flower-pot on the board.” He set to work at once to do this,
but as he only had his big knife for a tool his progress was slow.
So the Wizard took from his black bag a tiny saw that shone like
silver and said to it:
“Saw, Little Saw, come show your power;
Make us a board for the Magic Flower.”
And at once the Little Saw began to move and it sawed the log so
fast that those who watched it work were astonished. It seemed to
understand, too, just what the board was to be used for, for when it
was completed it was flat on top and hollowed beneath in such a manner
that it exactly fitted the Lion’s back.
“That beats whittlin’!” exclaimed Cap’n Bill, admiringly. “You
don’t happen to have TWO o’ them saws; do you, Wizard?”
“No,” replied the Wizard, wiping the Magic Saw carefully with his
silk handkerchief and putting it back in the black bag. “It’s the
only saw of its kind in the world; and if there were more like it, it
wouldn’t be so wonderful.”
They now tied the board on the Lion’s back, flat side up, and Cap’n
Bill carefully placed the Magic Flower on the board.
“For fear o’ accidents,” he said, “I’ll walk beside the Lion and
hold onto the flower-pot.”
Trot and Dorothy could both ride on the back of the Hungry Tiger,
and between them they carried the cage of monkeys. But this
arrangement left the Wizard, as well as the sailor, to make the
journey on foot, and so the procession moved slowly and the Glass Cat
grumbled because it would take so long to get to the Emerald City.
The Cat was sour-tempered and grumpy, at first, but before they had
journeyed far, the crystal creature had discovered a fine amusement.
The long tails of the monkeys were constantly sticking through the
bars of their cage, and when they did, the Glass Cat would slyly seize
the tails in her paws and pull them. That made the monkeys scream,
and their screams pleased the Glass Cat immensely. Trot and Dorothy
tried to stop this naughty amusement, but when they were not looking
the Cat would pull the tails again, and the creature was so sly and
quick that the monkeys could seldom escape. They scolded the Cat
angrily and shook the bars of their cage, but they could not get out
and the Cat only laughed at them.
After the party had left the forest and were on the plains of the
Munchkin Country, it grew dark, and they were obliged to make camp for
the night, choosing a pretty place beside a brook. By means of his
magic the Wizard created three tents, pitched in a row on the grass
and nicely fitted with all that was needful for the comfort of his
comrades. The middle tent was for Dorothy and Trot, and had in it two
cosy white beds and two chairs. Another tent, also with beds and
chairs, was for the Wizard and Cap’n Bill, while the third tent was
for the Hungry Tiger, the Cowardly Lion, the cage of Monkeys and the
Glass Cat. Outside the tents the Wizard made a fire and placed over
it a magic kettle from which he presently drew all sorts of nice
things for their supper, smoking hot.
After they had eaten and talked together for a while under the
twinkling stars, they all went to bed and the people were soon
asleep. The Lion and the Tiger had almost fallen asleep, too, when
they were roused by the screams of the monkeys, for the Glass Cat was
pulling their tails again. Annoyed by the uproar, the Hungry Tiger
cried: “Stop that racket!” and getting sight of the Glass Cat, he
raised his big paw and struck at the creature. The cat was quick
enough to dodge the blow, but the claws of the Hungry Tiger scraped
the monkey’s cage and bent two of the bars.
Then the Tiger lay down again to sleep, but the monkeys soon
discovered that the bending of the bars would allow them to squeeze
through. They did not leave the cage, however, but after whispering
together they let their tails stick out and all remained quiet.
Presently the Glass Cat stole near the cage again and gave a yank to
one of the tails. Instantly the monkeys leaped through the bars, one
after another, and although they were so small the entire dozen of
them surrounded the Glass Cat and clung to her claws and tail and ears
and made her a prisoner. Then they forced her out of the tent and
down to the banks of the stream. The monkeys had noticed that these
banks were covered with thick, slimy mud of a dark blue color, and
when they had taken the Cat to the stream, they smeared this mud all
over the glass body of the cat, filling the creature’s ears and eyes
with it, so that she could neither see nor hear. She was no longer
transparent and so thick was the mud upon her that no one could see
her pink brains or her ruby heart.
In this condition they led the pussy back to the tent and then got
inside their cage again.
By morning the mud had dried hard on the Glass Cat and it was a dull
blue color throughout. Dorothy and Trot were horrified, but the
Wizard shook his head and said it served the Glass Cat right for
teasing the monkeys.
Cap’n Bill, with his strong hands, soon bent the golden wires of the
monkeys’ cage into the proper position and then he asked the Wizard if
he should wash the Glass Cat in the water of the brook.
“Not just yet,” answered the Wizard. “The Cat deserves to be
punished, so I think I’ll leave that blue mud-which is as bad as
paint-upon her body until she gets to the Emerald City. The silly
creature is so vain that she will be greatly shamed when the Oz people
see her in this condition, and perhaps she’ll take the lesson to heart
and leave the monkeys alone hereafter.”
However, the Glass Cat could not see or hear, and to avoid carrying
her on the journey the Wizard picked the mud out of her eyes and ears
and Dorothy dampened her handkerchief and washed both the eyes and
As soon as she could speak the Glass Cat asked indignantly: “Aren’t
you going to punish those monkeys for playing such a trick on me?”
“No,” answered the Wizard. “You played a trick on them by pulling
their tails, so this is only tit-for-tat, and I’m glad the monkeys had
He wouldn’t allow the Glass Cat to go near the water, to wash
herself, but made her follow them when they resumed their journey
toward the Emerald City.
“This is only part of your punishment,” said the Wizard, severely.
“Ozma will laugh at you, when we get to her palace, and so will the
Scarecrow, and the Tin Woodman, and Tik-Tok, and the Shaggy Man, and
Button-Bright, and the Patchwork Girl, and-”
“And the Pink Kitten,” added Dorothy.
That suggestion hurt the Glass Cat more than anything else. The
Pink Kitten always quarreled with the Glass Cat and insisted that
flesh was superior to glass, while the Glass Cat would jeer at the
Pink Kitten, because it had no pink brains. But the pink brains were
all daubed with blue mud, just now, and if the Pink Kitten should see
the Glass Cat in such a condition, it would be dreadfully humiliating.
For several hours the Glass Cat walked along very meekly, but toward
noon it seized an opportunity when no one was looking and darted away
through the long grass. It remembered that there was a tiny lake of
pure water near by, and to this lake the Cat sped as fast as it could go.
The others never missed her until they stopped for lunch, and then
it was too late to hunt for her.
“I s’pect she’s gone somewhere to clean herself,” said Dorothy.
“Never mind,” replied the Wizard. “Perhaps this glass creature has
been punished enough, and we must not forget she saved both Trot and
“After first leading ‘em onto an enchanted island,” added Dorothy.
“But I think, as you do, that the Glass Cat is punished enough, and
p’raps she won’t try to pull the monkeys’ tails again.”
The Glass Cat did not rejoin the party of travelers. She was still
resentful, and they moved too slowly to suit her, besides. When they
arrived at the Royal Palace, one of the first things they saw was the
Glass Cat curled up on a bench as bright and clean and transparent as
ever. But she pretended not to notice them, and they passed her by
21. The College of Athletic Arts
Dorothy and her friends arrived at the Royal Palace at an opportune
time, for Ozma was holding high court in her Throne Room, where
Professor H. M. Wogglebug, T.E., was appealing to her to punish some of
the students of the Royal Athletic College, of which he was the Principal.
This College is located in the Munchkin Country, but not far from
the Emerald City. To enable the students to devote their entire time
to athletic exercises, such as boating, foot-ball, and the like,
Professor Wogglebug had invented an assortment of Tablets of Learning.
One of these tablets, eaten by a scholar after breakfast, would
instantly enable him to understand arithmetic or algebra or any other
branch of mathematics. Another tablet eaten after lunch gave a
student a complete knowledge of geography. Another tablet made it
possible for the eater to spell the most difficult words, and still
another enabled him to write a beautiful hand. There were tablets for
history, mechanics, home cooking and agriculture, and it mattered not
whether a boy or a girl was stupid or bright, for the tablets taught
them everything in the twinkling of an eye.
This method, which is patented in the Land of Oz by Professor
Wogglebug, saves paper and books, as well as the tedious hours devoted
to study in some of our less favored schools, and it also allows the
students to devote all their time to racing, base-ball, tennis and
other manly and womanly sports, which are greatly interfered with by
study in those Temples of Learning where Tablets of Learning are unknown.
But it so happened that Professor Wogglebug (who had invented so
much that he had acquired the habit) carelessly invented a Square-Meal
Tablet, which was no bigger than your little finger-nail but
contained, in condensed form, the equal of a bowl of soup, a portion
of fried fish, a roast, a salad and a dessert, all of which gave the
same nourishment as a square meal.
The Professor was so proud of these Square-Meal Tablets that he
began to feed them to the students at his college, instead of other
food, but the boys and girls objected because they wanted food that
they could enjoy the taste of. It was no fun at all to swallow a
tablet, with a glass of water, and call it a dinner; so they refused
to eat the Square-Meal Tablets. Professor Wogglebug insisted, and the
result was that the Senior Class seized the learned Professor one day
and threw him into the river-clothes and all. Everyone knows that a
wogglebug cannot swim, and so the inventor of the wonderful
Square-Meal Tablets lay helpless on the bottom of the river for three
days before a fisherman caught one of his legs on a fishhook and
dragged him out upon the bank.
The learned Professor was naturally indignant at such treatment, and
so he brought the entire Senior Class to the Emerald City and appealed
to Ozma of Oz to punish them for their rebellion.
I do not suppose the girl Ruler was very severe with the rebellious
boys and girls, because she had herself refused to eat the Square-Meal
Tablets in place of food, but while she was listening to the
interesting case in her Throne Room, Cap’n Bill managed to carry the
golden flower-pot containing the Magic Flower up to Trot’s room
without it being seen by anyone except Jellia Jamb, Ozma’s chief Maid
of Honor, and Jellia promised not to tell.
Also the Wizard was able to carry the cage of monkeys up to one of
the top towers of the palace, where he had a room of his own, to which
no one came unless invited. So Trot and Dorothy and Cap’n Bill and
the Wizard were all delighted at the successful end of their
adventure. The Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger went to the marble
stables behind the Royal Palace, where they lived while at home, and
they too kept the secret, even refusing to tell the Wooden Sawhorse,
and Hank the Mule, and the Yellow Hen, and the Pink Kitten where they
Trot watered the Magic Flower every day and allowed no one in her
room to see the beautiful blossoms except her friends, Betsy Bobbin
and Dorothy. The wonderful plant did not seem to lose any of its
magic by being removed from its island, and Trot was sure that Ozma
would prize it as one of her most delightful treasures.
Up in his tower the little Wizard of Oz began training his twelve
tiny monkeys, and the little creatures were so intelligent that they
learned every trick the Wizard tried to teach them. The Wizard
treated them with great kindness and gentleness and gave them the food
that monkeys love best, so they promised to do their best on the great
occasion of Ozma’s birthday.
22. Ozma’s Birthday Party
It seems odd that a fairy should have a birthday, for fairies, they
say, were born at the beginning of time and live forever. Yet, on the
other hand, it would be a shame to deprive a fairy, who has so many
other good things, of the delights of a birthday. So we need not
wonder that the fairies keep their birthdays just as other folks do,
and consider them occasions for feasting and rejoicing.
Ozma, the beautiful girl Ruler of the Fairyland of Oz, was a real
fairy, and so sweet and gentle in caring for her people that she was
greatly beloved by them all. She lived in the most magnificent palace
in the most magnificent city in the world, but that did not prevent
her from being the friend of the most humble person in her dominions.
She would mount her Wooden Sawhorse, and ride out to a farm house and
sit in the kitchen to talk with the good wife of the farmer while she
did her family baking; or she would play with the children and give
them rides on her famous wooden steed; or she would stop in a forest
to speak to a charcoal burner and ask if he was happy or desired
anything to make him more content; or she would teach young girls how
to sew and plan pretty dresses, or enter the shops where the jewelers
and craftsmen were busy and watch them at their work, giving to each
and all a cheering word or sunny smile.
And then Ozma would sit in her jeweled throne, with her chosen
courtiers all about her, and listen patiently to any complaint brought
to her by her subjects, striving to accord equal justice to all.
Knowing she was fair in her decisions, the Oz people never murmured at
her judgments, but agreed, if Ozma decided against them, she was right
and they wrong.
When Dorothy and Trot and Betsy Bobbin and Ozma were together, one
would think they were all about of an age, and the fairy Ruler no
older and no more “grown up” than the other three. She would laugh
and romp with them in regular girlish fashion, yet there was an air of
quiet dignity about Ozma, even in her merriest moods, that, in a
manner, distinguished her from the others. The three girls loved her
devotedly, but they were never able to quite forget that Ozma was the
Royal Ruler of the wonderful Fairyland of Oz, and by birth belonged to
a powerful race.
Ozma’s palace stood in the center of a delightful and extensive
garden, where splendid trees and flowering shrubs and statuary and
fountains abounded. One could walk for hours in this fascinating park
and see something interesting at every step. In one place was an
aquarium, where strange and beautiful fish swam; at another spot all
the birds of the air gathered daily to a great feast which Ozma’s
servants provided for them, and were so fearless of harm that they
would alight upon one’s shoulders and eat from one’s hand. There was
also the Fountain of the Water of Oblivion, but it was dangerous to
drink of this water, because it made one forget everything he had ever
before known, even to his own name, and therefore Ozma had placed a
sign of warning upon the fountain. But there were also fountains that
were delightfully perfumed, and fountains of delicious nectar, cool
and richly flavored, where all were welcome to refresh themselves.
Around the palace grounds was a great wall, thickly encrusted with
glittering emeralds, but the gates stood open and no one was forbidden
entrance. On holidays the people of the Emerald City often took their
children to see the wonders of Ozma’s gardens, and even entered the
Royal Palace, if they felt so inclined, for they knew that they and
their Ruler were friends, and that Ozma delighted to give them pleasure.
When all this is considered, you will not be surprised that the
people throughout the Land of Oz, as well as Ozma’s most intimate
friends and her royal courtiers, were eager to celebrate her birthday,
and made preparations for the festival weeks in advance. All the
brass bands practiced their nicest tunes, for they were to march in
the numerous processions to be made in the Winkie Country, the
Gillikin Country, the Munchkin Country and the Quadling Country, as
well as in the Emerald City. Not all the people could go to
congratulate their Ruler, but all could celebrate her birthday, in one
way or another, however far distant from her palace they might be.
Every home and building throughout the Land of Oz was to be decorated
with banners and bunting, and there were to be games, and plays, and a
general good time for every one.
It was Ozma’s custom on her birthday to give a grand feast at the
palace, to which all her closest friends were invited. It was a
queerly assorted company, indeed, for there are more quaint and unusual
characters in Oz than in all the rest of the world, and Ozma was more
interested in unusual people than in ordinary ones-just as you and I are.
On this especial birthday of the lovely girl Ruler, a long table was
set in the royal Banquet Hall of the palace, at which were place-cards
for the invited guests, and at one end of the great room was a smaller
table, not so high, for Ozma’s animal friends, whom she never forgot,
and at the other end was a big table where all of the birthday gifts
were to be arranged.
When the guests arrived, they placed their gifts on this table and
then found their places at the banquet table. And, after the guests
were all placed, the animals entered in a solemn procession and were
placed at their table by Jellia Jamb. Then, while an orchestra hidden
by a bank of roses and ferns played a march composed for the occasion,
the Royal Ozma entered the Banquet Hall, attended by her Maids of
Honor, and took her seat at the head of the table.
She was greeted by a cheer from all the assembled company, the
animals adding their roars and growls and barks and mewing and
cackling to swell the glad tumult, and then all seated themselves at
At Ozma’s right sat the famous Scarecrow of Oz, whose straw-stuffed
body was not beautiful, but whose happy nature and shrewd wit had made
him a general favorite. On the left of the Ruler was placed the Tin
Woodman, whose metal body had been brightly polished for this event.
The Tin Woodman was the Emperor of the Winkie Country and one of the
most important persons in Oz.
Next to the Scarecrow, Dorothy was seated, and next to her was
Tik-Tok, the Clockwork Man, who had been wound up as tightly as his
clockwork would permit, so he wouldn’t interrupt the festivities by
running down. Then came Aunt Em and Uncle Henry, Dorothy’s own
relations, two kindly old people who had a cozy home in the Emerald
City and were very happy and contented there. Then Betsy Bobbin was
seated, and next to her the droll and delightful Shaggy Man, who was a
favorite wherever he went.
On the other side of the table, opposite the Tin Woodman was
placed Trot, and next to her, Cap’n Bill. Then was seated
Button-Bright and Ojo the Lucky, and Dr. Pipt and his good wife
Margalot, and the astonishing Frogman, who had come from the Yip
country to be present at Ozma’s birthday feast.
At the foot of the table, facing Ozma, was seated the queenly
Glinda, the good Sorceress of Oz, for this was really the place of
honor next to the head of the table where Ozma herself sat. On
Glinda’s right was the Little Wizard of Oz, who owed to Glinda all of
the magical arts he knew. Then came Jinjur, a pretty girl farmer of
whom Ozma and Dorothy were quite fond. The adjoining seat was
occupied by the Tin Soldier, and next to him was Professor H. M.
Wogglebug, T.E., of the Royal Athletic College.
On Glinda’s left was placed the jolly Patchwork Girl, who was a
little afraid of the Sorceress and so was likely to behave herself
pretty well. The Shaggy Man’s brother was beside the Patchwork Girl,
and then came that interesting personage, Jack Pumpkinhead, who had
grown a splendid big pumpkin for a new head to be worn on Ozma’s
birthday, and had carved a face on it that was even jollier in
expression than the one he had last worn. New heads were not unusual
with Jack, for the pumpkins did not keep long, and when the
seeds-which served him as brains-began to get soft and mushy, he
realized his head would soon spoil, and so he procured a new one from his
great field of pumpkins-grown by him so that he need never lack a head.
You will have noticed that the company at Ozma’s banquet table was
somewhat mixed, but every one invited was a tried and trusted friend of
the girl Ruler, and their presence made her quite happy.
No sooner had Ozma seated herself, with her back to the birthday
table, than she noticed that all present were eyeing with curiosity
and pleasure something behind her, for the gorgeous Magic Flower was
blooming gloriously and the mammoth blossoms that quickly succeeded
one another on the plant were beautiful to view and filled the entire
room with their delicate fragrance. Ozma wanted to look, too, to see
what all were staring at, but she controlled her curiosity because it
was not proper that she should yet view her birthday gifts.
So the sweet and lovely Ruler devoted herself to her guests, several
of whom, such as the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman, the Patchwork Girl,
Tik-Tok, Jack Pumpkinhead and the Tin Soldier, never ate anything but
sat very politely in their places and tried to entertain those of the
guests who did eat.
And, at the animal table, there was another interesting group,
consisting of the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger, Toto-Dorothy’s
little shaggy black dog-Hank the Mule, the Pink Kitten, the Wooden
Sawhorse, the Yellow Hen, and the Glass Cat. All of these had good
appetites except the Sawhorse and the Glass Cat, and each was given a
plentiful supply of the food it liked best.
Finally, when the banquet was nearly over and the ice-cream was to be
served, four servants entered bearing a huge cake, all frosted and
decorated with candy flowers. Around the edge of the cake was a row of
lighted candles, and in the center were raised candy letters that
spelled the words:
Dorothy and the Wizard
“Oh, how beautiful!” cried Ozma, greatly delighted, and Dorothy said
eagerly: “Now you must cut the cake, Ozma, and each of us will eat a
piece with our ice-cream.”
Jellia Jamb brought a large golden knife with a jeweled handle, and
Ozma stood up in her place and attempted to cut the cake. But as soon
as the frosting in the center broke under the pressure of the knife
there leaped from the cake a tiny monkey three inches high, and he was
followed by another and another, until twelve monkeys stood on the
tablecloth and bowed low to Ozma.
“Congratulations to our gracious Ruler!” they exclaimed in a chorus,
and then they began a dance, so droll and amusing that all the company
roared with laughter and even Ozma joined in the merriment. But after
the dance the monkeys performed some wonderful acrobatic feats, and
then they ran to the hollow of the cake and took out some band
instruments of burnished gold-cornets, horns, drums, and the
like-and forming into a procession the monkeys marched up and down
the table playing a jolly tune with the ease of skilled musicians.
Dorothy was delighted with the success of her “Surprise Cake,” and
after the monkeys had finished their performance, the banquet came to
Now was the time for Ozma to see her other presents, so Glinda the
Good rose and, taking the girl Ruler by her hand, led her to the table
where all her gifts were placed in magnificent array. The Magic
Flower of course attracted her attention first, and Trot had to tell
her the whole story of their adventures in getting it. The little
girl did not forget to give due credit to the Glass Cat and the little
Wizard, but it was really Cap’n Bill who had bravely carried the
golden flower-pot away from the enchanted Isle.
Ozma thanked them all, and said she would place the Magic Flower in
her boudoir where she might enjoy its beauty and fragrance continually.
But now she discovered the marvelous gown woven by Glinda and her
maidens from strands drawn from pure emeralds, and being a girl who
loved pretty clothes, Ozma’s ecstasy at being presented with this
exquisite gown may well be imagined. She could hardly wait to put it
on, but the table was loaded with other pretty gifts and the night was
far spent before the happy girl Ruler had examined all her presents
and thanked those who had lovingly donated them.
23. The Fountain of Oblivion
The morning after the birthday fete, as the Wizard and Dorothy were walking
in the grounds of the palace, Ozma came out and joined them, saying:
“I want to hear more of your adventures in the Forest of Gugu, and
how you were able to get those dear little monkeys to use in Dorothy’s
So they sat down on a marble bench near to the Fountain of the Water of
Oblivion, and between them Dorothy and the Wizard related their adventures.
“I was dreadfully fussy while I was a woolly lamb,” said Dorothy,
“for it didn’t feel good, a bit. And I wasn’t quite sure, you know,
that I’d ever get to be a girl again.”
“You might have been a woolly lamb yet, if I hadn’t happened to have
discovered that Magic Transformation Word,” declared the Wizard.
“But what became of the walnut and the hickory-nut into which you
transformed those dreadful beast magicians?” inquired Ozma.
“Why, I’d almost forgotten them,” was the reply; “but I believe they
are still here in my pocket.”
Then he searched in his pockets and brought out the two nuts and
showed them to her.
Ozma regarded them thoughtfully.
“It isn’t right to leave any living creatures in such helpless
forms,” said she. “I think, Wizard, you ought to transform them into
their natural shapes again.”
“But I don’t know what their natural shapes are,” he objected, “for
of course the forms of mixed animals which they had assumed were not
natural to them. And you must not forget, Ozma, that their natures
were cruel and mischievous, so if I bring them back to life they might
cause us a great deal of trouble.”
“Nevertheless,” said the Ruler of Oz, “we must free them from their
present enchantments. When you restore them to their natural forms we
will discover who they really are, and surely we need not fear any two
people, even though they prove to be magicians and our enemies.”
“I am not so sure of that,” protested the Wizard, with a shake of
his bald head. “The one bit of magic I robbed them of-which was the
Word of Transformation-is so simple, yet so powerful, that neither
Glinda nor I can equal it. It isn’t all in the word, you know, it’s
the way the word is pronounced. So if the two strange magicians have
other magic of the same sort, they might prove very dangerous to us,
if we liberated them.”
“I’ve an idea!” exclaimed Dorothy. “I’m no wizard, and no fairy,
but if you do as I say, we needn’t fear these people at all.”
“What is your thought, my dear?” asked Ozma.
“Well,” replied the girl, “here is this Fountain of the Water of
Oblivion, and that’s what put the notion into my head. When the
Wizard speaks that ter’ble word that will change ‘em back to their
real forms, he can make ‘em dreadful thirsty, too, and we’ll put a cup
right here by the fountain, so it’ll be handy. Then they’ll drink the
water and forget all the magic they ever knew-and everything else, too.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said the Wizard, looking at Dorothy approvingly.
“It’s a very GOOD idea,” declared Ozma. “Run for a cup, Dorothy.”
So Dorothy ran to get a cup, and while she was gone the Wizard said:
“I don’t know whether the real forms of these magicians are those of
men or beasts. If they’re beasts, they would not drink from a cup but
might attack us at once and drink afterward. So it might be safer for
us to have the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger here to protect us
Ozma drew out a silver whistle which was attached to a slender gold
chain and blew upon the whistle two shrill blasts. The sound, though
not harsh, was very penetrating, and as soon as it reached the ears of
the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger, the two huge beasts quickly
came bounding toward them. Ozma explained to them what the Wizard was
about to do, and told them to keep quiet unless danger threatened. So
the two powerful guardians of the Ruler of Oz crouched beside the
fountain and waited.
Dorothy returned and set the cup on the edge of the fountain. Then
the Wizard placed the hickory-nut beside the fountain and said in a
“I want you to resume your natural form, and to be very
In an instant there appeared, in the place of the hickory-nut, the
form of Kiki Aru, the Hyup boy. He seemed bewildered, at first, as if
trying to remember what had happened to him and why he was in this
strange place. But he was facing the fountain, and the bubbling water
reminded him that he was thirsty. Without noticing Ozma, the Wizard
and Dorothy, who were behind him, he picked up the cup, filled it with
the Water of Oblivion, and drank it to the last drop.
He was now no longer thirsty, but he felt more bewildered than ever, for
now he could remember nothing at all-not even his name or where he
came from. He looked around the beautiful garden with a pleased
expression, and then, turning, he beheld Ozma and the Wizard and
Dorothy regarding him curiously and the two great beasts crouching
Kiki Aru did not know who they were, but he thought Ozma very lovely
and Dorothy very pleasant. So he smiled at them-the same innocent,
happy smile that a baby might have indulged in, and that pleased Dorothy,
who seized his hand and led him to a seat beside her on the bench.
“Why, I thought you were a dreadful magician,” she exclaimed,
“and you’re only a boy!”
“What is a magician?” he asked, “and what is a boy?”
“Don’t you know?” inquired the girl.
Kiki shook his head. Then he laughed.
“I do not seem to know anything,” he replied.
“It’s very curious,” remarked the Wizard. “He wears the dress of
the Munchkins, so he must have lived at one time in the Munchkin
Country. Of course the boy can tell us nothing of his history or his
family, for he has forgotten all that he ever knew.”
“He seems a nice boy, now that all the wickedness has gone from
him,” said Ozma. “So we will keep him here with us and teach him our
ways-to be true and considerate of others.”
“Why, in that case, it’s lucky for him he drank the Water of
Oblivion,” said Dorothy.
“It is indeed,” agreed the Wizard. “But the remarkable thing, to
me, is how such a young boy ever learned the secret of the Magic Word
of Transformation. Perhaps his companion, who is at present this
walnut, was the real magician, although I seem to remember that it was
this boy in the beast’s form who whispered the Magic Word into the
hollow tree, where I overheard it.”
“Well, we will soon know who the other is,” suggested Ozma. “He may
prove to be another Munchkin boy.”
The Wizard placed the walnut near the fountain and said, as slowly
and solemnly as before:
Then the walnut disappeared and Ruggedo the Nome stood in its place.
He also was facing the fountain, and he reached for the cup, filled
it, and was about to drink when Dorothy exclaimed:
“Why, it’s the old Nome King!”
Ruggedo swung around and faced them, the cup still in his hand.
“Yes,” he said in an angry voice, “it’s the old Nome King, and I’m
going to conquer all Oz and be revenged on you for kicking me out of
my throne.” He looked around a moment, and then continued: “There
isn’t an egg in sight, and I’m stronger than all of you people put
together! I don’t know how I came here, but I’m going to fight the
fight of my life-and I’ll win!”
His long white hair and beard waved in the breeze; his eyes flashed
hate and vengeance, and so astonished and shocked were they by the
sudden appearance of this old enemy of the Oz people that they could
only stare at him in silence and shrink away from his wild glare.
Ruggedo laughed. He drank the water, threw the cup on the ground
and said fiercely:
“And now-and now-and-”
His voice grew gentle. He rubbed his forehead with a puzzled air
and stroked his long beard.
“What was I going to say?” he asked, pleadingly.
“Don’t you remember?” said the Wizard.
“No; I’ve forgotten.”
“Who ARE you?” asked Dorothy.
He tried to think. “I-I’m sure I don’t know,” he stammered.
“Don’t you know who WE are, either?” questioned the girl.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Nome.
“Tell us who this Munchkin boy is,” suggested Ozma.
Ruggedo looked at the boy and shook his head.
“He’s a stranger to me. You are all strangers. I-I’m a stranger
to myself,” he said.
Then he patted the Lion’s head and murmured, “Good doggie!” and the
Lion growled indignantly.
“What shall we do with him?” asked the Wizard, perplexed.
“Once before the wicked old Nome came here to conquer us, and then,
as now, he drank of the Water of Oblivion and became harmless. But we
sent him back to the Nome Kingdom, where he soon learned the old evil
“For that reason,” said Ozma, “we must find a place for him in the
Land of Oz, and keep him here. For here he can learn no evil and will
always be as innocent of guile as our own people.”
And so the wandering ex-King of the Nomes found a new home, a
peaceful and happy home, where he was quite content and passed his
days in innocent enjoyment.
THE SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART
CHAPTER THE FIRST
The maid was a young woman of great natural calmness; she was
accustomed to let in visitors who had this air of being
annoyed and finding one umbrella too numerous for them. It
mattered nothing to her that the gentleman was asking for Dr.
Martineau as if he was asking for something with an
unpleasant taste. Almost imperceptibly she relieved him of
his umbrella and juggled his hat and coat on to a massive
mahogany stand. “What name, Sir?” she asked, holding open the
door of the consulting room.
“Hardy,” said the gentleman, and then yielding it reluctantly
with its distasteful three-year-old honour, “Sir Richmond
The door closed softly behind him and he found himself in
undivided possession of the large indifferent apartment in
which the nervous and mental troubles of the outer world
eddied for a time on their way to the distinguished
specialist. A bowl of daffodils, a handsome bookcase
containing bound Victorian magazines and antiquated medical
works, some paintings of Scotch scenery, three big armchairs,
a buhl clock, and a bronze Dancing Faun, by their want of any
collective idea enhanced rather than mitigated the
promiscuous disregard of the room. He drifted to the midmost
of the three windows and stared out despondently at Harley
For a minute or so he remained as still and limp as an empty
jacket on its peg, and then a gust of irritation stirred him.
“Damned fool I was to come here,” he said...”DAMNED fool!
“Rush out of the place? . . .
“I’ve given my name.” . . .
He heard the door behind him open and for a moment pretended
not to hear. Then he turned round. “I don’t see what you can
do for me,” he said.
“I’m sure _I_ don’t,” said the doctor. “People come here and
There was something reassuringly inaggressive about the
figure that confronted Sir Richmond. Dr. Martineau’s height
wanted at least three inches of Sir Richmond’s five feet
eleven; he was humanly plump, his face was round and pink and
cheerfully wistful, a little suggestive of the full moon, of
what the full moon might be if it could get fresh air and
exercise. Either his tailor had made his trousers too short
or he had braced them too high so that he seemed to have
grown out of them quite recently. Sir Richmond had been
dreading an encounter with some dominating and mesmeric
personality; this amiable presence dispelled his preconceived
Dr. Martineau, a little out of breath as though he had been
running upstairs, with his hands in his trouser pockets,
seemed intent only on disavowals. “People come here and talk.
It does them good, and sometimes I am able to offer a
“Talking to someone who understands a little,” he expanded
“I’m jangling damnably...overwork.. . . .”
“Not overwork,” Dr. Martineau corrected. “Not overwork.
Overwork never hurt anyone. Fatigue stops that. A man can
work-good straightforward work, without internal resistance,
until he drops,-and never hurt himself. You must be working
“Friction! I’m like a machine without oil. I’m grinding to
death. . . . And it’s so DAMNED important I SHOULDN’T break
down. It’s VITALLY important.”
He stressed his words and reinforced them with a quivering
gesture of his upraised clenched hand. “My temper’s in rags.
I explode at any little thing. I’m RAW. I can’t work steadily
for ten minutes and I can’t leave off working.”
“Your name,” said the doctor, “is familiar. Sir Richmond
Hardy? In the papers. What is it?”
“Of course! The Fuel Commission. Stupid of me! We certainly
can’t afford to have you ill.”
“I AM ill. But you can’t afford to have me absent from that
“Your technical knowledge-”
“Technical knowledge be damned! Those men mean to corner the
national fuel supply. And waste it! For their profits. That’s
what I’m up against. You don’t know the job I have to do. You
don’t know what a Commission of that sort is. The moral
tangle of it. You don’t know how its possibilities and
limitations are canvassed and schemed about, long before a
single member is appointed. Old Cassidy worked the whole
thing with the prime minister. I can see that now as plain as
daylight. I might have seen it at first. . . . Three experts
who’d been got at; they thought _I_’d been got at; two Labour
men who’d do anything you wanted them to do provided you
called them ‘level-headed.’ Wagstaffe the socialist art
critic who could be trusted to play the fool and make
nationalization look silly, and the rest mine owners, railway
managers, oil profiteers, financial adventurers. . . . “
He was fairly launched. “It’s the blind folly of it! In the
days before the war it was different. Then there was
abundance. A little grabbing or cornering was all to the
good. All to the good. It prevented things being used up too
fast. And the world was running by habit; the inertia was
tremendous. You could take all sorts of liberties. But all
this is altered. We’re living in a different world. The
public won’t stand things it used to stand. It’s a new
public. It’s-wild. It’ll smash up the show if they go too
far. Everything short and running shorter-food, fuel,
material. But these people go on. They go on as though
nothing had changed. . . . Strikes, Russia, nothing will warn
them. There are men on that Commission who would steal the
brakes off a mountain railway just before they went down in
it. . . . It’s a struggle with suicidal imbeciles. It’s-!
But I’m talking! I didn’t come here to talk Fuel.”
“You think there may be a smash-up?”
“I lie awake at night, thinking of it.”
“A social smash-up.”
“Economic. Social. Yes. Don’t you?”
“A social smash-up seems to me altogether a possibility. All
sorts of people I find think that,” said the doctor. “All
sorts of people lie awake thinking of it.”
“I wish some of my damned Committee would!”
The doctor turned his eyes to the window. “I lie awake too,”
he said and seemed to reflect. But he was observing his
patient acutely-with his ears.
“But you see how important it is,” said Sir Richmond, and
left his sentence unfinished.
“I’ll do what I can for you,” said the doctor, and considered
swiftly what line of talk he had best follow.
“This sense of a coming smash is epidemic,” said the doctor.
“It’s at the back of all sorts of mental trouble. It is a new
state of mind. Before the war it was abnormal-a phase of
neurasthenia. Now it is almost the normal state with whole
classes of intelligent people. Intelligent, I say. The others
always have been casual and adventurous and always will be. A
loss of confidence in the general background of life. So that
we seem to float over abysses.”
“We do,” said Sir Richmond.
“And we have nothing but the old habits and ideas acquired in
the days of our assurance. There is a discord, a jarring.”
The doctor pursued his train of thought. “A new, raw and
dreadful sense of responsibility for the universe.
Accompanied by a realization that the job is overwhelmingly
too big for us.”
“We’ve got to stand up to the job,” said Sir Richmond.
“Anyhow, what else is there to do? We MAY keep things
together. . . . “I’ve got to do my bit. And if only I could
hold myself at it, I could beat those fellows. But that’s
where the devil of it comes in. Never have I been so desirous
to work well in my life. And never have I been so slack and
weak-willed and inaccurate. ... Sloppy. . . . Indolent. . . .
VISCIOUS! . . . “
The doctor was about to speak, but Sir Richmond interrupted
him. “What’s got hold of me? What’s got hold of me? I used to
work well enough. It’s as if my will had come untwisted and
was ravelling out into separate strands. I’ve lost my unity.
I’m not a man but a mob. I’ve got to recover my vigour. At
Again as the doctor was about to speak the word was taken out
of his mouth. “And what I think of it, Dr. Martineau, is
this: it’s fatigue. It’s mental and moral fatigue. Too much
effort. On too high a level. And too austere. One strains and
fags. FLAGS! ‘Flags’ I meant to say. One strains and flags
and then the lower stuff in one, the subconscious stuff,
There was a flavour of popularized psychoanalysis about this,
and the doctor drew in the corners of his mouth and gave his
head a critical slant. “M’m.” But this only made Sir Richmond
raise his voice and quicken his speech. “I want,” he said, “a
good tonic. A pick-me-up, a stimulating harmless drug of some
sort. That’s indicated anyhow. To begin with. Something to
pull me together, as people say. Bring me up to the scratch
“I don’t like the use of drugs,” said the doctor.
The expectation of Sir Richmond’s expression changed to
disappointment. “But that’s not reasonable,” he cried.
“That’s not reasonable. That’s superstition. Call a thing a
drug and condemn it! Everything is a drug. Everything that
affects you. Food stimulates or tranquillizes. Drink. Noise
is a stimulant and quiet an opiate. What is life but response
to stimulants? Or reaction after them? When I’m exhausted I
want food. When I’m overactive and sleepless I want
tranquillizing. When I’m dispersed I want pulling together.”
“But we don’t know how to use drugs,” the doctor objected.
“But you ought to know.”
Dr. Martineau fixed his eye on a first floor window sill on
the opposite side of Harley Street. His manner suggested a
lecturer holding on to his theme.
“A day will come when we shall be able to manipulate drugsall
sorts of drugs-and work them in to our general way of
living. I have no prejudice against them at all. A time will
come when we shall correct our moods, get down to our
reserves of energy by their help, suspend fatigue, put off
sleep during long spells of exertion. At some sudden crisis
for example. When we shall know enough to know just how far
to go with this, that or the other stuff. And how to wash out
its after effects . . . . I quite agree with you,-in
principle . . . . But that time hasn’t come yet. . . .
Decades of research yet. . . . If we tried that sort of thing
now, we should be like children playing with poisons and
explosives. . . . It’s out of the question.”
“I’ve been taking a few little things already. Easton Syrup
“Strychnine. It carries you for a time and drops you by the
way. Has it done you any good-any NETT good? It has-I can
see-broken your sleep.”
The doctor turned round again to his patient and looked up
into his troubled face.
“Given physiological trouble I don’t mind resorting to a
drug. Given structural injury I don’t mind surgery. But
except for any little mischief your amateur drugging may have
done you do not seem to me to be either sick or injured.
You’ve no trouble either of structure or material. You areworried-
ill in your mind, and otherwise perfectly sound.
It’s the current of your thoughts, fermenting. If the trouble
is in the mental sphere, why go out of the mental sphere for
a treatment? Talk and thought; these are your remedies. Cool
deliberate thought. You’re unravelled. You say it yourself.
Drugs will only make this or that unravelled strand behave
disproportionately. You don’t want that. You want to take
stock of yourself as a whole-find out where you stand.
“But the Fuel Commission?”
“Is it sitting now?”
“Adjourned till after Whitsuntide. But there’s heaps of work
to be done.
“Still,” he added, “this is my one chance of any treatment.”
The doctor made a little calculation. “Three weeks. . . .
It’s scarcely time enough to begin.”
“You’re certain that no regimen of carefully planned and
“Dismiss the idea. Dismiss it.” He decided to take a plunge.
“I’ve just been thinking of a little holiday for myself. But
I’d like to see you through this. And if I am to see you
through, there ought to be some sort of beginning now. In
this three weeks. Suppose. . . . “
Sir Richmond leapt to his thought. “I’m free to go anywhere.”
“Golf would drive a man of your composition mad?”
“That’s that. Still-. The country must be getting beautiful
again now,-after all the rain we have had. I have a little
two-seater. I don’t know. . . . The repair people promise to
release it before Friday.”
“But _I_ have a choice of two very comfortable little cars.
Why not be my guest?”
“That might be more convenient.”
“I’d prefer my own car.”
“Then what do you say?”
“I agree. Peripatetic treatment.”
“South and west. We could talk on the road. In the evenings.
By the wayside. We might make the beginnings of a treatment.
. . . A simple tour. Nothing elaborate. You wouldn’t bring a
“I always drive myself.”
“There’s something very pleasant, said the doctor, envisaging
his own rash proposal, “in travelling along roads you don’t
know and seeing houses and parks and villages and towns for
which you do not feel in the slightest degree responsible.
They hide all their troubles from the road. Their backyards
are tucked away out of sight, they show a brave face; there’s
none of the nasty self-betrayals of the railway approach. And
everything will be fresh still. There will still be a lot of
apple-blossom-and bluebells. . . . And all the while we can
be getting on with your affair.”
He was back at the window now. “I want the holiday myself,”
He addressed Sir Richmond over his shoulder. “Have you noted
how fagged and unstable EVERYBODY is getting? Everybody
intelligent, I mean.”
“It’s an infernally worrying time.”
“Exactly. Everybody suffers.”
“It’s no GOOD going on in the old ways-”
“It isn’t. And it’s a frightful strain to get into any new
ways. So here we are.
“A man,” the doctor expanded, “isn’t a creature in vacuo.
He’s himself and his world. He’s a surface of contact, a
system of adaptations, between his essential self and his
surroundings. Well, our surroundings have become-how shall I
put it?-a landslide. The war which seemed such a definable
catastrophe in 1914 was, after all, only the first loud crack
and smash of the collapse. The war is over and-nothing is
over. This peace is a farce, reconstruction an exploded
phrase. The slide goes on,-it goes, if anything, faster,
without a sign of stopping. And all our poor little
adaptations! Which we have been elaborating and trusting all
our lives! . . . One after another they fail us. We are
stripped. . . . We have to begin all over again. . . . I’m
fifty-seven and I feel at times nowadays like a chicken new
hatched in a thunderstorm.”
The doctor walked towards the bookcase and turned.
“Everybody is like that...it isn’t-what are you going to do?
It isn’t-what am I going to do? It’s-what are we all going
to do! . . Lord! How safe and established everything was in
1910, say. We talked of this great war that was coming, but
nobody thought it would come. We had been born in peace,
comparatively speaking; we had been brought up in peace.
There was talk of wars. There were wars-little wars-that
altered nothing material. . . . Consols used to be at 112 and
you fed your household on ten shillings a head a week. You
could run over all Europe, barring Turkey and Russia, without
even a passport. You could get to Italy in a day. Never were
life and comfort so safe-for respectable people. And we WERE
respectable people. . . . That was the world that made us
what we are. That was the sheltering and friendly greenhouse
in which we grew. We fitted our minds to that. . . . And here
we are with the greenhouse falling in upon us lump by lump,
smash and clatter, the wild winds of heaven tearing in
through the gaps.”
Upstairs on Dr. Martineau’s desk lay the typescript of the
opening chapters of a book that was intended to make a great
splash in the world, his PSYCHOLOGY OF A NEW AGE. He had his
“We said: ‘This system will always go on. We needn’t bother
about it.’ We just planned our lives accordingly. It was like
a bird building its nest of frozen snakes. My father left me
a decent independence. I developed my position; I have lived
between here and the hospital, doing good work, enormously
interested, prosperous, mildly distinguished. I had been born
and brought up on the good ship Civilization. I assumed that
someone else was steering the ship all right. I never knew; I
“Nor did I” said Sir Richmond, “but-”
“And nobody was steering the ship,” the doctor went on.
“Nobody had ever steered the ship. It was adrift.”
“I realized that. I-”
“It is a new realization. Always hitherto men have lived by
faith-as children do, as the animals do. At the back of the
healthy mind, human or animal, has been this persuasion:
‘This is all right. This will go on. If I keep the rule, if I
do so and so, all will be well. I need not trouble further;
things are cared for.’”
“If we could go on like that!” said Sir Richmond.
“We can’t. That faith is dead. The war-and the peace-have
The doctor’s round face became speculative. His resemblance
to the full moon increased. He seemed to gaze at remote
things. “It may very well be that man is no more capable of
living out of that atmosphere of assurance than a tadpole is
of living out of water. His mental existence may be
conditional on that. Deprived of it he may become incapable
of sustained social life. He may become frantically selfseeking-
incoherent . . . a stampede. . . . Human sanity
“That’s our trouble,” the doctor completed. “Our fundamental
trouble. All our confidences and our accustomed adaptations
are destroyed. We fit together no longer. We are-loose. We
don’t know where we are nor what to do. The psychology of the
former time fails to give safe responses, and the psychology
of the New Age has still to develop.”
“That is all very well,” said Sir Richmond in the resolute
voice of one who will be pent no longer. “That is all very
well as far as it goes. But it does not cover my case. I am
not suffering from inadaptation. I HAVE adapted. I have
thought things out. I think-much as you do. Much as you do.
So it’s not that. But- . . . Mind you, I am perfectly clear
where I am. Where we are. What is happening to us all is the
breakup of the entire system. Agreed! We have to make another
system or perish amidst the wreckage. I see that clearly.
Science and plan have to replace custom and tradition in
human affairs. Soon. Very soon. Granted. Granted. We used to
say all that. Even before the war. Now we mean it. We’ve
muddled about in the old ways overlong. Some new sort of
world, planned and scientific, has to be got going.
Civilization renewed. Rebuilding civilization-while the
premises are still occupied and busy. It’s an immense
enterprise, but it is the only thing to be done. In some ways
it’s an enormously attractive enterprise. Inspiring. It grips
my imagination. I think of the other men who must be at work.
Working as I do rather in the dark as yet. With whom I shall
presently join up. . . The attempt may fail; all things human
may fail; but on the other hand it may succeed. I never had
such faith in anything as I have in the rightness of the work
I am doing now. I begin at that. But here is where my
difficulty comes in. The top of my brain, my innermost self
says all that I have been saying, but- The rest of me
won’t follow. The rest of me refuses to attend, forgets,
The word irritated Sir Richmond. “Not ‘exactly’ at all.
‘Amazingly,’ if you like. . . . I have this unlimited faith
in our present tremendous necessity-for work-for devotion;
I believe my share, the work I am doing, is essential to the
whole thing-and I work sluggishly. I work reluctantly. I
“Exact-” The doctor checked himself . “All that is
explicable. Indeed it is. Listen for a moment to me! Consider
what you are. Consider what we are. Consider what a man is
before you marvel at his ineptitudes of will. Face the
accepted facts. Here is a creature not ten thousand
generations from the ape, his ancestor. Not ten thousand. And
that ape again, not a score of thousands from the monkey, his
forebear. A man’s body, his bodily powers, are just the body
and powers of an ape, a little improved, a little adapted to
novel needs. That brings me to my point. CAN HIS MIND AND
WILL BE ANYTHING BETTER? For a few generations, a few
hundreds at most, knowledge and wide thought have flared out
on the darknesses of life. . . . But the substance of man is
ape still. He may carry a light in his brain, but his
instincts move in the darkness. Out of that darkness he draws
“Or fails to draw them,” said Sir Richmond.
“Or fails. . . . And that is where these new methods of
treatment come in. We explore that failure. Together. What
the psychoanalyst does-and I will confess that I owe much to
the psychoanalyst-what he does is to direct thwarted,
disappointed and perplexed people to the realities of their
own nature. Which they have been accustomed to ignore and
forget. They come to us with high ambitions or lovely
illusions about themselves, torn, shredded, spoilt. They are
morally denuded. Dreams they hate pursue them; abhorrent
desires draw them; they are the prey of irresistible yet
uncongenial impulses; they succumb to black despairs. The
first thing we ask them is this: ‘What else could you
“What else could I expect?” Sir Richmond repeated, looking
down on him. “H’m!”
“The wonder is not that you are sluggish, reluctantly
unselfish, inattentive, spasmodic. The wonder is that you are
ever anything else. . . . Do you realize that a few million
generations ago, everything that stirs in us, everything that
exalts human life, self-devotions, heroisms, the utmost
triumphs of art, the love-for love it is-that makes you and
me care indeed for the fate and welfare of all this round
world, was latent in the body of some little lurking beast
that crawled and hid among the branches of vanished and
forgotten Mesozoic trees? A petty egg-laying, bristle-covered
beast it was, with no more of the rudiments of a soul than
bare hunger, weak lust and fear. . . . People always seem to
regard that as a curious fact of no practical importance. It
isn’t: it’s a vital fact of the utmost practical importance.
That is what you are made of. Why should you expect-because
a war and a revolution have shocked you-that you should
suddenly be able to reach up and touch the sky?”
“H’m!” said Sir Richmond. “Have I been touching the sky!”
“You are trying to play the part of an honest rich man.”
“I don’t care to see the whole system go smash.”
“Exactly,” said the doctor, before he could prevent himself.
“But is it any good to tell a man that the job he is
attempting is above him-that he is just a hairy reptile
twice removed-and all that sort of thing?”
“Well, it saves him from hoping too much and being too
greatly disappointed. It recalls him to the proportions of
the job. He gets something done by not attempting everything.
. . . And it clears him up. We get him to look into himself,
to see directly and in measurable terms what it is that puts
him wrong and holds him back. He’s no longer vaguely
incapacitated. He knows.”
“That’s diagnosis. That’s not treatment.”
“Treatment by diagnosis. To analyze a mental knot is to untie
“You propose that I shall spend my time, until the Commission
meets, in thinking about myself. I wanted to forget myself.”
“Like a man who tries to forget that his petrol is running
short and a cylinder missing fire. . . . No. Come back to the
question of what you are,” said the doctor. “A creature of
the darkness with new lights. Lit and half-blinded by science
and the possibilities of controlling the world that it opens
out. In that light your will is all for service; you care
more for mankind than for yourself. You begin to understand
something of the self beyond your self. But it is a partial
and a shaded light as yet; a little area about you it makes
clear, the rest is still the old darkness-of millions of
intense and narrow animal generations. . . . You are like
someone who awakens out of an immemorial sleep to find
himself in a vast chamber, in a great and ancient house, a
great and ancient house high amidst frozen and lifeless
mountains-in a sunless universe. You are not alone in it.
You are not lord of all you survey. Your leadership is
disputed. The darkness even of the room you are in is full of
ancient and discarded but quite unsubjugated powers and
purposes. . . . They thrust ambiguous limbs and claws
suddenly out of the darkness into the light of your
attention. They snatch things out of your hand, they trip
your feet and jog your elbow. They crowd and cluster behind
you. Wherever your shadow falls, they creep right up to you,
creep upon you and struggle to take possession of you. The
souls of apes, monkeys, reptiles and creeping things haunt
the passages and attics and cellars of this living house in
which your consciousness has awakened . . . . “
The doctor gave this quotation from his unpublished book the
advantages of an abrupt break and a pause.
Sir Richmond shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “And you
propose a vermin hunt in the old tenement?”
“The modern man has to be master in his own house. He has to
take stock and know what is there.”
“Three weeks of self vivisection.”
“To begin with. Three weeks of perfect honesty with yourself.
As an opening. . . . It will take longer than that if we are
to go through with the job.”
It is a considerable-process.”
“Yet you shrink from simple things like drugs!”
“Has this sort of thing ever done anyone any good at all?”
“It has turned hundreds back to sanity and steady work.”
“How frank are we going to be? How full are we going to be?
Anyhow-we can break off at any time. . . . We’ll try it.
We’ll try it. . . . And so for this journey into the west of
England. . . . And-if we can get there-I’m not sure that we
can get there-into the secret places of my heart.
Where the Sidewalk Ends
by Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Shel Silverstein Biography
A truly unique and multi-faceted artist, Shel Silverstein was a renowned poet, playwright, illustrator, screenwriter, and songwriter. Best known for his immensely popular children’s books including The Giving Tree, Falling Up, and A Light in the Attic, Silverstein has delighted tens of millions of readers around the world, becoming one of the most popular and best-loved children's authors of all time.
Born in Chicago on September 25, 1930, Sheldon Allan Silverstein grew up to attain an enormous public following, but always preferred to say little about himself. “When I was a kid,” he told Publishers Weekly in 1975, “I would much rather have been a good baseball player or a hit with the girls. But I couldn’t play ball. I couldn’t dance. So I started to draw and to write. I was lucky that I didn’t have anyone to copy, be impressed by. I had developed my own style.”
Silverstein drew his first cartoons for the adult readers of Pacific Stars and Stripes when he was a G.I. in Japan and Korea in the 1950’s. He also learned to play the guitar and to write songs, a talent that would later produce such hits as “A Boy Named Sue” for Johnny Cash and “The Cover of the Rolling Stone” for Dr. Hook.
Shel Silverstein never planned on writing for children – surprising for an artist whose children’s works would soon become available in more than 30 languages around the world. In the early 1960’s Tomi Ungerer, a friend whose own career in children’s books was blossoming, introduced Silverstein to his editor, Harper Collins’ legendary Ursula Nordstrom. That connection led to the publication of The Giving Tree in 1964. The book sold modestly at first, but soon the gentle parable about a boy and the tree that loved him was admired by readers of all ages, recommended by counselors and teachers, and being read aloud from pulpits. Decades after its initial publication, with more than five and a half million copies sold, The Giving Tree holds a permanent spot atop lists of perennial bestsellers.
Where the Sidewalk Ends, Shel Silverstein’s first collection of poems, was published in 1974 and was hailed as an instant classic. Its poems and drawings were applauded for their zany wit, irreverent wisdom, and tender heart. Two more collections followed: A Light in the Attic in 1981, and Falling Up in 1996. Both books dominated bestseller lists for months, with A Light in the Attic shattering all previous records for its 182-week stay on the New York Times list. His poetry books are widely used in schools as a child’s first introduction to poetry.
Silverstein enjoyed a long, successful career as a songwriter with credits that included the popular “Unicorn Song” for the Irish Rovers and “I’m Checking Out” written for the film Postcards from the Edge and nominated for an Academy Award in 1991. In 1984, Silverstein won a Grammy Award for Best Children’s Album for Where the Sidewalk Ends – “recited, sung and shouted” by the author. He performed his own songs on a number of albums and wrote others for friends, including 1998’s Old Dogs with country stars Waylon Jennings, Mel Tillis, Bobby Bare, and Jerry Reed; and his last children’s recording Underwater Land with singer/songwriter and longtime friend Pat Dailey.
Shel Silverstein loved to spend time in Greenwich Village, Key West, Martha’s Vineyard, and Sausalito, California. Up until his death in May 1999, he continued to create plays, songs, poems, stories, and drawings, and most importantly, in Shel’s own words, “have a good time.”
Those good times show in the charm and humor of Underwater Land. Its seventeen tracks are a perfect blend of Silverstein’s irreverent wit and Dailey’s inviting vocal style. Produced by Silverstein, and featuring his whimsical artwork, the CD is now available from Olympia Records.
CHAPTER THE SECOND
The patient left the house with much more self possession
than he had shown when entering it. Dr. Martineau had thrust
him back from his intenser prepossessions to a more
generalized view of himself, had made his troubles objective
and detached him from them. He could even find something
amusing now in his situation. He liked the immense scope of
the theoretical duet in which they had indulged. He felt that
most of it was entirely true-and, in some untraceable
manner, absurd. There were entertaining possibilities in the
prospect of the doctor drawing him out-he himself partly
assisting and partly resisting.
He was a man of extensive reservations. His private life was
in some respects exceptionally private.
“I don’t confide . . . . Do I even confide in myself? I
imagine I do . . . . Is there anything in myself that I
haven’t looked squarely in the face? . . . How much are we
going into? Even as regards facts?
“Does it really help a man-to see himself?. . .”
Such thoughts engaged him until he found himself in his
study. His desk and his writing table were piled high with a
heavy burthen of work. Still a little preoccupied with Dr.
Martineau’s exposition, he began to handle this
confusion. . . .
At half past nine he found himself with three hours of good
work behind him. It had seemed like two. He had not worked
like this for many weeks. “This is very cheering,” he said.
“And unexpected. Can old Moon-face have hypnotized me?
Anyhow-. . . Perhaps I’ve only imagined I was ill. . . .
Dinner?” He looked at his watch and was amazed at the time.
“Good Lord! I’ve been at it three hours. What can have
happened? Funny I didn’t hear the gong.”
He went downstairs and found Lady Hardy reading a magazine in
a dining-room armchair and finely poised between devotion and
martyrdom. A shadow of vexation fell athwart his mind at the
sight of her.
“I’d no idea it was so late,” he said. “I heard no gong.”
“After you swore so at poor Bradley I ordered that there
should be no gongs when we were alone. I did come up to your
door about half past eight. I crept up. But I was afraid I
might upset you if I came in.”
“But you’ve not waited-”
“I’ve had a mouthful of soup.” Lady Hardy rang the bell.
“I’ve done some work at last,” said Sir Richmond, astride on
“I’m glad,” said Lady Hardy, without gladness. “I waited for
Lady Hardy was a frail little blue-eyed woman with uneven
shoulders and a delicate sweet profile. Hers was that type of
face that under even the most pleasant and luxurious
circumstances still looks bravely and patiently enduring. Her
refinement threw a tinge of coarseness over his eager
consumption of his excellent clear soup.
“What’s this fish, Bradley?” he asked.
“Turbot, Sir Richmond.”
“Don’t you have any?” he asked his wife.
“I’ve had a little fish, “ said Lady Hardy.
When Bradley was out of the room, Sir Richmond remarked: “I
saw that nerves man, Dr. Martineau, to-day. He wants me to
take a holiday. “
The quiet patience of the lady’s manner intensified. She said
nothing. A flash of resentment lit Sir Richmond’s eyes. When
he spoke again, he seemed to answer unspoken accusations.
“Dr. Martineau’s idea is that he should come with me.”
The lady adjusted herself to a new point of view.
“But won’t that be reminding you of your illness and
“He seems a good sort of fellow. . . . I’m inclined to like
him. He’ll be as good company as anyone. . . . This TOURNEDOS
looks excellent. Have some.”
“I had a little bird,” said Lady Hardy, “when I found you
“But I say-don’t wait here if you’ve dined. Bradley can see
She smiled and shook her head with the quiet conviction of
one who knew her duty better. “Perhaps I’ll have a little ice
pudding when it comes,” she said.
Sir Richmond detested eating alone in an atmosphere of
observant criticism. And he did not like talking with his
mouth full to an unembarrassed interlocutor who made no
conversational leads of her own. After a few mouthfuls he
pushed his plate away from him. “Then let’s have up the ice
pudding,” he said with a faint note of bitterness.
“But have you finished-?”
“The ice pudding!” he exploded wrathfully. “The ice pudding!”
Lady Hardy sat for a moment, a picture of meek distress.
Then, her delicate eyebrows raised, and the corners of her
mouth drooping, she touched the button of the silver tablebell.