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"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 hounded 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."
Chapter Eight

The foolish Owl and the Wise Donkey
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 morning," said the donkey, in his deep
voice, which seemed bigger than he was. "Did

you come to us for advice?"
"Why, we came, anyhow," replied Scraps, "and now

we are here we may as well have some advice. It's
free, isn't it?"

"Certainly," said the donkey. "Advice doesn't
cost anything--unless you follow it. Permit me to

say, by the way, that you are the queerest lot of
travelers that ever came to my shop. Judging you

merely by appearances, I think you'd better talk
to the Foolish Owl yonder."

They turned to look at the bird, which fluttered
its wings and stared back at them with its big

eyes.
"Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot!" cried the owl.

"Fiddle-cum-foo,
Howdy-do?

Riddle-cum, tiddle-cum,
Too-ra-la-loo!"

"That beats your poetry, Scraps," said Ojo.
"It's just nonsense!" declared the Glass Cat.

"But it's good advice for the foolish," said
the donkey, admiringly. "Listen to my partner,

and you can't go wrong.
Said the owl in a grumbling voice:

"Patchwork Girl has come to life;
No one's sweetheart, no one's wife;

Lacking sense and loving fun,
She'll be snubbed by everyone."

"Quite a compliment! Quite a compliment, I
declare," exclaimed the donkey, turning to look at

Scraps. "You are certainly a wonder, my dear, and
I fancy you'd make a splendid pincushion. If you

belonged to me, I'd wear smoked glasses when I
looked at you."

"Why?" asked the Patchwork Girl.
"Because you are so gay and gaudy."

"It is my beauty that dazzles you," she
asserted. "You Munchkin people all strut around in

your stupid blue color, while I--"
"You are wrong in calling me a Munchkin,"

interrupted the donkey, "for I was born in the
Land of Mo and came to visit the Land of Oz

on the day it was shut off from all the rest of
the world. So here I am obliged to stay, and I

confess it is a very pleasant country to live in."
"Hoot-ti-toot!" cried the owl;

"Ojo's searching for a charm,
'Cause Unc Nunkie's come to harm.

Charms are scarce; they're hard to get;
Ojo's got a job, you bet!"

"Is the owl so very foolish?" asked the boy.
"Extremely so," replied the donkey. "Notice what

vulgar expressions she uses. But I admire the owl
for the reason that she is positively foolish.

Owls are supposed to be so very wise, generally,
that a foolish one is unusual, and you perhaps

know that anything or anyone unusual is sure to be
interesting to the wise."

The owl flapped its wings again, muttering
these words:

"It's hard to be a glassy cat--
No cat can be more hard than that;

She's so transparent, every act
Is clear to us, and that's a fact."

"Have you noticed my pink brains?" inquired
Bungle, proudly. "You can see 'em work."

"Not in the daytime," said the donkey. "She
can't see very well by day, poor thing. But her

advice is excellent. I advise you all to follow it."
"The owl hasn't given us any advice, as yet,"

the boy declared.
"No? Then what do you call all those sweet

poems?"
"Just foolishness," replied Ojo. "Scraps does

the same thing."
"Foolishness! Of course! To be sure! The Foolish

Owl must be foolish or she wouldn't be the Foolish
Owl. You are very complimentary to my partner,

indeed," asserted the donkey, rubbing his front
hoofs together as if highly pleased.

"The sign says that you are wise," remarked
Scraps to the donkey. "I wish you would prove it."

"With great pleasure," returned the beast.
"Put me to the test, my dear Patches, and I'll

prove my wisdom in the wink of an eye.
"What is the best way to get to the Emerald

City?" asked Ojo.
"Walk," said the donkey.

"I know; but what road shall I take?" was the
boy's next question.

"The road of yellow bricks, of course. It leads
directly to the Emerald City."

"And how shall we find the road of yellow
bricks?"

"By keeping along the path you have been
following. You'll come to the yellow bricks pretty

soon, and you'll know them when you see them
because they're the only yellow things in the

blue country."
"Thank you," said the boy. "At last you have

told me something."
"Is that the extent of your wisdom?" asked

Scraps.
"No," replied the donkey; "I know many

other things, but they wouldn't interest you.
So I'll give you a last word of advice: move on,

for the sooner you do that the sooner you'll
get to the Emerald City of Oz."

"Hoot-ti-toot-ti-toot-ti-too!" screeched the owl;
"Off you go! fast or slow,

Where you're going you don't know.


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