Down the Hollow Tree
Now falling, when you first start, is a hair-raising business, but after
you have fallen for a mile and twenty minutes and nothing serious
happens you grow rather used to the feel of it. And that’s how it was
with Tatters.
“Bill,” he shouted presently—he had to shout for the rush of air carried
away his words as fast as they were spoken—“Bill, where do you suppose
we’re falling to?”
“South by West,” crowed the weather cock promptly. The Prince would have
liked to continue the conversation, but it took too much breath, so he
began planning how he should land without breaking Grampa, for certainly
Grampa was somewhere below. Rather sorrowfully he reflected that they
were falling farther away from the Emerald City every minute. He
wondered where his father’s head was, and what Mrs Sew-and-Sew would
think if she could see them tumbling down this hollow tree. Would it
never grow lighter? Would they never reach the bottom and what would
happen when they did? Just as he came to this point in his wonderings,
Tatters dropped into a clump of pink bushes so hard that for several
seconds he could do nothing but gasp.
“Well,” crowed Bill, beginning to flutter restlessly about in the
bear-skin, “are we here?”
“Yes, thanks to you. You’re discharged!” roared the old soldier, as
Prince Tatters picked up himself and his red umbrella. Grampa had been
less fortunate in his landing. He sat in the middle of a cinder path,
blinking rapidly, and as Bill scrambled out of the bear-skin and hopped
after Tatters, he raised his gun threateningly.
“You’re discharged without pay,” repeated Grampa angrily. “What do you
mean by crowing and betraying us to the enemy?”
“I couldn’t help it,” answered Bill in an injured tone. “It is the
nature of a cock to crow and I’ve helped the sun to rise.”
“And us to fall,” scolded Grampa. “Well, you’re discharged!” Rolling
over with a groan, he drew the bottle of patent medicine from his
pocket. Fortunately it was not broken, but it had made a dreadful dent
in Grampa.
“But wherever in Oz are we?” exclaimed Prince Tatters, trying to change
the subject, for he did not intend to have Bill sent off in this hasty
fashion. The old soldier pretended not to hear and continued to stare
resentfully at the bottle of medicine. On one side was pasted a green
label and Tatters looking over his shoulder read, with some surprise:
Sure cure for everything.
Follow the directions on the bottle.
Beneath in tiny printing was a long list of ailments. Grampa ran his
finger hastily down the list until he came to breaks, sprains and
bruises. “One spoon-full immediately after falling,” directed the
bottle.
Without a word, Grampa took a tin spoon from his knapsack, uncorked the
bottle and swallowed the dose.
“Why, it’s the wizard’s medicine!” cried Tatters, watching him
anxiously, for no sooner was the stuff down than a broad grin overspread
Grampa’s face. “Good thing I brought it along—works just like
magic—never know I’d fallen,” puffed Grampa, completely restored to
good humor. “Better have some, boys.” The old soldier smiled at his
companions.
Tatters, who was not hurt at all, shook his head and Bill, who had flown
into the air to examine the bottle, shook his wings.
“Well—good-bye!” wheezed the weather cock hoarsely. “You don’t need me
to direct you now—you can follow the directions on the bottle. Here I
go,” he finished sulkily, “here I go by the name of Bill!”
“Don’t go,” begged Tatters, looking pleadingly at the old soldier. Now
Grampa, remembering the splendid way Bill had fallen upon the bandits,
had already relented, but he never apologized.
“Company fall in!” he commanded gruffly, putting the wizard’s medicine
in his pocket. Tatters winked at Bill and Bill, muttering something
about having fallen in already, began to march down the cinder path.
They had dropped into a small park surrounded by a hedge that grew up as
high as they could see. A soft glow shone through the hedge and by its
rosy light the three adventurers began to examine their surroundings
with great interest. The park itself was pretty enough, but after
marching entirely around it and finding no break in the hedge, Grampa
looked rather worried.
“It’s a good enough place for a picnic,” puffed the old soldier, dusting
his game leg, “but then we’re not on a picnic!”
“No,” sighed Tatters, sinking down on a bench, “we’re not on a picnic,
for there’s nothing to eat.”
“If you were made of iron like I am you would never be hungry,” crowed
the weather cock, proudly. “I am glad I am cast in iron, but what shall
we do now, Mr Grampa?”
“Fly up and see how high the hedge is,” directed the old soldier, “while
Tatters and I try to cut an opening.” Pleased to be of some service,
Bill hurled himself upward, and Grampa with his sword and Tatters with
his rusty pen knife began hacking at the hedge. But as fast as they cut
away the twigs, others grew and after ten minutes hard work they gave up
in despair. Then down came Bill with the discouraging news that he had
flown as high as he could, and the top of the hedge was still nowhere in
sight. “But the wind is blowing north,” finished the weather cock
calmly.
“Bother the wind!” sputtered Grampa.
“Must we stay here till we starve,” groaned Tatters, “and never find my
father’s head or the fortune at all?”
“Fortune,” repeated Bill, putting his head on one side as if the word
brought something to his mind. “Don’t worry about that, for I have
already found the fortune.” And while Grampa and the Prince stared at
him in amazement, he touched with his claw a tiny golden key. It was
suspended on a thin chain round his neck and neither of them had noticed
it before.
“Why, where did you get that?” asked Tatters.
“I picked it out of the robber chief’s pocket,” explained Bill, rolling
his eyes from one to the other.
“You’d make a fine bandit,” chuckled Grampa, “but that’s not a fortune,
old fellow!”
“Then what _is_ a fortune?” asked Bill, looking terribly disappointed.
Grampa pulled his whiskers thoughtfully, for a fortune, when you come
right down to it, is hard to explain.
“Well,” he began slowly, “it might be gold, or jewels, or land. Anything
precious and rare,” he finished hastily.
“Isn’t this gold?” demanded Bill, holding up the key.
“Oh, Grampa, maybe it’s the key to the bandit’s treasure chest,”
interrupted Tatters excitedly. “Let’s go back and hunt for it.”
“And how are you going?” inquired the old soldier sarcastically.
“Falling down trees is easy enough, but you can’t fall up trees like
you can fall up steps. However,” he added quickly, seeing Tatters’
downcast face, “there must be some way out. Let’s look again.”
“I’m going to keep this key,” mused Tatters in a more cheerful voice,
“for I believe it will help us.” He gave Bill a little pat on the head
as he took the chain off his neck, and somewhat comforted, but still
mightily puzzled, the iron weather cock hopped after Grampa. This time
they circled the hedge more slowly, the old soldier taking one side and
Tatters and Bill the other. It was Bill who made the discovery—for
shining through the leaves on the left side the weather cock caught the
gleam of gold!
“The fortune!” he crowed loudly. “The fortune!”
It was not a fortune, but a golden gate, and pushing aside the leaves
and twigs Grampa and Tatters stared through the bars into the loveliest
garden they had ever seen. The gate was unlocked, and when Grampa
pressed upon it with his shoulder it swung noiselessly inward. Fairly
holding his breath, Tatters stepped in after the old soldier, and Bill
had just time to hop through before the gate swung shut again. Grampa
gave a low whistle and Tatters an involuntary cry of admiration.
Flowering vines and bushes filled the air with a delicate fragrance;
paths of silvery sand wound in and out among the trees and arbors;
crystal fountains splashed between the flower beds; and bordering each
path and grass grown lane were trees glowing with magic lanterns,
lanterns that bloomed as gaily as the blossoms themselves and lighted up
the garden with a hundred rainbow sheens.
It was all so strange and beautiful that Tatters and Grampa scarcely
dared breath but Bill, having been alive only two days, seemed to think
magic gardens quite usual affairs.
“Come on,” he called excitedly, “let’s find the fortune!” But a golden
sign on the nearest magic tree had caught Tatters’ eye and, paying no
attention to Bill, he tip-toed over to it.
“This is the Garden of Gorba,” announced the sign. “Mystery and magic in
all its branches.”
Grampa had come up behind Tatters. “Gorba,” muttered the old soldier
softly. “Now where?” He pulled the bottle of patent medicine from his
pocket and squinted first at the sign and then at the bottle. “The
same!” puffed Grampa, for written in gold letters at the end of the
list of ailments was the name Gorba.
“This must be the garden of the wizard that rascally bandit was telling
us about,” muttered Grampa uneasily. “He must have been on his way here
when they held him up. Maybe he’s here now! Hush! Be careful! Watch
out now! I wouldn’t trust a wizard as far as I could swing a chimney by
the smoke!”