The Winding Stairway
It was twilight in the wizard’s garden. All the lanterns burned low and
the birds twittered drowsily in the tree tops. Grampa and Tatters sat
wearily upon a golden bench—for after a whole day’s march they were no
nearer the Emerald City than before. Indeed, there seemed no way out of
the enchanted garden. They had lunched satisfactorily on the fruit of a
bread and butter bush, and Grampa’s knapsack was full of nicely spread
slices, but for all that each one of them felt tired and downhearted.
Urtha, on the contrary, was as fresh and merry as in the morning and,
seated under a willow tree, was weaving a daisy chain for Bill.
“She is certainly a fairy,” mused Grampa and absently pulling a blossom
from a near-by bush he popped it into his mouth. “We’ll take her back to
Ragbad, my boy, and won’t she liven up the old castle! I tell you,
now—” Suddenly Grampa stopped speaking and clapped his hand to his
belt. His eyes grew rounder and rounder and Tatters, turning to see why
he did not finish his sentence, gave a little scream of fright.
“Help!” called the Prince of Ragbad in an agonized voice. “Help!
Help!” Urtha was beside him in an instant, while Bill circled wildly
overhead.
“He’s growing,” breathed the little flower maid softly.
“Yes,” groaned Tatters distractedly, “he’s growing a chimney!” And
Tatters was quite right. Not only was the old soldier growing a chimney,
but a bay window as well. The chimney had knocked off his cap and grown
brick by brick as the horrified Prince looked on. The bay window, of
fancy wood-work and glass, jutted out at least three feet beyond
Grampa’s waist line. (The old soldier had always been proud of his
slim figure.)
“Give me my pipe,” panted Grampa in a choked voice. He had no idea what
was happening, but felt too terribly dreadful for words. Tatters sank on
one knee, snatched the pipe from its place in his game leg and lit it
with trembling fingers. Then it was that he caught sight of the sign on
the bush beside Grampa. “House plants,” said the sign distinctly.
“Oh!” wailed the Prince, suddenly remembering that Grampa had eaten one
of the blossoms, “you’ve eaten a house plant and there’s a chimney
sticking out of your head.”
“There _is_!” roared Grampa, puffing away at his pipe in great
agitation. “Well, that’s what comes of this pesky magic. A chim-nee!
Well, I’ll try to bear it like a soldier,” he finished grimly. A perfect
cloud of smoke rose from the chimney at these valiant words. Too
overcome for speech, Tatters covered his face.
“Don’t you care!” cried Urtha, flinging her arms ’round Grampa’s neck.
“It’s a sweet little chimney, and _so_ becoming!”
“The wind is blowing North,” crowed Bill, disconsolately following the
direction of the smoke as it curled up Grampa’s chimney. “If I see this
wizard I’ll fall on his head. I’ll give him a peck in the eye, five
pecks, but say!” Bill paused in his circling and swooped down upon the
old soldier. “How about the medicine?” Grampa and Tatters had forgotten
all about the wizard’s green bottle, but at Bill’s words the old soldier
drew it quickly from his pocket.
“I don’t believe there’s any cure for chimneys,” puffed Grampa, running
his finger anxiously down the list. He was so nervous that his hands
shook. To tell the truth he expected to grow a flight of steps or a
veranda any minute.
“Here, let me look,” begged Tatters, snatching the bottle from Grampa.
But though there was everything on the green label from ear ache to
lumbago, no mention was made of chimneys or bay windows at all.
“But it says ‘cure for everything,’” insisted Bill, perching stubbornly
on Grampa’s shoulder.
“This is worse than a battle!” moaned Grampa, rolling up his eyes. “I’m
poisoned, that’s what I am.”
“Poisoned!” cried Bill triumphantly. “Then find the cure for poison.”
Hurriedly Tatters consulted the label. “For poison of any nature, two
drops on the head,” directed the bottle. So while Urtha and Bill watched
nervously, Tatters uncorked the bottle and let two drops of the magic
liquid fall down Grampa’s chimney. There was a slight sizzle. Tatters
rubbed his eyes and Bill gave a crow of delight. The chimney had melted
and the bay window was gone and the gallant old soldier quite himself
again. Urtha was so happy that she danced all the way round the golden
bench and Grampa jumped up and ran to look at himself in a little pond.
“No worse for it,” mused the old soldier, stroking the top of his head
tenderly and patting his belt with great satisfaction, “but that’s the
last bite I’ll take in this garden.” As Grampa turned to go, a
particularly bright little flower bed caught his attention. The flowers
grew right before his eyes, dropped off their stems and were immediately
succeeded by other ones. Even in the dim lantern light the old soldier
could see that they were spelling out messages.
“Gorba will return to the garden at twelve o’clock.” This announcement
bloomed gaily in red tulips, and while the old soldier was still staring
at it in astonishment, the tulips faded away and another sentence formed
in the bed:
Who stays all night shall leave here never,
He’ll be a lantern tree forever!
In yellow daffodils, the sentence danced before Grampa’s eyes. “A life
sentence!” panted the old soldier wildly, and without waiting for more
he plunged across the garden.
“Tatters! Bill! Urtha!” shouted Grampa, his own voice hoarse with
excitement. “The wizard’s coming back and we’ve got to get out of this
garden or be lantern trees forever!”
“Forever!” gasped the Prince of Ragbad, who had scarcely recovered from
the chimney business. As fast as he could, Grampa told of the flower
messages, and when they hurried back to the bed, a pansy sentence had
already grown there.
“Good-night,” said the pansies politely, then fluttering off their
stems, blew like gay little butterflies across the lawn.
“_Good_ night!” choked Grampa bitterly. “It’s the worst night I ever
heard of. I won’t be rooted to the spot, nor a tree for any old wizard
wizzing. Come on! Company ’tenshun!”
“Here I come by the name of Bill,” crowed the weather cock, hurling into
the air.
“But what are we coming to?” panted Tatters, shouldering his red
umbrella dutifully, while Urtha kept anxiously beside him.
“We’re going back to those stepping stones,” puffed Grampa, stumping
along determinedly. The lanterns winked lower and lower and soon it was
so dark and shadowy they lost the path entirely. Smothering his alarm,
Grampa marched doggedly on, bumping into benches and trees, but never
once pausing.
“They ought to be here some place,” wheezed the old soldier and then
stopped with a grunt, for he had run plump into an iron railing in the
dark.
“What is it?” whispered Tatters, straining his eyes in the gathering
gloom.
“Why, it’s a flight of steps,” cried Grampa in the next breath. Feeling
for the gate, he entered the little enclosure and struck a match. By the
flickering light, he saw six circular golden steps and on the top one in
jewelled letters were just three words: “Gorba’s Winding Stairway.” Then
the match sputtered and went out.
“Winding stairway,” puffed the old soldier joyfully. “Why, this must be
the way out. They wind up, I’ll bet a gum drop! Get aboard everybody.
Hurry! Here Loveliness!” Taking Urtha’s hand, Grampa guided her up the
first step. Tatters stood on the second with Bill on his shoulder.
Grampa mounted quickly to the top and striking another match looked
anxiously for directions. There were no more inscriptions, but under
Gorba’s name was a tiny gold handle. The match was burning lower and
lower and just as it went out Grampa seized the handle and turned it
sharply to the left. Then—“Great Gollywockers!” gasped the old soldier,
clutching at the rail. “It’s winding down!”
Poor Grampa, in his hurry, had turned the handle the wrong way, and next
instant the brave little company were whirling down the wizard’s winding
stairway, ’round and ’round, down and down, ’round and down, down and
’round, until they were too dizzy to know where they were going.
“Hold on!” called Grampa wildly. “Hold on! Hold on! Hold on!” And
hold on was about all they could do.