On Monday Mountain
“Good sleep, how did you enjoy your morning?” asked Percy Vere brightly.
“Pretty well,” smiled Dorothy, sitting up with a little yawn. “How did
you enjoy your sleep?”
“There was a rock in my bed,” said the Forgetful Poet thoughtfully, “and
then I got trying to think of a word to rhyme with schnetzel.”
“How about pretzel?” suggested Dorothy, smiling a little to herself at
the Forgetful Poet’s earnestness.
“And what is a schnetzel?” Dorothy smiled sweetly.
“It’s a green mocking bird,” explained Percy Vere, tossing back his
hair, “and it does live on pretzels. My dear, you have a wonderful
mind.”
“Woof!” interrupted Toto. He had been up for hours and wanted his
breakfast. The three travellers had been forced to spend the night in
the deep forest to which the runaway had brought them. The Forgetful
Poet had piled up a soft couch of boughs and leaves for Dorothy and
Toto, but had flung himself carelessly under a tree. However, it took
more than a hard bed to dash Percy’s spirits and, after running up and
down a few paces to get the stiffness out of his bones, he began to sing
at the top of his voice, filling in the words he forgot with such
comical made-up ones that Dorothy could not help laughing.
“I think we are going to have a lucky day, Mr Vere,” said the little
girl, hopping up merrily. “Don’t you?”
Percy, who was washing his face in a near-by brook, nodded so vigorously
that the water splashed in every direction.
“I should say!—April, May!” he called gaily.
“Why do you put in April May?” asked Dorothy, running over to splash her
own hands in the brook.
“To keep in practice,” puffed the Forgetful Poet. “Is that
plain—aeroplane? Is that clear—summer’s here? I’m always afraid I
shall run out of rhymes,” confided Percy, drying his face on his yellow
silk handkerchief. “So when I’m talking in prose, I usually add a line
under my breath.”
“Oh!” said Dorothy, and lowered her head so that the Forgetful Poet
would not see her smile. “You’ll like Scraps,” observed Dorothy
presently. “She’s a poet too.” And as they walked through the fragrant
forest, Dorothy told him all about the Patch Work Girl, who lives in the
Emerald City. Scraps, as most of you know, is one of the most famous
characters in Oz, being entirely made from a patch work quilt and
magically brought to life.
“Does she make better verses than I do?” asked Percy jealously.
“No,” answered Dorothy, shaking her head, “not any better, and yours are
such fun to finish.” This speech so tickled Percy Vere that he recited a
verse upon the spot, waving his arms so ferociously that Toto hid under
a rock. The little dog peered out from his hiding place to hear the
strange young poet deliver this jingle—which his little doggie head
could not comprehend in the slightest:
“As I came out of Snoozleburg,
I met a melon collie;
He wept because he said he felt
So terribly unjolly!
“I patted him upon the head;
He bit me on the shin—
Which goes to show just what
A horrid temper he was—was—”
“In,” giggled Dorothy, “and did he really?”
“No, unreally,” chuckled the Forgetful Poet, leaning down to give Toto’s
ear an affectionate little tweak. “Unreally! Unreally! Unreally! As
unreally as the breakfast we had this morning. Dorothy, my dear, I’m as
weak as tea!”
“Well, you don’t look it,” laughed the little girl mischievously. “But I
see a hut between those two pines. Perhaps someone lives there.”
“Tut tut! A hut;
Let’s hasten to it!
If the door is shut
I’ll jump right—?”
“All right!” said Dorothy merrily. “C’mon!”
The door was shut but when the Forgetful Poet turned the knob it opened
easily and they found themselves in a small, simply furnished cabin.
There was no one home, but there were eggs, coffee, bacon and bread in
the cupboard, so Percy made a fire in the little stove and Dorothy
quickly prepared an appetizing breakfast.
“It must belong to a woodcutter,” said Dorothy as they sat down cozily
together, “and I don’t believe he’ll mind.”
“I’ll leave a poem to pay for it,” said Percy loftily.
“And I’ll leave my ring,” added Dorothy. She was a little afraid the
woodcutter might not appreciate Percy’s poem.
While Dorothy washed up the dishes Percy scribbled away busily on some
sheets of paper he had found on the table and, after a good many
corrections, he pinned the following verse up on the wall:
“We’ve eaten up a little bacon
And eggs and such and now are takin’
Our leave. Accept our thanks, and you
Should feel a little honored to
Have entertained with humble fare
A really celebrated pair—
A Princess and a Poet, who
Wish you good-luck, good-day, a—”
Dorothy took the pencil and added a large dieu to Percy’s last line.
Then, leaving her gold ring on the table, she skipped after the
Forgetful Poet and Toto, who were already out of doors and anxious to be
off.
“Which way shall we go?” Dorothy paused a moment. “I think the Emerald
City is in this direction,” she decided at last, facing toward the West.
“Well, I hope so,” sighed Percy Vere, “for otherwise we shall never find
the Princess. I wish I’d flung that prophet out of the window—so I do!”
You see the young poet was getting very much discouraged.
“But even if you had, there still would be the monster to think about,”
Dorothy reminded him. “And if she’s lost from us, she’s lost from the
monster, too!”
“That’s so,” said the Forgetful Poet, cheering up immediately. “You
think of everything, don’t you. I’m going to write a book of verse about
you when I get back to Perhaps City.”
“That’ll be nice,” smiled Dorothy. “But let’s hurry up and see how far
we can be by noon-time.” And hurry up it certainly was, for the path
Dorothy had chosen grew steeper and steeper. It wound in and out among
the trees and was so rough and full of stones that they had to stop
every once in a while to rest.
“It’s a mountain—go fountain!” panted Percy Vere, after they had toiled
steadily upward for more than an hour.
“Never mind,” puffed Dorothy, tucking Toto under her arm—for the poor
bow-wow was completely worn out—“when we reach the top we’ll know where
we are.”
The trees had thinned out by this time and clouds of vapor hid the top
of the mountain from view, but Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet kept
climbing upward—on and on and up.
“It’s a dreadful blue mountain,” said Dorothy at last, leaning against a
rock.
“It’s blue as blueing,” groaned Percy Vere, shaking a stone out of his
shoe. “What’s this?”
“What’s that?” cried Dorothy, in the same breath. Now this—as it
happened—was a clothes horse, full of petticoats and pajamas—and as the
two travellers stared at it in disbelief it kicked up its pegs and
dashed off at a gallop, its petticoats and pajamas snapping in the
breeze. And that was a wash woman—a wild, wild wash woman, her hair
dragged up on top of her head and held in place by a couple of clothes
pins. She had a clothes prop in one hand and a cake of soap in the
other. Hurling both with all her might at Percy Vere, she turned and
scrambled up the mountain, screaming in a dozen different keys as she
scrambled. The clothes prop missed, but the great cake of soap caught
Percy squarely in the stomach.
“Ugh!” grunted the Forgetful Poet, sitting down from the shock:
“How rude, how rough, how awfully wasteful—
The lady’s manners are dis—dis—?”
“Gusting,” panted Dorothy—who was too frightened to make a rhyme.
“Can you fight?” she asked breathlessly, helping Percy to his feet. “I
think there’s going to be a fight. Look!”
Percy snatched up the cake of soap that had felled him and turned to see
what was coming. Through the clouds of steam that hung over the mountain
top there suddenly burst a terrible company.
Toto hid his head in Dorothy’s blouse and the Forgetful Poet could think
of no verse to express his feelings. No wonder! A charge of wild wash
women is enough to frighten the bravest traveller and that is exactly
what was coming. An army of wash women armed with long bars of soap,
bottles of blueing, clothes props, wash boards, tubs and baskets. They
were huge and fat, with rolled-up sleeves and cross, red faces, and the
faster they ran the crosser they grew, and the crosser they grew the
faster they ran.
“Doesn’t seem polite to fight the ladies, but—” Percy raised his arm and
flung the cake with all his might at the head of the advancing army. It
struck her smartly on the nose and, with a howl of rage, she dropped her
wash tub and rushed upon the two helpless adventurers.
“Wash their faces! Iron their hands and wring their necks!” she roared
hoarsely.
“What are you doing here you—you—scutter-mullions!”
Before either could answer, and Percy was racking his brains to think of
a word to rhyme with scutter-mullions, she had Dorothy by one arm and
the Forgetful Poet by the other, shaking them until they couldn’t have
spoken had they tried—while the others pressed so close (as Dorothy told
Ozma afterwards) it’s a wonder they weren’t smothered on the spot. But
at last, weary of shaking them, the wild wash woman flung them down upon
a rock.
“You’re a disgrace to our mountain!” she panted angrily. “Look at your
clothes!” (To be quite truthful Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet were
looking shabby and dusty in the extreme.)
“Give me his coat! Give me her dress! Snatch off their socks!”
screamed the other wash women, making little snatches at the two on the
rock.
Percy put his arms protectingly around Dorothy and Toto showed all his
teeth and began to growl so terribly that even the head of the wash
women stepped back.
“What are you doing on Monday Mountain?” she demanded indignantly.
“Monday Mountain?” gasped Percy Vere. “Did you hear that, Dorothy? We’re
on Monday Mountain! Great blueing, black and blueing!” finished Percy,
with a groan.
“Stop mumbling and speak up!” shouted the wash woman threateningly.
“Stop shouting and shut up!” barked Toto unexpectedly.
“We’re searching for a Princess,” explained Dorothy, in the surprised
silence that followed Toto’s remark.
“A Princess! Oh, mother!”
Out from the dreadful group sprang a perfectly enormous wash girl.
“Tell them, tell them!” She gave the leader of the tribe a playful
push. “Oh, mother, may I have him?”
“My daughter is a Princess,” announced the wash woman grandly, “Princess
of the Tubbies, and as this yellow bird pleases her he may remain.”
“And marry me?” exulted the Princess of Monday Mountain, clasping her
fat hands in glee.
“Marry you!” shouted Percy Vere, springing to his feet. “Never!
Absolutely no—domi-no! Dorothy. Dorothy, do you hear what they are
saying?”
Dorothy did not, for she had both hands over her ears. The shouts and
screams of the Tubbies, at Percy’s refusal to marry their Princess, were
so shrill and piercing that she thought her head would split with the
racket.
“To the wash tubs with them!” screamed the Queen furiously. “Wash their
faces, wring their necks, hang them up to dry!”
And, seizing upon the luckless pair, the wild wash women bore them
struggling and kicking to the top of Monday Mountain—Toto dashing
after—and the herds of clothes horses that graze on the mountain side
scattering in every direction as they passed.