The Mischievous Play Fellows
Bright and early next morning Grampa lined up his little army and, after
a short council, they determined to continue their march to the Emerald
City and learn from Ozma’s magic picture just where Abrog and the lost
Princess of Perhaps City were to be found. Although breakfast had been a
light affair of water and berries, they were all in excellent spirits
and, with Grampa’s drum beating out a lively march, they stepped merrily
down the shady Winkie Lane. Grampa and the Forgetful Poet led off,
Dorothy and the Prince of Ragbad followed, the Prince carrying his
father’s head and his red umbrella. Urtha danced in and out to suit her
own sweet fancy, Bill flew ahead and Toto trotted contentedly behind.
“Here I go by the name of Bill!” crowed the weather cock exultantly.
“By the name of B-hill!”
Grampa winked at Percy Vere and Percy Vere winked back. “Isn’t he
ridiculish?” whispered the Forgetful Poet merrily. “But then, we’re all
ridiculish in spots.” His eyes rested a moment on Grampa’s game leg.
“Yes,” continued Percy Vere, with a droll nod, “everything, when you
come to think of it, is simply sinoobious. Why do we call ourselves an
army, pray, when we might just as well call ourselves a footy? Have we
not as many feet as arms? Why do we say ‘Good-day’ on a rainy morning
and—”
“One thing at a time, one thing at a time!” objected the old soldier
testily. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll strain your brain, young man?”
“I think and think both late and early,
For thinking makes the brain grow curly!”
chuckled the irrepressible poet, at which Grampa beat such a tattoo upon
his drum that the next verses were quite drowned out. But as soon as
Grampa stopped drumming, Percy burst out again:
“I met a spick and Spaniard once,
He was so spick and span,
He even had his toes curled up
Believe me, if you, if you—?”
“I can believe anything Mr Vere,” said Grampa grimly.
“Then try this!” roared the Forgetful Poet, waving his arms.
“If fifty boats and fifty crews
Were gathered in a group,
Why wouldn’t it be proper, Sir,
To call the crews a croup?
Admit, old dear, that this is clear—
As clear, as clear as—”
“Soup!” groaned Grampa in spite of himself. “Vegetable soup,” he added
bitterly and, reaching in his pocket, jerked out the wizard’s medicine.
“What are you doing?” asked Percy curiously, as he ran his finger
hurriedly down the green label.
“Looking for a cure,” said the old soldier, raising his eyebrows
significantly. But there was no cure for forgetful poetry on the green
label, so with a sigh Grampa returned the bottle to his pocket. “What
can’t be cured must be endured,” said the old soldier glumly and,
pursing up his lips, he began to whistle a sad tune. Dorothy and Tatters
exchanged amused glances and Urtha, who had been skipping beside Percy
Vere, touched him on the arm.
“Is the Princess of Perhaps City pretty?” asked the little flower fairy
timidly. She could not bear to think of Tatters marrying an ugly
Princess.
“I should guess, mercy yes!
I should say, April, April—?”
“Trouble ahead! Trouble ahead!” crowed Bill, before anyone could
finish the verse. Just then a turn in the lane brought them plump into a
huge fenced-in park. The fence was much too high to climb and stretched
as far on either side as they could see.
“I never saw this place before,” said Dorothy, peering curiously between
the bars, “but maybe if we knock on the gate someone will let us in.
Then we can march through and out the other side.”
“Here’s the gate,” called Percy Vere, who had run a little ways to the
right, “and here’s a sign.”
“Play!” announced the sign over the gate. “All work on these grounds
forbidden.” Just below was a smaller sign—“No trespassing!”
“Well, we don’t want to trespass, we want to jes’ pass through,”
chortled the Forgetful Poet and, before anyone could stop him, he had
hammered hard upon the gates. Immediately loud roars of laughter sounded
all through the park, footsteps scurried over the lawns and the next
instant the gayest company that Dorothy ever had seen came crowding
forward—Pierrettes and Pierrots, hundreds of them, the girls in full
skirted frocks with tall saucy caps, the men in pantaloon suits and
frills. While they smiled and waved through the bars, the King of Play,
who looked, as Dorothy told Ozma afterwards, exactly like a court
jester—the King himself swung open the gates and, with a low bow,
invited them to enter. So, of course they did, and before Grampa could
give the order to break ranks or fall out, or even say Hello, the Play
Fellows had fallen upon his army and simply borne them away. Only Bill
escaped and nervously he hovered over his friends, determining, if
necessary, to drop on the heads of this exuberant company.
“Wait! Stop! Halt!” puffed the old soldier, who was being dragged
toward a merry-go-round by five of the mischievous Pierrettes. Dorothy
and Percy Vere were being rushed as unceremoniously to the swings, while
a dozen of the Pierrots were begging Urtha for a dance. Tatters, holding
his father’s head high above his own, was hustled off to a high wooden
slide and to nothing that any of them said would the Play Fellows pay
the slightest attention. Indeed, there was so much noise and confusion,
they could not have heard if they had tried. Bands played and fountains
played and the Play Fellows played, and the creak of the swings and the
squeak of the merry-go-rounds and the roars of the delighted Pierrettes
and Pierrots, as they hustled their visitors from one amusement to
another, were enough to deafen a gate post. Toto, after one shocked
glance at the boisterous company, scampered off and hid himself in a
button bush, where he watched anxiously for a chance to escape. Poor
Bill, trying to keep all of the company in view at once, flew in
dizzying circles over the park, almost cross-eyed from the strain.
After his sixteenth merry-go-round, Grampa gave up trying to explain
and, staggering over to a soap bubble fountain, fell in. But the Play
Fellows quickly pulled him out and insisted upon his joining in a game
of tag. The only bright spot in the whole dreadful experience was the
finding of a bubble pipe, which Grampa hastily picked from its bush and
thrust into his pocket.
Percy and Dorothy fared no better. “This is worse than washing!”
groaned the Forgetful Poet, as a wild company of Pierrettes dragged them
’round and ’round the mulberry bush.
“Play! Play! Play!” shouted King Capers, dashing from group to group
and banging the company right and left with his belled and beribboned
scepter. “Play! Play! Play!”
“I never knew fun was such hard work,” panted Tatters to Bill, who was
circling immediately above his head. The poor Prince was black and blue
all over from sliding down the slides, but every time he objected the
Play Fellows would pull him to the top and scream with merriment as he
came sliding down again. There were too many heads to fall on, and
Bill—powerless to help—screamed his rage and indignation at the
mannerless crowd. There was much to be seen and marvelled at in the play
grounds, but as the company agreed later, playing when you want to play
and being forced to play are two quite different things, so that the
balloon vines, top trees and checker bushes went almost unnoticed.
Indeed all that any of them could think of was getting away.
Urtha was the first to make her escape. The little flower fairy had been
treated so gently and considerately by Grampa and Tatters, since her
coming to life in the enchanted garden, that she did not know what to
make of the rude manners of the Play Fellows. When they began snatching
flowers from her hair and pulling her roughly from place to place, her
violet eyes widened with terror and dismay. Watching her opportunity,
she sprang away from them and sped like the wind itself across the
gardens. Now the runner does not exist who can outdistance a fairy, so
it was not long before Urtha left her tormentors behind. And better
still, the little flower fairy had run directly into a wicket gate
leading out of the play grounds. Opening the gate she slipped through
and then, because she was still frightened, she kept running and running
till she was as lost as one raindrop in a thunder shower.
There is no telling how long the others would have been forced to endure
the teasing of the Play Fellows, if a gong had not sounded from a
distant part of the grounds. Immediately the whole company trooped off:
and, without waiting to find out the meaning of the bell, Grampa’s army
rushed to the nearest exits.
“I’m done for!” gasped Percy Vere, rolling under a tree. “Let me curl
up like a pretzel and bake—I mean die!” Toto, who had followed close
upon the heels of the harassed company, curled up beside him.
“But where’s Urtha?” cried Tatters, staring around wildly. “Where’s
Grampa?”
“She ran away long ago,” crowed Bill, flying over the fence. “That
way!” He pointed his claw toward the East.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear, where _is_ the old soldier?” wailed Dorothy,
jumping up and down with impatience. “We ought to get away from here
quick.”
“I’ll find him,” volunteered Bill. “Wait here.” Back went the devoted
weather cock and, after flying over the entire play grounds, he found
Grampa asleep under a checker bush.
“Wake up!” cried Bill, jumping up and down on his chest. “The coast is
clear. Forward march, by the name of Grampa!”
The old soldier stirred uneasily, rubbed his eyes and then sprang up but
immediately tumbled down again, for while he slept, the wretched Play
Fellows had run off with his game leg.
“What in time?” blustered the old soldier, picking himself up again. But
being a man of action and, seeing a crowd of Pierrettes emerging from a
big hall not far away, Grampa snatched up a long handled croquet mallet
and, using it as a crutch, hobbled with all his might toward the exit
pointed out by Bill. Here he was met by Percy Vere and Dorothy and after
a startled look each seized one of his arms and away they ran as fast as
five legs would take them. Percy carried the King’s head and Dorothy the
red umbrella. Tatters had dropped both when he discovered that Urtha was
missing and had dashed off in search of her. And it was not long before
he picked up the trail, for every step of the flower maiden was marked
out in daisies and forget-me-nots. Paying no attention to rocks, sticks,
brambles and thorns, the Prince of Ragbad pushed on, his only thought to
find and comfort the sweet and lost little fairy who had made the days
so pleasant and the journey so happy for them.