Betsy's Birthday
"Well!" signed Betsy Bobbin, dropping into one of the royal hammocks
and swinging her heels contentedly, "It was the best party I ever had."
"I'm so full of birthday cake, I feel like a sponge," groaned the
Cowardly Lion, and sinking down on the grass he began to lick the
frosting off his paws.
"No wonder! You had ten pieces," grumbled the Hungry Tiger, settling
down sulkily beside him. "Now I call that more than your share, old
chap."
"Why shouldn't I have the lion's share," chuckled the great beast,
winking at Betsy. "I notice you ate three roast ducks and all the plum
pudding."
"And still I am hungry," complained the tiger, rolling his eyes sadly
from side to side. He looked so comical Betsy burst out laughing and
the Cowardly Lion fairly roared. Scraps, the Patchwork Girl came
running over to see what was the matter. All the celebrities had been
invited to Betsy's party and now, in the pleasant dusk, were walking
about under the trees in the Palace garden.
Of all gardens in and out of the world, there is none so lovely as
Ozma's, and of all fairy cities there is none to compare with the
Emerald City of Oz. Its sparkling buildings and shining streets, inlaid
with emeralds, its quaint domed cottages and shimmering palace, make it
a fitting capitol for this enchanting fairyland. Where but in Oz can
animals talk as sensibly as men? Where but in Oz can one live forever,
without growing old? Where but in Oz are there Wish Ways and Truth
Ponds, Book Mines and Fire Falls and where but in Oz can one find such
delightful companions as the Scarecrow and Scraps?
Is it any wonder, then, that Dorothy Gale, who blew to Oz in a cyclone,
that Trot and Betsy Bobbin, who arrived in this strange country by
way of a ship-wreck, have never returned to the real world? Who would?
Indeed, these three little mortals live in the Royal Palace itself,
with Ozma, the young fairy who rules over the four countries of Oz, and
this small sovereign has gathered at her court all the most interesting
and unusual people and animals in the realm. And every single one had
been invited to Betsy's birthday, so that it took two rooms to hold all
the presents, twenty-seven tables to seat the guests and sixty-nine
footmen to pass the plates.
"You sit there and tell me you're hungry!" gasped Scraps, snapping
her suspender button eyes at the Hungry Tiger. "Why you ate more than
anyone. I counted." Scraps, being well stuffed with cotton, never ate
at all and had amused herself by keeping strict watch over the others.
"Why Scraps," murmured Ozma reprovingly. She had come up behind the
Patchwork Girl and now gently tried to change the subject. No one
ever knew what Scraps would say next. Made from a gay patchwork quilt
and magically brought to life, this saucy maiden was one of the most
surprising people in the castle. But the Hungry Tiger had lived in the
Emerald City too long to mind her teasing.
"Of course I'm hungry," he yawned, rolling over on his side. "This
party stuff fills me up, but does not satisfy me. What I need is
something alive. But don't worry my dear," he added hastily, at
Ozma's rather anxious expression. "I will never devour anyone, for my
conscience would not permit it, so I shall be hungry to the end of my
days."
"Why don't you have yourself stuffed?" asked the Scarecrow, sitting
down in the hammock beside Betsy Bobbin. "Then you would lose this
frightful appetite and never be hungry at all. Mighty convenient, being
stuffed, old boy. Saves no end of bother and expense." The Scarecrow
spoke from experience, for he was himself a stuffed person, having been
made by a Munchkin farmer and stuck on a pole to scare away the crows.
He had been lifted down and brought to the Emerald City by Dorothy, on
her first adventure, and since then has been restuffed and laundered
many times. Of all Ozma's advisers, he is the wittiest and most
lovable. "Have yourself stuffed," he advised cheerfully, "and use straw
like I do."
"He stuffs himself from morning till night," snickered Scraps turning a
handspring.
"If he were not so ugly--so yellow and so big
I'd say he warn't a tiger, but a greedy weedy--"
"Scraps!" Ozma raised her scepter warningly, and the Patchwork Girl
dove into a button bush. But almost immediately her mischievous face
reappeared.
"Pig!" shouted Scraps defiantly, and looked so funny, peering out of
the button bush, that even the Hungry Tiger had to grin.
"I say, though, why _don't_ you have yourself stuffed?" asked the
little Wizard of Oz, who had just come up. "I've been experimenting
with some new wishing powders and might easily wish you out of your
jacket and stuff you with sawdust."
"Sawdust!" coughed the Hungry Tiger, sitting up and lashing his tail at
the very thought of such a thing, "I should say not. I prefer my own
stuffing, thank you."
"So do I," said Betsy, running over to give him a little hug. "You're
so soft and comfortable to ride this way."
"But sawdust is very serviceable," urged the Wizard, who was anxious
to try his new powders, "and I could stuff you in an hour." The
Wizard, by the way, is a mortal like Dorothy and Betsy. Long ago he
had been engaged by a circus in Omaha to make balloon flights. But one
afternoon, his balloon becoming unmanageable, had flown off--up and
away and never stopped till it dropped down in Oz. It was the Wizard
who had built the Emerald City and for many years he practiced the
trick magic he had learned in the circus. But later, Glinda the good
Sorceress of the South, had taught him real magic and he is now one of
the most accomplished magicians in all fairy history.
"Better let me stuff you," repeated the Wizard coaxingly.
"No! No! No!" roared the Hungry Tiger, becoming really alarmed at the
little man's persistence. "No, I tell you!"
"Well," the Wizard rose regretfully and began to move off, "if you ever
change your mind, let me have first chance, will you?"
"I'm going to change my mind to-morrow." Sitting down stiffly on a
bench opposite the hammock, Jack Pumpkinhead beamed upon the company.
"It's almost too soft to use," mused Jack, touching the top of his
pumpkin gently, "so, if you don't mind, I'll not talk any more."
"We don't mind at all," laughed Betsy, while Dorothy and Trot, who
had just joined the group, exchanged merry winks. Jack was so amusing
that no one could help chuckling when he was around. He had been made
by Ozma, when she was a little boy, and was almost as unusual as the
Scarecrow. To those not familiar with Oz history, this may seem a bit
strange, but Ozma once was a little boy, having been transformed by
old Mombi, the witch. And while she was a little boy she had carved
Jack neatly from wood and set an old pumpkin on his peg neck for a
head. Later he had been brought to life by mistake and has been living
merrily ever since. Every month or so Jack has to pick a pumpkin and
hollow out a new head for himself, so that he is constantly changing
his mind, but Ozma has a deep affection for the queer fellow, and Jack
is so odd and jolly that he is a great favorite in the Emerald City.
"Let's finish off the party with a game of hide and seek," suggested
the Cowardly Lion, as Jack continued to stare solemnly straight in
front of him. "You're it Betsy!" Giving the little girl a playful
poke, he dashed down an arbored path, followed helter skelter by all
the others. Even Jack, holding fast to his pumpkin head, ran and hid
himself behind a balloon vine. But the Hungry Tiger ran fastest of
all, never stopping till he reached the remotest corner of the garden.
All this talk of stuffing had made him exceedingly nervous and, with
a troubled sigh, he sank down beside a lovely fairy fountain. Here,
blinking up at the bright lanterns hung everywhere in honor of Betsy's
birthday, he began to think of the good old days when he had roamed
the wild jungles of Oz and eaten--well we had best not say what he had
eaten!
It was the Cowardly Lion who had coaxed the Hungry Tiger to the
capitol. The Cowardly Lion, himself, had come there with Dorothy and
the Scarecrow and grown so fond of the place and its people that he had
returned to the jungle for his old friend, the Hungry Tiger. And like
the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger had never been able to tear himself
away from this dear and delightful city. Indeed life without the love
of Dorothy, Betsy and Trot, the trust and affection of little Ozma,
and the companionship of all the merry dwellers in the castle, would
not be worth a soup bone. So the Hungry Tiger had never gone back, but
at times the longing for real tiger food almost overcame him.
"I wonder if stuffing would help," sighed the poor beast, licking his
chops hungrily. "I wonder--"
"What?" wheezed an oily voice, almost in his ear. The Hungry Tiger,
supposing himself to be alone, had spoken aloud, and springing up
found himself face to face with an ugly, red-faced and exceedingly
disagreeable looking stranger. He was dressed in robes of pink, gold
embroidered slippers and a simply enormous turban, that wagged from
side to side as he talked. An oddly twisted cane swung from his left
wrist and as he extended his hand in greeting, the Hungry Tiger jumped
back in alarm, for the stranger's thumb was blazing away merrily. It
was Ippty, Chief Scribe of Rash, for the hurry-cane had brought him
straight to the royal gardens of the Emerald City of Oz.
"Am I addressing the Hungry Tiger of Oz?" inquired Ippty. "And are you
still hungry?" he asked eagerly.
"What if I am?" growled the Hungry Tiger, blinking suspiciously at
Irasha's singular messenger. "What if I am?"
"Come with me," said Ippty, mysteriously. "Come with me, famous and
famished member of the feline family, and you will never know hunger
more!"
"Who are you?" rumbled the Hungry Tiger, sitting up and beginning to
pant a little from astonishment. "Who are you and what are you doing
here?"
"I am Ippty, Chief Scribe of Irasha the Rough, and I am here to offer
you an important position at the Court of Rash. Come to Rash," begged
Ippty, glancing uneasily over his shoulder, for he was not anxious to
meet any of the Oz celebrities. "Come, before we are discovered!"
"Rash!" coughed the Hungry Tiger impatiently. "Why should I go to that
measly little Kingdom when I am perfectly happy and contented here?"
"Because!" Bending over and splattering the Hungry Tiger with hot
candle grease from his thumb, Ippty began whispering earnestly in his
ear. At first, the Hungry Tiger's tail lashed and twirled with fury,
but as Ippty continued, he grew calmer, and a queer longing crept into
his great yellow eyes.
"Stand back fellow," he mumbled crossly, "you will singe off my
whiskers, and kindly remove your pencil from my eye."
"But you will come?" Straightening up, Ippty put his bristly hand
behind him and regarded the Hungry Tiger expectantly. "Not less than
one prisoner a day, sometimes as many as ten," he repeated persuasively.
"Humph!" grunted the tiger, half closing his eyes. Already Ippty's
wicked plan was beginning to tempt him. Surely eating criminals would
not be wrong, or at least, not so very wrong.
"And these prisoners are dangerous fellows, I suppose?" he asked
casually, trying to appear careless and unconcerned about the whole
queer business.
"Villains, thieves and robbers, rascally fat rogues who are a menace
to the country. By eating them you will be doing Rash a real service,"
Ippty assured him.
"And where is Rash?" asked the Hungry Tiger, waving his tail
inquiringly.
"In the southwestern corner of Ev," answered the Scribe, with a wave
that nearly put out his thumb. "And if you are ready, dear beast, we
will start at once."
"Ev!" spluttered the tiger, "why that's miles away. I was there long
ago, when Ozma, Dorothy and Billina rescued Prince Evardo from the
Gnome King. Too far!" yawned the Hungry Tiger, rolling over on the dewy
grass. "I'm too tired for such a journey."
"No trip at all!" Ippty touched the hurry-cane and in a few words
explained its curious mechanism, following it up with such a tempting
description of the Rash prisoners that the Hungry Tiger's appetite got
the better of his conscience.
"I'll go," he agreed gruffly, "but only for a few days, remember."
Ippty said nothing, but smiled wickedly to himself. Then, stuffing the
directions for their return into the hurry-cane, he sprang upon the
Hungry Tiger's back. Next instant, in a flash of fire and smoke, they
had disappeared from the garden.
"What was that?" gasped Dorothy, clutching Ozma by the sleeve. Both
little girls, crouched behind a button bush, had seen the strange flash.
"Lightning, I guess!" shuddered Ozma. "Let's run back to the castle,
Dorothy. A thunder storm's coming!"