The Sand Man Takes a Hand
Someone was coming toward the palace. A little gray-cloaked old
gentleman—a surprisingly quick and nimble old gentleman—springing from
cloud to cloud and pausing now and then to straighten a huge sack he
carried over his left shoulder. He was so busy admiring the lovely sky
colors behind him and waving merrily at the fluffy cloud figures above
his head, that he did not see Ozma’s shining palace until he was almost
upon it.
“Stars!” murmured the little old gentleman, balancing perilously on the
very edge of a silver cloud. “Another air castle! How delightful! I
shall jump right through it!”
Gathering himself together he leaped straight toward the window out of
which Dorothy and Ozma and the others were looking. With a soft thud he
struck the emerald setting just above the window, and down tumbled his
sack, opening as it fell and filling the air with clouds of silver sand.
Down tumbled the little old gentleman, turning over and over, and
finally landing on a blankety white cloud far below.
All of this Dorothy saw, and was about to ask Ozma what it could mean
when an overpowering drowsiness stole over her. Before she could speak
her eyes closed, and she sank backward into a big arm chair. Trot and
Betsy Bobbin with two little sighs crumpled down to the floor. The head
of Sir Hokus dropped heavily on the sill, and not even in Pokes had he
snored so lustily. Ozma slipped gently down beside Betsy and Trot, and
in a moment there was not a person awake in that whole big palace. Even
the little mice in the kitchen were fast asleep, with heads on their
paws.
Did I say everyone? Well, not quite everyone had fallen under the
strange spell. Tik Tok, Scraps, and the Scarecrow, who had never slept
in their lives, were still wide awake, and regarding their companions
with astonishment and alarm. The Tin Woodman was taking things calmly,
oiling up his joints and polishing his tin jacket with silver polish.
“This is no time to sleep,” cried the Scarecrow, shaking Sir Hokus. “I
say—wake up!” But all their efforts to arouse their companions were in
vain.
“En-chant-ment,” said the Copper Man. “Some—” With a click and a whirr
Tik Tok’s machinery ran down, and as Scraps and the Scarecrow were too
upset to think of winding him, he stood as silent and dumb as the rest.
“What shall we do?” cried the Scarecrow, seizing Scraps’ arm. “Jump out
of the window and go for help, or stay here and guard the palace?”
Scraps looked out of the window. “Stay here,” shuddered the Patch Work
Girl, drawing in her head quickly.
“Then,” said the Scarecrow, “let us arm ourselves and prepare to
withstand any attack.” He snatched up a pair of fire tongs and Scraps
grasped the poker. Falling into step, the two marched from the top to
the bottom of the palace. Everywhere the same sight met their gaze;
rooms turned topsy turvy, and spread over floors and sofas and chairs
the sleeping figures of Ozma’s once lively Courtiers and servants. The
effect was so distressing that Scraps and the Scarecrow found themselves
whispering and treading about on tip-toe. After inspecting the whole
palace they returned to Dorothy’s room and placed themselves
disconsolately in the doorway.
“Anyway, Ruggedo is quiet,” sighed the Scarecrow, “and that is
something.”
Scraps started to make a verse, but the silence and the ghostlike
atmosphere of the sleeping palace had dashed even the spirits of the
Patch Work Girl and she subsided with an indistinct mumble.
Ruggedo was silent for a very good reason. Ruggedo was asleep,
too—asleep sitting up as stiff as a stone image, for even in his sleep
he dreamed of the dreaded bombardment of eggs.
All this had happened because the little man in gray had taken Ozma’s
palace for an air castle, and who could blame him for that? Even the
Sand Man would not expect to find a regular palace set among the clouds.
There are plenty of dream castles, to be sure, and one of the Sand Man’s
chief delights is to jump through them and admire their lovely
furniture. But sure-enough castles—the little fellow could not get over
it. Sitting cross-legged on the white cloud, which floated close to
Ruggedo’s head, he stared and stared.
[Illustration: The Tin Woodman, oiling up his joints]
“Well, I never,” chuckled the Sand Man, and turned a somersault for very
amazement. Then, not knowing what else to do or think, he sensibly
decided to hurry home and tell the whole affair to his wife. His empty
bag he found on a tall treetop, and without one backward glance he
bounded into the air and disappeared. Really, it was quite lucky the
little old gentleman spilled his bag of sand where he did, for the only
safe giant is a sleeping giant, and while Ozma and her friends lay
dreaming they could not worry.
“Will they sleep forever?” sighed Scraps, after she and the Scarecrow
had sat silently for an hour.
“Seems likely,” said the Scarecrow gloomily. “But even if they do,” he
plucked three straws from his chest, “we shall stick to our post to the
very end.”
The Scarecrow regarded the sleeping figures of the little girls
affectionately.
“To the end of forever?” gulped Scraps, putting her cotton finger in her
mouth. “How long is that?”
“That,” said the Scarecrow resignedly and settling himself comfortably,
“that is what we shall soon see.”
[Illustration: (unlabelled)]