7. The Troublesome Phonograph
When the boy opened his eyes the next morning he looked carefully
around the room. These small Munchkin houses seldom had more than one
room in them. That in which Ojo now found himself had three beds, set
all in a row on one side of it. The Glass Cat lay asleep on one bed, Ojo
was in the second, and the third was neatly made up and smoothed for the
day. On the other side of the room was a round table on which breakfast
was already placed, smoking hot. Only one chair was drawn up to the
table, where a place was set for one person. No one seemed to be in the
room except the boy and Bungle.
Ojo got up and put on his shoes. Finding a toilet stand at the
head of his bed he washed his face and hands and brushed his hair. Then
he went to the table and said:
“I wonder if this is my breakfast.”
“Eat it!” commanded a Voice at his side, so near that Ojo jumped.
But no person could he see.
He was hungry, and the breakfast looked good; so he sat down and
ate all he wanted. Then, rising, he took his hat and wakened the Glass Cat.
“Come on, Bungle,” said he; “we must go.”
He cast another glance about the room and, speaking to the air,
he said: “Whoever lives here has been kind to me, and I’m much obliged.”
There was no answer, so he took his basket and went out the door,
the cat following him. In the middle of the path sat the Patchwork Girl,
playing with pebbles she had picked up.
“Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “I thought you
were never coming out. It has been daylight a long time.”
“What did you do all night?” asked the boy.
“Sat here and watched the stars and the moon,” she replied.
“They’re interesting. I never saw them before, you know.”
“Of course not,” said Ojo.
“You were crazy to act so badly and get thrown outdoors,”
remarked Bungle, as they renewed their journey.
“That’s all right,” said Scraps. “If I hadn’t been thrown out I
wouldn’t have seen the stars, or the big gray wolf.”
“What wolf?” inquired Ojo.
“The one that came to the door of the house three times during
the night.”
“I don’t see why that should be,” said the boy, thoughtfully;
“there was plenty to eat in that house, for I had a fine breakfast, and I
slept in a nice bed.”
“Don’t you feel tired?” asked the Patchwork Girl, noticing that
the boy yawned.
“Why, yes; I’m as tired as I was last night; and yet I slept very
well.”
“And aren’t you hungry?”
“It’s strange,” replied Ojo. “I had a good breakfast, and yet I
think I’ll now eat some of my crackers and cheese.”
Scraps danced up and down the path. Then she sang:
"Kizzle-kazzle-kore;
The wolf is at the door,
There's nothing to eat but a bone without meat,
And a bill from the grocery store."
“What does that mean?” asked Ojo.
“Don’t ask me,” replied Scraps. “I say what comes into my head,
but of course I know nothing of a grocery store or bones without meat
or–very much else.”
“No,” said the cat; “she’s stark, staring, raving crazy, and her
brains can’t be pink, for they don’t work properly.”
“Bother the brains!” cried Scraps. “Who cares for ’em, anyhow?
Have you noticed how beautiful my patches are in this sunlight?”
Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps pattering along the
path behind them and all three turned to see what was coming. To their
astonishment they beheld a small round table running as fast as its four
spindle legs could carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a phonograph
with a big gold horn.
“Hold on!” shouted the phonograph. “Wait for me!”
“Goodness me; it’s that music thing which the Crooked Magician
scattered the Powder of Life over,” said Ojo.
“So it is,” returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of voice; and then,
as the phonograph overtook them, the Glass Cat added sternly: “What are
you doing here, anyhow?”
“I’ve run away,” said the music thing. “After you left, old Dr.
Pipt and I had a dreadful quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces
if I didn’t keep quiet. Of course I wouldn’t do that, because a
talking-machine is supposed to talk and make a noise–and sometimes
music. So I slipped out of the house while the Magician was stirring his
four kettles and I’ve been running after you all night. Now that I’ve
found such pleasant company, I can talk and play tunes all I want to.”
Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their
party. At first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a
little thought decided him not to make friends.
“We are traveling on important business,” he declared, “and
you’ll excuse me if I say we can’t be bothered.”
“How very impolite!” exclaimed the phonograph.
“I’m sorry, but it’s true,” said the boy. “You’ll have to go
somewhere else.”
“This is very unkind treatment, I must say,” whined the
phonograph, in an injured tone. “Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I
was intended to amuse people.”
“It isn’t you we hate, especially,” observed the Glass Cat; “it’s
your dreadful music. When I lived in the same room with you I was much
annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and grumbles and clicks and
scratches so it spoils the music, and your machinery rumbles so that the
racket drowns every tune you attempt.”
“That isn’t my fault; it’s the fault of my records. I must admit
that I haven’t a clear record,” answered the machine.
“Just the same, you’ll have to go away,” said Ojo.
“Wait a minute,” cried Scraps. “This music thing interests me.
I remember to have heard music when I first came to life, and I would
like to hear it again. What is your name, my poor abused phonograph?”
“Victor Columbia Edison,” it answered.
“Well, I shall call you ‘Vic’ for short,” said the Patchwork
Girl. “Go ahead and play something.”
“It’ll drive you crazy,” warned the cat.
“I’m crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel
out the music, Vic.”
“The only record I have with me,” explained the phonograph, “is
the one the Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It’s a
highly classical composition.”
“A what?” inquired Scraps.
“It is classical music, and considered the best and most puzzling
ever manufactured. You’re supposed to like it, whether you do or not,
and if you don’t, the proper thing is to look as if you did. Understand?”
“Not in the least,” said Scraps.
“Then listen!”
At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put
his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and
Scraps began to laugh.
“Cut it out, Vic,” she said. “That’s enough.”
But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo
seized the crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However,
the moment the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine
again and began winding it up. And still the music played.
“Let’s run!” cried Scraps, and they all started and ran down the
path as fast as they could go. But the phonograph was right behind them
and could run and play at the same time. It called out reproachfully:
“What’s the matter? Don’t you love classical music?”
“No, Vic,” said Scraps, halting. “We will passical the classical
and preserve what joy we have left. I haven’t any nerves, thank
goodness, but your music makes my cotton shrink.”
“Then turn over my record. There’s a rag-time tune on the other
side,” said the machine.
“What’s rag-time?”
“The opposite of classical.”
“All right,” said Scraps, and turned over the record.
The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble of sounds which
proved so bewildering that after a moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork
apron into the gold horn and cried: “Stop–stop! That’s the other
extreme. It’s extremely bad!”
Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on.
“If you don’t shut off that music I’ll smash your record,”
threatened Ojo.
The music stopped at that and the machine turned its horn from
one to another and said with great indignation: “What’s the matter now?
Is it possible you can’t appreciate rag-time?”
“Scraps ought to, being rags herself,” said the cat; “but I simply
can’t stand it; it makes my whiskers curl.”
“It is, indeed, dreadful!” exclaimed Ojo, with a shudder.
“It’s enough to drive a crazy lady mad,” murmured the Patchwork
Girl. “I’ll tell you what, Vic,” she added as she smoothed out her apron
and put it on again, “for some reason or other you’ve missed your guess.
You’re not a concert; you’re a nuisance.”
“Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” asserted the
phonograph sadly.
“Then we’re not savages. I advise you to go home and beg the
Magician’s pardon.”
“Never! He’d smash me.”
“That’s what we shall do, if you stay here,” Ojo declared.
“Run along, Vic, and bother some one else,” advised Scraps. “Find
some one who is real wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In that
way you can do some good in the world.”
The music thing turned silently away and trotted down a side
path, toward a distant Munchkin village.
“Is that the way WE go?” asked Bungle anxiously.
“No,” said Ojo; “I think we shall keep straight ahead, for this
path is the widest and best. When we come to some house we will inquire
the way to the Emerald City.”