The Road to Oz

“Please, miss,” said the shaggy man, “can you tell me the road to Butterfield?”

Dorothy looked him over. Yes, he was shaggy, all right, but there was a twinkle in his eye that seemed pleasant.

“Oh yes,” she replied; “I can tell you. But it isn’t this road at all.”

“No?”

“You cross the ten-acre lot, follow the lane to the highway, go north to the five branches, and take⁠—let me see⁠—”

“To be sure, miss; see as far as Butterfield, if you like,” said the shaggy man.

“You take the branch next the willow stump, I b’lieve; or else the branch by the gopher holes; or else⁠—”

“Won’t any of ’em do, miss?”

“ ’Course not, Shaggy Man. You must take the right road to get to Butterfield.”

“And is that the one by the gopher stump, or⁠—”

“Dear me!” cried Dorothy. “I shall have to show you the way, you’re so stupid. Wait a minute till I run in the house and get my sunbonnet.”

“There are a good many roads here,” observed the shaggy man, turning slowly around, like a human windmill. “Seems to me a person could go ’most anywhere, from this place.”

Dorothy turned around too, and gazed in surprise. There were a good many roads; more than she had ever seen before. She tried to count them, knowing there ought to be five, but when she had counted seventeen she grew bewildered and stopped, for the roads were as many as the spokes of a wheel and ran in every direction from the place where they stood; so if she kept on counting she was likely to count some of the roads twice.

“Dear me!” she exclaimed. “There used to be only five roads, highway and all. And now⁠—why, where’s the highway, Shaggy Man?”

“Can’t say, miss,” he responded, sitting down upon the ground as if tired with standing. “Wasn’t it here a minute ago?”

“I thought so,” she answered, greatly perplexed. “And I saw the gopher holes, too, and the dead stump; but they’re not here now. These roads are all strange⁠—and what a lot of them there are! Where do you suppose they all go to?”

“Roads,” observed the shaggy man, “don’t go anywhere. They stay in one place, so folks can walk on them.”

Dorothy and Toto and the shaggy man came to a halt before the little boy, who kept on digging in a sober and persistent fashion.

“Who are you?” asked the girl.

He looked up at her calmly. His face was round and chubby and his eyes were big, blue and earnest.

“I’m Button-Bright,” said he.

“But what’s your real name?” she inquired.

“Button-Bright.”

“That isn’t a really-truly name!” she exclaimed.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, still digging.

“ ’Course not. It’s just a⁠—a thing to call you by. You must have a name.”

“Must I?”

“To be sure. What does your mama call you?”

He paused in his digging and tried to think.

“Papa always said I was bright as a button; so mama always called me Button-Bright,” he said.

“What is your papa’s name?”

“Just Papa.”

“What else?”

“Don’t know.”

“Never mind,” said the shaggy man, smiling. “We’ll call the boy Button-Bright, as his mama does. That name is as good as any, and better than some.”

“Having told you my name, what would you call me?”

“King Dox,” said the boy.

“Why?”

“ ’Cause ‘ren’ ’s nothing at all,” was the reply.

“Good! Very good indeed! You certainly have a brilliant mind. Do you know why two and two make four?”

“No,” said Button-Bright.

“Clever! clever indeed! Of course you don’t know. Nobody knows why; we only know it’s so, and can’t tell why it’s so. Button-Bright, those curls and blue eyes do not go well with so much wisdom. They make you look too youthful, and hide your real cleverness. Therefore, I will do you a great favor. I will confer upon you the head of a fox, so that you may hereafter look as bright as you really are.”

As he spoke the King waved his paw toward the boy, and at once the pretty curls and fresh round face and big blue eyes were gone, while in their place a fox’s head appeared upon Button-Bright’s shoulders⁠—a hairy head with a sharp nose, pointed ears, and keen little eyes.

“Oh, don’t do that!” cried Dorothy, shrinking back from her transformed companion with a shocked and dismayed face.

“Too late, my dear; it’s done. But you also shall have a fox’s head if you can prove you’re as clever as Button-Bright.”

“I don’t want it; it’s dreadful!” she exclaimed; and, hearing this verdict, Button-Bright began to boo-hoo just as if he were still a little boy.

“Ask ’em who they are, and what they want,” whispered Dorothy; so the shaggy man called out in a loud voice:

“Who are you?”

“Scoodlers!” they yelled in chorus, their voices sharp and shrill.

“What do you want?” called the shaggy man.

“You!” they yelled, pointing their thin fingers at the group; and they all flopped around, so they were white, and then all flopped back again, so they were black.

“But what do you want us for?” asked the shaggy man, uneasily.

“Soup!” they all shouted, as if with one voice.

“Goodness me!” said Dorothy, trembling a little; “the Scoodlers must be reg’lar cannibals.”

“Don’t want to be soup,” protested Button-Bright, beginning to cry.

“Hush, dear,” said the little girl, trying to comfort him; “we don’t any of us want to be soup. But don’t worry; the shaggy man will take care of us.”

“Will he?” asked Polychrome, who did not like the Scoodlers at all, and kept close to Dorothy.

“I’ll try,” promised the shaggy man; but he looked worried.

Happening just then to feel the Love Magnet in his pocket, he said to the creatures, with more confidence:

“Don’t you love me?”

“Yes!” they shouted, all together.

“Then you mustn’t harm me, or my friends,” said the shaggy man, firmly.

“We love you in soup!” they yelled, and in a flash turned their white sides to the front.

“How dreadful!” said Dorothy. “This is a time, Shaggy Man, when you get loved too much.”

“Don’t want to be soup!” wailed Button-Bright again; and Toto began to whine dismally, as if he didn’t want to be soup, either.