Dear Boys and Girls: Did YOU ever hear of the Land of the Barons, of a Red Jinn or the City of Scares? Well, neither did I! Neither did Jack Pumpkinhead. But there they were all the time, and trouble brewing for everybody. And speaking of Jack Pumpkinhead, I've always suspected he was brighter than he appeared to be and had more in his head than pumpkin seeds and now I'm convinced of it.

Why, even when Jack lost his head, he kept on thinking, and a chap who can serve his country after he is beheaded and use his head after he has been officially executed deserves a place with the greatest celebrities of the day. So, no wonder this book is about Jack. If it had not been for him, Ozma would be polishing the palace piano and Dorothy and Betsy washing the dinner dishes, like as not, and all of the other famous folk swinging mops, brooms and dusters; slaves of Mogodore the Mighty, who descended from the Land of the Barons to capture the Emerald City.

Even now, the mere mention of Mogodore makes Ozma shudder and the Cowardly Lion shake. And right here, I must put in a good word for Peter, the little boy from Philadelphia. Peter, wishing himself to Oz, dropped into the middle of the excitement, was captured and imprisoned, threatened and enchanted, during his efforts to save the country from the wicked baron. But seeing his old friends again, and meeting the Iffin made up for all the discomfort and danger and as I am anxious for you to meet this new merry monster, I'll stop writing so you can begin the story. A whole year of happiness and fun!

Ruth Plumly Thompson

254 S. Farragut Terrace, West Philadelphia, Penn., May, 1929.

List of Chapters

CHAPTER 1

Peter and the Pirate's Sack

The rain beat heavily on the roof, swirled down the side walks and made tumbling torrents of the gutters. Turning from the window in disgust, Peter dropped his baseball mitt on the library sofa and started glumly toward the stair. No practice to-day, doggone it! Why couldn't it rain on Mondays and be clear on Saturdays for a change? How was he to have the team in trim for the big match if this sort of thing kept up?

Kicking crossly at each step, Peter progressed toward the attic. Not to waste the day, he resolved to have a look at his fishing tackle. The thought of the fishing trip he was soon to take with his grandfather cheered him considerably and by the time he had switched on the attic light and dragged out the old chest where he kept his treasures, he was whistling softly to himself. On top of the chest lay two coarse sacks. They were neatly folded in half and as Peter lifted them off he gave an amused little chuckle.

"I wonder what's happened in Oz lately," mused Peter, sitting down in front of the chest with the sacks on his lap. "I wonder whether Ozma knows what I did with the pirate's gold pieces and whether the Gnome King has got into any more mischief." And thinking of that enchanting and enchanted Kingdom, Peter forgot all about his fishing tackle.

Now many of you may have read or heard of the marvelous Land of Oz, but Peter had really been there; had met the Scarecrow and the wonderful Wizard; had kept the Gnome King from conquering the Emerald City and even discovered a pirate ship full of treasure. The pirate who owned the ship had once been a real pirate, so when Ozma, the little girl ruler of Oz, transported Peter and the treasure back to Philadelphia, two of the bags of gold had been real gold and these bags had come with him. These very sacks that Peter held across his knees had once bulged with gold pieces. And those of Peter's friends and relations who had sniffed at the story of his amazing journey to Oz never had been able to explain them away.

Peter's grandfather, with whom the little boy lived, had not tried to explain them, for Peter's grandfather was old enough to believe almost anything. So he and Peter had spent one bag of gold very gaily on a trip to the coast, on motorcycles for Peter and his best friends, on a club house for the team, on canoes and some more things, too. The other bag they had changed into United States dollars and put into the bank, so that Peter might go to college and other important places when he was grown. And now, with the rain drumming steadily on the roof, Peter fell to dreaming again of Oz, of its curious Kings and castles, its wizards and witches and magic transformations. Could it have been two years ago that he and the Gnome King escaped from Runaway Island?

"I wish," sighed Peter, giving the top sack a little shake, "I wish I could go back to Oz sometime. Hello! What's this?" In the corner of the top sack he felt something hard and round and thrusting in his hand drew out a thin shiny piece of gold. "Why, here's one we didn't find," chuckled Peter, holding it up to the light. "It's not so large as the others. I believe I'll keep it for a lucky piece." Resting his head against a small trunk, Peter sank back and was soon lost in pleasant reveries. "Gee-whiz!" he breathed at last, flipping the pirate's coin into the air. "It certainly would be great to go to Oz again. I wish I were there right now!" As the gold piece dropped into Peter's palm, Peter himself dropped out of sight. At least, he was no longer in the attic, or in Philadelphia either, for that matter. He was, to be perfectly truthful, standing before a small yellow cottage in the middle of a pumpkin field, and the whole trip, reflected Peter, staring around a bit wildly, had taken no longer than one puff and swallow. A drop such as this was enough to make a body puff and swallow several times, so he did. Then, having regained a little of his composure, he looked uncertainly at the yellow house.

It was shaped like an enormous hollowed out pumpkin, but had several windows and a front door, so Peter walked boldly up the steps and knocked twice. He could hear footsteps running about inside and presently a head was thrust out the second story window.

"Who's there?" asked the owner of the house, staring down curiously.

"It's me, er—er it's I!" Peter, remembering his grammar corrected himself quickly.

At this, the owner of the house, in order to have a better look at his visitor, leaned so far out the window that Peter gave a sharp cry.

"Oh look out!" he called warningly, for the man's head seemed ready to fall off, was falling off, in fact.

"I am looking out," it called cheerfully, as it turned over and over in the air. "That's just the trouble! Catch my head will you?" And next minute Peter found himself clasping a large pumpkin head in both arms.

"Did you say your name was Cy?" asked the head, staring up inquiringly. "Well carry me indoors, Cy. You'll find my body around somewheres."

"This must be Oz," choked Peter, with an excited little gasp and, kicking open the door, he hurried into the cottage. A tall awkward body sprawled on the floor and there was certainly something familiar about the hollow eyes staring so pleasantly into his own.

"My body has fallen down the stairs," observed the pumpkin head calmly. "It should have waited for me, for nobody should be without a head." Peter agreed heartily with this last statement and, setting the head on the table, he pulled the awkward figure to its feet and then, standing on a chair, pressed the head carefully on the wooden peg that served for a neck.

"Why it's Jack Pumpkinhead!" he cried delightedly. "Didn't I meet you in Ozma's palace two years ago? Don't you remember me?"

Jack looked doubtfully down at the little boy. "I'm afraid that I don't," he answered seriously. "You see, I have had several new heads since then, and am not very good at remembering."

"Never mind. I remember you!" Peter smiled kindly at the awkward fellow and, squeezing his wooden fingers, went on. "My name is Peter and—"

"I thought you said your name was Cy," objected Jack in a puzzled voice.

"Oh no I didn't," explained Peter, a little vexed at the pumpkin head's stupidity. "I said it's I at the door."

"Cy at the door and Peter in the house. How dreadfully confusing," mumbled Jack, putting one hand to his head to see if it was on straight. "Have you a different name for every place you go?"

"Oh call me Peter!" exclaimed the little boy impatiently, "and if you'll just tell me the way to the Emerald City I'll not bother you any more. I'm anxious to see Ozma and Dorothy again."

"Are you a friend of Ozma's?" interrupted Jack in high excitement. "Well, I'll do anything for a friend of Ozma's. Ozma is my father!" Running to the door Jack clattered down the steps, beckoning for Peter to follow him.

"Father!" cried Peter, with a little burst of laughter, and then realizing one could not expect too much sense from a pumpkin head, he hurried out of the cottage. The pirate's sack still hung over his arm and, tossing it gaily over one shoulder, Peter stepped quickly after Jack, and clapped him on his shoulder.

"By the way, how did you reach Oz?" Picking his way carefully between the rows of pumpkins, Jack paused and turned his head with both hands so he could look back at Peter. Briefly Peter told him of finding the last coin in the pirate's sack, how he had wished to be in Oz and suddenly found himself standing before the yellow cottage. "It must have been a magic coin," muttered Jack Pumpkinhead, starting on again. "I tell you," he gave an excited skip, "that gold coin was a piece of change. You wished to come to Oz for a change and here you are!"

"Yes," agreed Peter slowly. "But where is the gold piece?"

"You can't have the change and the gold piece too," reproved Jack, wagging his wooden finger, "and you'd rather have the change, now wouldn't you?" Peter nodded and glanced sharply at Jack. His head seemed to be working better. Jack returned Peter's look with a long, steady stare. "Do you know," he said, stepping deliberately over a high fence onto a gold paved highway, "You remind me more and more of my dear father."

"Your dear father," exploded Peter, sitting down on the top rail of the fence. "I thought a while ago you told me that Princess Ozma was your father."

"She is," answered Jack, marching calmly along the highway.

"But Ozma's a girl," shouted Peter indignantly, catching up with Jack. "How could a girl be your father and how could I remind you of Ozma?"

"Ozma was not always a girl," explained Jack mysteriously. "Once Ozma was a boy like you. I see you have never heard my strange story," finished Jack in a hurt voice—looking reproachfully down at Peter. Though Peter had met Jack Pumpkinhead at Ozma's palace he had to admit that he knew nothing of his interesting history. So, as they sauntered slowly along the highway, Jack told how Ozma, as a baby had been stolen by Mombi, the witch, and transformed into a boy named Tip. For nearly nine years, Tip had lived in Mombi's hut, entirely ignorant of the fact that he was the real ruler of Oz. It was to scare Mombi that Tip had first manufactured the Pumpkinhead Man. Jack's wooden arms and legs had been skillfully carved from strong saplings. His body, made of a tough piece of bark, was pinned together with wooden pegs. A larger peg served Jack for a neck and a carved pumpkin made his head. With some old clothes he found in Mombi's attic, Tip had dressed the queer figure and stood him in the bend of the road to scare the old witch on her return from a visit to the crooked wizard's.

"Well, was Mombi scared?" inquired Peter, looking admiringly at Jack's jointed wrists and ankles and thinking what a smart boy Ozma must have been.

"At first," admitted Jack slowly. "At first! Then, wishing to try out some of the magic she had traded with the wizard she sprinkled me with the powder of life and immediately I came to life and have been alive ever since," he finished modestly.

"But what happened to Tip?" begged Peter, for he felt that the most exciting part of the story was to come.

"Well," continued Jack with a solemn shake of his head, "as Mombi threatened to turn Tip to a marble statue, we both ran away that night, taking the powder of life with us. Next morning Tip found a saw-horse standing in a wood and, sprinkling it with some of the powder, brought it to life as Mombi had done me. On this strange steed we reached the Emerald City and helped the Scarecrow, who was then Emperor, escape from Jinjur's army of girls, who had captured the capitol. After many curious adventures we reached the palace of Glinda, the Good Sorceress of the South. We begged her to help us restore the Scarecrow to his throne, but Glinda, by referring to her magic records, discovered that Ozma was the rightful ruler of the Kingdom. Returning to the Emerald City, Glinda forced Mombi to disenchant Tip, Tip became Ozma and Ozma, as you well know, has been our gracious little sovereign ever since."

"What a shame," breathed Peter kicking at a stone, "I should think she'd much rather have stayed a boy."

"So should I," agreed Jack, "but as I am only a pumpkin head my opinion is probably of no value. I certainly have no reason to complain," he went on cheerfully. "Ozma gave me the fine cottage which you saw this morning and I spend all my time growing new heads. Before one pumpkin spoils, I quickly carve myself another and have had dozens of heads in my day, which makes me a personage, even in Oz. This head I'm now wearing will last quite a long time for it's still a bit green."

"Well, it looks all right," said Peter, smiling up at Jack.

"Do you think so?" Jack's carved grin seemed to grow even broader at Peter's polite remark. "If it were not for my joints, I'd be as good as anyone," he confided, tapping his chest proudly. "But walking wears out my joints so I never walk far at a time."

"Is it far to the Emerald City?" Shading his eyes Peter blinked down the gay gold highway and then turned rather anxiously to his cheerful companion. He certainly did not want good natured Jack to wear out any joints on his account.

"No distance at all," retorted Jack, with a stiff wave ahead. "Around that bend the houses and trees will be green, for we will be on the outskirts of the capitol, and from there it is but a step to the palace." At Jack's word Peter gave a satisfied little sigh. It was all coming back—his geozify. Oz! How well he remembered that great oblong Kingdom, divided into four smaller kingdoms, with the Emerald City in the exact center. In the Eastern Winkie Country of Oz, the houses, fences, fruit and flowers were all yellow; in the Southern Quadling Country they were red. In the Northlands of the Gillikens they were purple and in the Western Kingdom of the Munchkins they were blue. From the daffodils in all the fields and the round yellow farm houses, Peter knew they were in the Winkie Country, but at the next turning they should find the green trees and parks surrounding the loveliest city in Oz.

Thinking of this enchanting spot, its gay and jolly inhabitants and the welcome he was sure to find in the palace, Peter quickened his steps, reaching the bend of the road far ahead of Jack. But instead of flowering gardens and green parkways the highway ended abruptly in a high red brick wall. There was a small black door in the wall. In red letters on this door were two words—"Enter Here." Peter was staring uncertainly at these directions when Jack caught up with him.

"Well Cy! What now?" he demanded merrily. "See, I remembered you were Cy, at the door. Ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!"

"Oh do try to be sensible," begged Peter in an annoyed voice. "Can't you see that this wall is red? We must be in the Quadling Country, Jack. You've come the wrong way and we're lost! Now, the question is whether to go back the way we came or go through this door and try to find a short cut to the Emerald City."

"I was afraid this head was not quite ripe enough," mumbled Jack in a worried voice. "Perhaps if we go through this door and turn straight North we'll find the Emerald City just as quickly as if we turn back."

"Perhaps," echoed Peter doubtfully. Then, as he was beginning to feel an overpowering curiosity as to what might be on the other side of the wall, he opened the black door and stepped through.

CHAPTER 2

The Chimney Villains

"Now I'm Santy Claus," mumbled Jack, feeling around for his head. Both he and Peter had stepped off into space and tumbled together down a long dark passageway. "We've fallen down a chimney," continued Jack, finding his head and settling it firmly on his shoulders. "I must say this is a great way to enter a city."

"It is a grate," said Peter, with a little groan, for he was sitting astride a pair of iron fire dogs, "but how do you know it's a city?" Fortunately there was no fire burning in the grate and, picking up the pirate's sack, Peter stepped out into a large red square. Jack had to bend almost double to get out at all and as he straightened up a sign hanging on the outside of the chimney caught his attention.

"Please shut the grate after you," directed the sign. Being an obliging fellow, Jack pulled the handle at the right and a sliding black screen completely closed off the opening. Dusting the soot from his frayed coat, Jack joined Peter.

"Nothing but chimneys," marvelled the little boy with a low whistle. "I've often seen houses without chimneys but never chimneys without houses." The square was simply bristling with chimneys, all red and of every shape, size and description. They seemed to sprout like queer flowers from the red flags that paved the square. Chimneys! Chimneys! Chimneys! So close together there was scarcely space to walk. "Who could possibly live here?" said Peter, with a scornful sniff.

"Whee! Whee—ee! We do!" A hundred high voices answered his question. They seemed to issue from the chimneys themselves, and as Jack and Peter peered anxiously upward strange smoky figures began to spiral out of the chimney tops and float in a dark mass over their heads. They looked like evil genii or goblins who had long been imprisoned in magic bottles. Their shapes and faces changed constantly and as a whole horde of them dropped downward, Peter stepped closer to Jack. "They're only smoke," he explained reassuringly.

"Yes, dear Peter," quavered Jack, "but smoke is most injurious to pumpkins! Oh my head! My poor poor head!" Peter had no time to sympathize with Jack, for at that moment a crowd of Smokies surrounded them. Their eyes were spite-red sparks and, snatching at Peter and Jack with their long shadowy arms, they began to hiss and puff threateningly.

"Can you curl?" demanded one, snapping his eyes close to Peter. "Can you curl, and do a double spiral? Can you make soot and smoulder?"

"No! No! No!" coughed Peter, snatching out his handkerchief and waving it wildly about his head. "Go away! Go away. You're making me all black."

"Ha, Ha, Ha!" shrieked a great smoky giant. "That's the color you should be. This is Chimneyville, but wait till you see our Soot Sooty down below. Come to our Sooty and see how black and beautiful you will become."

"We won't," cried Jack Pumpkinhead defiantly, "we won't come or become. If this is Chimneyville, then you are Chimney-villains. Go away you black monsters. We refuse to visit your old Sooty. Go away, go away. You're smoking my beautiful head." Trying to cover his head with his arms, Jack backed against a chimney, but his words only seemed to infuriate the Smokies. Swelling with rage, they surged forward.

"Smoke 'em up! Smoke 'em out! Throw 'em down the chimneys!" they sputtered. "Now then, boys, all together!" While Peter and Jack struck out left and right, the grim gray specters tried to lift them into the air. But there was no strength in their vapory arms and with little shrieks and hisses they pressed closer and closer.

"Run!" panted Peter, who was almost suffocated. The smoke did not affect Jack and, taking Peter's hand, he tried to pull the little boy along. But the air was now so thick with their pursuers they could hardly see at all and bumped and crashed into chimneys at every turn. The last bump flung them headlong, and for a moment they lay perfectly still, while the Chimney-villains swept screaming overhead. It was dark as midnight, for the Smokies had all run together into a great suffocating cloud. Even the tiny sparks that were their eyes had gone out, and in utter and awful darkness Peter finally stumbled to his feet. Coughing and sputtering and with tears pouring down both cheeks, he felt in his pocket for another handkerchief, and as he did his fingers closed over a small candle end. Immediately a bright idea struck Peter, and with a gasp he felt around for Jack's head. Pulling the stout stem in the top he lifted out the piece Jack had cut when he hollowed out the pumpkin. Striking a match he lit the candle end, spilled in a few drops of candle grease and set the candle erect. Then replacing the top of Jack's head he jerked him to his feet.

"What have you done?" faltered the Pumpkinhead in a faint voice. "My head feels very light, dear Peter, but I seem to see much better."

"So do I," choked the little boy, muffling his nose in his coat sleeve, "we can both see better. Come on, you're lit up and my Jack o' Lantern now!" The bobbing light in the pumpkin's head seemed to puzzle their enemies, but Peter, guided by the cheery glow, pushed bravely through the clouds and crowds of them. The smoke still stung his eyes and throat, but he kept dodging chimney after chimney, and finally pausing to rest against an especially broad one, discovered a slide like the one they had come thru in the first place. Jerking it open Peter pulled Jack into the grate and closed the slide. There was another slide at the back of the chimney place and as the Smokies poured against the first slide Peter opened the second and stepped out into a quiet little wood.

"A great way in and a great way out," observed Jack, following Peter quickly and slamming the slide after him.

"And a great way from everywhere," puffed Peter, dropping down on the nearest tree stump and staring resentfully up at the red wall. It looked the same from this side as from the other. Not a chimney showed, nor one puff of smoke, to warn luckless travellers of the disagreeable citizens of Soot City. It was so great a relief to breathe pure air again and find himself in real daylight that Peter sat for several minutes drinking in the fresh forest breezes and freeing his lungs from the bitter smoke. Then, standing up on the stump, he called Jack and blew out the candle in his pumpkin head. "You certainly saved my life that time," said Peter feelingly. "If you had not lighted me out of there I'd have been a smoked herring by this time. How do you feel yourself, dear Jack?"

"A little light headed," confessed Jack earnestly, "but on the whole, I rather liked it. It seems to me I felt brighter."

"You mean you could think better?" asked Peter, staring hard at Jack, and trying not to laugh.

"Yes," Jack nodded gravely, "so please light me up again dear Peter."

"It might not be good for you," said the little boy doubtfully. "It might make you light headed and giddy. Besides, pumpkins are only lit at night or in the dark and it's quite light out here."

"Oh are they?" Jack looked terribly disappointed. "Well any time you need a lantern, just light me up. Shall we go on to the Emerald City now?"

"Well, we might try to," answered Peter looking around with lively interest. "Can you walk a little farther? Do your joints feel all right?" Although Jack was much taller than he, Peter felt somehow responsible for the flimsy fellow. It rather flattered him to have Jack so obedient to his wishes and so dependent upon his advice. After examining his joints carefully, Jack decided he might go a bit further, so Peter washed his face in a little stream and at the same time removed the soot from Jack's, and they prepared to continue their journey to the capitol. Taking his direction from the sun, Peter started North through the little wood. From the cardinals and robins, from the red beech and holly trees, he knew he must still be in the Quadling Country and when he saw a small red cottage in a clearing just ahead, he was sure of it.

Goody Shop, announced a sign, swinging from the crooked roof. "Hurrah!" shouted Peter, breaking into a run. "Maybe I can buy something to eat here. It must be nearly lunch time and I'm starved."

"Oh do be careful," warned Jack, holding on to his head with both hands as he dashed hurriedly after Peter, "they may not be the kind of goodies you expect." The shop was dim and dark and behind the red counter sat a prim little old lady in a ruffled gown.

"Good morning!" puffed Peter with a polite bow.

"Our good morning is all gone," said the old lady, rising stiffly from her tall stool, "but we have a very good afternoon, would you care for that?" She squinted anxiously at Peter. "And will you take it with you or have it sent?"

"Have it sent," advised Jack in a hollow voice for he did not relish the old lady's expression.

"I wanted to buy something good," explained Peter hastily.

"Well why didn't you say so in the beginning," snapped the shop keeper testily. "One minute it's good morning and now it's goodbye. What kind of a goodbye do you want, long, short, fond or sorrowful?" At this strange question, Jack turned his head with both hands and simply stared at the old lady, and Peter himself began to feel terribly confused.

"What kind of goods do you sell here?" he demanded anxiously.

"All the goods," answered the old lady proudly, "but dry goods mostly. Waving toward the shelves, she folded her arms and looked suspiciously at her two customers, while Jack and Peter curiously surveyed her wares.

"Good news! Good advice! Good Intentions! Good Days! Good Night! Good Excuses! Good Riddance!" cried Peter, reading out the labels on the bottles and boxes. "How odd! Good Ideas! Good Tempers! Good Notions! Good Times!"

"Come, come," muttered the old lady, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor, "make up your minds. You may each choose one," she decided finally, as neither Peter nor Jack seemed able to decide. "Why don't you take a good excuse?" she suggested, turning to Peter. "Boys are always needing good excuses, and a fresh batch has just come in—good ones too!"

"I think I'll take some good advice," announced Jack in a timid voice. "I'm not very bright and it might be useful."

"But haven't you anything good to eat?" sighed Peter. "A good lunch or dinner, even a breakfast would do." With an impatient flounce the old lady reached up on a top shelf and handed Peter a small red box. Then giving Jack a red envelope, she shooed them out of her goody shop.

"I wish I'd taken some good excuses," murmured Peter, as they walked slowly down the crooked path. "This box is too small to hold a good meal of any kind."

"What does it say?" asked Jack inquisitively.

"A good breakfast," answered Peter reading the red label. "Well, even if it's only a biscuit or just one sausage, I'll eat it." Eagerly Peter raised the lid. "Why it's bird seed," he exclaimed angrily, flinging the box with all his force into a red-berry bush. "What a cheat! I've a good notion to go right back and tell her what I think of her."

"But she didn't charge you anything," observed Jack mildly, "and you'll have to admit it is a good breakfast!"

"A good breakfast," roared Peter, glaring indignantly at his loose-jointed companion.

"Well, it is a good breakfast," finished Jack Pumpkinhead apologetically, "for a bird." Peter looked closely at Jack to see whether he was poking fun at him, but quite soberly, Jack was opening his good advice.

"What does yours say?" Crowding closer, Peter read the words on the thin slip of paper and then began to hop up and down with glee.

"Keep your mouth shut," advised the red paper briefly.

"Call that good advice?" sputtered Jack Pumpkinhead, tearing the paper into tiny pieces. "How can I keep my mouth shut when it's carved open? Of all the silly nonsense!"

"But you'll have to admit that keeping your mouth shut is good advice," teased Peter, completely restored to good humor by this joke on Jack.

"Then why don't you take it?" asked Jack stalking stiffly ahead. "Take it and welcome!" Smothering another chuckle, Peter hurried after Jack, reflecting to himself that this Pumpkinhead Man was not nearly so foolish as he appeared to be.

CHAPTER 3

What the Green Tree Said

"Won't Dorothy and Ozma be surprised when we turn up at the palace?" Taking a running jump, Peter cleared a tree and then hurried back to help Jack Pumpkinhead across.

"I'll be surprised myself," said Jack, stepping solemnly over the log. "Here we are at the end of this wood and no signs of the Emerald City at all. Do you see anything green, Peter?" Peter shook his head, for as far as the eye could reach there was nothing but rocks and sand, tinged with the rusty red of the Quadling Country.

"I see red, nothing but red," sighed the little boy in a depressed voice. "Wait, there's one green tree, though—a fir tree. Why, it's running straight for us. Hey! Look what you're doing! Get off my foot!" Giving the tree a quick shove, Peter sprang backward. But the tree leaned a little further over, and resting its lower branches on his shoulders began to sob heavily.

"I'm very tired," it panted in a weak whisper, "very tired!" It spoke through a hollow in the center of its trunk and its knot eyes stared mournfully into Peter's own.

"Well, you can't lean on me," exclaimed Peter crossly, giving it another push. "I'm tired too! Why I never heard of such a thing," he continued in an indignant voice. "What are you doing, where are you going, why don't you act like a regular tree?" Wrenching the branches from his shoulders, Peter stepped off and eyed it angrily.

"You don't belong in this country anyway," put in Jack accusingly. "You're green and you know it!"

"Hush," muttered the tree, putting a lower branch over its mouth. "I'm a Christmas Tree, looking for last year's ornaments." There were a few gay colored balls still clinging to the top and as Peter, too astonished to make any reply continued to stare, the tree drew closer.

"Are you a Christmas present?" it asked hoarsely. "Are you an ornament?"

"Oh go away!" laughed the little boy, giving it another shove. "Do I look like a Christmas present? And can't you see we're not ornaments?" With a little chuckle, he waved at his companion.

"I could use his head," murmured the tree, squinting through its branches at Jack. "It's not at all pretty, but it would light up and look real merry. Here you!" With a sudden pounce the tree made for Jack. "Give me your pumpkin head and no nonsense either!" As Jack and Peter both jumped back together, a simply astonishing thing happened. From the end of each branch on the Christmas tree a hand shot out, and with each hand extended it dashed after them.

"See! I trim myself!" it yelled, snapping its fingers hilariously. "Come here you provoking boy. I'll wager you have plenty of stuff in your pockets I could use for presents. Have you a watch or a gold pen knife?" At each question, it made greedy snatches at Peter. "Let me pick your pockets! Give me your head you great jumping-jack!" Ten of its hands just grazed Jack's coat-tails.

At first Peter had been rather amused by the Christmas tree, but now, thoroughly alarmed, he clutched Jack's hand and ran so fast that Jack had all he could do to hold on to his head and keep from stumbling. As they continued to elude it, the determined little tree grew very angry. Hopping up and down its roots, it seized the ornaments from its top branches and hurled them one after another at the fleeing pair. Three balls and a candy cane crashed to bits on Peter's head, and as he dodged in between two big boulders a silver dinner bell tied with red ribbon hit him sharply between the eyes.

"Gee-whiz!" spluttered the little boy, clapping his hand to his forehead, "this is no fun!" Pulling Jack after him, he squeezed into a narrow crevice between the rocks, but before he did Jack leaned down, picked up the bell and slipped it into his pocket. As the Christmas tree attempted to push its way between the rocks, Peter and Jack pressed against a rough wall at the back. Now it happened that in this wall there was a swinging rock door, and as they both leaned hard against it, the door swung inward and spilled them abruptly into a narrow stone corridor. Next instant the door slammed to, leaving them sitting in surprise and consternation on the rocky floor. They could hear the tree pounding with all its fists against the panels, but a bolt had dropped into place as the door closed, so there seemed little danger of further pursuit.

"I wish we'd stop this falling about," complained Peter, picking himself up a bit wearily. "We're always doing something we don't expect."

"That's because we're in Oz," answered Jack cheerfully, "and at any rate, we have saved my head from the Christmas tree."

Peter felt inclined to remark that saving Jack's head was not so very important, but thinking better of it, he went on in an exasperated tone: "Christmas trees in our country don't chase people nor throw things at them. They stay where they're put."

"Yes," said Jack Pumpkinhead blandly, "I suppose they do, but Oz Christmas trees are more progressive, more up-and-coming." Taking out the silver bell the Christmas Tree had thrown at Peter, Jack held it close to his ear and then swung it slowly to and fro. At its first silver ring Peter, thinking it would rouse the owner of the cave, rushed over to stop Jack, only to collide violently with a tiny black slave who had apparently sprung up from nowhere. He wore a simply enormous turban and carried an immense silver tray. Regaining his balance with great composure, the little black slave set the tray on the floor, folded his arms and with a deep bow melted into thin air.

"It's a dinner!" shouted Peter, dropping on the floor and hungrily snatching off the white napkin that covered the tray. "Well, of all things!"

"Unexpected things, you mean," corrected Jack slyly, "and I notice you don't object to this one."

"Let me see that bell," puffed Peter, reaching across the tray. It was not very light in the cavern, but even so he could read the inscription on the shining silver surface. "The Red Djinn's dinner bell," said the carved letters mysteriously. "A magic dinner bell," exclaimed Peter delightedly. "This certainly makes up for the bird seed. And did you see that boy dissolve into nothing right before our eyes?" Jack nodded.

"Better eat that dinner before it does the same thing," he advised calmly. As this seemed not at all improbable, Peter made short work of the roast duck, mashed potatoes, hot rolls and apple sauce. He had just finished the last roll, when tray, dishes and silverware vanished suddenly.

"Shall I ring the bell again?" inquired Jack, as Peter stared dazedly at the spot where the tray had been. Although Jack was not constructed for eating, he had thoroughly enjoyed watching Peter.

"No," decided the little boy with a satisfied nod, "I've had enough, and it was good. But I wonder how that Christmas tree got hold of the Red Djinn's dinner bell?"

"Stole it probably," answered Jack, rubbing the bell on his sleeve. "Maybe the old Djinn didn't run fast enough. Anyway it's a regular Christmas present for you, Peter. Whenever you're hungry we'll just ring it." With a pleased chuckle, Jack slipped the bell back into his pocket.

"It certainly will be useful," sighed Peter, patting his stomach with a contented little sigh. Now that his hunger was satisfied, he felt quite cheerful and adventurous again. "Let's see where this passageway leads," he added, peering round the dark corner at the end of the little corridor.

"Why don't you throw that old sack away?" inquired Jack Pumpkinhead, as they walked slowly along the strange hallway. "What good is it?"

"I don't know," answered Peter, swinging the pirate's sack carelessly to and fro. "I had it when I landed here and it might come in handy to carry things in."

"What kind of things?" asked Jack stupidly. Peter did not bother to answer for they had come suddenly upon a great scowling goblin-head lantern. Under the lantern hung a flashing red sign.

"T—remble!"—directed the sign in big red letters.

"I don't see why we should tremble," said Peter, squinting defiantly up at the goblin lantern. At Peter's words the lantern went out, and whistling through the dark windy corridor came such a succession of wails, sighs and horrid screeches that Peter's heart stood still.

"Are you trembling?" quavered Jack, as the hair raising noise died away. "Not exactly," stuttered Peter, leaning against the wall to steady himself. As the lantern flashed on again, he peered anxiously all around. But there was no one in sight, so putting back his shoulders and taking a deep breath Peter marched bravely forward. "There's nothing to be frightened about," he called reassuringly over his shoulder.

"Well, nothing certainly made enough noise," murmured Jack, straightening his head which had spun round and round at the horrible outcrys. "I wish we were safely out of this, dear Peter." Peter did not say so, but he heartily echoed Jack's wish. As they progressed along the strange corridor the goblin lanterns became more numerous and ugly, and the last turn brought them to a high, red, spiked gate. On every spike there was a frowning scare head, and as the two travellers paused uncertainly, each head stuck out its tongue.

"Boo—OO!" shrieked the heads all together, so loud and so shrilly that Peter almost took to his heels and Jack, without meaning to at all, sat down. As the little boy hurriedly tugged him to his feet, the red gates swung open.

"Welcome to Scare City!" boomed a horrid voice. "Quake! Shake! Pale and tremble!"