Ozma of Oz | Page 6

asked Dorothy.
"Getting my breakfast, of course," murmured the hen, busily pecking
away.
"What do you find?" inquired the girl, curiously.
"Oh, some fat red ants, and some sand-bugs, and once in a while a tiny
crab. They are very sweet and nice, I assure you."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Dorothy, in a shocked voice.
"What is dreadful?" asked the hen, lifting her head to gaze with one
bright eye at her companion.
"Why, eating live things, and horrid bugs, and crawly ants. You ought
to be 'SHAMED of yourself!"
"Goodness me!" returned the hen, in a puzzled tone; "how queer you
are, Dorothy! Live things are much fresher and more wholesome than
dead ones, and you humans eat all sorts of dead creatures."
"We don't!" said Dorothy.
"You do, indeed," answered Billina. "You eat lambs and sheep and
cows and pigs and even chickens."
"But we cook 'em," said Dorothy, triumphantly.
"What difference does that make?"
"A good deal," said the girl, in a graver tone. "I can't just 'splain the

diff'rence, but it's there. And, anyhow, we never eat such dreadful
things as BUGS."
"But you eat the chickens that eat the bugs," retorted the yellow hen,
with an odd cackle. "So you are just as bad as we chickens are."
This made Dorothy thoughtful. What Billina said was true enough, and
it almost took away her appetite for breakfast. As for the yellow hen,
she continued to peck away at the sand busily, and seemed quite
contented with her bill-of-fare.
Finally, down near the water's edge, Billina stuck her bill deep into the
sand, and then drew back and shivered.
"Ow!" she cried. "I struck metal, that time, and it nearly broke my
beak."
"It prob'bly was a rock," said Dorothy, carelessly.
"Nonsense. I know a rock from metal, I guess," said the hen. "There's a
different feel to it."
"But there couldn't be any metal on this wild, deserted seashore,"
persisted the girl. "Where's the place? I'll dig it up, and prove to you I'm
right,"
Billina showed her the place where she had "stubbed her bill," as she
expressed it, and Dorothy dug away the sand until she felt something
hard. Then, thrusting in her hand, she pulled the thing out, and
discovered it to be a large sized golden key--rather old, but still bright
and of perfect shape.
"What did I tell you?" cried the hen, with a cackle of triumph. "Can I
tell metal when I bump into it, or is the thing a rock?"
"It's metal, sure enough," answered the child, gazing thoughtfully at the
curious thing she had found. "I think it is pure gold, and it must have
lain hidden in the sand for a long time. How do you suppose it came

there, Billina? And what do you suppose this mysterious key unlocks?"
"I can't say," replied the hen. "You ought to know more about locks and
keys than I do."
Dorothy glanced around. There was no sign of any house in that part of
the country, and she reasoned that every key must fit a lock and every
lock must have a purpose. Perhaps the key had been lost by somebody
who lived far away, but had wandered on this very shore.
Musing on these things the girl put the key in the pocket of her dress
and then slowly drew on her shoes and stockings, which the sun had
fully dried.
"I b'lieve, Billina," she said, "I'll have a look 'round, and see if I can
find some breakfast."

3. Letters in the Sand
Walking a little way back from the water's edge, toward the grove of
trees, Dorothy came to a flat stretch of white sand that seemed to have
queer signs marked upon its surface, just as one would write upon sand
with a stick.
"What does it say?" she asked the yellow hen, who trotted along beside
her in a rather dignified fashion.
"How should I know?" returned the hen. "I cannot read."
"Oh! Can't you?"
"Certainly not; I've never been to school, you know."
"Well, I have," admitted Dorothy; "but the letters are big and far apart,
and it's hard to spell out the words."
But she looked at each letter carefully, and finally discovered that these

words were written in the sand:
"BEWARE THE WHEELERS!"
"That's rather strange," declared the hen, when Dorothy had read aloud
the words. "What do you suppose the Wheelers are?"
"Folks that wheel, I guess. They must have wheelbarrows, or baby-cabs
or hand-carts," said Dorothy.
"Perhaps they're automobiles," suggested the yellow hen. "There is no
need to beware of baby-cabs and wheelbarrows; but automobiles are
dangerous things. Several of my friends have been run over by them."
"It can't be auto'biles," replied the girl, "for this is a new, wild