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following this easterly course. The only bit of excitement occurred on the second day when they passed a large cornfield surrounded by a yellow fence. Inside the field stood what appeared to be an antebellum Southern belle whose demure, retiring demeanor approached coyness. Her large, yellow sunbonnet did nothing to contain her cascading golden locks. Her long, tight-waisted yellow dress rippled tantalizingly in the soft breeze. 

It took them a moment to realize that the anachronistic image was really an inanimate female scarecrow. Just then, our Scarecrow experienced an exquisite yearning, and the straw that was at the center of his chest began to smolder and smoke. Next, his callow straw heart suddenly started to catch fire, and the Lion, using the end of his tail, had to smother the nascent flames.

After they all calmed down and started on their way again, the Scarecrow inwardly marveled at the thrilling, new sensation he had just experienced. What he felt for his imaginary paramour must be what people called love, he thought, and as the light in his eyes became lambent with adoration, his painted face took on a radiant, reddish glow. Then, nervously envisioning a lethal conflagration, he fought to attenuate his desires and to block any thoughts ofclandestine trysts that lingered in his active little mind. In doing so, his fatuous expression slowly turned to one of stiff, immutable determination.

When the four travelers finally arrived at the edge of the Emerald City, the Guardian of the Gates greeted them cordially and led them toward the door of the Great Palace. As they walked, Dorothy breathlessly told him all about their foray in the West.

At they neared the door to the Palace, a familiar-looking man wearing green pants and a green shirt accosted them and started perfunctorily shunting them toward the Throne Room. As Dorothy wondered what had happened to the uniformed soldier who had escorted them before, the man suddenly covered his face with his hands and then just as quickly revealed himself in an impromptu game of peek-a-boo. Why, this was the soldier! “I’ll bet you didn’t recognize me in mufti, did you?” he said archly. Then, in a more serious tone, he explained, “My uniform’s being cleaned.” Dorothy couldn’t think of anything to say about that, so she gave about a quarter of a smile and kept on walking.

Presently they were in the Throne Room, and there again was the formidable, glabrous Head. In a solemn, orotund voice it said, “I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Why do you seek me?”

“We have come to claim our promise,” answered Dorothy.

“Is the Wicked Witch dead?” asked the Head haughtily.

“Yes,” Dorothy averred. “I melted her with a bucket of water.”

“Dear me, dear me,” said the Head, temporizing. “Well, come back tomorrow, for I must have time to think it over.”

“You’ve had plenty of time already,” said the Tin Woodman, suddenly angry.

“We won’t wait a day longer,” said the Scarecrow, who could no longer stomach the Head’s condescending

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