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Wizard unfastened the Scarecrow’s head and emptied out a small portion of straw. Next he went into the back room and got some bran cereal, which he used to fill the newly made cavity. When he had fastened the Scarecrow’s head on his body again, he said to him, “You are now an intelligent Scarecrow, cognizant of even the most arcane bits of minutiae.” The Scarecrow, believing he now embodied the zenith of human comprehension, was both pleased and proud at the fulfillment of his greatest wish and thanked Oz warmly.

“How about my courage?” asked the Lion.

“And you, dear Lion, think you are a feckless, ignominious coward, too pusillanimous to deserve the moniker “King of Beasts.” All living things—ever since the first, miserable primeval organisms emerged from the primordial ooze—have been afraid when faced with danger. True courage is in facing danger when you are afraid, and that kind of courage you have plenty of. All you need is confidence in yourself.”

“But I’m scared just the same,” said the Lion, unconvinced by the aphoristic little speech. “I’ll be very unhappy unless you give me the kind of courage that makes me forget I’m afraid.”

Realizing that giving these creatures what they thought they needed would redound to everyone’s benefit, including his own, he said, “Very well, I’ll get it for you.”

He went to a cupboard and, reaching up to a high shelf, took down a square green bottle, the contents of which he poured into a beautifully carved green dish. Placing this before the Lion, who stared at it with an ambivalent mixture of hope and fear, the Wizard said, “Drink it.”

“What is it?” asked the Lion skeptically.

“Well,” answered Oz, “this is unadulterated liquid courage. You know, of course, that courage is always on the inside, so this really can’t be called courage until you’ve swallowed it. Therefore, it will behoove you to drink it right away.”

Vacillating no longer, the Lion drank till the dish was empty. “I’m full of courage!” he shouted proudly.

The Tin Woodman had been watching all this in rapt attention. The “miracles” he had just witnessed had kept him on tenterhooks, and now he could no longer contain himself. He blurted out, “What about my heart?”

Now warmed up to this vein of sacerdotal guidance, Oz answered, “Dear Woodman, you think of yourself as a clanking collection of tin whom no one could ever love because you have no heart. But you are indeed lovable because you are kinder and more thoughtful than even our so-called philanthropists. But I think you’re wrong to want a heart because the unhappy corollary to having one is that one day someone may break it.”

“I’ll bear all the unhappiness without a murmur if you’ll only give me one,” promised the Tin Woodman.

“Very well, you will have it,” answered Oz, genuinely hoping to minister to the Tin Woodman’s needs and thereby, in some small way, redress his own mistakes. “But I’ll have to cut a hole in your chest, so

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