FROM THE ROYAL POST OF OZ EMERALD CITY, EMERALD CITY (There is no other postal district.)
And written in his crooked hand:
"Dear Charlotte,
I have reached the Land.
Please tell the girls I'm doing fine,
Though one of Ozma's books ate mine.
I've got a house. It has a face.
The library's a lovely place.
Come visit when the moon is blue.
P.S. The staircase says hello to you.
Love, Dad."
I. The Road That Wasn't There on Tuesday
The following Tuesday, just at three,
A yellow road appeared beneath our tree.
It wound around the garden gate,
And paused, as though inclined to wait.
A sign arose beside the roses,
And scratched itself upon its noses:
TO EMERALD CITY: SEVEN MILES.
NO GRUMBLING. PLEASE ARRIVE WITH SMILES.
"Seven miles?" said Dorothy. "That's far!"
"Not if we travel by a star," Said Alice, looking at the sky.
A nearby mailbox winked one eye.
"Just walk," it said. "And mind your shoes.
The road gets cross if people snooze."
I packed them lunch and kissed their heads,
And gave them each their Sunday threads.
I did not go. I couldn't say
Quite why I had to stay that day.
Perhaps because a mother knows
Some journeys must be made by those
Whose hearts are young enough to see
The things that ought not really be.
And so I watched my daughters go
Where yellow paving stones would glow.
The road curled upward like a ribbon,
Past a tree whose fruit was gibberin',
Through fields of flowers made of clocks,
And past a shepherd herding socks.
A pair of boots came marching by,
With no one in them. "My, oh my!"
A teapot wearing spectacles
Was lecturing six vegetables.
A cucumber said, "I disagree!"
A carrot cried, "That's heresy!"
And then a hill stood up and bowed,
And coughed a little thundercloud.
"Good afternoon," the hill declared.
"I'm terribly sorry if I stared."
II. The Emerald City, According to Mr. Neill's Peculiar Geography
And then the Emerald City rose
Upon the horizon, green as prose
That someone wrote with emerald ink
Before he had sufficient think.
Its towers curled like fiddleheads,
Its windows wore enormous heads,
Its balconies grew arms and waved,
Its gargoyles sometimes misbehaved.
The chimneys puffed out little sheep
Who floated off to go to sleep.
The lampposts bowed to passing queens,
The gutters sang of butterbeans.
A bridge went strolling down the street
Upon a hundred little feet.
And every house had eyes and ears,
And some had mustaches, beards, and tears.
One house was knitting socks for cats.
Another manufactured hats. A third was trying to persuade
Its roof to take a holiday.
"Is this the Emerald City?" asked
Young Alice of a gentleman masked
In seven clocks and half a spoon.
"Not yet," he said. "Come back in June."
"But we're already here!" cried Dot.
"Well, that," he said, "explains a lot."
Then off he walked upon his hands,
Which was the custom in those lands.
They passed the palace, grand and green,
Where Ozma sometimes could be seen
Upon a balcony at tea
With Dorothy Gale and Betsy B.
But Ozma wasn't there that day;
She'd gone to settle a dispute
Between a sentient bathing suit
And three disgruntled lemon pies
Who'd organized a labor rise.
"Grandpa will know!" cried Dorothy.
"He knows about such history!"
"Especially," Alice said with pride,
"When both the parties are inside
A constitutional debate
Concerning rights of lemon plate."
III. The House That Had Adopted Grandpa
At last they found his little home,
A house shaped rather like a dome,
With one enormous oval eye,
A roof that tilted toward the sky.
Its chimney smoked a crooked pipe,
Its shutters had a stripey stripe,
Its front door wore a waistcoat red,
And flowers sprouted from its head.
The house looked down upon the twins.
"Well, well," it said, with toothy grins,
"If it isn't Alice and Dorothy!
I've heard about you constantly!"
"YOU CAN TALK!" cried Dorothy.
"Of course," replied the house. "Can thee?"
"But houses don't!" "How very strange.
I think your education needs a change."
It bent its doorway like a knee,
And said, "Come in and have some tea."
Inside, the furniture was alive.
A sofa counted, "Four and five!"
A table danced a minuet.
A carpet hadn't finished yet
Its autobiography in verse,
Which grew progressively much worse.
A grandfather clock, with spectacles,
Was arguing with the receptacles
About the reign of Justinian,
And whether he was quite opinionian.
And there, amid the happy din,
With ink upon his pointed chin,
Sat Grandpa, wearing velvet green,
The happiest man they'd ever seen.
His hair was wild, his slippers odd,
His reading glasses slightly flawed.
Upon his knee a book was curled,
Entitled A History of the World,
But every time he turned a page,
It changed its century and age.
"GRANDPA!"
Two girls became a flying blur.
The sofa cried, "Now look at her!"
The carpet squealed, "They'll crease my nap!"
The table overturned a map.
And Grandpa laughed, and hugged them tight,
And said, "Well, this is quite all right!"
He kissed their cheeks and wiped his eyes,
Then handed each a custard pie.
"I knew you'd come! I told the house!"
"I told him too," squeaked out a mouse.
The house itself gave such a grin
That all its windows folded in.
IV. The Royal Library of Ozma
"Now girls," said Grandpa, "come with me.
There's something wonderful to see!"
He took their hands and led them through
A door that suddenly turned blue.
"That's not the way!" the doorway cried.
"It is today," Grandpa replied.
They walked beneath a singing arch,
And past a regiment of starch
Who'd formed a most impressive line
To guard the Royal Turpentine.
And there before their wondering eyes
The Royal Library did rise.
Its towers reached above the clouds,
Its staircases wore scholarly shrouds,
Its windows opened into books,
Its corridors had secret nooks.
And over every entrance stood
A motto carved in emerald wood:
ALL KNOWLEDGE SHALL BE KEPT IN PLACE.
NO BOOK SHALL BITE A READER'S FACE.
"That second rule," said Grandpa, "came
Because a book of ancient fame
Once swallowed up the Wizard's hat
And wouldn't give it back. Imagine that!"
Inside, a million volumes stirred.
Some sang. Some flew. Some spoke a word.
Some crept along the marble floor.
Some hid behind the study door.
A volume on the Roman kings
Was growing six enormous wings.
A treatise on the Hittite state
Was eating lunch at half-past eight.
A book of poems from old Cathay
Was drifting slowly toward the bay
Of windows overlooking Oz,
While muttering ancient Chinese laws.
And Grandpa, standing tall and proud,
Addressed the whole unruly crowd:
"NOW, BOOKS! YOU KNOW WHAT OZMA SAID!
THE DEAD BELONG BESIDE THE DEAD!
THE LIVING GO IN SECTION THREE!
AND NO MORE BOOKS IN THE TEA!"
A dictionary sneezed out nouns.
A history of medieval towns
Declared itself a sovereign state
And slammed its covers in a huff.
"Well," Grandpa sighed, "that's quite enough."
Then Dorothy cried, "What's that up there?"
A book was floating through the air.
It wore a crown and velvet cape
And had the general size and shape
Of some enormous purple plum.
"That," said Grandpa, "is Volume One
Of The Complete History of Oz.
It thinks it's King. Nobody knows
Quite how it got that silly thought,
But last week it annexed the tennis court."
"And what's that?" Alice asked, quite meek,
As something large began to squeak.
"That is a book of Roman law.
It has a most impressive jaw.
Do not approach it after tea.
It's rather fond of property."
The girls were absolutely thrilled.
And Grandpa's heart was wholly filled
With joy to see their shining faces
Among his dear peculiar places.
V. The Great Library Rebellion
But just as Grandpa showed the twins
A shelf of books with little fins,
A terrible commotion rose
Among the shelves of ancient prose.
A history of ancient Greece
Had eaten the Treaty of Eternal Peace.
A volume on the Frankish kings
Was sprouting seven pairs of wings.
A tome concerning Babylon
Had put a purple nightshirt on.
And worst of all, a mighty book
Of ancient Roman laws had took
The Royal Library's golden key
And hidden it in Section Three.
"REPUBLIC!" cried a book of Rome.
"EMPIRE!" shouted one of Gnome.
"RESTORATION!" yelled a tome
On Justinian's distant home.
"ABSOLUTISM!" roared a book
That had a rather Bourbon look.
"CONSTITUTION!" cried a chair
That wasn't even meant to be there.
The dictionaries took up arms
Against the agricultural farms.
The cookbooks formed a barricade
Of pies and pots of marmalade.
The histories of ancient China
Said, "Our dynasties are finer!"
The Roman volumes cried, "Not so!
Our roads were better, don't you know!"
A book of Munchkin nursery rhymes
Began to ring the dinner chimes.
And through it all poor Grandpa ran,
With spectacles and shelving plan.
"NO! NO! THE TANG GOES AFTER SUI!
AND YOU, SIR, AREN'T THE KING OF ME!"
He grabbed a volume by its spine.
It shouted, "THIS REPUBLIC'S MINE!"
A scroll from old Alexandria
Declared a state of pandemonia.
Then Alice climbed upon a chair
And shouted through the dusty air:
"YOU'RE ALL BEING VERY SILLY!"
The books fell silent, willy-nilly.
"Grandpa says history is grand
Because we try to understand
How people lived and what they knew,
And why they did the things they do.
But if you fight about who's best,
You'll never learn about the rest!"
The books considered this a while.
A manuscript began to smile.
Then Dorothy, with perfect grace,
Produced a custard pie and placed
It on the library's marble floor.
"WHO WANTS DESSERT? THERE'S PLENTY MORE!"
And just like that, the war was done.
The cookbooks cheered.
The Romans won
A generous helping of blancmange,
Which they considered rather strange.
The books returned to proper places,
Though some still made peculiar faces.
And Grandpa, with a grateful sigh,
Adjusted his left wandering eye.
"My dears," he said, "you've saved the day!
I think I'll ask for double pay."
VI. Princess Ozma's Royal Inspection
Now word had reached the palace gate
Of all this literary debate.
And Ozma, gentle Queen of Oz,
Who ruled by kindness, not by laws
Alone, arrived with Dorothy Gale,
Whose courage never seemed to fail.
The Princess wore a gown of white
That shimmered like the morning light,
With flowers woven through her hair
And such a lovely, gracious air.
Beside her walked her dearest friend,
Whose loyalty would never end.
The elder Dorothy smiled to see
The younger Dorothy curtsy three
Times in a row, then trip upon
A book entitled Ancient Babylon.
"Well!" said the Princess, "what is this?
I hear there was a dreadful hiss
Of revolution in the stacks,
With cookbooks launching pie attacks!"
Grandpa bowed so very low
His spectacles fell off below.
"Your Majesty, I must confess,
The books were in a dreadful mess.
But Alice here and Dorothy
Restored our bibliocracy!"
Ozma laughed, a silver sound
That made the chandeliers spin round.
"Then I believe," the Princess said,
"These girls deserve to be well fed!"
And Dorothy Gale, with sparkling eyes,
Produced a plate of pumpkin pies.
"But first," said Ozma, "I must say
Your grandfather has found his way
Into the very heart of Oz,
And earned our love for what he does.
For here we have no need to be
Like everyone else, as you can see.
A man who loves old books and lore
May find a thousand things in store,
And even books that won't behave
May find in him the friend they crave."
Grandpa grew red behind his ears.
The elder Dorothy smiled through tears
Of laughter, for a history tome
Had climbed his back and made its home
Upon his shoulder, where it sat
Like some enormous paper hat.
"He's quite at home," said Dorothy Gale.
"Indeed," said Ozma. "Without fail."
VII. An Afternoon of Intellectual Mayhem
That afternoon, beneath the sun,
The girls and Grandpa had such fun
As never could be quite explained
To anyone whose shoes were trained
To walk upon an ordinary floor
And never ask for anything more.
They visited the Woggle-Bug,
Who offered Grandpa quite a hug
And then proposed a learned thesis
On whether talking cheese increases
The intellectual atmosphere
Of Oz throughout the fiscal year.
They dined with Scraps, the Patchwork Girl,
Who danced a most peculiar whirl
And sang a song about a spoon
That fell in love with half the moon.
They met the Soldier with Green Whiskers,
Who'd lately taken up as whiskers
A colony of emerald bees
Who liked to sing in minor keys.
They rode a trolley made of bread
That only went where pigeons led.
They climbed a staircase that complained
That climbing made its ankles strained.
They visited a garden where
The flowers wore embroidered hair,
And roses read philosophy
To cabbages beneath a tree.
And everywhere Grandpa would stop
To tell a tale about a shop
In ancient Tyre, or Roman Gaul,
Or why the Lombards came at all.
"Grandpa," said Dorothy, "PLEASE!
We'd rather talk to talking cheese!"
"My dear," he said, "you'll find in time
That history is quite sublime."
"But cheese can talk!"
"Well, yes," he said, "
And so can this remarkable bread."
A loaf upon the table cried,
"I WISH YOU'D LET ME LIVE OUTSIDE!"
VIII. The House's Most Unreasonable Supper
At last the sun began to sink,
And Grandpa said, "Now let me think.
The house will have prepared our tea—
Unless it's gone to sea at three."
They found the house beneath a tree,
Engaged in furious repartee
With three umbrellas and a shoe
Concerning what a house should do.
"I WILL NOT BE A BUNGALOW!"
The house declared. "I WON'T, I WON'T!"
"Nobody asked," said Grandpa mildly.
The house's chimney smoked quite wildly.
"YOU SAID I WAS A LITTLE FLAT!"
"I merely said I'd lost my hat."
"THAT'S DIFFERENT!" cried the house, relieved,
And promptly stopped being aggrieved.
Inside, a feast was waiting there,
Prepared by one extremely rare
And temperamental kitchen stove
Who'd once been Mayor of Butter Cove.
They ate green soup and violet bread,
And little cakes that stood on their head.
The chairs performed a quadrille.
The curtains danced against their will.
A teapot sang a lullaby
About a melancholy pie.
And Grandpa told the girls a tale
Of how he once had tried to sail
Across the Nonestic Ocean blue
In a boat constructed from a shoe.
"The shoe," he said, "was very sound,
But sadly sailed the wrong way round."
Then Alice, sitting by his side,
Looked up at him with quiet pride.
"Grandpa, are you happy here?"
He took her hand and held it near.
"Oh, Alice, dear, you cannot know
How much I wished, so long ago,
To find a place where books were friends,
And every story never ends.
Where no one thought me odd or strange
For wanting all the world to change
Into a place of magic, thought,
And all the wonders books have taught.
And now I'm here, and now I see
That Oz has made a home for me."
He smiled at Dorothy, then at Alice,
And somewhere in the Royal Palace
A little bell began to ring,
Though nobody had pulled its string.
IX. The Question That Charlotte Could Not Answer
That evening, as the stars came out,
And emerald towers shone about,
The girls sat close to Grandpa's chair,
And Dorothy stroked his silver hair.
"Grandpa," she whispered, "Mother cried
The night you went away and died."
The house grew quiet. Every room
Put out its lamps and stilled its broom.
The books upon the mantelpiece
Stopped arguing about Greece.
Grandpa looked toward the windowpane,
Where silver moonlight fell like rain.
"I know," he said. "And I am sorry.
I wish I could have spared that worry.
But sometimes, dear, a road appears
Beyond the reach of mortal years.
And sometimes those who've wandered long
At last discover where they belong."
"But Mother misses you," said Alice.
"And I miss her," he said, "my Charlotte."
He looked at them with eyes that shone.
"I wish that she could see this home.
I wish she'd see these books and stairs,
These dreadful, silly, talking chairs.
She'd laugh to know her father found
A place where reason runs aground,
And no one minds if books take flight
Or Roman emperors argue all night."
Then Dorothy asked, "Can we come back?"
"Of course!" he cried. "I'll make a pact!"
He took two books from off the shelf,
Each smaller than a Christmas elf.
"These are your keys.
Now keep them well.
They hold a most peculiar spell.
Whenever life seems gray or small,
Whenever you feel lost at all,
Just open them and read a page,
And you may find another age.
And if the yellow road appears,
Don't be afraid. Don't mind the years.
For Oz remembers those who care
Enough to dream of being there."
The house, which had been listening,
Began to sniffle through its spring.
"Oh, STOP!" it cried. "You'll make me weep!
And I have carpets I must sweep!"
X. The Road Home
Next morning, when the sun was bright,
And Oz had washed away the night,
The girls prepared to journey home,
Though neither wished to leave the dome.
The house produced a farewell cake,
Which begged them not to cut or bake.
The sofa gave a little bow.
The clock declared, "It's yesterday now!"
And Grandpa hugged them both once more,
Then walked them to the garden door.
"Remember, girls, when you're at school,
Don't let the world make you a fool
By telling you that books are dead,
Or that imagination's fled.
For every page may hide a door,
And every door may hide much more.
And if a grown-up says, 'That's odd!'
Just smile and give the books a nod."
Then Alice kissed his wrinkled cheek,
And Dorothy, who rarely was meek,
Threw both her arms around his neck.
"Don't let those books get out of check!"
"I won't," he said. "I'll do my best.
Though Volume Three is quite a pest."
They waved goodbye. The house waved too,
Its shutters fluttering in the blue.
And down the yellow road they went,
With pockets full of peppermint.
They passed the talking vegetables,
The dancing clocks, the spectacles,
The hill that bowed, the marching shoes,
The mailbox with its Ozian news.
And just before the road was gone,
They heard a voice upon the dawn:
"ALICE! DOROTHY! ONE THING MORE!"
They turned and saw, beside the door,
Their Grandpa waving from afar,
His glasses shining like a star.
"I FORGOT TO TELL YOU, DEARS!
THE BOOKS ARE PLANNING MUTINY NEXT YEAR!"
And then the yellow road was gone.
The girls stood on our little lawn.
The ordinary world was still.
The sun was setting on the hill.
I ran to them and held them near,
And felt their laughter, warm and clear.
"Mother!" Dorothy cried. "He's well!
Oh, Mother, we've so much to tell!"
And Alice, solemn as could be,
Presented two small books to me.
XI. Charlotte's Epilogue, Written Some Years Later
And now the years have wandered on,
And childhood's earliest days are gone.
My daughters grow, as daughters must,
And Father's books collect their dust.
His chair still stands beside the wall,
His glasses in the entrance hall.
Sometimes I think I hear him speak
Of some obscure Byzantine Greek,
Or why a Frankish king was wrong,
Or how the emperors ruled in Song.
Sometimes I almost turn to say,
"Now Father, not another day
Of dates and dynasties and kings!
The girls have other, better things!"
And then I laugh, because I know
That somewhere, far beyond the snow,
Beyond the clocks and mortal years,
Beyond our sorrows and our fears,
He sits within a living house
And argues with a talking mouse
Concerning whether Attalus
Was justified in leaving us
His kingdom in his testament,
And whether Rome was heaven-sent.
And somewhere in the Royal Library,
Among the books of Ozian history,
He tries to keep the shelves in order
And stop the books from crossing borders.
A manuscript from old Cathay
Has run off with a book of May.
The Roman laws have formed a state.
The cookbooks are demanding cake.
And Ozma, patient, wise, and kind,
Has surely come to help him find
The missing volumes, one by one,
Before the Royal Day is done.
And I can see him, standing there,
With spectacles and silver hair,
His hands upon a dusty tome,
At last, at last, completely home.
But sometimes, when the evening falls,
And shadows lengthen on our walls,
I wish that I could see his face,
And sit beside him in that place.
Not to ask him to return—
For some goodbyes are ours to learn—
But just to say, "I'm glad, you know,
That you found somewhere good to go."
And tell him that his granddaughters
Still look for unexpected doors.
That Alice keeps her little book
Beside her bed, in a secret nook.
That Dorothy, when skies are gray,
Still watches for the yellow way.
And once, last spring, beneath the tree,
A little road appeared to me.
It shimmered gold, then disappeared,
As though the world had briefly cleared
Its throat, and meant to say, "Come through,"
But wasn't certain what I'd do.
I stood there for a little while,
And found that I could only smile.
For perhaps one day, when stars are bright,
And all the books are shelved at night,
We'll walk together, three in hand,
And find that strange enchanted land.
And there, beneath the emerald sky,
We'll see his house come walking by,
Its chimney smoking, windows bright,
Its front door waving with delight.
And Grandpa, hearing us arrive,
Will rush outside, completely alive
With laughter, ink, and scholarly glee,
And shout, "CHARLOTTE! COME AND SEE!
"I'VE FOUND A BOOK YOU WON'T BELIEVE!
IT'S WRITTEN BY A TALKING SIEVE!
AND OZMA SAYS I'VE GOT TO STOP
THE HISTORY BOOKS FROM RUNNING SHOP!"
And Alice will laugh, and Dorothy too,
And I'll remember what I knew
When I was young and he was there,
With all his books and silver hair:
That love is not a thing that ends
When all the roads have reached their bends.
That stories hold what time cannot,
And keep alive what we've forgot.
And though the world may seem quite small,
Perhaps it isn't small at all.
Perhaps, beyond the garden gate,
A living house still sits to wait.
Perhaps, beneath an emerald dome,
An orphan boy has found his home.
And if, one day, we find the way,
We'll go and visit him—and stay
Just long enough to have some tea,
And argue ancient history.
And when at last we turn to go,
He'll wave beneath the sunset's glow,
And call, as only Grandpa can:
"REMEMBER, GIRLS! THE WORLD BEGAN
LONG BEFORE YOU THINK IT DID!
AND CHECK YOUR FOOTNOTES! THAT'S THE BID!"
And then, perhaps, he'll laugh and say,
"Come back, my dears, another day."
For my father, who taught me that the world was full of hidden doors, and for Alice and Dorothy, who still know how to open them.
— Charlotte
And somewhere, in a little house in the Emerald City, a grandfather closed his book, smiled at the moon, and said, "Well, I think that turned out rather nicely."
Whereupon the book opened itself again and replied, "Your chronology is atrocious."
THE END 💚
Or, as the Royal Librarian of Oz would undoubtedly insist, TO BE CONTINUED, SUBJECT TO THE AVAILABILITY OF SHELF SPACE.
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