The Patchwork Girl's brains were slightly mixed, containing among other qualities a dash of poesy, which accounted for her habit of breaking into rhymes and jingles when it was least expected. Now she was too surprised to speak. She had been brought to life in the first place by a magic powder, and since she was always jolly and good-natured, the Patchwork Girl was a prime favorite among the Oz folks. Nicknamed Scraps, the queer girl laughed at dignity and liked nothing better than to dance and sing. It was impossible to be downcast for long in the company of this merry, carefree creature.
"Why don't you look where you're going, Scraps?" said the Scarecrow ruefully, as he brushed his blue Munchkin farmer trousers.
"Now that you mention it," replied the Patchwork Girl reprovingly, "I don't have X-ray eyes, so I couldn't see through to the other side of the hedge where I was going."
"All right," said the Scarecrow, as he rose to his feet. "Please accept my humble apologies." The straw man gallantly assisted the Patchwork Girl to stand. "There's no harm done. The spill was as much my fault as it was yours. I was thinking so deeply that I didn't see you."
"What were you thinking about?" asked Scraps.
"Dorothy," replied the Scarecrow with a sigh. "Tell me, Scraps, have you seen her today?"
"Not once," answered the Patchwork Girl, combing her yarn hair with her fingers.
"Until a few minutes ago, I've spent the entire day with Aunt Em who sewed tight some of my stitches that were coming loose, sewed on my eyes with new thread, so I wouldn't lose 'em, and sewed on a new pair of red shoes, as I'd worn holes in my old ones. Now I'm as good as new!"
"Well," replied the Scarecrow, with his broad smile, "that may be true, but I'd say no matter in how good condition you are, you're always just sew-sew."