“I really think we have escaped very nicely,” remarked the Tin Woodman, in a tone of pride.
“Not so!” exclaimed a hollow voice.
At this they all turned in surprise to look at the Scarecrow’s head, which lay at the back of the nest.
“I am completely ruined!” declared the Scarecrow, as he noted their astonishment. “For where is the straw that stuffs my body?”
The awful question startled them all. They gazed around the nest with horror, for not a vestige of straw remained. The Jackdaws had stolen it to the last wisp and flung it all into the chasm that yawned for hundreds of feet beneath the nest.
“My poor, poor friend!” said the Tin Woodman, taking up the Scarecrow’s head and caressing it tenderly; “whoever could imagine you would come to this untimely end?”
“I did it to save my friends,” returned the head; “and I am glad that I perished in so noble and unselfish a manner.”
“But why are you all so despondent?” inquired the Woggle-Bug. “The Scarecrow’s clothing is still safe.”