It was twilight in the wizard’s garden. All the lanterns burned low and the birds twittered drowsily in the tree tops. Grampa and Tatters sat wearily upon a golden bench—for after a whole day’s march they were no nearer the Emerald City than before. Indeed, there seemed no way out of the enchanted garden. They had lunched satisfactorily on the fruit of a bread and butter bush, and Grampa’s knapsack was full of nicely spread slices, but for all that each one of them felt tired and downhearted.
Urtha, on the contrary, was as fresh and merry as in the morning and, seated under a willow tree, was weaving a daisy chain for Bill.
“She is certainly a fairy,” mused Grampa and absently pulling a blossom from a near-by bush he popped it into his mouth. “We’ll take her back to Ragbad, my boy, and won’t she liven up the old castle! I tell you, now—” Suddenly Grampa stopped speaking and clapped his hand to his belt. His eyes grew rounder and rounder and Tatters, turning to see why he did not finish his sentence, gave a little scream of fright.
“Help!” called the Prince of Ragbad in an agonized voice. “Help! Help!” Urtha was beside him in an instant, while Bill circled wildly overhead.
“He’s growing,” breathed the little flower maid softly.
“Yes,” groaned Tatters distractedly, “he’s growing a chimney!” And Tatters was quite right. Not only was the old soldier growing a chimney, but a bay window as well. The chimney had knocked off his cap and grown brick by brick as the horrified Prince looked on. The bay window, of fancy wood-work and glass, jutted out at least three feet beyond Grampa’s waist line. (The old soldier had always been proud of his slim figure.)
“Give me my pipe,” panted Grampa in a choked voice. He had no idea what was happening, but felt too terribly dreadful for words. Tatters sank on one knee, snatched the pipe from its place in his game leg and lit it with trembling fingers. Then it was that he caught sight of the sign on the bush beside Grampa. “House plants,” said the sign distinctly.
“Oh!” wailed the Prince, suddenly remembering that Grampa had eaten one of the blossoms, “you’ve eaten a house plant and there’s a chimney sticking out of your head.”
“There is!” roared Grampa, puffing away at his pipe in great agitation. “Well, that’s what comes of this pesky magic. A chim-nee! Well, I’ll try to bear it like a soldier,” he finished grimly. A perfect cloud of smoke rose from the chimney at these valiant words. Too overcome for speech, Tatters covered his face.
“Don’t you care!” cried Urtha, flinging her arms ’round Grampa’s neck. “It’s a sweet little chimney, and so becoming!”