“Help!” cawed the old soldier, dropping the pipe from his bill and beginning to hop wildly over the ice.
“Daisies and dahlias, I can fly!” twittered Urtha, circling aloft. “Come on Tatters and try it!”
“He’s a crow!” shrieked Grampa. “I’m a crow, you’re a crow! What’s happened and where’s Bill?”
“Here I am,” screamed a frightened voice. But though they stared and stared they could see nothing at all—for Bill had turned to a cock’s crow, which of course can only be heard and not seen.
“Poor Bill, there’s nothing left but his crow,” cawed Grampa.
“It’s magic,” gasped Tatters.
“It’s that pesky wizard,” added the old soldier, stamping his game foot and ruffling up all his feathers, for Grampa did not realize he’d smoked Yaga’s tobacco.
“But now that we’re crows why not fly?” asked Urtha merrily. She did not seem to mind her feathers at all. “Let’s fly back to Oz!”
“Why, so we can!” cried Tatters. “All the way over the Nonestic Ocean and sandy desert, straight to the Emerald City itself. Someone’s helping us, Grampa,” finished the Prince of Ragbad, fluttering into the air.
“Wish they’d mind their own business,” croaked Grampa crossly. “Being a crow is no help to me. But come on. We might as well fly while we can. Bill, you lead the way and see that you keep us pointed East and crow every few minutes, will you, so we can hear where you are.”