“That’s so,” said the Forgetful Poet, cheering up immediately. “You think of everything, don’t you. I’m going to write a book of verse about you when I get back to Perhaps City.”
“That’ll be nice,” smiled Dorothy. “But let’s hurry up and see how far we can be by noon-time.” And hurry up it certainly was, for the path Dorothy had chosen grew steeper and steeper. It wound in and out among the trees and was so rough and full of stones that they had to stop every once in a while to rest.
“It’s a mountain—go fountain!” panted Percy Vere, after they had toiled steadily upward for more than an hour.
“Never mind,” puffed Dorothy, tucking Toto under her arm—for the poor bow-wow was completely worn out—“when we reach the top we’ll know where we are.”
The trees had thinned out by this time and clouds of vapor hid the top of the mountain from view, but Dorothy and the Forgetful Poet kept climbing upward—on and on and up.
“It’s a dreadful blue mountain,” said Dorothy at last, leaning against a rock.
“It’s blue as blueing,” groaned Percy Vere, shaking a stone out of his shoe. “What’s this?”
“What’s that?” cried Dorothy, in the same breath. Now this—as it happened—was a clothes horse, full of petticoats and pajamas—and as the two travellers stared at it in disbelief it kicked up its pegs and dashed off at a gallop, its petticoats and pajamas snapping in the breeze. And that was a wash woman—a wild, wild wash woman, her hair dragged up on top of her head and held in place by a couple of clothes pins. She had a clothes prop in one hand and a cake of soap in the other. Hurling both with all her might at Percy Vere, she turned and scrambled up the mountain, screaming in a dozen different keys as she scrambled. The clothes prop missed, but the great cake of soap caught Percy squarely in the stomach.
“Ugh!” grunted the Forgetful Poet, sitting down from the shock: