"What now?" groaned the statue dismally, clutching his umbrella. "Am I a bird? Why, Oh why did I ever leave my pedestal?" But wishing made no difference at all and down he dropped to the very bottom of no where. Then all at once he crashed through a crust of blue sky out into the blazing sunlight and thumped down in the middle of a broad green field. Luckily he landed upon his feet, but so hard and so heavily that he went down to his knees in soft earth. For a few moments he stood perfectly still. Then, closing his umbrella, he pulled one leg and then the other out of the mud and took a few steps to shake the stuff from his stone shins.
"It was night and now it is day. I was there and now I am here. What next?" he muttered uneasily. The country into which he had fallen so suddenly seemed safe enough. Green fields, dotted with feathery trees, stretched to the right and left. But after the dusty Boston park it seemed large and lonely. As he gazed about uncertainly, he noticed a blue figure, walking briskly along a yellow highway that ran through the center of the fields. He had never in his whole carved career seen a fellow like this and as the figure drew nearer he grasped his umbrella firmly and made ready to fight or run.
It was a Scarecrow, a live, jolly, sure enough straw stuffed Scarecrow. As he came opposite he took off his hat.
"Good after-night," said the Scarecrow politely. The Public Benefactor made an unsuccessful effort to remove his own hat, but he had jammed it down too hard.
"I suppose you mean good morning," he remarked stiffly, returning the Scarecrow's bow.
"Have it your own way," smiled the Scarecrow, with a care free wave, "and speaking of ways, where are you going?"