"I am much
more beautiful than the Patchwork Girl. I'm
transparent, and Scraps isn't; I've pink brains--
you can see 'em work; and I've a ruby heart,
finely polished, while Scraps hasn't any heart at
all."
"No more have I," said the Scarecrow, shaking
hands with Scraps, as if to congratulate her on
the fact. "I've a friend, the Tin Woodman, who has
a heart, but I find I get along pretty well
without one. And so--Well, well! here's a little
Munchkin boy, too. Shake hands, my little man. How
are you?"
Ojo placed his hand in the flabby stuffed glove
that served the Scarecrow for a hand, and the
Scarecrow pressed it so cordially that the straw
in his glove crackled.
Meantime, the Woozy had approached the Sawhorse
and begun to sniff at it. The Sawhorse resented
this familiarity and with a sudden kick pounded
the Woozy squarely on its head with one gold-shod
foot.
"Take that, you monster!" it cried angrily.
The Woozy never even winked.
"To be sure," he said; "I'll take anything I
have to. But don't make me angry, you wooden
beast, or my eyes will flash fire and burn you
up."
The Sawhorse rolled its knot eyes wickedly
and kicked again, but the Woozy trotted away
and said to the Scarecrow:
"What a sweet disposition that creature has!
I advise you to chop it up for kindling-wood
and use me to ride upon.
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