I hope we shall find something to eat, said Dorothy, looking eagerly at the pretty beach toward which they drifted. Its long past breakfast time, now.
Im a trifle hungry, myself, declared the yellow hen.
Why dont you eat the egg? asked the child. You dont need to have your food cooked, as I do.
Do you take me for a cannibal? cried the hen, indignantly. I do not know what I have said or done that leads you to insult me!
I beg your pardon, Im sure Mrs. Mrs. by the way, may I inquire your name, maam? asked the little girl.
My name is Bill, said the yellow hen, somewhat gruffly.
Bill! Why, thats a boys name.
What difference does that make?
Youre a lady hen, arent you?
Of course. But when I was first hatched out no one could tell whether I was going to be a hen or a rooster; so the little boy at the farm where I was born called me Bill, and made a pet of me because I was the only yellow chicken in the whole brood. When I grew up, and he found that I didnt crow and fight, as all the roosters do, he did not think to change my name, and every creature in the barn-yard, as well as the people in the house, knew me as Bill. So Bill Ive always been called, and Bill is my name.
But its all wrong, you know, declared Dorothy, earnestly; and, if you dont mind, I shall call you Billina. Putting the eena on the end makes it a girls name, you see.
Oh, I dont mind it in the least, returned the yellow hen. It doesnt matter at all what you call me, so long as I know the name means ME.
Very well, Billina. MY name is Dorothy Gale just Dorothy to my friends and Miss Gale to strangers. You may call me Dorothy, if you like. Were getting very near the shore. Do you suppose it is too deep for me to wade the rest of the way?
Wait a few minutes longer. The sunshine is warm and pleasant, and we are in no hurry.
But my feet are all wet and soggy, said the girl. My dress is dry enough, but I wont feel real comforble till I get my feet dried.
She waited, however, as the hen advised, and before long the big wooden coop grated gently on the sandy beach and the dangerous voyage was over.
It did not take the castaways long to reach the shore, you may be sure. The yellow hen flew to the sands at once, but Dorothy had to climb over the high slats. Still, for a country girl, that was not much of a feat, and as soon as she was safe ashore Dorothy drew off her wet shoes and stockings and spread them upon the sun-warmed beach to dry.
Then she sat down and watched Billina, who was pick-pecking away with her sharp bill in the sand and gravel, which she scratched up and turned over with her strong claws.
What are you doing? asked Dorothy.
Getting my breakfast, of course, murmured the hen, busily pecking away.
What do you find? inquired the girl, curiously.
Oh, some fat red ants, and some sand-bugs, and once in a while a tiny crab. They are very sweet and nice, I assure you.
How dreadful! exclaimed Dorothy, in a shocked voice.
What is dreadful? asked the hen, lifting her head to gaze with one bright eye at her companion.
Why, eating live things, and horrid bugs, and crawly ants. You ought to be SHAMED of yourself!
Goodness me! returned the hen, in a puzzled tone; how queer you are, Dorothy! Live things are much fresher and more wholesome than dead ones, and you humans eat all sorts of dead creatures.
We dont! said Dorothy.
You do, indeed, answered Billina. You eat lambs and sheep and cows and pigs and even chickens.
But we cook em, said Dorothy, triumphantly.
What difference does that make?
A good deal, said the girl, in a graver tone. I cant just splain the diffrence, but its there. And, anyhow, we never eat such dreadful things as BUGS.
But you eat the chickens that eat the bugs, retorted the yellow hen, with an odd cackle. So you are just as bad as we chickens are.
This made Dorothy thoughtful. What Billina said was true enough, and it almost took away her appetite for breakfast. As for the yellow hen, she continued to peck away at the sand busily, and seemed quite contented with her bill-of-fare.
Finally, down near the waters edge, Billina stuck her bill deep into the sand, and then drew back and shivered.
Ow! she cried. I struck metal, that time, and it nearly broke my beak.
It probbly was a rock, said Dorothy, carelessly.
Nonsense. I know a rock from metal, I guess, said the hen. Theres a different feel to it.
But there couldnt be any metal on this wild, deserted seashore, persisted the girl. Wheres the place? Ill dig it up, and prove to you Im right,
Billina showed her the place where she had stubbed her bill, as she expressed it, and Dorothy dug away the sand until she felt something hard. Then, thrusting in her hand, she pulled the thing out, and discovered it to be a large sized golden key rather old, but still bright and of perfect shape.
What did I tell you? cried the hen, with a cackle of triumph. Can I tell metal when I bump into it, or is the thing a rock?
Its metal, sure enough, answered the child, gazing thoughtfully at the curious thing she had found. I think it is pure gold, and it must have lain hidden in the sand for a long time. How do you suppose it came there, Billina? And what do you suppose this mysterious key unlocks?
I cant say, replied the hen. You ought to know more about locks and keys than I do.
Dorothy glanced around. There was no sign of any house in that part of the country, and she reasoned that every key must fit a lock and every lock must have a purpose. Perhaps the key had been lost by somebody who lived far away, but had wandered on this very shore.
Musing on these things the girl put the key in the pocket of her dress and then slowly drew on her shoes and stockings, which the sun had fully dried.
I blieve, Billina, she said, Ill have a look round, and see if I can find some breakfast.
3. Letters in the Sand
Walking a little way back from the waters edge, toward the grove of trees, Dorothy came to a flat stretch of white sand that seemed to have queer signs marked upon its surface, just as one would write upon sand with a stick.
What does it say? she asked the yellow hen, who trotted along beside her in a rather dignified fashion.
How should I know? returned the hen. I cannot read.
Oh! Cant you?
Certainly not; Ive never been to school, you know.
Well, I have, admitted Dorothy; but the letters are big and far apart, and its hard to spell out the words.
But she looked at each letter carefully, and finally discovered that these words were written in the sand:
BEWARE THE WHEELERS!
Thats rather strange, declared the hen, when Dorothy had read aloud the words. What do you suppose the Wheelers are?
Folks that wheel, I guess. They must have wheelbarrows, or baby-cabs or hand-carts, said Dorothy.
Perhaps theyre automobiles, suggested the yellow hen. There is no need to beware of baby-cabs and wheelbarrows; but automobiles are dangerous things. Several of my friends have been run over by them.
It cant be autobiles, replied the girl, for this is a new, wild country, without even trolley-cars or telphones. The people here havent been discovered yet, Im sure; that is, if there ARE any people. So I dont blieve there CAN be any autobiles, Billina.
Perhaps not, admitted the yellow hen. Where are you going now?
Over to those trees, to see if I can find some fruit or nuts, answered Dorothy.