Though Grampa and Tatters had by this time left Ragbad far behind them, they were still in the Quadling country and all the little farms and villages they passed were of cheery red brick or stone and the people themselves dressed in the quaint red costume of the south. Tulips, poppies and red roses nodded over the tall hedges; the fields, rusty with sorrel, had a reddish tinge and all along the highway giant red maples arched their lacy branches. At noon they stopped under one of these maples and had a bite of the lunch Mrs Sew-and-Sew had prepared for them, but their pause was short for both were anxious to reach the Emerald City as soon as possible, to learn from the Wizard of Oz the best way to recover Fumbo’s head. To make the marching easier, the old soldier played a lively rat-tat upon his drum, and as they passed through the quiet Quadling villages many heads were popped out the windows to see what all the racket was about. But soon these villages became farther and farther apart, and the country more wild and unsettled and just as the sun slipped down behind the treetops they came to the edge of a deep blue forest. “A long march,” puffed the old soldier, mopping his forehead, “but we’re getting along, my lad, for this is the beginning of the Munchkin country.” “Do you think it’s safe?” asked Prince Tatters, peering anxiously into the gloomy forest. “Safe!” cried Grampa scornfully. “Well I hope not. Fortunes are never found in safe places my boy. Shouldn’t wonder if there were a bear behind every tree,” he continued cheerfully. “Shouldn’t wonder if there were a dragon or two lying in wait for us. Come on!” Thrusting his drum sticks through his belt and waving his sword, the old soldier plunged recklessly into the blue forest, shouting the national air of Ragbad at the top of his lungs. “Oh, hush,” begged Prince Tatters, glancing uneasily from side to side and treading close upon Grampa’s heels, “someone might hear you. Oh! What’s that?” For with a shrill scream a great bird had risen from the branches of a tree just ahead and flown squawking into the air. “That’s supper!” chuckled the old soldier, and raising his gun he took aim and fired. There was a sharp crash as the bullet struck home, then down fell a large reddish fowl. “Well?” the fowl rasped sulkily, as Prince Tatters and Grampa ran forward, “what am I supposed to do now? I’ve never been shot before.” “A bird that’s shot is not supposed to do anything,” said the old soldier severely. “Oh,” sighed the bird, “that’s easy!” and putting down its head, it lay quietly on its side. “It’s a rooster!” exclaimed the Prince, touching it with one hand, “an iron rooster!” At this the bird sprang up indignantly. “You may shoot me if you want, but I’ll not lie here and let you call me names,” it shrilled angrily. “Where are your eyes? Can’t you see I’m a weather cock?”