But through all her honors and adventures Dorothy has remained the same jolly little girl she was in Kansas. Every now and then she puts aside her silk court frocks, slips into an old gingham dress and steals off for a visit to some of her friends in the country. “We’ll soon be at the Scarecrow’s, Toto; shall you like that?” she asked, after skipping along for five whole minutes without speaking. “Perhaps he’ll have corn muffins and honey and—Whatever’s that?” “Little girl! Little girl!” A voice came echoing high and clear down the sunlit lane. Toto pricked up his ears, and Dorothy, shading her eyes, turned in the direction of the voice. Running toward her was a young man clothed all in buff—an extremely excited and agitated young man—and by the time he reached Dorothy and Toto he was perfectly breathless. “Well—” began Dorothy, hardly knowing what else to say. “Not very well, thank you,” puffed the young man, slapping at his face with a yellow silk handkerchief. On closer inspection Dorothy saw that his handsome suit was torn and muddied and the young man himself exceedingly scratched and weary. “I am most unhappy,” he continued, regarding her mournfully. “At least, when I can remember to be. It is hard to be unhappy in a lovely country like this.” “Then why do you try to remember to be?” asked Dorothy with a little laugh, while Toto made a playful dash at the stranger’s heels. “A great deal depends on my remembering,” explained the young man eagerly. “If I forget to be unhappy I may forget why I fell down the mountain and why I am wandering in this strange country without friends or food.” “Well, why are you?” Dorothy could control her curiosity no longer. “I am seeking a Princess,” replied the youth solemnly. “A Princess! Well, will I do?” Dorothy smiled mischievously and while the stranger stared at her, round-eyed, she made him her prettiest court bow. The result was extremely funny. The Forgetful Poet—for of course you have guessed all along that it was he—extended his arms toward Toto and cried accusingly: “I looked the maiden in the eye, I looked her up and down, She says she is a Princess, But, she hasn’t any—any—?” Toto barked indignantly at this limping poetry. “I suppose you mean crown,” giggled Dorothy. “Yes I have too, but it’s at home, in Ozma’s castle.” “The crown is in the castle, The castle’s in the town; The town is in the land of Oz, But how about her—her—” He stared helplessly at Dorothy’s gingham dress and, with another little scream of laughter, Dorothy finished his verse. “Gown!” spluttered the little girl. “Do you always talk like that?” “Pretty often,” admitted Percy Vere apologetically. “You see, I am a poet. And I know who you are now. You’re Princess Dorothy herself!” He smiled so charmingly as he said this that Dorothy could not help smiling back.