“In,” giggled Dorothy, “and did he really?” “No, unreally,” chuckled the Forgetful Poet, leaning down to give Toto’s ear an affectionate little tweak. “Unreally! Unreally! Unreally! As unreally as the breakfast we had this morning. Dorothy, my dear, I’m as weak as tea!” “Well, you don’t look it,” laughed the little girl mischievously. “But I see a hut between those two pines. Perhaps someone lives there.” “Tut tut! A hut; Let’s hasten to it! If the door is shut I’ll jump right—?” “All right!” said Dorothy merrily. “C’mon!” The door was shut but when the Forgetful Poet turned the knob it opened easily and they found themselves in a small, simply furnished cabin. There was no one home, but there were eggs, coffee, bacon and bread in the cupboard, so Percy made a fire in the little stove and Dorothy quickly prepared an appetizing breakfast. “It must belong to a woodcutter,” said Dorothy as they sat down cozily together, “and I don’t believe he’ll mind.” “I’ll leave a poem to pay for it,” said Percy loftily. “And I’ll leave my ring,” added Dorothy. She was a little afraid the woodcutter might not appreciate Percy’s poem. While Dorothy washed up the dishes Percy scribbled away busily on some sheets of paper he had found on the table and, after a good many corrections, he pinned the following verse up on the wall: “We’ve eaten up a little bacon And eggs and such and now are takin’ Our leave. Accept our thanks, and you Should feel a little honored to Have entertained with humble fare A really celebrated pair— A Princess and a Poet, who Wish you good-luck, good-day, a—” Dorothy took the pencil and added a large dieu to Percy’s last line. Then, leaving her gold ring on the table, she skipped after the Forgetful Poet and Toto, who were already out of doors and anxious to be off. “Which way shall we go?” Dorothy paused a moment. “I think the Emerald City is in this direction,” she decided at last, facing toward the West. “Well, I hope so,” sighed Percy Vere, “for otherwise we shall never find the Princess. I wish I’d flung that prophet out of the window—so I do!” You see the young poet was getting very much discouraged. “But even if you had, there still would be the monster to think about,” Dorothy reminded him. “And if she’s lost from us, she’s lost from the monster, too!” “That’s so,” said the Forgetful Poet, cheering up immediately. “You think of everything, don’t you. I’m going to write a book of verse about you when I get back to Perhaps City.” “That’ll be nice,” smiled Dorothy. “But let’s hurry up and see how far we can be by noon-time.” And hurry up it certainly was, for the path Dorothy had chosen grew steeper and steeper. It wound in and out among the trees and was so rough and full of stones that they had to stop every once in a while to rest. “It’s a mountain—go fountain!” panted Percy Vere, after they had toiled steadily upward for more than an hour.