“I’m all right,” smiled Urtha, jumping up lightly. The little flower maiden was looking as beautiful as ever. “So am I,” said Tatters, “but I’d like to know how we happened to turn crow, and whether it’s going to happen often. You know, Grampa, it would be mighty inconvenient to be turning backwards and forwards any minute. I am sure it would be very unpleasant.” “Well, it helped us over a couple of bad places,” mused the old soldier. “The mischief, boys! I’ve lost my pipe!” Grampa clapped one hand to his pocket and the other to his chin. “You dropped it when you were a crow,” Tatters reminded him. Grampa did not answer, for out of his pocket he had drawn the blue tobacco pouch of Vaga, the bandit. In the excitement following Bill’s disappearance all the tobacco had spilled out, but the pouch Grampa had thrust into his pocket just before he turned crow. Here, at any rate, it was, and on the flap this amazing sentence: “To turn people to crows, smoke this tobacco. One puff will keep a company of captives crows for one hour, two puffs, two hours, three puffs for three hours, and so on.” “So that’s the reason there were so many crows in the blue forest!” shouted Grampa indignantly. “So that’s why we turned to crows. It’s three hours to the minute,” he puffed, pulling out his watch. “What _are_ you talking about?” asked Tatters crossly. “Us,” chuckled Grampa. “It was the bandit’s tobacco that did the trick.” Showing them the blue pouch, he explained how he had smoked the magic tobacco instead of his own and how just three puffs had kept them crows for three hours. “A couple more puffs and we’d have been all the way to the Emerald City,” sighed the old soldier regretfully. “How-some-ever, marching is more to my taste.” “What about eating? That’s more to mine.” Tatters yawned—for flying had made him quite hungry. “All right,” agreed Grampa, and, unfastening his knapsack, he took out one of the dried bear steaks and busied himself with making a fire. Fortunately they had lost none of their possessions by turning to crows—that is nothing except Grampa’s pipe. “I love this country,” said Urtha, sitting solemnly beside the old soldier. “I believe I like Oz better than the wizard’s garden.” “It’s the top of the world,” boasted Grampa, dropping the steak into his campaign frying pan. Tatters, meanwhile, had found a pink plum tree and came back with his cap full of plums, so that he and Grampa had a most satisfying luncheon. Bill, as usual, was searching for the fortune and, while they were eating, Urtha merrily skipped rope with a long spray of honeysuckle. “Cheer up, boy,” said the old soldier, for the Prince was looking rather thoughtful. “We’re on the right track now and only a day’s march from the capitol.” “Storm coming! Storm coming!” shrilled the weather cock, dropping down suddenly beside the fire. “Wind! Thunder and possible showers!” “Oh, g’wan!” scoffed Grampa, gathering up his tin camp dishes. “You g’wan, Bill.”