"Do you think I can ever be a real person?" asked Benny wistfully as the Scarecrow finished his story. "Now, as you see, I am a hard person of stone. But I wish to be like other people, to laugh, to sing, to dance and be happy." It was hard to imagine this pompous looking image singing and dancing, but Trot had seen stranger things than this happen in the marvelous Land of Oz, so, stifling her misgivings, smiled at him kindly. "You'll have to be a little careful about dancing," she cautioned gently, "not to step on anyone's foot, or hold them too tightly or--" "Ho Ho!" roared the Scarecrow. "I should say you had better be careful. One step from your stone toes, and one squeeze from those stone arms would finish any partner brave enough to waltz round with you." At this the stone man looked so downcast that Trot felt really sorry for him. "I guess stone arms and legs are not much use," he sighed, rolling his eyes sadly at the little girl. "But they're terribly strong," Trot reminded him cheerfully, "and would be fine in a battle. And after awhile, when you're quite used to being alive, _I_ wouldn't mind dancing with you," finished Trot in a little burst of generosity. "Wouldn't you?" Stopping stock still, Benny began to bow. "My dear," exclaimed the stone man gratefully, and bending so low he almost lost his balance, "those are the kindest words I've heard since I came to life and to Oz." Trot, pleased and delighted at such appreciation, curtsied back. "Hurrah!" shouted the Scarecrow, tossing his hat into the air. "You're acting realer every minute. Do you know, this reminds me of my first journey to the Emerald City. I was not always the accomplished person you see before you," he confided mysteriously. For a long time Benny had been trying to puzzle out just what kind of a person the Scarecrow was. Never in his whole park experience had he seen anyone so curiously constructed, so unsteady and flimsy, yet so gaily alive. He listened attentively therefore as the straw man began to tell his story to his new friend. "I am a Scarecrow," he began impressively, and I must admit he was as fond of talking about himself as most of the gentlemen of my own acquaintance. Trot who had heard the story many times began to hum a little tune and to think of something else.