fools magicians be!
His head's so thick
He can't think quick,
So he takes advice from me."

Standing upon the bench, for he was so crooked he could not reach the
top of his wife's head in any other way, Dr. Pipt began shaking the
bottle. But not a grain of powder came out. He pulled off the cover,
glanced within, and then threw the bottle from him with a wail of
despair.

"Gone--gone! Every bit gone," he cried. "Wasted on that miserable
phonograph when it might have saved my dear wife!"

Then the Magician bowed his head on his crooked arms and began to cry.

Ojo was sorry for him. He went up to the sorrowful man and said softly:

"You can make more Powder of Life, Dr. Pipt."

"Yes; but it will take me six years--six long, weary years of stirring
four kettles with both feet and both hands," was the agonized reply.
"Six years! while poor Margolotte stands watching me as a marble image."

"Can't anything else be done?" asked the Patchwork Girl.

The Magician shook his head. Then he seemed to remember something and
looked up.

"There is one other compound that would destroy the magic spell of the
Liquid of Petrifaction and restore my wife and Unc Nunkie to life," said
he. "It may be hard to find the things I need to make this magic
compound, but if they were found I could do in an instant what will
otherwise take six long, weary years of stirring kettles with both hands
and both feet."

"All right; let's find the things, then," suggested the Patchwork Girl.
"That seems a lot more sensible than those stirring times with the
kettles."

"That's the idea, Scraps," said the Glass Cat, approvingly. "I'm glad to
find you have decent brains. Mine are exceptionally good. You can see
'em work; they're pink."

"Scraps?" repeated the girl. "Did you call me 'Scraps'? Is that my
name?"

"I--I believe my poor wife had intended to name you 'Angeline,'" said
the Magician.

"But I like 'Scraps' best," she replied with a laugh. "It fits me
better, for my patchwork is all scraps, and nothing else. Thank you for
naming me, Miss Cat. Have you any name of your own?"

"I have a foolish name that Margolotte once gave me, but which is quite
undignified for one of my importance," answered the cat. "She called me
'Bungle.'"

"Yes," sighed the Magician; "you were a sad bungle, taken all in all. I
was wrong to make you as I did, for a more useless, conceited and
brittle thing never before existed."

"I'm not so britt