whiskers and merry blue eyes and his blue clothes were
quite old and worn.

"Mercy me!" exclaimed the woodchopper, when at last he could stop
laughing. "Who would think such a funny harlequin lived in the Land of
Oz? Where did you come from, Crazy-quilt?"

"Do you mean me?" asked the Patchwork Girl.

"Of course," he replied.

"You misjudge my ancestry. I'm not a crazy-quilt; I'm patchwork," she
said.

"There's no difference," he replied, beginning to laugh again. "When my
old grandmother sews such things together she calls it a crazy-quilt;
but I never thought such a jumble could come to life."

"It was the Magic Powder that did it," explained Ojo.

"Oh, then you have come from the Crooked Magician on the mountain. I
might have known it, for--Well, I declare! here's a glass cat. But the
Magician will get in trouble for this; it's against the law for anyone
to work magic except Glinda the Good and the royal Wizard of Oz. If you
people--or things--or glass spectacles--or crazy-quilts--or whatever you
are, go near the Emerald City, you'll be arrested."

"We're going there, anyhow," declared Scraps, sitting upon the bench and
swinging her stuffed legs.

"If any of us takes a rest,
We'll be arrested sure,
And get no restitution
'Cause the rest we must endure."

"I see," said the woodchopper, nodding; "you're as crazy as the
crazy-quilt you're made of."

"She really _is_ crazy," remarked the Glass Cat. "But that isn't to be
wondered at when you remember how many different things she's made of.
For my part, I'm made of pure glass--except my jewel heart and my pretty
pink brains. Did you notice my brains, stranger? You can see 'em work."

"So I can," replied the woodchopper; "but I can't see that they
accomplish much. A glass cat is a useless sort of thing, but a Patchwork
Girl is really useful. She makes me laugh, and laughter is the best
thing in life. There was once a woodchopper, a friend of mine, who was
made all of tin, and I used to laugh every time I saw him."

"A tin woodchopper?" said Ojo. "That is strange."

"My friend wasn't always tin," said the man, "but he was careless with
his axe, and used to chop himself very badly. Whenever he lost an arm or
a leg he had it replaced with tin; so after a while he was all tin."

"And could he chop wood then?" asked the boy.

"He could if he didn't rust his tin joints. But one day he met Dorothy
in the forest and went with her to the Emerald