was presently having a most exciting
dream about plush animals which could be inflated to the size of a house
and then used as potato-mashers in the thermostat of life which likes to
think about groovy butterflies with red and purple and yellow and violet
whispers in the dark backward uprising theme of the way it really was in
the thunder of the goat farm with lots of yams and a shovelful of fine
white powder that looked like the side of a barn with lots of clocks and
fleas with orange earrings in their hazy green and blue and pink
walking-sticks which were married to some tortilla chips and about
thirty-five orange and brown cabinet-makers with green feathers and pink
fur.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

JEANNE-MARIE

Graham sat down upon the ground and sighed. He was glad to have escaped
from the Wicked Witch yet again, but he felt sorry for his companion. He
wondered what that awful old woman might have done to poor Telly. Could
she have locked him away in a torture chamber someplace? Some terrible
winding maze such as he had just left? It made him feel sick to even
imagine it. He absently sat and drew a picture of Telly in the dirt.
"Where are you, Telly?" he asked aloud. He spoke his question into the
air, and no answer seemed to be forthcoming. "What has she done to you?
I have to know. I miss you, Telly! You are my best friend in this
strange land. I love you! Where have you been taken?"

"Who is Telly?" came an unfamiliar female voice. Graham turned about to
see who had spoken. He was looking as much into the sun as into the face
of the speaker. It was hard to distinguish her features. But she looked
like a fine white horse.

"Hello?" said Graham uncertainly.

"Hello," replied the voice. Whoever she was, she sounded gentle and
understanding. "My name is Jeanne-Marie. Why are you so glum?"

"My friend has been taken prisoner by a bad Witch," explained the boy,
who felt an inexplicable trust for this equine newcomer. "Oh," she
replied. "I am sorry. I had thought that Queen Ozma had done away with
all such vile Witches."

"Well," he sighed, "she doesn't know about this one. This wicked old
Witch has created a very clever illusion that has made Ozma unable to
see her or to find out about her. I was fooled, too. I had been under
the impression that Ozma was as wicked as the Witch. But I was wrong. If
only I could find Ozma. The real Ozma, not just an illusion that was
passing itself off as the real Ozma. Then