Folklore, legends, myths and fairy tales have followed childhood through the ages,

for every healthy youngster has a wholesome and instinctive love for stories fantastic,

marvelous and manifestly unreal.

The winged fairies of Grimm and Andersen have brought more happiness to childish

hearts than all other human creations.

Yet the old time fairy tale, having served for generations, may now be classed as

"historical" in the children's library; for the time has come for a series of newer

"wonder tales" in which the stereotyped

genie, dwarf and fairy are eliminated, together with all the horrible and blood-

curdling incidents devised by their authors to point a fearsome moral to each tale.

Modern education includes morality; therefore the modern child seeks only

entertainment in its wonder tales and gladly dispenses with all disagreeable

incident.

Having this thought in mind, the story of "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" was written

solely to please children of today.

It aspires to being a modernized fairy tale, in which the wonderment and joy are

retained and the heartaches and nightmares are left out.

L. Frank Baum

Chicago, April, 1900.

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CHAPTER 1. The Cyclone

Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was

a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife.

Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many

miles.

There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room

contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or

four chairs, and the beds.

Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in

another corner.

There was no garret at all, and no cellar-- except a small hole dug in the ground,

called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great

whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path.

It was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down

into the small, dark hole.

When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but

the great gray prairie on every side.

Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the

edge of the sky in all directions.

The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running

through it.

Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades

until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere.

Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains

washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else.

When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife.

The sun and wind had changed her, too.

They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken

the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also.

She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now.

When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the

child's laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever

Dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and

she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to

laugh at. Uncle Henry never laughed.

He worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was.

He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and

solemn, and rarely spoke.

It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other

surroundings.

Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black

eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose.

Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.

Today, however, they were not playing.

Uncle Henry sat upon the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even

grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her

arms, and looked at the sky too.

Aunt Em was washing the dishes. From the far north they heard a low wail of

the wind, and Uncle Henry and Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves

before the coming storm.

There now came a sharp whistling in the air from the south, and as they turned their

eyes that way they saw ripples in the grass coming from that direction also.

Suddenly Uncle Henry stood up.

"There's a cyclone coming, Em," he called to his wife.

"I'll go look after the stock." Then he ran toward the sheds where the cows

and horses were kept.

Aunt Em dropped her work and came to the door.

One glance told her of the danger close at hand.

"Quick, Dorothy!" she screamed.

"Run for the cellar!" Toto jumped out of Dorothy's arms and hid

under the bed, and the girl started to get him.

Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw open the trap door in the floor and climbed down the

ladder into the small, dark hole. Dorothy caught Toto at last and started to

follow her aunt.

When she was halfway across the room there came a great shriek from the wind, and the

house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat down suddenly upon the

floor.

Then a strange thing happened. The house whirled around two or three times

and rose slowly through the air. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a

balloon.

The north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the exact center

of the cyclone.

In the middle of a cyclone the air is generally still, but the great pressure of

the wind on every side of the house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at

the very top of the cyclone; and there it

remained and was carried miles and miles away as easily as you could carry a

feather.

It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy found she

was riding quite easily.

After the first few whirls around, and one other time when the house tipped badly, she

felt as if she were being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.

Toto did not like it.

He ran about the room, now here, now there, barking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still

on the floor and waited to see what would happen.

Once Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at first the little girl

thought she had lost him.

But soon she saw one of his ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong

pressure of the air was keeping him up so that he could not fall.

She crept to the hole, caught Toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again,

afterward closing the trap door so that no more accidents could happen.

Hour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her fright; but she felt

quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about her that she nearly became

deaf.

At first she had wondered if she would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again;

but as the hours passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and

resolved to wait calmly and see what the future would bring.

At last she crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and Toto

followed and lay down beside her.

In spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind, Dorothy soon

closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.

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CHAPTER 2. The Council with the Munchkins

She was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had not been lying

on the soft bed she might have been hurt.

As it was, the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and

Toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally.

Dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark, for the

bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room.

She sprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran and opened the door.

The little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes growing bigger

and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw.

The cyclone had set the house down very gently--for a cyclone--in the midst of a

country of marvelous beauty.

There were lovely patches of greensward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and

luscious fruits.

Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with rare and brilliant

plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes.

A little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between green banks,

and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl who had lived so long on the

dry, gray prairies.

While she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful sights, she noticed

coming toward her a group of the queerest people she had ever seen.

They were not as big as the grown folk she had always been used to; but neither were

they very small.

In fact, they seemed about as tall as Dorothy, who was a well-grown child for her

age, although they were, so far as looks go, many years older.

Three were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed.

They wore round hats that rose to a small point a foot above their heads, with little

bells around the brims that tinkled sweetly as they moved.

The hats of the men were blue; the little woman's hat was white, and she wore a white

gown that hung in pleats from her shoulders.

Over it were sprinkled little stars that glistened in the sun like diamonds.

The men were dressed in blue, of the same shade as their hats, and wore well-polished

boots with a deep roll of blue at the tops.

The men, Dorothy thought, were about as old as Uncle Henry, for two of them had beards.

But the little woman was doubtless much older.

Her face was covered with wrinkles, her hair was nearly white, and she walked

rather stiffly.

When these people drew near the house where Dorothy was standing in the doorway, they

paused and whispered among themselves, as if afraid to come farther.

But the little old woman walked up to Dorothy, made a low bow and said, in a

sweet voice: "You are welcome, most noble Sorceress, to

the land of the Munchkins.

We are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Witch of the East, and for

setting our people free from bondage." Dorothy listened to this speech with

wonder.

What could the little woman possibly mean by calling her a sorceress, and saying she

had killed the Wicked Witch of the East?

Dorothy was an innocent, harmless little girl, who had been carried by a cyclone

many miles from home; and she had never killed anything in all her life.

But the little woman evidently expected her to answer; so Dorothy said, with

hesitation, "You are very kind, but there must be some mistake.

I have not killed anything."

"Your house did, anyway," replied the little old woman, with a laugh, "and that

is the same thing. See!" she continued, pointing to the corner

of the house.

"There are her two feet, still sticking out from under a block of wood."

Dorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright.

There, indeed, just under the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet

were sticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes.

"Oh, dear!

Oh, dear!" cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together in dismay.

"The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do?"

"There is nothing to be done," said the little woman calmly.

"But who was she?" asked Dorothy. "She was the Wicked Witch of the East, as I

said," answered the little woman.

"She has held all the Munchkins in bondage for many years, making them slave for her

night and day. Now they are all set free, and are grateful

to you for the favor."

"Who are the Munchkins?" inquired Dorothy. "They are the people who live in this land

of the East where the Wicked Witch ruled." "Are you a Munchkin?" asked Dorothy.

"No, but I am their friend, although I live in the land of the North.

When they saw the Witch of the East was dead the Munchkins sent a swift messenger

to me, and I came at once.

I am the Witch of the North." "Oh, gracious!" cried Dorothy.

"Are you a real witch?" "Yes, indeed," answered the little woman.

"But I am a good witch, and the people love me.

I am not as powerful as the Wicked Witch was who ruled here, or I should have set

the people free myself."

"But I thought all witches were wicked," said the girl, who was half frightened at

facing a real witch. "Oh, no, that is a great mistake.

There were only four witches in all the Land of Oz, and two of them, those who live

in the North and the South, are good witches.

I know this is true, for I am one of them myself, and cannot be mistaken.

Those who dwelt in the East and the West were, indeed, wicked witches; but now that

you have killed one of them, there is but one Wicked Witch in all the Land of Oz--the

one who lives in the West."

"But," said Dorothy, after a moment's thought, "Aunt Em has told me that the

witches were all dead--years and years ago."

"Who is Aunt Em?" inquired the little old woman.

"She is my aunt who lives in Kansas, where I came from."

The Witch of the North seemed to think for a time, with her head bowed and her eyes

upon the ground.

Then she looked up and said, "I do not know where Kansas is, for I have never heard

that country mentioned before. But tell me, is it a civilized country?"

"Oh, yes," replied Dorothy.

"Then that accounts for it. In the civilized countries I believe there

are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians.

But, you see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized, for we are cut off from all the

rest of the world. Therefore we still have witches and wizards

amongst us."

"Who are the wizards?" asked Dorothy. "Oz himself is the Great Wizard," answered

the Witch, sinking her voice to a whisper. "He is more powerful than all the rest of