Books with author L. Frank

My friends the children are responsible for this new "Oz Book," as they were for the last one, which was called The Land of Oz. Their sweet little letters plead to know "more about Dorothy"; and they ask: "What became of the Cowardly Lion? " and "What did Ozma do afterward? "-meaning, of course, after she became the Ruler of Oz. And some of them suggest plots to me, saying: "Please have Dorothy go to the Land of Oz again"; or, "Why don't you make Ozma and Dorothy meet, and have a good time together? " Indeed, could I do all that my little friends ask, I would be obliged to write dozens of books to satisfy their demands. And I wish I could, for I enjoy writing these stories just as much as the children say they enjoy reading them. Well, here is "more about Dorothy," and about our old friends the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, and about the Cowardly Lion, and Ozma, and all the rest of them; and here, likewise, is a good deal about some new folks that are queer and unusual. One little friend, who read this story before it was printed, said to me: "Billina is real Ozzy, Mr. Baum, and so are Tiktok and the Hungry Tiger." If this judgment is unbiased and correct, and the little folks find this new story "real Ozzy," I shall be very glad indeed that I wrote it. But perhaps I shall get some more of those very welcome letters from my readers, telling me just how they like "Ozma of Oz." I hope so, anyway.

“Here are your vegetables, Nora,” said Will Carden, as he scraped his feet upon the mat before the kitchen door of the “big house.” “Come in, Masther Willyum,” called the cook, in her cheery voice. So the boy obeyed the summons and pushed open the screen door, setting his basket upon the white table at Nora's side. “Oo, misery! but them pays is illegant,” she said, breaking open a green pod and eating the fresh, delicious contents. “Why, Masther Willyum, the bloom is on 'em yet.” “I picked them myself, Nora,” the boy answered, with a pleased laugh, “and only a little while ago, at that. And you'll find the tomatoes and the celery just as nice, I'm sure.” “They can't be bate,” responded the cook, emptying the basket and handing it to him. “Sure, I don't know whatever we'd do widout yez to bring us the grans stuff, Masther Willyum.” “I wish,” said he, hesitatingly, “you wouldn't call me 'master,' Nora. Call me Will, as everyone else does. I'm not old enough to have a handle to my name, and I'm not much account in the world,-yet.”