The Curious Afternoon of Jack Pumpkinhead

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To the Reader

The story you are about to read takes place in that marvelous Land of Oz which lies, as everyone knows, in the very center of the great American desert. It concerns one of the most remarkable personages ever to walk upon Ozian soil—a gentleman with a pumpkin for a head and a heart as kind as any that ever beat in a breast of flesh.

Those who have already made the acquaintance of Jack Pumpkinhead in Mr. Baum’s “The Marvelous Land of Oz” will be pleased to spend another afternoon in his company. Those who have not yet had that pleasure may rest assured that Jack is precisely the sort of person one would wish to meet in a garden on a sunny day—anxious, perhaps, and given to worry, but unfailingly polite and thoughtful in all his ways.

This small adventure takes place sometime after Jack had taken up residence in the Emerald City, in those peaceful days when Princess Ozma ruled wisely over all the Land of Oz, and the greatest troubles one might encounter were grasshoppers and the occasional concern about the freshness of one’s head.

And now, if you are quite ready, let us visit the Royal Palace gardens and see what Jack Pumpkinhead is about.

Jack Pumpkinhead stood in the garden behind the Royal Palace of the Emerald City, regarding his reflection in a polished silver watering can with considerable anxiety.

“I do believe,” said he, in his slow, thoughtful manner, “that my head is growing soft on the left side. Perhaps it is the heat of the sun, or perhaps it is merely that I am growing old. It is very distressing to have a head that may spoil at any moment.”

The Sawhorse, who stood nearby cropping the emerald-green grass (though why he did so, being made entirely of wood, no one could say), lifted his wooden head and regarded his old friend with his knot-hole eyes.

“Nonsense,” said the Sawhorse, in his stiff, mechanical voice. “You have had seventeen heads since I have known you, and each one looked much the same as the last. You worry too much about spoiling.”

“That is because you are made of wood,” replied Jack, rather reproachfully, “and need never fear decay. But I am of a more delicate constitution. My father Tip always said I must be careful.”

At the mention of Tip’s name, both friends grew quiet, for they remembered well the strange transformation that had revealed Tip to be Princess Ozma in disguise. It had been a most peculiar affair, and though they were both happy for their friend’s true identity to be restored, they sometimes missed the mischievous boy who had created them.

“I wonder,” said Jack presently, adjusting his wooden body with a creak, “if Ozma remembers what it was like to bring me to life. It must have been very exciting to sprinkle the Powder of Life upon my head and watch me come awake. I remember it very well myself. First there was nothing at all, and then there was everything at once. It was quite startling.”

“I remember my own awakening quite clearly,” said the Sawhorse. “One moment I was mere wood in a woodpile, and the next I was running away from that terrible witch Mombi as fast as my stick legs could carry me.”

Jack nodded gravely, which caused his pumpkin head to wobble in an alarming fashion.

“We are very fortunate creatures,” said he. “Not everyone can say they remember the exact moment they came to life. Most people cannot remember being born at all, which seems to me a great pity. It is quite the most interesting thing that ever happened to me.”

Just then, a small green grasshopper landed upon Jack’s round head. Being of an obliging nature, Jack stood very still so as not to disturb the tiny creature. But the grasshopper, mistaking Jack’s head for an actual pumpkin, began to nibble at his surface.

“I say,” said Jack, with mild alarm, “would you mind terribly not eating my head? I am rather attached to it, being as it is the only one I have at present.”

The grasshopper, who could not understand English, continued to nibble.

The Sawhorse, seeing his friend’s predicament, gave a wooden laugh. “Blow him away,” said he.

“I cannot,” replied Jack. “I have tried blowing before, when a fly landed upon my nose, but I have not the proper sort of lungs for it. They are quite ornamental, I believe, but not functional.”

At last the grasshopper flew away of its own accord, and Jack examined the tiny marks it had left with great concern.

“Another scar upon my poor head,” he lamented. “I shall ask Ozma if she might have a new head prepared for me soon. Perhaps one with a stern expression this time, so that grasshoppers will think twice before nibbling upon it.”

“Your present head has a very pleasant expression,” observed the Sawhorse. “I should be sorry to see it replaced with a stern one.”

Jack considered this carefully, as he considered everything.

“You are quite right,” said he at last. “A pleasant expression is worth more than freedom from grasshoppers. I shall keep my head as it is, and simply avoid gardens in the future.”

“But you are standing in a garden now,” the Sawhorse pointed out.

“So I am,” agreed Jack. “Well, then, I shall avoid gardens starting tomorrow. That seems a reasonable compromise.”

And so the two friends stood together in the afternoon sun, one made of wood and one with a pumpkin for a head, both quite content with their curious existence in the marvelous Land of Oz.

For as Jack had observed, not everyone could say they remembered being brought to life, and there was something rather wonderful about that, even if one’s head was prone to spoiling.