Форум Изумрудного города

The Troublesome Phonograph
…

Just then they heard a sound as of footsteps pattering along the path
behind them and all three turned to see what was coming. To their
astonishment they beheld a small round table running as fast as its
four spindle legs could carry it, and to the top was screwed fast a
phonograph with a big gold horn.

"Hold on!" shouted the phonograph. "Wait for me!"

"Goodness me; it's that music thing which the Crooked Magician
scattered the Powder of Life over," said Ojo.

"So it is," returned Bungle, in a grumpy tone of voice; and then, as
the phonograph overtook them, the Glass Cat added sternly: "What are
you doing here, anyhow?"

"I've run away," said the music thing. "After you left, old Dr. Pipt
and I had a dreadful quarrel and he threatened to smash me to pieces if
I didn't keep quiet. Of course I wouldn't do that, because a
talking-machine is supposed to talk and make a noise--and sometimes
music. So I slipped out of the house while the Magician was stirring
his four kettles and I've been running after you all night. Now that
I've found such pleasant company, I can talk and play tunes all I want
to."

Ojo was greatly annoyed by this unwelcome addition to their party. At
first he did not know what to say to the newcomer, but a little thought
decided him not to make friends.

"We are traveling on important business," he declared, "and you'll
excuse me if I say we can't be bothered."

"How very impolite!" exclaimed the phonograph.

"I'm sorry; but it's true," said the boy. "You'll have to go somewhere
else."

"This is very unkind treatment, I must say," whined the phonograph, in
an injured tone. "Everyone seems to hate me, and yet I was intended to
amuse people."

"It isn't you we hate, especially," observed the Glass Cat; "it's your
dreadful music. When I lived in the same room with you I was much
annoyed by your squeaky horn. It growls and grumbles and clicks and
scratches so it spoils the music, and your machinery rumbles so that
the racket drowns every tune you attempt."

"That isn't my fault; it's the fault of my records. I must admit that I
haven't a clear record," answered the machine.

"Just the same, you'll have to go away," said Ojo.

"Wait a minute," cried Scraps. "This music thing interests me. I
remember to have heard music when I first came to life, and I would
like to hear it again. What is your name, my poor abused phonograph?"

"Victor Columbia Edison," it answered.

"Well, I shall call you 'Vic' for short," said the Patchwork Girl. "Go
ahead and play something."

"It'll drive you crazy," warned the cat.

"I'm crazy now, according to your statement. Loosen up and reel out the
music, Vic."

"The only record I have with me," explained the phonograph, "is one the
Magician attached just before we had our quarrel. It's a highly
classical composition."

"A what?" inquired Scraps.

"It is classical music, and is considered the best and most puzzling
ever manufactured. You're supposed to like it, whether you do or not,
and if you don't, the proper thing is to look as if you did.
Understand?"

"Not in the least," said Scraps.

"Then, listen!"

At once the machine began to play and in a few minutes Ojo put his
hands to his ears to shut out the sounds and the cat snarled and Scraps
began to laugh.

"Cut it out, Vic," she said. "That's enough."

But the phonograph continued playing the dreary tune, so Ojo seized the
crank, jerked it free and threw it into the road. However, the moment
the crank struck the ground it bounded back to the machine again and
began winding it up. And still the music played.

"Let's run!" cried Scraps, and they all started and ran down the path
as fast as they could go. But the phonograph was right behind them and
could run and play at the same time. It called out, reproachfully:

"What's the matter? Don't you love classical music?"

"No, Vic," said Scraps, halting. "We will passical the classical and
preserve what joy we have left. I haven't any nerves, thank goodness,
but your music makes my cotton shrink."

"Then turn over my record. There's a rag-time tune on the other side,"
said the machine.

"What's rag-time?"

"The opposite of classical."

"All right," said Scraps, and turned over the record.

The phonograph now began to play a jerky jumble of sounds which proved
so bewildering that after a moment Scraps stuffed her patchwork apron
into the gold horn and cried: "Stop--stop! That's the other extreme.
It's extremely bad!"

Muffled as it was, the phonograph played on.

"If you don't shut off that music I'll smash your record," threatened
Ojo.

The music stopped, at that, and the machine turned its horn from one to
another and said with great indignation: "What's the matter now? Is it
possible you can't appreciate rag-time?"

"Scraps ought to, being rags herself," said the cat; "but I simply
can't stand it; it makes my whiskers curl."

"It is, indeed, dreadful!" exclaimed Ojo, with a shudder.

"It's enough to drive a crazy lady mad," murmured the Patchwork Girl.
"I'll tell you what, Vic," she added as she smoothed out her apron and
put it on again, "for some reason or other you've missed your guess.
You're not a concert; you're a nuisance."

"Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," asserted the
phonograph sadly.

"Then we're not savages. I advise you to go home and beg the Magician's
pardon."

"Never! He'd smash me."

"That's what we shall do, if you stay here," Ojo declared.

"Run along, Vic, and bother some one else," advised Scraps. "Find some
one who is real wicked, and stay with him till he repents. In that way
you can do some good in the world."