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ostrich!” remarked the crow contemptuously.

      “Look here,” I cried, getting very indignant, “I will not be spoken to like that by a mere bird!”

      “Oh, really! Who do you think you are, pray, you ridiculous biped? Where’s your hat?”

      I was too indignant to answer, and though I should have liked to have asked the name of the place I was at, I determined not to hold any further conversation with the insolent bird, and walked away in the direction of “Somewhere,” pursued by the sound of mocking laughter from the crow.

      I had not gone far, however, before I perceived a curious kind of carriage coming towards me. It was a sort of rickshaw, and was drawn by a kangaroo, who was jerking it along behind him. A large ape sat inside, hugging a carpet bag, and holding on to the dashboard with his toes.

      “Let’s pass him with withering contempt,” I heard one of them say.

      “All right,” was the reply. “Drive on.”

      “I say, Man,” called out the Ape, as they passed, “we’re not taking the slightest notice of you.”

      “Oh, aren’t you? Well, I’m sure I don’t care,” I replied rather crossly.

      The Kangaroo stopped and stared at me in amazement, and the Ape got out of the rickshaw and came towards me, looking very indignant.

      “Do you know who I am?” he asked, striking an attitude.

      “No, I don’t,” I replied, “and what’s more, I don’t care.”

      “But I’m a person of consequence,” he gasped.

      “You are only an ape or a monkey,” I said firmly.

      “Oh! I can clearly see that you don’t know me,” remarked the Ape pityingly. “I’m Oom Hi.”

      “Indeed,” I said unconcernedly. “I am afraid I’ve never heard of you.”

      “Never heard of Oom Hi,” cried the Ape. “Why, I am the inventor of Broncho.”

      “What’s that?” I asked. “Good gracious! what ignorance,” said the Ape; “here, go and fetch my bag,” he whispered to the Kangaroo, who ran back to the rickshaw and returned with the carpet bag.

      “This,” continued Oom Hi, taking out a bottle, “is the article; it is called ‘Broncho,’ and is excellent for coughs, colds, and affections of the throat; you will notice that each bottle bears a label stating that the mixture is prepared according to my own formula, and bears my signature; none other is genuine without it. The Wallypug, when he returned from England and heard that I had invented it, declared that I must be a literary genius.”

      “A what!” I exclaimed.

      “A literary genius,” repeated the Ape, smirking complacently.

      “Why, what on earth has cough mixture to do with literature?” I inquired.

      “I don’t know, I’m sure,” admitted Oom Hi, “but the Wallypug said that in England any one who invented anything of that sort was supposed to possess great literary talent.”

      “The Wallypug!” I exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “Am I anywhere near his Kingdom of Why, then?”

      “Of course you are; it’s only about a mile or two down the road. Are you going there?” inquired Oom Hi.

      “Well, yes,” I answered. “I’ve had an invitation from his Majesty, and should rather like to go there, as I’m so near.”

      “His Majesty; he – he – he, that’s good,” laughed the Kangaroo. “Do you call the Wallypug ‘his Majesty’?” he asked.

      “Of course,” I replied, “he is a king, isn’t he?”

      “A kind of king,” corrected Oom Hi. “You don’t catch us calling him ‘your Majesty,’ I can tell you though, one animal is as good as another here, and if anything, a little better. If you are going to Why, we may as well go back with you, and give you a lift in the rickshaw.”

      “You’re very kind,” I said, gratefully.

      “Not at all, not at all; jump in,” said Oom Hi.

      “Hold on a moment,” said the Kangaroo. “It’s his turn to pull, you know.”

      “Of course, of course,” said the Ape, getting into the vehicle; “put him in the shafts!”

      “What do you mean?” I expostulated.

      “Your turn to pull the rickshaw, you know; we always take turns, and as I have been dragging it for some time it’s your turn now.”

      “But I’m not going to pull that thing with you two animals in it. I never heard of such a thing,” I declared.

      “Who are you calling an animal?” demanded the Kangaroo, sulkily. “You’re one yourself, aren’t you?”

      “Well, I suppose I am,” I admitted. “But I’m not going to draw that thing, all the same.”

      “Oh, get in, get in; don’t make a fuss. I suppose I shall have to take a turn myself,” said Oom Hi, grasping the handles, and the Kangaroo and myself having taken our seats we were soon traveling down the road. The Kangaroo turned out to be a very pleasant companion after all, and when he found out that I came from England told me all about his brother, who was a professional boxer, and had been to London and made his fortune as the Boxing Kangaroo. He was quite delighted when I told him that I had seen notices of his performance in the papers. We soon came in sight of a walled city, which Oom Hi, turning around, informed me was Why. And on reaching the gate he gave the rickshaw in charge of an old turtle, who came waddling up, and each of the animals taking one of my arms, I was led in triumph through the city gates to the Wallypug’s palace, several creatures, including a motherly-looking goose and a little gosling, taking a lively interest in my progress, while a giraffe in a very high collar craned his neck through a port-hole to try and get a glimpse of us as we passed under the portcullis.

      CHAPTER II

A STRANGE WELCOME

      WE soon reached the Wallypug’s palace, which stood in a large park in the center of the city of Why. I had been very interested in noticing the curious architecture in the streets as we passed along, but was scarcely prepared to find the palace such a very remarkable place. It was a long, low, rambling building, built in a most singular style, with all sorts of curious towers and gables at every point.

      Oom Hi and the Kangaroo saw me as far as the entrance, and then took their departure, saying that they would see me again another day, and I walked up the stone steps, to what I imagined to be the principal door, alone. To my great surprise, however, I found that, instead of being the way in, it was nothing more or less than a huge jam-pot, with a very large label on it marked “Strawberry Jam,” while above it were the words, “When is a door not a door?” “When is a door not a door?” I repeated, vaguely conscious of having heard the question before.

      “Ha – ha – ha,” laughed a mocking voice at the bottom of the steps, and looking down I saw an enormous Cockatoo with a Paisley shawl over her shoulders and walking with the aid of a crutched stick.

      “Sold again, were you? Serve you right,” she cried. “When is a door not a door? Pooh! fancy not knowing that old chestnut. Why! when it’s a jar, of course, stupid. Bah!”

      “It’s a very absurd practical joke, that’s all that I can say,” I remarked, crossly, walking down the steps again. “Perhaps you can tell me how I am going to get into this remarkable place.”

      “Humph! Perhaps I can and perhaps I won’t,” said the Cockatoo. “I dare say it’s a better place than you came from, anyhow. You’re not the first man that has come down here with his superior airs and graces, grumbling and finding fault with this, that, and the other; but we’ll soon take the conceit out of you, I can tell you. Where’s your hat?”

      This was the second creature that

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