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wonder what will become of me,” Peg sighed ever so softly and looked down with distaste at her wooden hands and torn old dress. Nothing very exciting could happen to a shabby Wooden Doll.

“Why, I haven’t even any right to be alive,” she reflected sadly. “I’m only meant to be funny. Well, never mind! Perhaps I can help Pompa and maybe that’s why I was brought to life.”

This thought, and the gleam of the lovely pearls Kabumpo had given her, so cheered Peg that she began to hum a queer, squeaky little song. The country was growing rougher and more hilly every minute. The sunny farmlands lay far behind them now and as Peg finished her song they came to the edge of a queer, dead-looking forest. The trees were dry and without leaves and there were quantities of stiff bushes and short stunted little trees standing under the taller ones.

Peg had an odd feeling that hundreds of eyes were staring out at them but the forest was so dim that she couldn’t be sure. There was not a sound but the crackling of the dead branches under Wag’s and Kabumpo’s feet.

“I don’t like this,” choked Wag. “My wocks and hoop soons! What a pleerful chase!”