She bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road of yellow brick. When she had gone several miles she thought she would stop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside the road and sat down. There was a great cornfield beyond the fence, and not far away she saw a Scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep the birds from the ripe corn.

Dorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the Scarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes, nose, and mouth painted on it to represent a face. An old, pointed blue hat, that had belonged to some Munchkin, was perched on his head, and the rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and faded, which had also been stuffed with straw. On the feet were some old boots with blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and the figure was raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole stuck up its back.

While Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the Scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her. She thought she must have been mistaken at first, for none of the scarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its head to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence and walked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked.

“Good day,” said the Scarecrow, in a rather husky voice.

“Did you speak?” asked the girl, in wonder.

“Certainly,” answered the Scarecrow. “How do you do?”

“I’m pretty well, thank you,” replied Dorothy politely. “How do you do?”

“I’m not feeling well,” said the Scarecrow, with a smile, “for it is very tedious being perched up here night and day to scare away crows.”

“Can’t you get down?” asked Dorothy.

“No, for this pole is stuck up my back. If you will please take away the pole I shall be greatly obliged to you.”

Dorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole, for, being stuffed with straw, it was quite light.

“Thank you very much,” said the Scarecrow, when he had been set down on the ground. “I feel like a new man.”

Dorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a stuffed man speak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her.

“Who are you?” asked the Scarecrow when he had stretched himself and yawned. “And where are you going?”

“My name is Dorothy,” said the girl, “and I am going to the Emerald City, to ask the Great Oz to send me back to Kansas.”

“Where is the Emerald City?” he inquired. “And who is Oz?”

“Why, don’t you know?” she returned, in surprise.

“No, indeed. I don’t know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have no brains at all,” he answered sadly.

“Oh,” said Dorothy, “I’m awfully sorry for you.”

“Do you think,” he asked, “if I go to the Emerald City with you, that Oz would give me some brains?”

“I cannot tell,” she returned, “but you may come with me, if you like. If Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you are now.”

“That is true,” said the Scarecrow. “You see,” he continued confidentially, “I don’t mind my legs and arms and body being stuffed, because I cannot get hurt. If anyone treads on my toes or sticks a pin into me, it doesn’t matter, for I can’t feel it. But I do not want people to call me a fool, and if my head stays stuffed with straw instead of with brains, as yours is, how am I ever to know anything?”

“I understand how you feel,” said the little girl, who was truly sorry for him. “If you will come with me I’ll ask Oz to do all he can for you.”

“Thank you,” he answered gratefully.

They walked back to the road. Dorothy helped him over the fence, and they started along the path of yellow brick for the Emerald City.

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“They look like…scarecrows,” I said. They were more detailed, sure, and wearing newer clothes, but I could see bits of straw poking out here and there and traces of the wire armature holding the whole thing up.

“Yep, that’s what they are, more or less,” said Sandra. “Do you remember Abby Woodman?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Quiet girl. Real religious. Didn’t she move away after high school?”

“Was an accountant for a while, or so I hear,” Sandra said. She turned the car onto Sycamore, passing several more posed dummies including one that looked like it was waiting in the old bus stop for a service that had been discontinued for 10 years. “Came back to Deerton to take care of her parents. The farm out on US 13, remember?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said, still looking at the scarecrow out of the corner of my eye as we passed it. “The Baptist Church used to use their cart and crop for hay rides.”

“Well, there wasn’t much for Abby to do when she got home, other than look after her folks,” Sandra said. “So she decided to try planting a few crops to sell in the farmer’s market over in Cascadia. The scarecrow part of that you can probably figure out for yourself.”

“Well, yeah,” I said. We were driving past the site of the old Quick Stop gas station, which had been abandoned and boarded up with snacks and magazines still on its shelves. Through dusty and cracked windows, I could see a scarecrow-employee behind the desk and a scarecrow-customer opposite them. “But it’s a long way from there to putting them up everywhere.”

“Well, you know how it’s been in Deerton. Every year more of the young people move away and more of the old folks die. Abby thought the old McGruder place next door to her seemed lonely, so she made a scarecrow to liven it up. Dressed it in some of Earl McGruder’s old things from their attic. Before you know it, she was putting them everywhere.”

“Did people…pay her for them?” I said with a shudder.

“Some did. I know that the bank bought a bunch to put in foreclosed houses at night with light timers to try and cut down on Cascadia punks coming in and wrecking up the place. But a lot of them Abby just made herself. She got pretty good with the paper-mache, a lot of the scarecrow heads look just like the people that used to live there.”

We passed another group of scarecrows, this one in front of the old firehouse. “Well, Abby’s sure been busy,” I said. “I’d like to have a chat with her about all this.”

“Well, that can be arranged. But don’t expect too much of a response, since she’s dead.”

“What?” I cried.

“Yeah. Two months back. Cerebral hemorrhage, or so they say.”

I looked back out the window. “She must have been at it right until she died,” I said sadly. “How long have those firefighters been there?”

Sandra licked her lips. “A week.”

“What?” I said. “You mean she made them before she died, and someone else put them there?”

“A week,” Sandra said again, firmly. “Which is why you and I needed to have a talk.”

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