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." The music thing turned silently away and trotted down a side path, toward a distant Munchkin village.
"Is that the way we go ?" asked Bungle anxiously.
"No," said Ojo; "I think we shall keep straight ahead, for this path is the widest and best.