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NEW DIRECTIONS IN IRISH AND
IRISH AMERICAN LITERATURE

Irish American Fiction

from World War II to JFK
Anxiety, Assimilation, and Activism
Beth O’Leary Anish
 New Directions in Irish and Irish American
Literature

Series Editor
Kelly Matthews, Department of English, Framingham State University,
Framingham, MA, USA
New Directions in Irish and Irish American Literature promotes fresh
scholarship that explores models of Irish and Irish American identity and
examines issues that address and shape the contours of Irishness. The
series aims to analyze literary works and investigate the fluid, shifting, and
sometimes multivalent discipline of Irish Studies. Politics, the academy,
gender, and Irish and Irish American culture have inspired and impacted
recent scholarship centered on Irish and Irish American literature, which
contributes to our twenty-first century understanding of Ireland, America,
Irish Americans, and the creative, intellectual, and theoretical spaces
between.

More information about this series at

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 Beth O’Leary Anish

Irish American Fiction

from World War II
to JFK
Anxiety, Assimilation, and Activism
Beth O’Leary Anish
Community College of Rhode Island
Lincoln, RI, USA

ISSN 2731-3182 ISSN 2731-3190 (electronic)

New Directions in Irish and Irish American Literature
ISBN 978-3-030-83193-6 ISBN 978-3-030-83194-3 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-83194-3

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
Nature Switzerland AG 2021
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 To Bob and Rita O’Leary,
whose love, faith, and support formed me,
and whose generation formed this book
 Preface

When I began the process of revising my dissertation into a book

manuscript, I realized that the book was not the whole dissertation.
Where the dissertation had spanned 60 years of Irish American fiction,
film, and memoir, this book would be the one part I kept coming back to
repeatedly. It was the fiction of the 1940s and 1950s that most spoke to
the ideas I wanted to get across. The anxiety expressed by authors during
that era over what Irish America had become was, to me, the story I
wanted to tell. In zeroing in on fiction of the era between World War II
and JFK’s presidency, I had to add novels that were not in my original
project. I found that the newly included novels supported my argument
that the years after World War II were an era of monumental change for
Irish America, and for equally monumental concern about those changes.
My dissertation was about the Irish American story, and the gaps and
fissures in that story, as seen through the literary output of some great
Irish American thinkers. This book is a slice of that story.
It is a story that is not restricted to the Irish alone. Post-World War
II, other white ethnic groups experienced the white flight out of the
cities, the move from working to middle class, and all the identity crises
that might come with those major transitions. Decades later, writers such
as Phillip Roth would remember their city neighborhoods with some
nostalgia. Roth’s Jewish Americans had already moved up and out of
Newark by the time he was writing. Still, his protagonists thought back
to their Newark neighborhood as an origin point for their families in the

vii
viii PREFACE

United States. It was a time of ethnic solidarity, when secular American

values had not yet infringed on their younger generations. Jewish, Italian,
and Irish urban neighborhoods gave way to African American neigh-
borhoods. Redlining and the opportunities afforded to whites through
government loans and the G.I. Bill built the white, suburban middle class
as we now know it. For white ethnic Americans, only a couple of genera-
tions removed from the discrimination their grandparents faced, turning
into the dominant class came with conflicted feelings. As I read more Irish
American novels from the post-War period, I discovered a repetition of
characters involved in radical politics who were painted in a sympathetic
light by their authors. In these books the radical, or at least left-leaning,
characters were pitted against social climbers and bullies who were out to
gain American “success” seemingly at the cost of their Irishness. Bigotry,
in the books covered here, is incompatible with Irishness.
I wrote the early drafts of this book in Donald Trump’s America. As
I wrote, I started to realize that I needed the stories of these liberal-
minded Irish Americans as much as the authors I was studying did. It
has become clear to me that this book exists in three time periods: the
early twentieth century of the authors’ childhoods, the mid-twentieth
century when they were reconstructing their memories of those child-
hoods in historical fiction, and the second decade of the twenty-first
century as I wrote these words. In this moment, my moment, a new batch
of Irish American names including Bannon, O’Reilly, Ryan, Kavanaugh,
and Conway, propped up a conservative government elected largely on
an anti-immigrant platform, and stoked racist fires to rally its base.
As much as Father Charles Coughlin and Senator Joe McCarthy (and
other less famous Irish Americans no doubt) scared these mid-twentieth
century authors into wanting a different Irish American memory, so
do these more recent names scare me. It is confusing how a commu-
nity founded by immigrants who faced discrimination upon entering this
country produced anti-immigrant bigots. Thankfully, it also produced
people willing to stand up to those bigots. The Irish in America are not
the only white ethnic group to experience this conflict, but as the first,
their example is instructive. Irish American Fiction from World War II to
JFK shows how some authors defined their Irish identity in contrast to
their more bigoted neighbors. It looks at how childhood memories spun
into fiction can be used to remind their peers of what their history was,
and what their present should be. These two competing strains in Irish
American life echo through the books included in this study.
 PREFACE ix

As I chose the focus of this book, I was surprised to find I was most
interested in the era in which my parents came of age. The more I read
and wrote, the more I realized in many ways I was writing about my
parents, the trends and issues that shaped them, and thereby the trends
and issues that shaped me. In the same way, millions of other Irish Amer-
icans have been shaped by the beliefs and attitudes of their parents and
grandparents before them, beliefs and attitudes that had much to do with
how the Irish were viewed in this country they adopted, and how they
reacted to those views. Reading about socially progressive Catholics and
the resistance they faced in their communities made me curious about
why I did not know any of these radical Catholics growing up. I wonder
now if that part of the story—the voices of the social reformers within
the Church—had been largely silenced. Thinking about this brought to
mind an exchange with my father that I thought was funny at the time
it took place, but I now realize was telling of the attitudes with which
he was raised. It was early in my teaching career and for some reason, I
mentioned that I was preparing a lesson on Marxist literary theory. He
yelled, “That’s bad! You can’t teach that!” His reaction caught me off
guard. I do not think I even probed him for a reason behind his position,
since he found many things “bad,” from bacon to driving after dark. I
joked with my students about his response. I dismissed it as his being
elderly and conservative. He was the definition of “old school.” It is only
recently that I am starting to put together his generation, his Catholicism,
his Irish heritage, and his exclamation that anything to do with Karl Marx
is bad.
My parents’ generation was not far displaced from generations of Irish
Americans who faced discrimination in employment in the United States.
My mother remembered her uncle being passed over for a promotion at
the mill where he worked because he was Catholic. My father’s parents
decided not to name him after Irish hero Robert Emmet for fear of
discrimination he would face when he was born in 1922 (he was named
Robert Edward instead). Now I know that he also was born just after one
Red Scare and was a young man about to get married and start a family
during another. It is not just in my family that the legacy of discriminatory
treatment still appeared well into the twentieth century. Though there
have always been Catholics rallying for the cause of the poor and disen-
franchised, many realized that involvement with a radical social movement
would only undermine the acceptance the Irish in the United States had
worked so hard to achieve. They also had the Church hierarchy warning
x PREFACE

them about the evils of communism. This is the legacy behind my father’s
“teaching Marx is bad!” comment. It is a transgenerational legacy of the
fear of rejection, combined with the fear that radicals were out to bring
down the Church. The roots of these fears had been largely forgotten by
the time I came of age late in the twentieth century, but there they were,
still haunting my father at the beginning of the twenty-first.
My father and mother graduated from high school in 1941 and 1944,
respectively. In my mother’s yearbook, most of the boys’ pictures are
either taken in military uniform or left blank. These high school boys
had quickly transitioned to being young men at war. This was a genera-
tion born just after World War I and just before the stock market crash
of 1929. Many saw their families struggle through the years of the Great
Depression. These were years of great anxiety over financial insecurity.
When their fortunes fared better after World War II and they moved out
of urban ethnic neighborhoods, the anxiety of some Irish American intel-
lectuals turned to their identity. Could they still be Irish in America? What
was lost in moving from the working class to the middle class, and from
city neighborhoods to suburbia? The outpouring of fiction describing
Irish American life in this period is worthy of study. In sheer volume it
indicates there was something these authors were trying to preserve, and
trends they were trying to understand.
It is also worth considering these works in the broader field of ethnic
American Studies, as this was a crucial period for white ethnics to figure
out who they would be—what would still make them ethnic—out in the
suburbs. If not in a close-knit neighborhood that shared the same culture,
what of them would still be Irish, Jewish, or Italian? It is my hope that
readers of this book will think of their own parents and grandparents, and
their own family’s process of ethnic identity formation. In other words,
I hope they will consider how the history of the country their ancestors
adopted, as well as the history they carried with them from their home-
lands, influenced who they are today. In particular, the period after World
War II, which brought new opportunities for Irish and other white ethnic
groups, should be studied for how it formed the white middle class. The
authors in this study are feeling the anxiety of this transition. It plays out
in their fiction. As we move through a greater reckoning with race and
white privilege in the United States today, it is worth looking back at their
fears.
The ideas in this book flourished in the presence of my colleagues
in the American Conference for Irish Studies (ACIS), many of whom
 PREFACE xi

have become friends. These chapters were previewed and refined at

ACIS conferences. Many thanks to Jim Rogers for his mentorship in
our common area of interest. My frequent co-panelist Chris Dowd’s
The Construction of Irish Identity in American Literature proved essen-
tial in thinking through a particularly challenging chapter. I am also
thankful for the brilliant group of ACIS women with whom I have
been fortunate enough to surround myself: Mary Kelly, Eileen Moore
Quinn, Kelly Matthews, Áine Greaney, Ellen Scheible, Sheila McAvey,
Meg Carroll, Catherine Shannon, Suzanne Buckley, Rachel Lynch, and
Mary Burke, who first invited me to the New England ACIS conference at
UConn. Their conversations, reading suggestions, and constant support
and encouragement have been invaluable. I have only met him in person
once, but I could not have written this book without Charles Fanning
The Irish Voice in America. In that book he encourages other scholars to
take what he did and run with it. I hope I can say I have done that.
Though I am a Massachusetts native through and through, I owe a big
debt of gratitude to the state of Rhode Island. My dissertation committee
provided crucial reading suggestions and feedback on early ideas that
became this book. I thank Ryan Trimm, Naomi Mandel, Eve Sterne, and
Scott Molloy, all from the University of Rhode Island. The Community
College of Rhode Island, my employer, provided the funding for most
of my travel to ACIS and other conferences in locations from Ireland
to Wyoming. They also granted me a sabbatical semester to write and
research parts of this book. That financial help was crucial to the success
of my project.
Finally, to my husband Ron and our children Maura and Brendan, I
need to express my deepest thanks for their patience while I undertook
this project that so often took me away from them in mind and body.
That they have been behind me the whole time means the world to me.

Auburn, MA, USA Beth O’Leary Anish

 Praise for Irish American Fiction
from World War II to JFK

“Beth O’Leary Anish’s study shimmers with insight into ethnic Irish-
ness at a point she rightly considers a historical crossroads. Here, works
of fiction become portals to webs of meaning, symbolism and signifi-
cance for Irish Americans in post-WWII years. The selected novels reveal
layers of ethnic connection with an Ireland increasingly subsumed within
‘Old Country’ dreamscapes. O’Leary Anish forges discerning and percep-
tive connections between Irish American history, literature, and evocative
remembrances of a native home, in a rich and rewarding read.”
—Mary C. Kelly, Professor of History, Franklin Pierce University and
author of Ireland’s Great Famine in Irish-American History and The
Shamrock and the Lily

“In Irish American Fiction from World War II to JFK, Beth O’Leary
Anish examines a series of novels by ethnically Irish (but rapidly assimi-
lating) authors. In varying degrees, all of the texts she considers—some
well-known and some obscure—register misgivings about change across
generations. She shows that the works are far from nostalgic, but rather,
shaped by a thoughtful uneasiness about the spiritual and communitarian
costs of postwar prosperity. Beth O’Leary Anish has retrieved and given
voice to a distinct American literary tradition that, until now, has never
really been seen before.”
—James Silas Rogers, Author of Irish American Autobiography and
co-editor of After the Flood: Irish America, 1945–1960

xiii
xiv PRAISE FOR IRISH AMERICAN FICTION FROM WORLD WAR …

“Beth O’Leary Anish’s Irish American Fiction from World War II to

JFK draws upon the rich body of scholarship and criticism in Irish
American studies, starting with John V. Kelleher’s influential 1947 essay,
‘Irish-American Literature and Why There Isn’t Any,’ and casts fresh
perspectives on seven works by writers who weave their surprisingly
various Irish American backgrounds into worthy works of fiction during
this period of ‘anxiety, assimilation, and activism.’ She offers new read-
ings of familiar texts, for example Edwin O’Connor’s The Last Hurrah, a
novel celebrated by Kelleher. She reshapes the canon in her reflections on
Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and expands it to include John
Steinbeck’s East of Eden. Beth O’Leary Anish makes an important and
original contribution to this field of study.”
—Shaun O’Connell, Author of Remarkable, Unspeakable New York and
Imagining Boston
 Contents

1 Introduction: Memory, History, and the Shaping

of the Irish American Present 1
2 On Why This Book Should and Should not Begin
with Betty Smith’s a Tree Grows in Brooklyn 33
3 Edward McSorley and Irish America’s Coming of Age 53
4 A Community Deformed, in Mary Doyle Curran’s The
Parish and The Hill 73
5 “Good Catholic Radicals”: Harry Sylvester’s
Moon Gaffney and Irish American Catholicism
at Mid-Century 99
6 How the Other Half Lives: Ellin Berlin’s Lace Curtain 117
7 John Steinbeck’s Irish Grandfather: Samuel Hamilton,
East of Eden, and Post-world War II Irish American
Fiction 139
8 The Last Hurrah for a Way of Life: The Private Side
of Edwin O’Connor’s Famous Novel 163

xv
xvi CONTENTS

9 Conclusion: Communities in Jeopardy 181

Bibliography 189
Index 197
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction: Memory, History,

and the Shaping of the Irish American
Present

In recent years, at least since the 2016 campaign and subsequent elec-
tion of Donald Trump to President of the United States, much has been
made of the prominent Irish American names—on his campaign staff, in
his administration, in the legislature, in the media, and sworn into the
Supreme Court at his recommendation—who have favored strict immi-
gration policies and supported his Muslim-majority country travel ban,
among other hardline nationalist and isolationist ideas. Bannon, Ryan,
O’Reilly, Hannity, Kavanagh, Conway, and others, bearing the names of
their Irish ancestors, have had support from some segments of the Irish
American community, while drawing outrage from and causing embar-
rassment for others. The latter group, whose thinking is represented in
an organization called Irish Stand,1 recognizes that the history of Irish
Americans as an oppressed immigrant group unites them with, rather than
separating them from, current immigrants and religious minorities in the

1 Mission statement of Irish Stand: “Irish Stand is a grassroots movement devoted to

civil rights protection for all immigrants. Ireland’s history of migration and overcoming
discrimination positions it uniquely as a nation that understands and is familiar with
division and borders. We believe in compassionate resistance to hateful rhetoric and seek
to support vulnerable communities under threat through active campaigning.” Retrieved
from https://irish-stand.com/about/.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2021
B. O’Leary Anish, Irish American Fiction from World War II to JFK,
New Directions in Irish and Irish American Literature,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-83194-3_1
2 B. O’LEARY ANISH

United States. That there is this ideological split within the Irish Amer-
ican community—between conservative voices hoping to protect jobs and
perceived religious values on one hand, and liberal voices wanting to
connect all oppressed peoples on the other—is nothing new within Irish
and Irish American politics. Daniel O’Connell, the nineteenth-century
Great Liberator of Irish Catholics from anti-Catholic colonial laws, was
also an abolitionist, and spoke out in unity with other colonized and
enslaved peoples. He was disappointed that more Irish Americans did not
follow suit.2 In the American Catholic Church, one can trace both socially
conservative and social reformist lines through prominent clergy leaders
as well as lay people. Though not everyone falls so neatly into these two
categories, they represent trends that go to the heart of how Irish Ameri-
cans embrace their history, their ethnic identity, and their place within the
power structure of the United States.
These trends also appear in Irish American fiction written between
World War II and the election of John F. Kennedy as the first Irish
Catholic president of the United States. Novels written in this period
exhibit the various and sometimes competing understandings of what it
means to be Irish in America, at a crucial turning point in that ethnic
group’s history. Character types repeat themselves enough to suggest that
their authors are drawing from people they knew—including the ethno-
centric bully and the generous social activist, to use two extremes. Irish
American Fiction from World War II to JFK traces these character types
through novels from the period. The issues that these authors struggled
with and puzzled through in regards to what they saw happening in their
own communities shed light on who Irish Americans are today, and, to
borrow from a Frank McCourt play title, “how they got that way.”3 They
observe Irish Americans making concessions—giving up some of what
made previous generations Irish to become more American, or to achieve
that dubious mantel of American “success.”
These authors’ often semi-autobiographical narratives of their Irish
American neighborhoods ask, “was it worth it?” Is what was gained in
terms of economic success worth what was lost in terms of communal
values? Other questions follow: What exactly was lost? What was retained

2 David Roediger, Wages of Whiteness, 135–137.

3 Frank McCourt, The Irish and How They Got That Way (first performed at the Irish
Repertory Theater, 1997).
 1 INTRODUCTION: MEMORY, HISTORY, AND THE SHAPING … 3

of Irishness in an environment hostile to it upon arrival, and in which to

move “up” often meant to shed the most nonconforming parts of one’s
ethnicity? To the question, “was it worth it?” these novels collectively
answer “no.” There is a sense in the books that a generousness of spirit, a
willingness to stand up for the oppressed, and a valuing of human connec-
tions over financial success did not survive Irish assimilation to America. It
is highly unlikely that every Irish immigrant arrived with these superlative
traits, of course. Presented in fiction the past takes on a nostalgic tinge.
The Irish American authors in this study depict their immigrant grand-
parents as warm, humble, giving people. These ancestors are a restorative
for the Irish Americans they see around them at the time they are writing.
Up until just beyond the turn of the twentieth century, the urban
ethnic communities inhabited by many Irish in America still had a
steady stream of immigrants from Ireland to refresh their ties to the
homeland. By the 1920s, there were enough immigrants who came in
the post-famine decades of the late nineteenth century still living to
give the neighborhoods a strong connection to Ireland. The children
of the nineteenth-century immigrants became the parents of the third-
generation Americans attending parish schools. A series of changes to the
demographics of these communities were about to take place, however.
The two world wars, and restrictive immigration laws put in place in the
1920s, curtailed immigration from Ireland to the United States signif-
icantly, cutting it down to a trickle compared to what it had been for
the previous 70 years since the Great Famine.During the Great Depres-
sion of the 1930s, the lack of employment opportunities that had always
attracted the Irish to the United States nearly brought Irish immigra-
tion to a complete halt compared to earlier decades.4 For Irish Americans
born in the first two decades of the twentieth century in cities of the
northeastern United States, as were authors Edward McSorley (1902),
Ellin Berlin (1903), Harry Sylvester (1908), Mary Doyle Curran (1917),
and Edwin O’Connor (1918), the change in their communities’ makeup
between their childhoods and the years they were writing fiction would
have been striking.
Demographic trends in the first half of the twentieth century show
evidence of a changing Irish America. Per historian Kevin Kenny, “the
demographic profile of the Irish American ethnic group was transformed”

4 Matthew J. O’Brien, “Transatlantic connections,” 38–39.

4 B. O’LEARY ANISH

by the 1940s. Kenny explains, “The ‘graying’ of Irish America, along

with the rapid reduction of immigration from Ireland and the exodus
to the suburbs, was in large part responsible for the significant diffu-
sion and erosion of Irish American ethnicity in the second half of the
twentieth century.”5 J.J. Lee’s introduction to Making the Irish Amer-
ican argues that by the second and third generations in this country,
the Irish had “begun to melt into the American mainstream.”6 In addi-
tion to demographic trends that saw fewer Irish immigrants coming into
urban communities, established Irish Americans now had more opportu-
nities to leave their city neighborhoods for newly built suburbs. The G.I.
Bill of Rights provided education to returning Irish American soldiers
who otherwise would not have had access to higher education, as well
as low-interest mortgages, and other benefits.7 These benefits in turn
opened up to these (mostly) men and their families income and housing
opportunities that had rarely been experienced previously by most Irish
in America.
It was not just Irish Americans who benefitted from these oppor-
tunities. Jennifer Guglielmo explains that Italian Americans “began to
organize more self-consciously as whites” in the post-World War II era
because government benefits, such as federally subsidized housing loans,
were offered more frequently to whites and “routinely denied” to people
of color.8 George Lipsitz adds, “The suburbs helped turn Euro-Americans
into ‘whites’ who could live near each other and intermarry with relatively
little difficulty. But this ‘white’ unity rested on residential segregation, on
shared access to housing and life chances largely unavailable to communi-
ties of color.”9 This ensured that the suburbs would be a white space.
Though Kevin Kenny says that the Irish showed a preference for city
living that kept them in urban neighborhoods longer than other white
Americans,10 they eventually became part of the white flight out of the
cities and into suburbia as they gained the financial means to do so. By
this time, the Irish in America had become “emphatically an ethnic rather

5 Kenny, American Irish, 228.

6 J.J. Lee, Making the Irish American, 38.
7 Peter Quinn, Looking for Jimmy, 41; Charles Fanning, Irish Voice in America, 312.
8 Jennifer Guglielmo, “White Lies, Dark Truths,” 12.
9 George Lipsitz, The Possessive Investment in Whitness, 7.
10 Kenny, American Irish, 227.
 1 INTRODUCTION: MEMORY, HISTORY, AND THE SHAPING … 5

than an immigrant subculture.”11 When Irish Americans finally decided to

move out of their city neighborhoods, according to Kenny, “the substan-
tial drift to the suburbs tended to fragment their sense of cohesive ethnic
identity.”12
Communities moving from urban America to the suburbs had not only
to contend with the loss of ethnic cohesion. They also had to negotiate
what Evidge Giunta calls “class migration” from working to middle class.
Giunta explains that for Italian Americans, moving to the suburbs and
becoming middle-class Americans was a “simultaneous acquisition and
loss.”Giunta says, “an analogy can be drawn between the separation expe-
rienced by the immigrant, and the separation from the family that moving
into the middle class entails for working-class people.”13 Class and iden-
tity were merged in urban ethnic communities. What Giunta calls “class
migration,” Ron Ebest explains as “another migration saga, this time out
of the inner city and up the economic ladder.”Ebest writes about Irish
American literature in the first three decades of the twentieth century,
decades which coincide with the coming-of-age years for the authors I
cover here. Looking back from the 1940s, these authors would have been
astounded by the changes they had witnessed in their lifetimes.
As Ebest suggests, if entering diaspora is a dispersal, moving into
American suburbia was like a second emigration, a further dispersal of
the once concentrated Irish community. Even in the mid- to late-1940s,
at the beginning of these trends in some major northeastern cities, the
authors in this study saw change in the air. It is no wonder they desired
to capture what was being lost in historical fiction that cast a backward
glance to the time of their childhoods. This urge to remember the origins
of Irish American life was a feature of the 1940s, according to historian
Mary C. Kelly. Kelly, who traces Famine remembrance (and forgetting)
through 150 years, finds in the 1940s, “indications of awareness that
a key dimension of Irish ethnicity now risked permanent disappearance
within the ethnic culture may be identified.”14 For the authors in this
book, anxiety over losing key elements of Irish culture in America led to

11 Fanning, Irish Voice in America, 239.

12 Kenny, American Irish, 227.
13 Giunta, Writing with an Accent, 59.
14 Mary C. Kelly, Ireland’s Great Faminein Irish American History, 97.
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last pill box was in place, the medicine man slammed his chest and,
with a wide wave of his arms, announced:
"This is Prince Philador of the Ozure Isles, on a quest to find his royal
mother and save his father's Kingdom. I am a medicine man and—"
"I am a high horse!" neighed High Boy, pawing up the dust with his
hoof and tossing back his mane. "The only high horse in Oz!"
All of these announcements, as you can well imagine, filled Trot and
her companions with astonishment.
"Why, we've just left the Ozure Isles," burst out Trot breathlessly. "A
bird-man carried us to Quiberon's cave and—"
"Let's all sit down," beamed the Scarecrow, "and talk this over
comfortably." Before Philador or Herby could dismount, High Boy
dropped down upon his haunches and, putting one hoof behind his
ear, begged the Scarecrow to proceed with the story.
"Why don't you tie yourself up?" he muttered impatiently to the
medicine man, who in rolling off his back had again upset his
medicine chest.
"I'll lend you my belt," volunteered Trot, as Phil, who had also fallen
off High Boy, picked himself up and sat down beside the straw man.
"Now then!" exclaimed Trot, after she had again restored the contents
of Herby's chest and fastened it securely with her belt, "tell us
everything that has happened!"
"Ladies first," murmured High Boy, showing both rows of teeth. "You
travel in strange company, my dear." His eyes rolled at Benny and
came to rest so hungrily on the Scarecrow that that agitated
gentleman began stuffing in his stray wisps of hay as fast as possible.
"Trot out your tale, little girl," invited High Boy, swallowing hard and
removing his eyes from the Scarecrow with evident effort. As Philador
added his entreaties to High Boy's, Trot began at once to recount
their amazing experiences in Quiberon's cave.
"Why, it all fits together!" exclaimed the little Prince, jumping up
excitedly. "Quiberon demands a mortal maiden or threatens to
destroy our Kingdom in three days. Somehow or other someone or
other flew off to the Emerald City for you, though I cannot imagine my
father allowing such a thing and there are no bird-men on the Ozure
Isles."
"What is your name, child?" asked High Boy, waving his hoof
reprovingly at Phil. "Let the young lady finish her story, Princeling." So
Philador sat down, and Trot, after telling her name and explaining the
strange coming to life of Benny, went on with their further adventures,
their meeting with Orpah and their final escape by explosion to the
mainland.
"Orpah told us all about Mombi's wickedness," finished Trot, in an
anxious voice, "and we were on our way to the Emerald City to ask
Ozma to help your father when we bumped into you."
"And I shall carry you there," promised High Boy with a little snort of
pleasure. "A girl named Trot can ride me any day. A fine, horsey
sounding, name! Do you care for riding, my dear?" Trot nodded
enthusiastically and smiled up at this most comical beast. Then
Philador, stepping out into the center of the ring, told everything that
had happened to him since the blue gull left him at the good witch's
hut. Trot and the Scarecrow were both astonished and alarmed to
learn of Tattypoo's disappearance, and as interested in the medicine
man as Philador had been in Benny. Benny himself listened gravely
to the whole recital and at the conclusion began rubbing his chin in
deep perplexity.
"If Mombi stole Philador's mother when he was two years old," he
muttered in a puzzled voice, "and Mombi has not been witch of the
North for twenty years, how is it that Philador is not grown up?" They
all laughed heartily at the stone man's question.
"Because we stay one age as long as we wish, in Oz," answered the
little Prince gaily. "I like being ten, so I've been ten for ever so long."
"So have I," declared Trot. "Nobody grows up here unless they want
to, Benny. Isn't that fine?"
"Fine, but funny," acknowledged the stone man, looking from one to
the other.
"Everything in Oz is fine but funny," admitted the Scarecrow, turning
an exuberant somersault. "Look at High Boy and look at me!"
"You'd make a fine lunch," observed High Boy, lifting his nose
hungrily.
"Don't you think we'd better start on?" asked Trot, as the Scarecrow,
with an indignant glance at High Boy, sprang behind a tree. "Even
though Quiberon cannot get out to destroy the Ozure Isles,
Cheeriobed must be worried about Philador and Ozma ought to know
about the good witch's disappearance right away."
"Right you are!" Pulling himself to his feet, High Boy capered and
pranced, first stretching his telescope legs up till his body was out of
sight and then decreasing their length till his stomach rested on the
ground.
"Do you consider him safe?" whispered Benny, observing High Boy's
antics with a worried frown. "Had we not better walk?"
"Far better," quavered the Scarecrow, from behind his tree.
"Oh come, get on!" coaxed High Boy. "I was only teasing. I wouldn't
harm a hay of your head," he promised merrily. "So long as Trot likes
you, I'll carry you anywhere."
"Better get on while he's down," advised the medicine man, making
ready to mount.
"He's a very fast runner," added Philador, smiling at Trot.
"And will save you breath, steps and time," whinnied High Boy,
shaking his mane impatiently. "Up with you my brave Kingdom
savers!" Realizing that they would reach the Emerald City much
faster on High Boy, Trot spoke a few words to the Scarecrow and
after a little coaxing he consented to come, climbing up after all the
others so he would be as far from High Boy's teeth as possible.
Fortunately the high horse's back was long so that there was plenty of
room for them all. First came the little Prince of the Ozure Isles, then
Herby, then Trot, then Benny, and last of all the Scarecrow.
"Now hold tight," warned High Boy, rolling his eyes back gleefully,
"and all ready!" Slapping the reins on his neck, Philador ordered him
to get up. Whirling 'round in the direction indicated by the Scarecrow,
High Boy not only got up but shot up so high they could see over the
tree tops, and ran so fast that they clung breathlessly together.
"How's that?" inquired the King's steed, looking proudly around at
Trot.
"Fu—fine!" stuttered the little girl, "but couldn't you trot a little slower,
High Boy?"

"I'll trot slower for Trot,

Though I'd much rather not,
I can pace, I can race
And I canter, a lot!"

chortled High Boy, snapping up his umbrella tail as he gave a sample

of each gait.
"He's awfully smart," confided Philador in a loud whisper. "And we
ought to reach the Emerald City to-night at the very latest." Trot
nodded enthusiastically and as she became more accustomed to the
jerky gait of the high horse she found it strangely exhilarating.
Imagine being able to look over the tree tops as you gallop along the
road! Every once in a while High Boy would drop down to a lower
level so his riders could see whether anyone was passing. While he
was jogging along about five feet from the ground, a farmer turned
into the lane. He was driving a huge herd of cattle and called loudly
for High Boy to get out of the way. Instead, High Boy merely turned
sideways and shot upward, allowing the whole procession to pass
under his body.
Leaning over, Trot and Philador saw the farmer sitting in the middle of
the road mopping his forehead, and they laughingly agreed that
traveling on High Boy was the most interesting experience they had
yet had. The Scarecrow was still uneasy about his stuffing, but even
he was enjoying the ride, pointing out all the sights to Benny and the
medicine man, and explaining all the treats in store when they
reached the Emerald City.
"I cannot imagine who carried you to the Ozure Isles. Are you sure it
was not the blue gull?" questioned Philador, as High Boy jogged
comfortably along the blue highway.
"No, it was a man with golden wings," insisted Trot positively, "and he
must have been terribly strong to have carried Benny all that way."
As Philador still puzzled over the strange bird-man, she called out
suddenly: "Why, we must have gone right by Jinjur's house!"
"So we have!" muttered the Scarecrow, looking back regretfully.
"She'd have given you some fine ginger-bread, too."
"Never mind," neighed High Boy. "We'll be in the Emerald City in time
for tea and there's a village just ahead. Maybe they'll have some
fresh cake or buns." Stretching up his long legs, High Boy looked
over the walls of the little town at the next turn of the road. It seemed
entirely deserted and all the houses had shuttered windows and
tightly locked doors. Dropping down to regular horse size, High Boy
trotted up to the wooden door in the wall and butted his head three
times against the panels.
For a moment there was absolute silence, and then a muffled voice
called out crossly: "Can't you read?"
"It says 'Keep Out!'" whispered Trot, leaning over so she could read
the sign nailed on the door.
"Can't you let us in?" bellowed High Boy, beginning to stamp with
impatience at the delay. "We're in a hurry and have to go through this
town. Let us in, do you hear?"
"I hear!" shouted the voice defiantly, "But I'll not let you in. I'm the Out
Keeper."
"Hah, hah!" roared the Scarecrow. "I've often heard of an Inn Keeper
but never an Out Keeper. Come out, Keeper, and let's have a look at
you!"
Almost instantly the top section of the door flew open and the upper
half and head of the Out Keeper appeared.
"Help!" gasped Trot, clutching the medicine man. And no wonder!
 CHAPTER 15
The Shutter Faces
The face of the Out Keeper was entirely hidden behind blue shutters.
They seemed to sprout out behind the ears on each side of his head
and fasten securely in front with two bolts.
"I suppose he hears through the slats," said Philador, leaning back to
whisper this observation to the medicine man.
"Perfectly!" answered the Out Keeper.
"Can you see through the slats, too?" asked Herby, quite interested in
the fellow's singular appearance.
"No!" snapped the Out Keeper crossly. "But who wants to see? Most
people are not worth looking at. Presently I shall shut my shutters
tight and then I shall neither see you nor listen to you," he finished
triumphantly.
"But we'll still be here!" whinnied High Boy, with a mischievous
prance. Leaning forward he thrust his head through the opening,
seized the Out Keeper by the seat of his pantaloons and, withdrawing
his head, stretched up his telescope legs and stepped calmly over the
wall. "That's the way to handle an O.K.," snickered High Boy,
dropping the Out Keeper carelessly in a clump of pickle bushes.
"I'm not an O.K.!" shrieked the Out Keeper, springing furiously out of
the pickle bushes. "I'm a Shutter Face!" Pulling back the bolts that
fastened his shutters, he glared out at the travelers. The face back of
the blue shutters was pale, flat and disagreeable. After a long,
horrified, look at High Boy and the others, the Out Keeper jumped a
foot into the air and then ran screaming down the street, his shutters
flapping and slamming against the sides of his head. "Bandits!
Robbers! Donkeys and thieves!" he cried shrilly. "Here they come!
Shut the shutters! Bolt the windows and lock the doors. Shut up! Shut
up! Everybody shut up!"
"Shut up your ownself!" yelled the Scarecrow gleefully, as High Boy,
letting himself down to a lower level, cantered mischievously after the
frightened little man. Although the whole town was shut up to begin
with, at the gate keeper's loud cries the travelers could hear extra
bolts being shot into place.
"What's the matter, Tighty?" called a gruff voice. Looking up in
surprise, Trot saw a huge Shutter Face, sitting cross legged on a tall
chimney.
"Bandits, Your Majesty!" Panting with exhaustion, the Out Keeper
looked imploringly up at the chimney.
"How did they get in?" asked the chimney squatter, opening the slats
on one side so he could hear.
"Stepped over the wall," choked Tighty, looking apprehensively over
his shoulder at High Boy.
"Ridiculous and impossible," sniffed His Majesty, crossing his legs
comfortably. "I neither saw nor heard anyone come over the wall."
"How do you expect to see or hear, hid behind those blue blinkers?"
inquired the Scarecrow, as High Boy came to a stop in front of the
chimney.
"Fall down the chimney! Fall down the chimney!" quavered the Out
Keeper, dashing into a doorway. "And don't say I never warned you!"
For a moment Trot thought His Majesty was going to follow Tighty's
advice, but thinking better of it, the King called pompously: "I refuse to
hear, see or believe such nonsense!" Shutting the slats in his shutters
the King folded his arms and continued to sit defiantly on the
chimney.
"Shall I shove him down?" whispered High Boy, looking around at
Philador. "If he cannot see or hear, perhaps he can feel."
"No!" laughed the little Prince, "they've really done us no harm, so
why should we hurt them? Look! Everything's shutting up, even the
hedges!" The hedges surrounding the small, closely shuttered houses
were real box hedges and as High Boy clattered through the streets
they began slamming their lids as fast as they could. Even the flowers
growing in the stiff little gardens, promptly shut up as the travelers
passed and it was with real relief that they reached the other side of
the town.
Not a Shutter Face was in sight and the dingy houses, with their blue
shuttered windows and doors, gave the town such a very gloomy
appearance.
"The poor silly things look half starved!" exclaimed Trot, glancing
down and back at Shutter Town, as High Boy, without bothering to
shorten his legs, stepped over the wall and briskly down the road on
the other side.
"They're worse than the Round-abouties," decided Benny, "and I
suppose if we had stayed any longer they would have insisted upon
us growing shutters, too!"
"Not a bad idea, when you come to think of it," observed the
Scarecrow. "With shutters one need never be bored or shocked."
"Shutters would be extremely becoming to you," chuckled High Boy,
with a vigorous shake of his umbrella tail.
"Hush!" whispered Trot, who did not like anyone to make fun of her
old friend.
"You mean shut up, I suppose?" wheezed High Boy. "But remember
I'm not a Shutter Face, my girl."
"That's so," giggled Trot. "If anyone tells them to shut up, they really
can. I'm going to bring Dorothy and Betsy back here some day and
see what they do to us."
"Here's a river," announced Philador, who was looking anxiously for
the first signs of the Emerald City. "And I have a magic jumping rope
to help us cross." Holding up the good witch's rope, the little Prince
quickly explained how it worked. High Boy listened in silence, and
when Philador finished tossed his head impatiently.
"I've never jumped rope in my life," declared High Boy stubbornly,
"and I'm not going to begin now. Besides it's not necessary. Stay
where you are! Keep quiet and hold tight!"
Rather worried and undecided whether to stay on or tumble off, the
little company looked uncertainly at one another. But before they
could dismount, High Boy shot up two hundred feet and then carefully
stepped down into the river. Trot gasped and expected to find herself
under water. But only the toes of her shoes touched the water, and
when High Boy, looking around, saw this, he raised himself higher still
and, with his whole body out of the water and his feet on the river
bed, carried them safely and slowly across.
"Why, you're better than a bridge!" exclaimed Philador, leaning
forward to give him a good hug. "I wish I could keep you always."
"Joe couldn't spare me," announced High Boy, self consciously, "but
I'll come to see you often, Phil, when this adventure is over. Hold on
now, I'm going to step out."
The great length of High Boy's legs made his body almost vertical, as
he scrambled up the bank. But so tightly did his riders hold on to the
saddle and to one another, nobody fell off. Bringing his legs down
with a few sharp clicks, High Boy put up his umbrella tail and was
about to start on when a series of splutters made him look back. The
high horse had closed his umbrella tail when he stepped into the
river, but in spite of this a lot of water had got in. Therefore, when he
snapped it up, a perfect deluge had come down on his luckless
passengers.
"This is the third shower I've had to-day," coughed the Scarecrow
dolefully. Benny didn't mind the water at all and Herby, after peering
into his medicine chest and discovering that none of the contents
were wet, merely gave himself a good shake. As for Philador and Trot
—what could they do but laughingly accept High Boy's apologies? It
was late afternoon by now, and the sun sinking lower and lower
behind the hills. Since their meeting on the blue highway, High Boy
had come many a long mile, and everyone but Benny and the
Scarecrow began to feel tired as well as hungry.
"I'd give my gold tooth for a pail of yummy jummy," confessed High
Boy, as he slowly mounted a small hill. "I'm hungry enough to eat a
—" He did not finish his sentence, but glanced longingly over his
shoulder at the Scarecrow, who immediately ducked behind Benny
and began feverishly stuffing in his stray wisps of straw.
"How about a sandwich?" suggested Philador, pulling out the lunch
basket Queen Hyacinth had filled so generously.
"A sandwich would be no more than a cracker crumb to me,"
exclaimed High Boy disdainfully.
"Well, what's yummy jummy?" asked Trot, accepting with a smile the
chicken sandwich the little Prince held out to her.
"Oats, hay, bran, brown sugar and grape juice," explained High Boy,
smacking his lips and closing his eyes. "Do you think they'd mix me
up a pail when we reach this Emerald City of yours?"
"Of course they will," promised Trot, "but couldn't you stop and eat a
little grass or tree leaves?"
"Grass is too short, besides, I never eat grass or leaves at night,"
announced High Boy, turning up his nose. "Gives me grasstreetus."
For a time the little company progressed in silence, Herby, Trot and
Philador contentedly munching the dainty sandwiches and Benny
enjoying the scenery. As it grew darker, an overpowering drowsiness
stole over Trot and Philador. High Boy, too, began to yawn so
terrifically that his passengers were nearly thrown out of the saddle.
"If he does that again, I'll fall off," quavered the Scarecrow, clasping
his arms 'round Benny's waist.
"Wait," whispered Herby, "I have a remedy." Unbuckling Trot's belt,
Herby opened his medicine chest and drew out a box of pills. "These
are my famous 'Keep Awake' pills," he explained proudly, swallowing
two, "and these others will prevent yawning."
"Whoa!" gasped Philador as High Boy's last "Hah, hoh, hum!" lifted
them a foot into the air. "Whoa!" The high horse was glad enough to
whoa and, looking around with half closed eyes, inquired the reason
for their stop.
"Take these," directed Philador, slipping two Keep Awake pills and
three yawn lozenges down High Boy's throat. Sleepily High Boy
swallowed the dose. The effect was startling and instantaneous. His
eyes opened wide, his teeth clicked together and next minute he was
streaking down the road so fast that Trot's hair blew straight out
behind and the little Prince's cloak snapped in the wind.
"Better take some yourselves," advised Herby holding out the boxes
to Trot. "For if you fall asleep you'll fall off and then where'll you be?"
A little nervously, Trot swallowed the Keep Awake pills and yawn
lozenges. Philador then took two of each and immediately they both
felt wide awake and full of energy.
"You are a real wizard, Herby," admitted the Scarecrow, noting
admiringly the effect of the pills, "and ought to make a great hit at the
capital."
"Do you think so?" puffed Herby breathlessly, as he bounced up and
down. "Are we almost there?" It was hard to see, for it was night and
only a few stars twinkled in the sky. But presently Trot gave a little
shout of relief and satisfaction.
"See that green glow?" cried the little girl with an excited wave.
"They're the tower lights of the castle. Hurry up, High Boy. We're
almost there!" At Trot's words, High Boy gathered his long legs
together and fairly flew over hills and across fields, so that in less
than an hour they reached the Emerald City itself. It was still fairly
early, and the lovely capital of Oz shimmered as only a jeweled city
can.
 CHAPTER 16
The Lost Queen Returns

On the same evening that Trot and her companions were arriving at
the Emerald City, Cheeriobed and his councilors sat talking in the
great blue throne room of the palace. All day the King had watched
for the coming of Ozma and the return of Philador, and as the hours
dragged on he had become more and more restless and uneasy.
Shortly after lunch, as he was pacing anxiously up and down one of
the garden paths, he was amazed to see Orpah hobbling rapidly
toward him.
It was nearly twenty years since the keeper of the King's sea horses
had been carried off by Quiberon, and Cheeriobed had never
expected to see his faithful servitor again. Rubbing his eyes to make
sure he was not dreaming, the astounded monarch rushed forward to
greet the old mer-man. After a hearty embrace, which wet His
Majesty considerably, Orpah having stepped directly out of the water,
they sat down on a sapphire bench and the King begged Orpah to tell
him at once all that had happened.
Brushing over his long weary imprisonment in Cave City, Orpah
hurried on to the coming of Trot and her strange friends. His lively
description of their encounter with the Cave Men, the way they had
outwitted and trapped Quiberon in the narrow passageway, filled
Cheeriobed with wonder and relief. And when the mer-man went on
to tell him of the explosion of the blue ray that had carried them
across the bottom of the lake to the mainland, Cheeriobed smiled for
the first time since Quiberon had threatened his kingdom.
"Now," declared the good King, slapping his knee happily, "we have
nothing to worry us. Quiberon is a prisoner, the mortal child has
escaped injury and Akbad has saved my son and persuaded Ozma to
come here, save the kingdom, and restore the Queen."
Here he stopped to tell Orpah how the Court Soothsayer had picked
the golden pear and flown with Philador to the capital, invoking
Ozma's aid and carrying the mortal maid to Quiberon's cavern.
"I expect Ozma any moment now," puffed Cheeriobed, shading his
eyes and looking out over the lake. At these words, Akbad, who was
hiding behind the King's bench, covered his ears and slunk miserably
away. How could he ever explain the failure of Ozma to appear, or
account for the strange disappearance of the little Prince? Again and
again he tried to fly away from the Ozure Isles, but the golden wings
refused to carry him beyond the edge of the beach and when in
despair he cast himself into the water, they kept him afloat, so that
even drowning was denied the cowardly fellow. Dragging his wings
disconsolately behind him, he trailed about the palace, or perched
forlornly in the tree tops, and when, in the late evening, Cheeriobed
summoned all of his advisors to the throne room, the Soothsayer
came slowly and unwillingly to the conference. Orpah, with his tail in
a bucket of salt water, sat on the King's right and Toddledy, thumbing
anxiously over an old book of maps, sat on the King's left. Umtillio,
nearby, strummed idly on a golden harp and Akbad, after a longing
glance at the chair set out for him, flew up on the chandelier where he
would have plenty of place for his wings and where he could sit down
with some comfort. Ranged 'round the conference table were the
officers of the Guard and members of the King's household, and they
all listened attentively as Cheeriobed began his address.
"To-morrow is the day Quiberon has threatened to destroy us," began
His Majesty gravely, "and as he may escape it were best to devise
some means of defense."
They all nodded approvingly at these words but said nothing. "Has
anyone a suggestion to make?" asked Cheeriobed, folding his hands
on his stomach and looking inquiringly over his spectacles.
"I suggest that we all go to bed," yawned the Captain of the Guard.
"Then we'll be rested and ready for a battle, if a battle there is to be!"
"Why bother to plan when Quiberon is stuck fast in the cavern?"
asked Akbad impatiently.
"That's so," mused Toddledy. "At least not before Ozma arrives.
When did Her Highness say she would come?" he asked, squinting
up at the Court Soothsayer.
"Just as soon as the Wizard of Oz returns from the blue forest,"
answered Akbad sulkily.
"When Trot and her friends reach the Emerald City, they will persuade
her to come right away," put in Orpah, "and they promised to come
back with her. You will be astonished at the stone man," finished
Orpah solemnly.
At Orpah's casual remark, Akbad could not restrain a groan. However
would he explain to the little ruler of all Oz his own foolish and
deceitful conduct? Dropping heavily from the chandelier he bade the
company good-night and made for the door, his wings flapping and
dragging behind him. As he put out his hand to turn the knob, the
door flew violently open and Jewlia burst into the room.
"A boat!" panted the little girl, throwing her apron over her head, "a
boat is coming 'round Opal Point."
"It is Ozma!" exclaimed His Majesty, thumping the table with both
fists. "Where are my spectacles, hand me my crown, spread the red
rug and call out the Guard of Honor!"
Without waiting for any of these commands to be carried out,
Cheeriobed plunged from the palace through the gardens and down
to the shore of Lake Orizon. Orpah reached the beach almost as
soon as His Majesty, followed closely by Toddledy and all the King's
retainers. A little murmur of disappointment went up from the crowd
as they stared in the direction indicated by Jewlia. A boat was
rounding the point, but only a fisherman's dory. Opposite the man at
the oars sat a closely wrapped figure and, as the boat came nearer,
this figure arose, cast off the cloak and, standing erect, extended both
arms.
"Why!" panted Jewlia, beginning to jump up and down, "it's the Queen
—Queen Orin, herself!"