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"Why do you call me Middleness?" the King demanded angrily, taking the

emerald.

"Is your kingdom not in the middle of the earth, and are you not royalty?

What could be more proper than Royal Middleness?" asked the Scarecrow,

flecking the dust from his hat.

Now that he had a better view, he saw that the two were entirely men of

mud, and very roughly put together. Dried grass hair stood erect upon each

head, and their faces were large and lumpy and had a disconcerting way of

changing shape. Indeed, when the King leaned over to examine the

Scarecrow, his features were so soft they seemed to run into his cheek,

which hung down alarmingly, while his nose turned sideways and

lengthened at least an inch!

Muddle pushed the King's nose back and began spreading his cheek into

place. Instead of hands and feet, the Middlings had gnarled and twisted

roots which curled up in a perfectly terrifying manner. Their teeth were gold,

and their eyes shone like small electric lights. They wore stiff coats of dried

mud, buttoned clumsily with lumps of coal, and the King had a tall mud

crown. Altogether, the Scarecrow thought he had never seen more

disagreeable looking creatures.

"What he needs," spluttered the King, fingering the jewel greedily, "is a coat

of mud! Shall we pull him in, Muddle?"

He's very poorly made, your Mudjesty. Can you work, Carescrow?" asked

Muddle, thumping him rudely in the chest.

"Scarecrow, if you please!" The Scarecrow drew himself up and spoke with

great difficulty. "I can work with my head!" he added proudly.

"Your head!" roared the King. "Did you hear that, Muddle? He works with

his head. What's the matter with your hands?" Again the King lunged

forward, and this time his face fell on the other side and had bulged

enormously before Muddle could pat it into shape. They began whispering

excitedly together, but the Scarecrow made no reply, for looking over their

shoulder he glimpsed a dark, forbidding cavern lighted only by the flashing

red eyes of thousands of Middlings. They appeared to be digging, and above

the rattle of the shovels and picks came the hoarse voice of one of them

singing the Middling National Air. Or so the Scarecrow gathered from the

words:

The Royal Book of Oz