It had been quite some time since escaping from the Witch again, and the two friends walked along the road lost in thought. Well, that is to say, Graham was lost in thought, whereas Telly was absent-mindedly playing an old commercial:

Double your pleasure, double your fun, Get double ev’rything rolled into one, Oh, double your pleasure, double your fun, with double good, double good, Double-mint gum.

Suddenly, the pair came across a sign at the side of the road which read:

OZ INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT DEPARTURES UPPER LEVEL ARRIVALS LOWER LEVEL FOLLOW THE BLUE SIGNS FOR THE UPPER LEVEL FOLLOW THE RED SIGNS FOR THE LOWER LEVEL

“Telly!” cried Graham. “Telly! I can’t believe it! An airport in Oz? Why didn’t you tell me? Now I can go home. All I have to do is buy a ticket. They can call my dad and get his credit card number.”

“Now wait a minute!” Telly exclaimed. “Not so fast, my young friend. There is no airport in Oz. Never was, and never will be. It’s just not possible for airplanes to fly here from anywhere. Queen Ozma herself saw to that after a certain incident with a little girl and a pet monkey. No, this cannot be for real. Must be some kind of trick.”

Graham was crestfallen. He was just not prepared to accept such a dismal opinion. “Oh, no! I’m sure you’re mistaken. They wouldn’t have a sign like that if there was no airport there.”

“Well, I hate to say I told you so. But you’ll see when we get there that there’s nothing there,” Telly said emphatically. “At least, not an airport ...” He suddenly stopped in his tracks. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing!” he shouted incredulously as the sight of a huge airport (the size of L.A. International) loomed up ahead.

“SEE! I told you so!” shouted Graham with obvious delight as he ran forward. “Home sweet home, here I come!”

“Not so fast!” warned Telly. “Not so fast! It has to be a trick. Maybe the Wicked Witch has created an illusion and ... and it’s really her castle....”

But Graham was already out of earshot. Before him loomed a giant 747 glistening in the sun, its huge jet engines screaming with impatience for full power to be applied, and the passenger door was open at the top of the stairs with a smiling flight attendant beckoning Graham aboard. “Hurry up!” she called. “We’re ready to take off, and you’re running late.”

Graham scurried up the stairs as fast as his little legs would carry him.... The flight attendant checked his name off a list, and the door closed quickly, leaving Graham with no time to say goodbye to Telly, who was at that moment looking up at the plane forlornly as it taxied forward toward the runway. Meanwhile, Graham was being bundled into his seat and buckled into his seatbelt by the pretty flight attendant. It was only then that he remembered that he had not purchased a ticket, nor had he had a chance to say goodbye to Telly. He was seated alone by the window and quickly looked out to see if he could catch a glimpse of his friend. But it was too late; the plane was already at the end of the runway and several feet into the air with the countryside whizzing past and getting smaller and smaller as the plane quickly ascended.

The captain’s voice came over the intercom loud and clear. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. We have departed Oz International Airport and will be cruising at twenty thousand feet. We should be arriving at our destination in about three hours. You may remove your seatbelts and make yourselves comfortable. Refreshments will be served shortly, and you may watch our in-flight movie if you wish.”

Graham looked around to see who else was sharing his flight. He was astonished to see that there were no other passengers at all. Now he began to get frightened. Why would a great big airplane take off with no passengers except himself? And who was that captain addressing when he said “ladies and gentlemen”? He was beginning to feel that he had been caught up in an episode of Telly’s Twilight Zone. Just then, he caught a glimpse of a portly gentleman approaching him from the front of the plane. He assumed there was another passenger after all, one who must have been sitting in the front seat, and too low for his head to be visible. However, as the gentleman approached closer to where Graham was seated, the boy became even more perplexed. The gentleman in question was none other than William Shakespeare! Oh, there was no mistaking such an historical figure. Graham had seen paintings and drawings of him many times. And his clothes and features were an exact replica of those portrayals. Not only that, but he was carrying a great big book entitled The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Suddenly Graham flushed with embarrassment. How could he think for one moment that this was William Shakespeare? The fellow was obviously an actor, perhaps on his way home from making a movie and so late for his flight that he did not have time to change his clothes or remove his makeup. At that moment the gentleman spoke ... “Good day, my dear fellow. My name is William Shakespeare. Do you mind if I sit here? The plane’s rather crowded and I see that you have the whole aisle to yourself.”

“Okay! That’s it,” thought Graham. “The guy’s a definite nut case. Must have escaped from the looney bin and somehow got to Oz. The plane’s crowded indeed! He and I are the only passengers! Every single seat is empty.” However, “Mr. Shakespeare” seated himself next to Graham without waiting for a reply. “I know that you don’t believe I’m who I say I am,” he said. “But I can assure you, I am he who is often referred to as The Bard of Avon. All I’d like you to do is to tell earth’s disbelievers who don’t accept that I wrote my works that I did indeed write them.” Without waiting for Graham to respond, he then proceeded to break into verse in a gentle, melodic voice:

“I am he who wrote my verse, My dramas, sonnets, quibbles, rhyme, I’m Shakespeare still dear England’s Bard And shall ever be, throughout time.

I wrote, ’tis true, some sonnets, plays,
To make a living, pass the time
In merriment or jest and glee
I turned out many a ribaled rhyme.

To set the world right,
And make snivelers agree
As to who wrote Shakespeare,
If ’twere BACON or He,

Or Marlowe or Pitt,
Or scribes ages old,
I say to them all
The truth is now told.

When a man among kings (I was knighted by one)
Where a handle or wheel makes a favorite son
Distinguished through time for something he’s done,
For a knight in his day must his laurels have won.

With a band of king’s players by Bill Shakespeare led,
I played many roles, e’en recalled the dead
To piece out my plot or to string out my rhyme,
Nor considered it theft, more an honor that time,
To borrow a plot for a queen or a king,
And watch their amuse as my poor muse would sing.
So each time I needed a plot or a play
I searched o’er the tomes where musty plots lay
Bulging out with ideas from craniums dust,
Whose shades may have helped as I now know and trust.
But that any one man made a plot or a play,
Or was such singled out as a ruse for my pay,
I deny in fac toto in spirit this day.
Should any man’s play be found in my work,
Which was not by me writ, ’tis a publisher’s quirk;
Which one day I’ll acclaim; for I mean to read all
As signed with my name_.”

Young Graham was beyond words at this outpouring of verse. The mode of language was not something he could identify with in his everyday world, and it was quite beyond his level of comprehension. But he sensed this was no ordinary man in his presence. “Are you really William Shakespeare?” he ventured forth timidly. “And if you truly are, how could you still be alive hundreds of years after you were born?”

“Well, young one,” smiled the Bard kindly, “that is a long story...Suffice to say I am here with you having this conversation. And look around you many of the other passengers are people from your history books. We are en route to our home beyond the outer fringes of Oz. We are graduates of the University of Higher Consciousness, and we are on our way to Historicalfigureland. So much hatred exists in the world you come from, and where there is not exactly hatred per se, there is often indifference or even total apathy for the plight of others. And as if your world were not bad enough with the constant warring between nations, many individuals in so-called civilized lands feel the need to declare war on their neighbors. I am speaking of your young people killing each other for no other reason than that it has become the thing to do. What is so sad is that they totally lack remorse for their victims’ pain and suffering and give not the slightest thought to the victims’ families left behind in utter and complete desolation and sadness at their terrible loss. Our goal is to find a way to encourage people to reach out to one another to care for one another. That is why we wrote our books and plays, to teach people what life be truly about.”

Okay. That’s it, thought Graham. There’s no doubt about the truth of what the old guy is saying regarding earth conditions. But the queer old boy is definitely off his rocker. First, there’s definitely no other passengers on the plane, and ... “Good grief!” he exclaimed as the outlines of human forms began to appear in the other passenger seats. Gradually these forms became more solid until he realized that indeed the plane was filled with passengers, many of which were historical figures in the modes of dress of their particular times in history. First he saw Napoleon in the aisle to his immediate left. Then, next to him, Marie Antoinette. Then Mary, Queen-of-Scots, Henry the Eighth, and Alexander the Great. In the next aisle: Cæsar Augustus, Mark Anthony, Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Aristotle, and Plato. It seemed that every historical figure of note was present aboard the plane, not to mention a sprinkling of people from various walks of life, such as Marcus Aurelius, Jane Merrick, Kenneth Gage Baum, Fred Stone, Judy Garland, and Ray Powell. Of course, Graham did not know who everyone was by name, but many faces looked familiar to him.

“I’m terribly sorry,” apologized Shakespeare. “I didn’t realize that your eyes had not yet become sensitized to the higher vibrations of my friends. What must you have thought of me?” “Oh, nothing at all,” cried Graham. “I mean, I hadn’t really noticed all these people. I was so engrossed in what you were saying.”

“Really?” replied the Bard with a twinkle in his eye. “I quite understand. People are always totally captivated by my words. Anyway, as I was saying, or rather, as I was about to say...”

At that moment, a head bent over the Bard’s shoulder to say hello to Graham. It was none other than Mark Twain, whom Graham instantly recognized. And with him was a gentleman who introduced himself as Charles Dickens. He gave Graham a wink and shook his hand. “You’re a fine young fellow. I predict that you will go far in life.” Of course, Graham was speechless. It suddenly hit him that he was in the company of some of the world’s greatest human beings. If he ever got back home and tried to tell people, they would be sure to lock him up and throw away the key. Mark Twain asked how things were going and assured him that, while the plane would not be able to transport him home, he felt certain that, when the time came, a way would be found which would enable him to return. “If not,” Mark Twain said, “not to worry. There’d never be a dull moment in Oz!”

Oh, that’s just great! thought Graham. Now there was a chance that he would not get back. But did not Shakespeare say that he wanted him to inform the world that he had written his own stuff? He would not have said that if he did not think that the boy would get home to tell the tale. What am I saying? thought Graham. None of this is really happening. I’m just having the most gigantic, craziest dream anyone has ever had.

“By the way,” said Mark Twain, interrupting Graham’s thoughts. “Here are a couple of letters I forgot to mail to my poet friend, Bayard Taylor. They should probably be in some collection somewhere so, if you’d take them back with you, I’d appreciate it. I said in one letter that I’d probably forget to stamp it, and I did.” Twain handed Graham the letters and indicated that he did not mind the boy’s reading them if he wanted to.

There I go again, thought Graham, believing in my own dream. In any event, he settled back in the seat and began to read the letters. However, before he could really get started, Charles Dickens interrupted him.

“As usual, this Twain fellow takes over and hogs the conversation. In the very near future, young Graham, you and I will get together, and I’ll tell you some very interesting stories of my childhood. In the meantime,” he said, scribbling on a piece of paper that had some kind of drawing on it, “I have autographed a sketch of Boz to take back with you. Boz was the name I used when I first embarked on my literary adventures. In case you are wondering if there is a cryptic connection between Boz and Baum and Oz, you’ll have to keep wondering about that. I was born at Portsea, Portsmouth, a few minutes before midnight on the seventh of February, 1812, forty-four years before Mr. Baum was born. I came to Oz in 1870, when Mr. Baum was only fourteen years old. He was not destined to write about Oz until some thirty years later. Now, when you come back, I’ll tell you some more about my early days, and I’ll make sure that our friend Twain doesn’t bask in his self-perceived limelight while we’re having our important discussions.”

“Now, you listen up, Mr. Dickens, sir,” said Mark Twain with mock anger, for they were actually the best of friends. “I resent that, and I won’t have you filling the boy’s head with a lot of imaginary adventures and strange connections between words. Next you’ll be telling him there’s a link between the Land of Ev and Robert Evans or even more ludicrous that Frank Oz and Michael Ovitz of Hollywood have a mystical link to Oz because they have Oz in their names, or even more ludicrous, that you and Chris Dulabone have a connection because you both have the initials C.D. I mean, how far can you go with this stuff? I’m telling the boy about real things and about real life...”

Dickens just shook his head slowly and turned to Graham. “I really don’t pay much attention to his rambling. Go ahead and read his boring letters before he has a kitten. I won’t forget my promise to you, and we’ll have a delightfully interesting time together, you’ll see. And I promise you, my stories will not be imaginary. Oh, by the way, here’s some of my correspondence you might wish to take back with you. One is a letter and note I sent to my American friend, Mr. Fields of Boston, and also some beverage recipes I sent to Mrs. Fields. Also an announcement of two plays I produced, one of which I acted in and

“You’re not the only actor around here, Mr. Dickens, sir!” interrupted Twain. “I’ve acted in plays, too. For example, I was in Loan of a Lover in 1876. Your Mrs. Fields, by the way, said I was wonderful in it. And as long as you’re producing letters you wrote to Mr. Fields, I’ll give young Graham a copy of a letter that I wrote to Mr. Fields. So what do you think about that?”

Graham was astounded to hear these two world-famous personages fighting like children and competing for his attention. What would his history teacher and his fellow classmates think? He accepted the additional material, then settled down to begin reading as the two men continued to argue all the way back to their seats. He started with Mark Twain’s letters. There were actually four letters, one of them completely in German, which Twain probably had not meant to hand him. But the boy read it anyway, no matter that he did not understand a word. It did not dawn on him that, if this was a dream, where did the German words come from if they were not in his consciousness to begin with? Below is a copy of the letters for the record, although it is suggested that the reader skim over them for now, as they are not relevant except as historical interest:

Schloss-Hotel Heidelberg May 7, 1878 H. Albert

Lieber Herr Taylor:

Wir werden hier blieben viellicht fuer drie Monate, zum Schloss Hotel.

Dies hotel steht about fuenf und siebenzig Fuss Hoehler als das Schloss, und commandirt ein Aussicht welcher ohne Ähnlichkeit in der Welt hat. (Sie müssen excuse auskratchens, interlineations.)

Ich habe heute gecalled on der Herr Professor Ihne, qui est die Professor von Englishen Zunge im University, to get him to recommend ein Deutchen Lehrer Fuer mich, welcher he did. Er sprach um mehrerer Americanischer authors, und meist guengstiger & vernuegungsvoll von Ihrer; dass er knew you and Ihrer so wohl durch Ihrer geschereibungen; und wann Ich habe gesagt Ich sollen Ihr schreiben heute Nacht gewesen if nothing happened, er bitte mich Opfer sein compliments, und hoffe Ihnen will ihm besuchen wenn du Kommst an Heidelberg. Er war ein vortrefflicher and liebwuerdiger & every way delightful alte gentleman. Man sagt Ich muss ein Pass (in der English, Passport,) haben to decken accidents. Daefur gefelligt Ihnen furnish me one. Meine Beschreibung ist vollenden: Geborn 1835; 5 Fuss 8 ein wenig unter, sometimes ein wenig oben; dunkel braun Haar und rhotes Moustache, full Gesicht, mit sehr hohe Oren and leicht grau practvolles strahlenden Äugen und ein Verdammtes gut moral character. Handlungkeit, Author von Buecher. Ich habe das Deutche spräche gelernt und bin ein gluecklicher Kind, you bet. With warmest regards & kindness remembrances from all our party to you & your wife and daughter.

Yrs sincerely, S. L. Clemens

The Koenigstuhl, June 10 Lieber Herrn Taylor:

(Don’t know whether it ought to be Herr or Herrn). Am much obliged for the letter it was from friend whom I have been trying to ferret out. Yes, we still live at the Schloss-Hotel, & shall doubtless continue to do so until the neighborhood of August but I only eat and sleep there; my work-den is the second story of a little Wirthschaft which stands at the base of the tower on the summit of the Königsstuhl. I walk up there every morning at 10, write until 3, talk the most hopeless and unimprovable German with the family ’til 5, then tramp down to the Hotel for the night. It is a schones Aussicht up there as you may remember. The exercise of climbing up there is invigorating but devilish. I have just written regrets to the Paris Literary Convention. I did hate to have to miss that entertainment, but I knew that if I went there & spent a fortnight it would take me another fortnight to get settled down into the harness again couldn’t afford that.

The Emperor is a splendid old hero! That he could survive such wounds never entered my head yet by the news I judge he is actually recovering. It is worth something to be a Lincoln or a Kaiser Wilhelm & it gives a man a better opinion of the world to show appreciation for such men & what is better, love of them. I have not seen anything of this outburst of affectionate indignation since Mr. Lincoln’s assassination gave the common globe a sense of personal injury. Ich habe der Consul Smith gesehen ein Paar Wochen ago, & told him about that Pass, und er hat mir gesagt das er wurde be absent from this gegen (something) zwei oder drei Wochen, aber wann er sollte hier wieder nachkommen, wollte er der pass geschlagen worden & snake it off to Berlin. Vielleicht hat er noch nicht zu Mannheim zurück-kehrt.

Now as to the grammar of this language; I haven’t conquered the Accusative Case yet (I began with that) & there are three more. It begins to seem to me that I have got to try to get along with the Accusative alone & leave the rest of this grammar to be tackled in the future life.

With our kindest remembrances to you & yours

Yrs sincerely, S. L. Clemens

Hotel de l’Ecu de Geneve Sep/78

My dear Mr. Taylor:

I have learned the German language & forgotten it again; so I resume English once more. I have just returned from a walking trip to Mont Blanc which I was intending to ascend, but was obliged to give up the idea, as I had gone too early & there was still snow on it. I find your letter here; if you will be so kind as to forward Slote’s letter to the above address I think it will be in time to catch me & in any case I will make arrangements to have it follow me. (I am going to try to enclose the necessary stamps in this, but if I forget it however, I won’t)

We have been poking around slowly through Switzerland for a month; a week hence we go to Venice to Rome & other places later; & we are booked for Munich No (for the winter.) One of these days I am going to whet up my German again & take a run to Berlin, & have a talk with you in that fine old tongue.

Yrs Ever

S. L. Clemens

Na Karlstrasse,

(2e stock) Munich, De

My Dear Mr. Taylor:

When we were poking around Italy 3 or 4 weeks ago, I was told that you were ill, but straightway saw it contradicted in a newspaper. Now comes this paragraph in Galignani which not only shows that the contradiction was erroneous, but shows how ignorant one may be in this country about what is happening only a few hundred miles away; especially when one is buried in work & neither talks with people or often looks in the paper. We three folks are heartily glad to hear that you are coming happily out of it; & we are venturing to hope that by this time you are wholly restored.

We are located for the winter, I suppose. But the children are having such a run of coughs & diptheria [sic], that I can’t tell at what moment Mrs. Clemens may take fright & flee to some kindlier climate. However, I stick hard at work & make what literary hay I can while we tarry. Our little children talk German as glibly as they do English, now, but the rest of us are mighty poor German scholars, I can tell you. Rev. Twitchell (who was over here with me a while,) conceived a pretty correct average of my German. When I was talking, (in my native tongue,) about some rather private matters in the hearing of some Germans one day, Twitchel said, “Speak in German, Mark, some of these people may understand English.”

Many a time when teachers & dictionaries fail to unravel knotty paragraphs, we wish we could fly to you for succor; we even go so far as to believe you can read a German newspaper & understand it; & in moments of deep irritation I have been provoked into expressing the opinion that you are the only foreigner except God who can do that thing. I would not rob you of your food or clothes or your umbrella, but if I caught your German out I would take it. But I don’t study any more, I have given it up.

I & mine join in the kindest remembrances & best wishes to you & your family.

Sincerely Yours

Saml. L. Clemens

We are going to try to run over to Berlin in the spring_.

As Graham finished Mark Twain’s last letter the one to Mr. Fields, dated 1874 he noticed that the next letter from Dickens to Mr. Fields was dated 1867 seven years prior. He wondered if the two famous writers had actually crossed paths or had just known the Fields independent of one another. Either way, it was interesting to note that they were contemporaries. He had always imagined that Dickens had lived in a much earlier era than Twain. Well, to continue:

Westminster Hotel, New York Sunday, Twenty-ninth December, 1867

My Dear Fields:

When I come to Boston for the two readings of the 6th and 7th, I shall be alone, as the Dolby must be selling elsewhere. If you and Mrs. Fields should have no other visitor, I shall be very glad indeed on that occasion to come to you. It is very likely that you may have some one come with you. Of course you will tell me so if you have, and I will then re’mbellish the Parker House.

Since I left Boston last, I have been so miserable that I have been obliged to call in a Dr. Dr. Fordyce Barker, a very agreeable fellow. He was strongly inclined to stop the Readings altogether for some few days, but I pointed out to him how we stood committed, and how I must go on if it could be done. My great terror was yesterday’s Matinee, but it went off splendidly. (A very heavy cold indeed, an irritated condition of the uvula, and a restlessly low state of the nervous system, were your friends maladies. If I had not avoided visiting, I think I should have been disabled for a week or so.)

I hear from London that the general question in society is, what will be blown up next year by the Fenians.

With love to Mrs. Fields, believe me,

Ever Affectionately yours, And hers, CHARLES DICKENS_

Following this letter to Mr. Fields was the note dated 1869 and the recipes for the brewing of pleasant beverages. Last was the program for the two plays at the Tavistock House Theatre. Graham was really looking forward to bringing all these things back with him.

As Graham got to the last line of the last letter, his eyes began to feel heavy. The whirlwind of activity since his abduction had caught up with him. Just as he was falling asleep, the sound of the captain’s voice on the intercom jerked him awake. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching Historicalfigureland International Airport. We hope you had an enjoyable flight and hope to see you again on Oz Airlines. Oh, and to our young guest from America, you are welcome to visit your friends here any time. But I’m sure you want to continue with your mission, and you will be glad to hear that we will be making an immediate turnaround after the disembarkation of our other passengers. I believe you were brought on board for the sole purpose of delivering some important documents back to America, but you are certainly welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

At that, the plane landed with a slight bump and soon taxied to the terminal. The doors opened and everyone began to file out many, anticipating that Graham would soon be returning, didn’t engage him in conversation, but shook his hand warmly and wished him well. Mark Twain gave him a hug and said how much he had enjoyed his company. He said that Graham reminded him a lot of Tom Sawyer who, he said, currently lived down the street from him. Seeing Graham’s puzzled expression, he quickly explained that any imaginary character an author dreams up is actually a person that the author has tuned into. And that an author rarely has an original thought in his head but is really very good at catching glimpses of activities (present, past or future) somewhere in creation.

As Mark Twain turned to the exit, Graham suddenly remembered a question that he had wanted to ask. “Oh, Mr. Twain,” he called. “I wanted to ask how you came to use the name Mark Twain. I know your real name is Samuel Clemens....”

“Well,” responded Twain, “no one has ever asked me that question before Just kidding,” he added quickly, seeing Graham’s expression. “Yes, I am asked it all the time. The name was first used by an old Mississippi river pilot named Isaiah Sellers, who used to write items for the New Orleans Picayune, in which he told of his adventures. He signed them Mark Twain, which in the parlance of pilots is a leadsman call meaning two fathoms, or twelve feet. When I was a cub pilot, I wrote a burlesque on Captain Seller’s articles and published it in a rival paper under the signature of Sargeant Fathom. Unfortunately, the captain was so hurt by the burlesque that he never wrote another article. I still feel badly about it to this day, for I would never have intentionally hurt the old gentleman’s feelings. Anyway, in 1863, when I was working for the Enterprise in Virginia City, Nevada, I wanted a good pen name and, while I was trying to think of one, I received the news of the death of the good captain. This brought to mind the name Mark Twain, and so I adopted the name in his honor. I signed it first in a letter from Carson City to the Enterprise on February second, 1863. So now you know, my young friend,” said Twain as he handed him an autographed photo of himself. “Something to keep for yourself, in remembrance of your visit here.” He hugged Graham again and waved goodbye to the boy as he descended from the plane.

Several distinguished-looking gentlemen stopped to introduce themselves to Graham. One said his name was Ralph Waldo Emerson and another, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Yet another, Isaac Newton, who said Graham would probably become a scientist.

“Undoubtedly a physicist,” said Albert Einstein.

“Oh, no,” interjected Eugene O’Neill. “There’s no question that he will be a writer.” This last remark was overheard by Charles Lindbergh, who insisted that Graham would be a flyer. Then two deep resonant voices spoke in unison: “It is obvious that the boy is a born actor.” The speakers were Lionel Barrymore and John Gilbert. But Senator Charles Sumner had the final word: “Whether he becomes an actor or not is immaterial: I can assure you that this young man’s ultimate destiny is in the political arena.”

After the distinguished group finished arguing about Graham’s future vocation, they said that, since he seemed to be starting an autograph collection, they would be glad to add theirs to the list. Even John Dickens, father of Charles Dickens, signed the sheet. Then Emerson also handed him a note that he had written to of all people Mrs. Fields! “Don’t mention this to Dickens or Twain,” he said. “They’ll just be jealous.”

Turning to make sure Emerson had disembarked, Nathaniel Hawthorne winked at Graham and whispered, “Here’s a little note that I, too, wrote to Mrs. Fields. Not a word now to Emmy, Dickybird, or Marky-Mark.” Graham laughed out loud at the nicknames being given to Emerson, Dickens, and Twain, as well as the schoolboy-like antics being displayed by these great men. Then Edward Lear, who wrote The Owl and the Pussycat, also handed him a handwritten note to Mrs. Fields. Graham could not help but think what a popular lady this Mrs. Fields must have been in her day. He wished he could have known her.

Hawthorne then handed him a signed photograph, as did Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin, Thomas Alva Edison, Albert Einstein, and H. G. Wells. Even Stephan Crane and Rudyard Kipling produced photographs.

Mr. Shakespeare was the last to leave. He had gone back to his seat when Messrs. Twain and Dickens were vying for Graham’s attention. He, too, hugged the boy as he said goodbye, then handed him a piece of paper. “I have written down the verses I recited to you earlier, my friend just in case you are not able to remember them all. It is important that this be given, simply because so many people doubt my authorship. I suppose after it is published there will still be doubters, but so be it. Skeptics have always existed and, I assume, always will. Some people like to doubt the reality of certain phenomena that appears quite obvious to others. I suspect it makes them feel secure: something they no longer have to deal with. Well, good luck, my little friend. I’m sure you will find your way home. Oh, incidentally, I almost forgot. I didn’t want to one-upmanship Dickens and Twain in their presence, but I was an actor too, you know long before those two. You might also like to have my autographed sketch. You will note the difference in my spelling of my name and the later versions.” He stuffed a piece of paper in Graham’s shirt pocket as he exited.

As the plane’s doors closed behind Shakespeare, the flight attendant brought Graham a refreshing glass of lemonade. His thoughts turned to Telly, who had been so sad at being left behind. He eagerly looked forward to seeing the little guy again.

Graham slept the entire trip back. He awoke just as the plane taxied to the terminal. And who should be waiting in exactly the same place as he left him but Telly, who was so glad that Graham had returned that he ran up and hugged him for the longest time.

“I knew you’d come back,” he said. “That’s why I waited. I knew that the plane couldn’t be going to America. In fact, I still don’t believe that there was any plane or airport or anything. I think it was all some trick of the Witch to confuse us. Planes simply cannot exist in Oz. Transportation is either by foot or via some magical contrivance such as the animated Gump or the famous Red Wagon.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you,” replied Graham, waving the bundle of letters, photographs, and drawings in his hand. “But where do you think these came from if the whole thing was some kind of hallucination? And how could I read German words if the words weren’t in my consciousness to begin with? And I certainly couldn’t have made up Shakespeare’s words.”

“And I hate to disappoint YOU,” answered Telly, quite tartly, “but you might wish to look behind you.”

Graham turned to look behind him to catch a glimpse of the entire airport fading away. Not only that, but the papers in his hand had also faded away to absolute nothingness. “Oh, no!” cried the boy. “Now I have no proof of my experience!”

“That’s because it never happened,” Telly replied dryly.