ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND

Lewis Carroll

THE MILLENNIUM FULCRUM EDITION 3.0




CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the
bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the
book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in
it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice 'without pictures or
conversation?'

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the
hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure
of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and
picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran
close by her.

There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so
VERY much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, 'Oh dear!
Oh dear! I shall be late!' (when she thought it over afterwards, it
occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time
it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually TOOK A WATCH
OUT OF ITS WAISTCOAT-POCKET, and looked at it, and then hurried on,
Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had
never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch
to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field
after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large
rabbit-hole under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how
in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then
dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think
about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep
well.

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had
plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was
going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what
she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she
looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with
cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures
hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as
she passed; it was labelled 'ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great
disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear
of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as
she fell past it.

'Well!' thought Alice to herself, 'after such a fall as this, I shall
think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at
home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top
of the house!' (Which was very likely true.)

Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! 'I wonder how
many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. 'I must be getting
somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four
thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several
things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this
was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there
was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over)
'--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude
or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or
Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.)

Presently she began again. 'I wonder if I shall fall right THROUGH the
earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with
their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--' (she was rather glad
there WAS no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the
right word) '--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country
is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?' (and
she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy CURTSEYING as you're falling
through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) 'And what an
ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to
ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.'

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began
talking again. 'Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!'
(Dinah was the cat.) 'I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at
tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no
mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very
like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?' And here Alice
began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy
sort of way, 'Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?' and sometimes, 'Do
bats eat cats?' for, you see, as she couldn't answer either question,
it didn't much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing
off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with
Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, 'Now, Dinah, tell me the truth:
did you ever eat a bat?' when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon
a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment:
she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another
long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it.
There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and
was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, 'Oh my ears
and whiskers, how late it's getting!' She was close behind it when she
turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found
herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging
from the roof.

There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when
Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every
door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to
get out again.

Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid
glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice's
first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall;
but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small,
but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second
time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and
behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the
little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!

Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not
much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage
into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of
that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and
those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the
doorway; 'and even if my head would go through,' thought poor Alice, 'it
would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could
shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only know how to begin.'
For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately,
that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really
impossible.

There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went
back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at
any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this
time she found a little bottle on it, ('which certainly was not here
before,' said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper
label, with the words 'DRINK ME' beautifully printed on it in large
letters.

It was all very well to say 'Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was
not going to do THAT in a hurry. 'No, I'll look first,' she said, 'and
see whether it's marked "poison" or not'; for she had read several nice
little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild
beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember
the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot
poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your
finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never
forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is
almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.

However, this bottle was NOT marked 'poison,' so Alice ventured to taste
it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour
of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot
buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off.

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    *    *    *    *    *    *

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

'What a curious feeling!' said Alice; 'I must be shutting up like a
telescope.'

And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face
brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going
through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she
waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further:
she felt a little nervous about this; 'for it might end, you know,' said
Alice to herself, 'in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder
what I should be like then?' And she tried to fancy what the flame of a
candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember
ever having seen such a thing.

After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going
into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the
door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she
went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach
it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her
best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery;
and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing
sat down and cried.

'Come, there's no use in crying like that!' said Alice to herself,
rather sharply; 'I advise you to leave off this minute!' She generally
gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it),
and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into
her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having
cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself,
for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people.
'But it's no use now,' thought poor Alice, 'to pretend to be two people!
Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make ONE respectable person!'

Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table:
she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words
'EAT ME' were beautifully marked in currants. 'Well, I'll eat it,' said
Alice, 'and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it
makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I'll
get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!'

She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, 'Which way? Which
way?', holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was
growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same
size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice
had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way
things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on
in the common way.

So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.

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CHAPTER II. The Pool of Tears

'Curiouser and curiouser!' cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that
for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English); 'now I'm
opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Good-bye, feet!'
(for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed to be almost out of
sight, they were getting so far off). 'Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder
who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I'm sure
_I_ shan't be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble
myself about you: you must manage the best way you can;--but I must be
kind to them,' thought Alice, 'or perhaps they won't walk the way I want
to go! Let me see: I'll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas.'

And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. 'They must
go by the carrier,' she thought; 'and how funny it'll seem, sending
presents to one's own feet! And how odd the directions will look!

     ALICE'S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ.
       HEARTHRUG,
         NEAR THE FENDER,
           (WITH ALICE'S LOVE).

Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!'

Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was
now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden
key and hurried off to the garden door.

Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to
look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more
hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again.

'You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' said Alice, 'a great girl like
you,' (she might well say this), 'to go on crying in this way! Stop this
moment, I tell you!' But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of
tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches
deep and reaching half down the hall.

After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and
she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White
Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in
one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great
hurry, muttering to himself as he came, 'Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess!
Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!' Alice felt so
desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit
came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, 'If you please, sir--'
The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan,
and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go.

Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she
kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: 'Dear, dear! How
queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual.
I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the
same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a
little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who
in the world am I? Ah, THAT'S the great puzzle!' And she began thinking
over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to
see if she could have been changed for any of them.

'I'm sure I'm not Ada,' she said, 'for her hair goes in such long
ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I can't
be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a
very little! Besides, SHE'S she, and I'm I, and--oh dear, how puzzling
it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me
see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and
four times seven is--oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate!
However, the Multiplication Table doesn't signify: let's try Geography.
London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and
Rome--no, THAT'S all wrong, I'm certain! I must have been changed for
Mabel! I'll try and say "How doth the little--"' and she crossed her
hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it,
but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the
same as they used to do:--

     'How doth the little crocodile
      Improve his shining tail,
     And pour the waters of the Nile
      On every golden scale!

     'How cheerfully he seems to grin,
      How neatly spread his claws,
     And welcome little fishes in
      With gently smiling jaws!'

'I'm sure those are not the right words,' said poor Alice, and her eyes
filled with tears again as she went on, 'I must be Mabel after all, and
I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to
no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I've
made up my mind about it; if I'm Mabel, I'll stay down here! It'll be no
use their putting their heads down and saying "Come up again, dear!" I
shall only look up and say "Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then,
if I like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down here
till I'm somebody else"--but, oh dear!' cried Alice, with a sudden burst
of tears, 'I do wish they WOULD put their heads down! I am so VERY tired
of being all alone here!'

As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see
that she had put on one of the Rabbit's little white kid gloves while
she was talking. 'How CAN I have done that?' she thought. 'I must
be growing small again.' She got up and went to the table to measure
herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now
about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly: she soon found
out that the cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped
it hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether.

'That WAS a narrow escape!' said Alice, a good deal frightened at the
sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; 'and
now for the garden!' and she ran with all speed back to the little door:
but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was
lying on the glass table as before, 'and things are worse than ever,'
thought the poor child, 'for I never was so small as this before, never!
And I declare it's too bad, that it is!'

As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash!
she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that she
had somehow fallen into the sea, 'and in that case I can go back by
railway,' she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in
her life, and had come to the general conclusion, that wherever you go
to on the English coast you find a number of bathing machines in the
sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row
of lodging houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she soon
made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she
was nine feet high.

'I wish I hadn't cried so much!' said Alice, as she swam about, trying
to find her way out. 'I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by
being drowned in my own tears! That WILL be a queer thing, to be sure!
However, everything is queer to-day.'

Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way
off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was: at first she thought
it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small
she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had
slipped in like herself.

'Would it be of any use, now,' thought Alice, 'to speak to this mouse?
Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very
likely it can talk: at any rate, there's no harm in trying.' So she
began: 'O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired
of swimming about here, O Mouse!' (Alice thought this must be the right
way of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but
she remembered having seen in her brother's Latin Grammar, 'A mouse--of
a mouse--to a mouse--a mouse--O mouse!') The Mouse looked at her rather
inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes,
but it said nothing.

'Perhaps it doesn't understand English,' thought Alice; 'I daresay it's
a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror.' (For, with all
her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago
anything had happened.) So she began again: 'Ou est ma chatte?' which
was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a
sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright.
'Oh, I beg your pardon!' cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt
the poor animal's feelings. 'I quite forgot you didn't like cats.'

'Not like cats!' cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. 'Would
YOU like cats if you were me?'

'Well, perhaps not,' said Alice in a soothing tone: 'don't be angry
about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you'd
take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear quiet
thing,' Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the
pool, 'and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and
washing her face--and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse--and she's
such a capital one for catching mice--oh, I beg your pardon!' cried
Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she
felt certain it must be really offended. 'We won't talk about her any
more if you'd rather not.'

'We indeed!' cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his
tail. 'As if I would talk on such a subject! Our family always HATED
cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!'

'I won't indeed!' said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of
conversation. 'Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?' The Mouse did not
answer, so Alice went on eagerly: 'There is such a nice little dog near
our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you
know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when
you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts
of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer,
you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He
says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!' cried Alice in a sorrowful
tone, 'I'm afraid I've offended it again!' For the Mouse was swimming
away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in
the pool as it went.

So she called softly after it, 'Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we
won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!' When the
Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its
face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low
trembling voice, 'Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my
history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs.'

It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the
birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo,
a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the
way, and the whole party swam to the shore.




CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale

They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the
birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close
to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable.

The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a
consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural
to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had
known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the
Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, 'I am older than
you, and must know better'; and this Alice would not allow without
knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its
age, there was no more to be said.

At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them,
called out, 'Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL soon make you
dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse
in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt
sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.

'Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, 'are you all ready? This
is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William
the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted
to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much
accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of
Mercia and Northumbria--"'

'Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver.

'I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: 'Did
you speak?'

'Not I!' said the Lory hastily.

'I thought you did,' said the Mouse. '--I proceed. "Edwin and Morcar,
the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand,
the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--"'

'Found WHAT?' said the Duck.

'Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: 'of course you know what
"it" means.'

'I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the
Duck: 'it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the
archbishop find?'

The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, '"--found
it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the
crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his
Normans--" How are you getting on now, my dear?' it continued, turning
to Alice as it spoke.

'As wet as ever,' said Alice in a melancholy tone: 'it doesn't seem to
dry me at all.'

'In that case,' said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, 'I move
that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic
remedies--'

'Speak English!' said the Eaglet. 'I don't know the meaning of half
those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!' And
the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds
tittered audibly.

'What I was going to say,' said the Dodo in an offended tone, 'was, that
the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.'

'What IS a Caucus-race?' said Alice; not that she wanted much to know,
but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak,
and no one else seemed inclined to say anything.

'Why,' said the Dodo, 'the best way to explain it is to do it.' (And, as
you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell
you how the Dodo managed it.)

First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, ('the exact
shape doesn't matter,' it said,) and then all the party were placed
along the course, here and there. There was no 'One, two, three, and
away,' but they began running when they liked, and left off when they
liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However,
when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again,
the Dodo suddenly called out 'The race is over!' and they all crowded
round it, panting, and asking, 'But who has won?'

This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought,
and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead
(the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures
of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said,
'EVERYBODY has won, and all must have prizes.'

'But who is to give the prizes?' quite a chorus of voices asked.

'Why, SHE, of course,' said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger;
and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused
way, 'Prizes! Prizes!'

Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her
pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had
not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one
a-piece all round.

'But she must have a prize herself, you know,' said the Mouse.

'Of course,' the Dodo replied very gravely. 'What else have you got in
your pocket?' he went on, turning to Alice.

'Only a thimble,' said Alice sadly.

'Hand it over here,' said the Dodo.

Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly
presented the thimble, saying 'We beg your acceptance of this elegant
thimble'; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered.

Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave
that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything
to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she
could.

The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and
confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste
theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back.
However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and
begged the Mouse to tell them something more.

'You promised to tell me your history, you know,' said Alice, 'and why
it is you hate--C and D,' she added in a whisper, half afraid that it
would be offended again.

'Mine is a long and a sad tale!' said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and
sighing.

'It IS a long tail, certainly,' said Alice, looking down with wonder at
the Mouse's tail; 'but why do you call it sad?' And she kept on puzzling
about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was
something like this:--

         'Fury said to a
         mouse, That he
        met in the
       house,
     "Let us
      both go to
       law: I will
        prosecute
         YOU.--Come,
           I'll take no
           denial; We
          must have a
        trial: For
      really this
     morning I've
    nothing
    to do."
     Said the
      mouse to the
       cur, "Such
        a trial,
         dear Sir,
            With
          no jury
        or judge,
       would be
      wasting
      our
      breath."
       "I'll be
        judge, I'll
         be jury,"
            Said
         cunning
          old Fury:
          "I'll
          try the
            whole
            cause,
              and
           condemn
           you
          to
           death."'


'You are not attending!' said the Mouse to Alice severely. 'What are you
thinking of?'

'I beg your pardon,' said Alice very humbly: 'you had got to the fifth
bend, I think?'

'I had NOT!' cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.

'A knot!' said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking
anxiously about her. 'Oh, do let me help to undo it!'

'I shall do nothing of the sort,' said the Mouse, getting up and walking
away. 'You insult me by talking such nonsense!'

'I didn't mean it!' pleaded poor Alice. 'But you're so easily offended,
you know!'

The Mouse only growled in reply.

'Please come back and finish your story!' Alice called after it; and the
others all joined in chorus, 'Yes, please do!' but the Mouse only shook
its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker.

'What a pity it wouldn't stay!' sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite
out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her
daughter 'Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose
YOUR temper!' 'Hold your tongue, Ma!' said the young Crab, a little
snappishly. 'You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!'

'I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!' said Alice aloud, addressing
nobody in particular. 'She'd soon fetch it back!'

'And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?' said the
Lory.

Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet:
'Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you
can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why,
she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!'

This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the
birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very
carefully, remarking, 'I really must be getting home; the night-air
doesn't suit my throat!' and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to
its children, 'Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!'
On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone.

'I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!' she said to herself in a melancholy
tone. 'Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best
cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you
any more!' And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very
lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard
a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up
eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming
back to finish his story.




CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill

It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking
anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard
it muttering to itself 'The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh
my fur and whiskers! She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are
ferrets! Where CAN I have dropped them, I wonder?' Alice guessed in a
moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves,
and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were
nowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in
the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door,
had vanished completely.

Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and
called out to her in an angry tone, 'Why, Mary Ann, what ARE you doing
out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan!
Quick, now!' And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once
in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it
had made.

'He took me for his housemaid,' she said to herself as she ran. 'How
surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd better take him
his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them.' As she said this, she
came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass
plate with the name 'W. RABBIT' engraved upon it. She went in without
knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the
real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the
fan and gloves.

'How queer it seems,' Alice said to herself, 'to be going messages for
a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on messages next!' And she
began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: '"Miss Alice! Come
here directly, and get ready for your walk!" "Coming in a minute,
nurse! But I've got to see that the mouse doesn't get out." Only I don't
think,' Alice went on, 'that they'd let Dinah stop in the house if it
began ordering people about like that!'

By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table
in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs
of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves,
and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little
bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label this time
with the words 'DRINK ME,' but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it
to her lips. 'I know SOMETHING interesting is sure to happen,' she said
to herself, 'whenever I eat or drink anything; so I'll just see what
this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really
I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!'

It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had
drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling,
and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put
down the bottle, saying to herself 'That's quite enough--I hope I shan't
grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't
drunk quite so much!'

Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing,
and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there
was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with
one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head.
Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out
of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself 'Now I
can do no more, whatever happens. What WILL become of me?'

Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect,
and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there
seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room
again, no wonder she felt unhappy.

'It was much pleasanter at home,' thought poor Alice, 'when one wasn't
always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and
rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and
yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what
CAN have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that
kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!
There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I
grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now,' she added in a sorrowful
tone; 'at least there's no room to grow up any more HERE.'

'But then,' thought Alice, 'shall I NEVER get any older than I am
now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but
then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like THAT!'

'Oh, you foolish Alice!' she answered herself. 'How can you learn
lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for YOU, and no room at all
for any lesson-books!'

And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making
quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard
a voice outside, and stopped to listen.

'Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' said the voice. 'Fetch me my gloves this moment!'
Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was
the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the
house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large
as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it.

Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as
the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it,
that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself 'Then I'll
go round and get in at the window.'

'THAT you won't' thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied
she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her
hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything,
but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass,
from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a
cucumber-frame, or something of the sort.

Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--'Pat! Pat! Where are you?' And
then a voice she had never heard before, 'Sure then I'm here! Digging
for apples, yer honour!'

'Digging for apples, indeed!' said the Rabbit angrily. 'Here! Come and
help me out of THIS!' (Sounds of more broken glass.)

'Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?'

'Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!' (He pronounced it 'arrum.')

'An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole
window!'

'Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that.'

'Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!'

There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers
now and then; such as, 'Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at
all!' 'Do as I tell you, you coward!' and at last she spread out her
hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were
TWO little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. 'What a number of
cucumber-frames there must be!' thought Alice. 'I wonder what they'll do
next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they COULD! I'm
sure I don't want to stay in here any longer!'

She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a
rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices
all talking together: she made out the words: 'Where's the other
ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill!
fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em
together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll
do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this
rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming
down! Heads below!' (a loud crash)--'Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I
fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, I shan't! YOU do it!--That I
won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to
go down the chimney!'

'Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?' said Alice to
herself. 'Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in
Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but
I THINK I can kick a little!'

She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited
till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what sort it was)
scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then,
saying to herself 'This is Bill,' she gave one sharp kick, and waited to
see what would happen next.

The first thing she heard was a general chorus of 'There goes Bill!'
then the Rabbit's voice along--'Catch him, you by the hedge!' then
silence, and then another confusion of voices--'Hold up his head--Brandy
now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell
us all about it!'

Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, ('That's Bill,' thought
Alice,) 'Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm better now--but I'm
a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know is, something comes at me
like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!'

'So you did, old fellow!' said the others.

'We must burn the house down!' said the Rabbit's voice; and Alice called
out as loud as she could, 'If you do. I'll set Dinah at you!'

There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself, 'I
wonder what they WILL do next! If they had any sense, they'd take the
roof off.' After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and
Alice heard the Rabbit say, 'A barrowful will do, to begin with.'

'A barrowful of WHAT?' thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt,
for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the
window, and some of them hit her in the face. 'I'll put a stop to this,'
she said to herself, and shouted out, 'You'd better not do that again!'
which produced another dead silence.

Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into
little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her
head. 'If I eat one of these cakes,' she thought, 'it's sure to make
SOME change in my size; and as it can't possibly make me larger, it must
make me smaller, I suppose.'

So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she
began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through
the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little
animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, Bill, was
in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it
something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at Alice the moment she
appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself
safe in a thick wood.

'The first thing I've got to do,' said Alice to herself, as she wandered
about in the wood, 'is to grow to my right size again; and the second
thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be
the best plan.'

It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply
arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea
how to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among
the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a
great hurry.

An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and
feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her. 'Poor little thing!'
said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but
she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be
hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of
all her coaxing.

Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and
held it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off
all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick,
and made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle,
to keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the
other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head
over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was
very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every
moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then
the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very
little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely
all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with
its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut.

This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she
set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and
till the puppy's bark sounded quite faint in the distance.

'And yet what a dear little puppy it was!' said Alice, as she leant
against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the
leaves: 'I should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if--if I'd
only been the right size to do it! Oh dear! I'd nearly forgotten that
I've got to grow up again! Let me see--how IS it to be managed? I
suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great
question is, what?'

The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at
the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that
looked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances.
There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as
herself; and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and
behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what
was on the top of it.

She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the
mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large caterpillar,
that was sitting on the top with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long
hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else.




CHAPTER V. Advice from a Caterpillar

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence:
at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed
her in a languid, sleepy voice.

'Who are YOU?' said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied,
rather shyly, 'I--I hardly know, sir, just at present--at least I know
who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been
changed several times since then.'

'What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. 'Explain
yourself!'

'I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, 'because I'm not
myself, you see.'

'I don't see,' said the Caterpillar.

'I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely,
'for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many
different sizes in a day is very confusing.'

'It isn't,' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; 'but when you
have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then
after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little
queer, won't you?'

'Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; 'all I know
is, it would feel very queer to ME.'

'You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. 'Who are YOU?'

Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation.
Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY
short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, 'I think,
you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.'

'Why?' said the Caterpillar.

Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any
good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant
state of mind, she turned away.

'Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. 'I've something important
to say!'

This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.

'Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar.

'Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she
could.

'No,' said the Caterpillar.

Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and
perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some
minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its
arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, 'So you think
you're changed, do you?'

'I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; 'I can't remember things as I
used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!'

'Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came
different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice.

'Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar.

Alice folded her hands, and began:--

   'You are old, Father William,' the young man said,
    'And your hair has become very white;
   And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
    Do you think, at your age, it is right?'

   'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son,
    'I feared it might injure the brain;
   But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
    Why, I do it again and again.'

   'You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,
    And have grown most uncommonly fat;
   Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
    Pray, what is the reason of that?'

   'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
    'I kept all my limbs very supple
   By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
    Allow me to sell you a couple?'

   'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak
    For anything tougher than suet;
   Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
    Pray how did you manage to do it?'

   'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,
    And argued each case with my wife;
   And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
    Has lasted the rest of my life.'

   'You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose
    That your eye was as steady as ever;
   Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
    What made you so awfully clever?'

   'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'
    Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs!
   Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
    Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!'


'That is not said right,' said the Caterpillar.

'Not QUITE right, I'm afraid,' said Alice, timidly; 'some of the words
have got altered.'

'It is wrong from beginning to end,' said the Caterpillar decidedly, and
there was silence for some minutes.

The Caterpillar was the first to speak.

'What size do you want to be?' it asked.

'Oh, I'm not particular as to size,' Alice hastily replied; 'only one
doesn't like changing so often, you know.'

'I DON'T know,' said the Caterpillar.

Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life
before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.

'Are you content now?' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, I should like to be a LITTLE larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind,'
said Alice: 'three inches is such a wretched height to be.'

'It is a very good height indeed!' said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing
itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high).

'But I'm not used to it!' pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And
she thought of herself, 'I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily
offended!'

'You'll get used to it in time,' said the Caterpillar; and it put the
hookah into its mouth and began smoking again.

This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In
a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth
and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the
mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went,
'One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you
grow shorter.'

'One side of WHAT? The other side of WHAT?' thought Alice to herself.

'Of the mushroom,' said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it
aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight.

Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying
to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly
round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she
stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit
of the edge with each hand.

'And now which is which?' she said to herself, and nibbled a little of
the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent
blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot!

She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt
that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she
set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed
so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her
mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the
lefthand bit.


  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    *    *    *    *    *    *

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

'Come, my head's free at last!' said Alice in a tone of delight, which
changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders
were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was
an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a
sea of green leaves that lay far below her.

'What CAN all that green stuff be?' said Alice. 'And where HAVE my
shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?'
She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow,
except a little shaking among the distant green leaves.

As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she
tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her
neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had
just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going
to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops
of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made
her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and
was beating her violently with its wings.

'Serpent!' screamed the Pigeon.

'I'm NOT a serpent!' said Alice indignantly. 'Let me alone!'

'Serpent, I say again!' repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone,
and added with a kind of sob, 'I've tried every way, and nothing seems
to suit them!'

'I haven't the least idea what you're talking about,' said Alice.

'I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried
hedges,' the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; 'but those
serpents! There's no pleasing them!'

Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in
saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished.

'As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs,' said the Pigeon;
'but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I
haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!'

'I'm very sorry you've been annoyed,' said Alice, who was beginning to
see its meaning.

'And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood,' continued the
Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, 'and just as I was thinking I
should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from
the sky! Ugh, Serpent!'

'But I'm NOT a serpent, I tell you!' said Alice. 'I'm a--I'm a--'

'Well! WHAT are you?' said the Pigeon. 'I can see you're trying to
invent something!'

'I--I'm a little girl,' said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered
the number of changes she had gone through that day.

'A likely story indeed!' said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest
contempt. 'I've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never ONE
with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no use
denying it. I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an
egg!'

'I HAVE tasted eggs, certainly,' said Alice, who was a very truthful
child; 'but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you
know.'

'I don't believe it,' said the Pigeon; 'but if they do, why then they're
a kind of serpent, that's all I can say.'

This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a
minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, 'You're
looking for eggs, I know THAT well enough; and what does it matter to me
whether you're a little girl or a serpent?'

'It matters a good deal to ME,' said Alice hastily; 'but I'm not looking
for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn't want YOURS: I don't
like them raw.'

'Well, be off, then!' said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled
down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as
she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and
every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she
remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and
she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the
other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had
succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height.

It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it
felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes,
and began talking to herself, as usual. 'Come, there's half my plan done
now! How puzzling all these changes are! I'm never sure what I'm going
to be, from one minute to another! However, I've got back to my right
size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden--how IS that
to be done, I wonder?' As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open
place, with a little house in it about four feet high. 'Whoever lives
there,' thought Alice, 'it'll never do to come upon them THIS size: why,
I should frighten them out of their wits!' So she began nibbling at the
righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she
had brought herself down to nine inches high.




CHAPTER VI. Pig and Pepper

For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what
to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the
wood--(she considered him to be a footman because he was in livery:
otherwise, judging by his face only, she would have called him a
fish)--and rapped loudly at the door with his knuckles. It was opened
by another footman in livery, with a round face, and large eyes like a
frog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all
over their heads. She felt very curious to know what it was all about,
and crept a little way out of the wood to listen.

The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter,
nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other,
saying, in a solemn tone, 'For the Duchess. An invitation from the Queen
to play croquet.' The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone,
only changing the order of the words a little, 'From the Queen. An
invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.'

Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together.

Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the
wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the
Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the
door, staring stupidly up into the sky.

Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked.

'There's no sort of use in knocking,' said the Footman, 'and that for
two reasons. First, because I'm on the same side of the door as you
are; secondly, because they're making such a noise inside, no one could
possibly hear you.' And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise
going on within--a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then
a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces.

'Please, then,' said Alice, 'how am I to get in?'

'There might be some sense in your knocking,' the Footman went on
without attending to her, 'if we had the door between us. For instance,
if you were INSIDE, you might knock, and I could let you out, you know.'
He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this
Alice thought decidedly uncivil. 'But perhaps he can't help it,' she
said to herself; 'his eyes are so VERY nearly at the top of his head.
But at any rate he might answer questions.--How am I to get in?' she
repeated, aloud.

'I shall sit here,' the Footman remarked, 'till tomorrow--'

At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came
skimming out, straight at the Footman's head: it just grazed his nose,
and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him.

'--or next day, maybe,' the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly
as if nothing had happened.

'How am I to get in?' asked Alice again, in a louder tone.

'ARE you to get in at all?' said the Footman. 'That's the first
question, you know.'

It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so. 'It's really
dreadful,' she muttered to herself, 'the way all the creatures argue.
It's enough to drive one crazy!'

The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his
remark, with variations. 'I shall sit here,' he said, 'on and off, for
days and days.'

'But what am I to do?' said Alice.

'Anything you like,' said the Footman, and began whistling.

'Oh, there's no use in talking to him,' said Alice desperately: 'he's
perfectly idiotic!' And she opened the door and went in.

The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from
one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in
the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring
a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup.

'There's certainly too much pepper in that soup!' Alice said to herself,
as well as she could for sneezing.

There was certainly too much of it in the air. Even the Duchess
sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling
alternately without a moment's pause. The only things in the kitchen
that did not sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat which was sitting on
the hearth and grinning from ear to ear.

'Please would you tell me,' said Alice, a little timidly, for she was
not quite sure whether it was good manners for her to speak first, 'why
your cat grins like that?'

'It's a Cheshire cat,' said the Duchess, 'and that's why. Pig!'

She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite
jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby,
and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again:--

'I didn't know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, I didn't know
that cats COULD grin.'

'They all can,' said the Duchess; 'and most of 'em do.'

'I don't know of any that do,' Alice said very politely, feeling quite
pleased to have got into a conversation.

'You don't know much,' said the Duchess; 'and that's a fact.'

Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would
be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she
was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the
fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at
the Duchess and the baby--the fire-irons came first; then followed a
shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of
them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already,
that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not.

'Oh, PLEASE mind what you're doing!' cried Alice, jumping up and down in
an agony of terror. 'Oh, there goes his PRECIOUS nose'; as an unusually
large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off.

'If everybody minded their own business,' the Duchess said in a hoarse
growl, 'the world would go round a deal faster than it does.'

'Which would NOT be an advantage,' said Alice, who felt very glad to get
an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. 'Just think of
what work it would make with the day and night! You see the earth takes
twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis--'

'Talking of axes,' said the Duchess, 'chop off her head!'

Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take
the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to
be listening, so she went on again: 'Twenty-four hours, I THINK; or is
it twelve? I--'

'Oh, don't bother ME,' said the Duchess; 'I never could abide figures!'
And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of
lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of
every line:

   'Speak roughly to your little boy,
    And beat him when he sneezes:
   He only does it to annoy,
    Because he knows it teases.'

         CHORUS.

 (In which the cook and the baby joined):--

       'Wow! wow! wow!'

While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing
the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so,
that Alice could hardly hear the words:--

   'I speak severely to my boy,
    I beat him when he sneezes;
   For he can thoroughly enjoy
    The pepper when he pleases!'

         CHORUS.

       'Wow! wow! wow!'

'Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!' the Duchess said to Alice,
flinging the baby at her as she spoke. 'I must go and get ready to play
croquet with the Queen,' and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw
a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her.

Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped
little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, 'just
like a star-fish,' thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting
like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and
straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute
or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it.

As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to
twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right
ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried
it out into the open air. 'IF I don't take this child away with me,'
thought Alice, 'they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be
murder to leave it behind?' She said the last words out loud, and the
little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time).
'Don't grunt,' said Alice; 'that's not at all a proper way of expressing
yourself.'

The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to
see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had
a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its
eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not
like the look of the thing at all. 'But perhaps it was only sobbing,'
she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any
tears.

No, there were no tears. 'If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear,'
said Alice, seriously, 'I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind
now!' The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible
to say which), and they went on for some while in silence.

Alice was just beginning to think to herself, 'Now, what am I to do with
this creature when I get it home?' when it grunted again, so violently,
that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could
be NO mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she
felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further.

So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see
it trot away quietly into the wood. 'If it had grown up,' she said
to herself, 'it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes
rather a handsome pig, I think.' And she began thinking over other
children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying
to herself, 'if one only knew the right way to change them--' when she
was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a
tree a few yards off.

The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she
thought: still it had VERY long claws and a great many teeth, so she
felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

'Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know
whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider.
'Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. 'Would you
tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'

'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.

'I don't much care where--' said Alice.

'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.

'--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.

'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long
enough.'

Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question.
'What sort of people live about here?'

'In THAT direction,' the Cat said, waving its right paw round, 'lives
a Hatter: and in THAT direction,' waving the other paw, 'lives a March
Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad.'

'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.

'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad.
You're mad.'

'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.

'You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'

Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on 'And how
do you know that you're mad?'

'To begin with,' said the Cat, 'a dog's not mad. You grant that?'

'I suppose so,' said Alice.

'Well, then,' the Cat went on, 'you see, a dog growls when it's angry,
and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and
wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad.'

'I call it purring, not growling,' said Alice.

'Call it what you like,' said the Cat. 'Do you play croquet with the
Queen to-day?'

'I should like it very much,' said Alice, 'but I haven't been invited
yet.'

'You'll see me there,' said the Cat, and vanished.

Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer
things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been,
it suddenly appeared again.

'By-the-bye, what became of the baby?' said the Cat. 'I'd nearly
forgotten to ask.'

'It turned into a pig,' Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back
in a natural way.

'I thought it would,' said the Cat, and vanished again.

Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not
appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in
which the March Hare was said to live. 'I've seen hatters before,' she
said to herself; 'the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and
perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as
it was in March.' As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat
again, sitting on a branch of a tree.

'Did you say pig, or fig?' said the Cat.

'I said pig,' replied Alice; 'and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and
vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.'

'All right,' said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly,
beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which
remained some time after the rest of it had gone.

'Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice; 'but a grin
without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!'

She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house
of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the
chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It
was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had
nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to
about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly,
saying to herself 'Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost
wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!'




CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party

There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the
March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting
between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a
cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. 'Very
uncomfortable for the Dormouse,' thought Alice; 'only, as it's asleep, I
suppose it doesn't mind.'

The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at
one corner of it: 'No room! No room!' they cried out when they saw Alice
coming. 'There's PLENTY of room!' said Alice indignantly, and she sat
down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.

'Have some wine,' the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.

Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea.
'I don't see any wine,' she remarked.

'There isn't any,' said the March Hare.

'Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,' said Alice angrily.

'It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited,' said
the March Hare.

'I didn't know it was YOUR table,' said Alice; 'it's laid for a great
many more than three.'

'Your hair wants cutting,' said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice
for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.

'You should learn not to make personal remarks,' Alice said with some
severity; 'it's very rude.'

The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he SAID
was, 'Why is a raven like a writing-desk?'

'Come, we shall have some fun now!' thought Alice. 'I'm glad they've
begun asking riddles.--I believe I can guess that,' she added aloud.

'Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?' said the
March Hare.

'Exactly so,' said Alice.

'Then you should say what you mean,' the March Hare went on.

'I do,' Alice hastily replied; 'at least--at least I mean what I
say--that's the same thing, you know.'

'Not the same thing a bit!' said the Hatter. 'You might just as well say
that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat what I see"!'

'You might just as well say,' added the March Hare, 'that "I like what I
get" is the same thing as "I get what I like"!'

'You might just as well say,' added the Dormouse, who seemed to be
talking in his sleep, 'that "I breathe when I sleep" is the same thing
as "I sleep when I breathe"!'

'It IS the same thing with you,' said the Hatter, and here the
conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice
thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks,
which wasn't much.

The Hatter was the first to break the silence. 'What day of the month
is it?' he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his
pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then,
and holding it to his ear.

Alice considered a little, and then said 'The fourth.'

'Two days wrong!' sighed the Hatter. 'I told you butter wouldn't suit
the works!' he added looking angrily at the March Hare.

'It was the BEST butter,' the March Hare meekly replied.

'Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,' the Hatter grumbled:
'you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife.'

The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped
it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of
nothing better to say than his first remark, 'It was the BEST butter,
you know.'

Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. 'What a
funny watch!' she remarked. 'It tells the day of the month, and doesn't
tell what o'clock it is!'

'Why should it?' muttered the Hatter. 'Does YOUR watch tell you what
year it is?'

'Of course not,' Alice replied very readily: 'but that's because it
stays the same year for such a long time together.'

'Which is just the case with MINE,' said the Hatter.

Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no
sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. 'I don't quite
understand you,' she said, as politely as she could.

'The Dormouse is asleep again,' said the Hatter, and he poured a little
hot tea upon its nose.

The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its
eyes, 'Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.'

'Have you guessed the riddle yet?' the Hatter said, turning to Alice
again.

'No, I give it up,' Alice replied: 'what's the answer?'

'I haven't the slightest idea,' said the Hatter.

'Nor I,' said the March Hare.

Alice sighed wearily. 'I think you might do something better with the
time,' she said, 'than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.'

'If you knew Time as well as I do,' said the Hatter, 'you wouldn't talk
about wasting IT. It's HIM.'

'I don't know what you mean,' said Alice.

'Of course you don't!' the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously.
'I dare say you never even spoke to Time!'

'Perhaps not,' Alice cautiously replied: 'but I know I have to beat time
when I learn music.'

'Ah! that accounts for it,' said the Hatter. 'He won't stand beating.
Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything
you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in
the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a
hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one,
time for dinner!'

('I only wish it was,' the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.)

'That would be grand, certainly,' said Alice thoughtfully: 'but then--I
shouldn't be hungry for it, you know.'

'Not at first, perhaps,' said the Hatter: 'but you could keep it to
half-past one as long as you liked.'

'Is that the way YOU manage?' Alice asked.

The Hatter shook his head mournfully. 'Not I!' he replied. 'We
quarrelled last March--just before HE went mad, you know--' (pointing
with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) '--it was at the great concert
given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing

     "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
     How I wonder what you're at!"

You know the song, perhaps?'

'I've heard something like it,' said Alice.

'It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, 'in this way:--

     "Up above the world you fly,
     Like a tea-tray in the sky.
         Twinkle, twinkle--"'

Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep 'Twinkle,
twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--' and went on so long that they had to pinch
it to make it stop.

'Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse,' said the Hatter, 'when the
Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murdering the time! Off with his
head!"'

'How dreadfully savage!' exclaimed Alice.

'And ever since that,' the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, 'he won't
do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now.'

A bright idea came into Alice's head. 'Is that the reason so many
tea-things are put out here?' she asked.

'Yes, that's it,' said the Hatter with a sigh: 'it's always tea-time,
and we've no time to wash the things between whiles.'

'Then you keep moving round, I suppose?' said Alice.

'Exactly so,' said the Hatter: 'as the things get used up.'

'But what happens when you come to the beginning again?' Alice ventured
to ask.

'Suppose we change the subject,' the March Hare interrupted, yawning.
'I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.'

'I'm afraid I don't know one,' said Alice, rather alarmed at the
proposal.

'Then the Dormouse shall!' they both cried. 'Wake up, Dormouse!' And
they pinched it on both sides at once.

The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. 'I wasn't asleep,' he said in a
hoarse, feeble voice: 'I heard every word you fellows were saying.'

'Tell us a story!' said the March Hare.

'Yes, please do!' pleaded Alice.

'And be quick about it,' added the Hatter, 'or you'll be asleep again
before it's done.'

'Once upon a time there were three little sisters,' the Dormouse began
in a great hurry; 'and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and
they lived at the bottom of a well--'

'What did they live on?' said Alice, who always took a great interest in
questions of eating and drinking.

'They lived on treacle,' said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or
two.

'They couldn't have done that, you know,' Alice gently remarked; 'they'd
have been ill.'

'So they were,' said the Dormouse; 'VERY ill.'

Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of
living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: 'But
why did they live at the bottom of a well?'

'Take some more tea,' the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.

'I've had nothing yet,' Alice replied in an offended tone, 'so I can't
take more.'

'You mean you can't take LESS,' said the Hatter: 'it's very easy to take
MORE than nothing.'

'Nobody asked YOUR opinion,' said Alice.

'Who's making personal remarks now?' the Hatter asked triumphantly.

Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself
to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and
repeated her question. 'Why did they live at the bottom of a well?'

The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then
said, 'It was a treacle-well.'

'There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but the
Hatter and the March Hare went 'Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse sulkily
remarked, 'If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for
yourself.'

'No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; 'I won't interrupt again. I
dare say there may be ONE.'

'One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to
go on. 'And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw,
you know--'

'What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.

'Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.

'I want a clean cup,' interrupted the Hatter: 'let's all move one place
on.'

He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare
moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took
the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any
advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than
before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate.

Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very
cautiously: 'But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle
from?'

'You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; 'so I should
think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?'

'But they were IN the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to
notice this last remark.

'Of course they were', said the Dormouse; '--well in.'

This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for
some time without interrupting it.

'They were learning to draw,' the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing
its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; 'and they drew all manner of
things--everything that begins with an M--'

'Why with an M?' said Alice.

'Why not?' said the March Hare.

Alice was silent.

The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into
a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with
a little shriek, and went on: '--that begins with an M, such as
mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say
things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever see such a thing as a
drawing of a muchness?'

'Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, 'I don't
think--'

'Then you shouldn't talk,' said the Hatter.

This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in
great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and
neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she
looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her:
the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into
the teapot.

'At any rate I'll never go THERE again!' said Alice as she picked her
way through the wood. 'It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all
my life!'

Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door
leading right into it. 'That's very curious!' she thought. 'But
everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.' And in
she went.

Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little
glass table. 'Now, I'll manage better this time,' she said to herself,
and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that
led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she
had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high:
then she walked down the little passage: and THEN--she found herself at
last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool
fountains.




CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground

A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses
growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily
painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went
nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of
them say, 'Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like
that!'

'I couldn't help it,' said Five, in a sulky tone; 'Seven jogged my
elbow.'

On which Seven looked up and said, 'That's right, Five! Always lay the
blame on others!'

'YOU'D better not talk!' said Five. 'I heard the Queen say only
yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!'

'What for?' said the one who had spoken first.

'That's none of YOUR business, Two!' said Seven.

'Yes, it IS his business!' said Five, 'and I'll tell him--it was for
bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.'

Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun 'Well, of all the unjust
things--' when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching
them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and
all of them bowed low.

'Would you tell me,' said Alice, a little timidly, 'why you are painting
those roses?'

Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low
voice, 'Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a
RED rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen
was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know.
So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--' At this
moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called
out 'The Queen! The Queen!' and the three gardeners instantly threw
themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps,
and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen.

First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like
the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the
corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with
diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came
the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came
jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented
with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among
them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried
nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without
noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's
crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand
procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS.

Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face
like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard
of such a rule at processions; 'and besides, what would be the use of
a procession,' thought she, 'if people had all to lie down upon their
faces, so that they couldn't see it?' So she stood still where she was,
and waited.

When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked
at her, and the Queen said severely 'Who is this?' She said it to the
Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply.

'Idiot!' said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to
Alice, she went on, 'What's your name, child?'

'My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,' said Alice very politely;
but she added, to herself, 'Why, they're only a pack of cards, after
all. I needn't be afraid of them!'

'And who are THESE?' said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who
were lying round the rosetree; for, you see, as they were lying on their
faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the
pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or
courtiers, or three of her own children.

'How should I know?' said Alice, surprised at her own courage. 'It's no
business of MINE.'

The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a
moment like a wild beast, screamed 'Off with her head! Off--'

'Nonsense!' said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was
silent.

The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said 'Consider, my
dear: she is only a child!'

The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave 'Turn them
over!'

The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot.

'Get up!' said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three
gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen,
the royal children, and everybody else.

'Leave off that!' screamed the Queen. 'You make me giddy.' And then,
turning to the rose-tree, she went on, 'What HAVE you been doing here?'

'May it please your Majesty,' said Two, in a very humble tone, going
down on one knee as he spoke, 'we were trying--'

'I see!' said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses.
'Off with their heads!' and the procession moved on, three of the
soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran
to Alice for protection.

'You shan't be beheaded!' said Alice, and she put them into a large
flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a
minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the
others.

'Are their heads off?' shouted the Queen.

'Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!' the soldiers shouted
in reply.

'That's right!' shouted the Queen. 'Can you play croquet?'

The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was
evidently meant for her.

'Yes!' shouted Alice.

'Come on, then!' roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession,
wondering very much what would happen next.

'It's--it's a very fine day!' said a timid voice at her side. She was
walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face.

'Very,' said Alice: '--where's the Duchess?'

'Hush! Hush!' said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked
anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon
tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered 'She's under
sentence of execution.'

'What for?' said Alice.

'Did you say "What a pity!"?' the Rabbit asked.

'No, I didn't,' said Alice: 'I don't think it's at all a pity. I said
"What for?"'

'She boxed the Queen's ears--' the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little
scream of laughter. 'Oh, hush!' the Rabbit whispered in a frightened
tone. 'The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the
Queen said--'

'Get to your places!' shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and
people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each
other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game
began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in
her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs,
the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves
up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.

The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo:
she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under
her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got
its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a
blow with its head, it WOULD twist itself round and look up in her face,
with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out
laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin
again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled
itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was
generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the
hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up
and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the
conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed.

The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling
all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short
time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and
shouting 'Off with his head!' or 'Off with her head!' about once in a
minute.

Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any
dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute,
'and then,' thought she, 'what would become of me? They're dreadfully
fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there's any one
left alive!'

She was looking about for some way of escape, and wondering whether she
could get away without being seen, when she noticed a curious appearance
in the air: it puzzled her very much at first, but, after watching it
a minute or two, she made it out to be a grin, and she said to herself
'It's the Cheshire Cat: now I shall have somebody to talk to.'

'How are you getting on?' said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth
enough for it to speak with.

Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded. 'It's no use
speaking to it,' she thought, 'till its ears have come, or at least one
of them.' In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put
down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad
she had someone to listen to her. The Cat seemed to think that there was
enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared.

'I don't think they play at all fairly,' Alice began, in rather a
complaining tone, 'and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can't hear
oneself speak--and they don't seem to have any rules in particular;
at least, if there are, nobody attends to them--and you've no idea how
confusing it is all the things being alive; for instance, there's the
arch I've got to go through next walking about at the other end of the
ground--and I should have croqueted the Queen's hedgehog just now, only
it ran away when it saw mine coming!'

'How do you like the Queen?' said the Cat in a low voice.

'Not at all,' said Alice: 'she's so extremely--' Just then she noticed
that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on,
'--likely to win, that it's hardly worth while finishing the game.'

The Queen smiled and passed on.

'Who ARE you talking to?' said the King, going up to Alice, and looking
at the Cat's head with great curiosity.

'It's a friend of mine--a Cheshire Cat,' said Alice: 'allow me to
introduce it.'

'I don't like the look of it at all,' said the King: 'however, it may
kiss my hand if it likes.'

'I'd rather not,' the Cat remarked.

'Don't be impertinent,' said the King, 'and don't look at me like that!'
He got behind Alice as he spoke.

'A cat may look at a king,' said Alice. 'I've read that in some book,
but I don't remember where.'

'Well, it must be removed,' said the King very decidedly, and he called
the Queen, who was passing at the moment, 'My dear! I wish you would
have this cat removed!'

The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small.
'Off with his head!' she said, without even looking round.

'I'll fetch the executioner myself,' said the King eagerly, and he
hurried off.

Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going
on, as she heard the Queen's voice in the distance, screaming with
passion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be
executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look
of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew
whether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog.

The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed
to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the
other: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the
other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a helpless
sort of way to fly up into a tree.

By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight
was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: 'but it doesn't
matter much,' thought Alice, 'as all the arches are gone from this side
of the ground.' So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not
escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her
friend.

When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a
large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between
the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once,
while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable.

The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle
the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they
all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly
what they said.

The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless
there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a
thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at HIS time of life.

The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be
beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense.

The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less
than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last
remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.)

Alice could think of nothing else to say but 'It belongs to the Duchess:
you'd better ask HER about it.'

'She's in prison,' the Queen said to the executioner: 'fetch her here.'
And the executioner went off like an arrow.

 The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and,
by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely
disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down
looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.




CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle's Story

'You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!'
said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and
they walked off together.

Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought
to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so
savage when they met in the kitchen.

'When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone
though), 'I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very
well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,'
she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of
rule, 'and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes
them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children
sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so
stingy about it, you know--'

She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little
startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. 'You're thinking
about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't
tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in
a bit.'

'Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark.

'Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. 'Everything's got a moral, if only
you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as
she spoke.

Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the
Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the
right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an
uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she
bore it as well as she could.

'The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up
the conversation a little.

''Tis so,' said the Duchess: 'and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love,
'tis love, that makes the world go round!"'

'Somebody said,' Alice whispered, 'that it's done by everybody minding
their own business!'

'Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her
sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, 'and the moral
of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of
themselves."'

'How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to herself.

'I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist,'
the Duchess said after a pause: 'the reason is, that I'm doubtful about
the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?'

'HE might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to
have the experiment tried.

'Very true,' said the Duchess: 'flamingoes and mustard both bite. And
the moral of that is--"Birds of a feather flock together."'

'Only mustard isn't a bird,' Alice remarked.

'Right, as usual,' said the Duchess: 'what a clear way you have of
putting things!'

'It's a mineral, I THINK,' said Alice.

'Of course it is,' said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to
everything that Alice said; 'there's a large mustard-mine near here. And
the moral of that is--"The more there is of mine, the less there is of
yours."'

'Oh, I know!' exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark,
'it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is.'

'I quite agree with you,' said the Duchess; 'and the moral of that
is--"Be what you would seem to be"--or if you'd like it put more
simply--"Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might
appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise
than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise."'

'I think I should understand that better,' Alice said very politely, 'if
I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it.'

'That's nothing to what I could say if I chose,' the Duchess replied, in
a pleased tone.

'Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,' said
Alice.

'Oh, don't talk about trouble!' said the Duchess. 'I make you a present
of everything I've said as yet.'

'A cheap sort of present!' thought Alice. 'I'm glad they don't give
birthday presents like that!' But she did not venture to say it out
loud.

'Thinking again?' the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp
little chin.

'I've a right to think,' said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to
feel a little worried.

'Just about as much right,' said the Duchess, 'as pigs have to fly; and
the m--'

But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even
in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked
into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen
in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.

'A fine day, your Majesty!' the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.

'Now, I give you fair warning,' shouted the Queen, stamping on the
ground as she spoke; 'either you or your head must be off, and that in
about half no time! Take your choice!'

The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment.

'Let's go on with the game,' the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was
too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the
croquet-ground.

The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were
resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried
back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would
cost them their lives.

All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with
the other players, and shouting 'Off with his head!' or 'Off with her
head!' Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers,
who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by
the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the
players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and
under sentence of execution.

Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, 'Have
you seen the Mock Turtle yet?'

'No,' said Alice. 'I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is.'

'It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,' said the Queen.

'I never saw one, or heard of one,' said Alice.

'Come on, then,' said the Queen, 'and he shall tell you his history,'

As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice,
to the company generally, 'You are all pardoned.' 'Come, THAT'S a good
thing!' she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the
number of executions the Queen had ordered.

They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun.
(IF you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) 'Up, lazy
thing!' said the Queen, 'and take this young lady to see the Mock
Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some
executions I have ordered'; and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with
the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on
the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go
after that savage Queen: so she waited.

The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till
she was out of sight: then it chuckled. 'What fun!' said the Gryphon,
half to itself, half to Alice.

'What IS the fun?' said Alice.

'Why, SHE,' said the Gryphon. 'It's all her fancy, that: they never
executes nobody, you know. Come on!'

'Everybody says "come on!" here,' thought Alice, as she went slowly
after it: 'I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!'

They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance,
sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came
nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She
pitied him deeply. 'What is his sorrow?' she asked the Gryphon, and the
Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, 'It's all his
fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!'

So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes
full of tears, but said nothing.

'This here young lady,' said the Gryphon, 'she wants for to know your
history, she do.'

'I'll tell it her,' said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: 'sit
down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished.'

So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to
herself, 'I don't see how he can EVEN finish, if he doesn't begin.' But
she waited patiently.

'Once,' said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, 'I was a real
Turtle.'

These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an
occasional exclamation of 'Hjckrrh!' from the Gryphon, and the constant
heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and
saying, 'Thank you, sir, for your interesting story,' but she could
not help thinking there MUST be more to come, so she sat still and said
nothing.

'When we were little,' the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly,
though still sobbing a little now and then, 'we went to school in the
sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--'

'Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?' Alice asked.

'We called him Tortoise because he taught us,' said the Mock Turtle
angrily: 'really you are very dull!'

'You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question,'
added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor
Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said
to the Mock Turtle, 'Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!'
and he went on in these words:

'Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--'

'I never said I didn't!' interrupted Alice.

'You did,' said the Mock Turtle.

'Hold your tongue!' added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again.
The Mock Turtle went on.

'We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--'

'I'VE been to a day-school, too,' said Alice; 'you needn't be so proud
as all that.'

'With extras?' asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously.

'Yes,' said Alice, 'we learned French and music.'

'And washing?' said the Mock Turtle.

'Certainly not!' said Alice indignantly.

'Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school,' said the Mock Turtle in
a tone of great relief. 'Now at OURS they had at the end of the bill,
"French, music, AND WASHING--extra."'

'You couldn't have wanted it much,' said Alice; 'living at the bottom of
the sea.'

'I couldn't afford to learn it.' said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. 'I
only took the regular course.'

'What was that?' inquired Alice.

'Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,' the Mock Turtle
replied; 'and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition,
Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.'

'I never heard of "Uglification,"' Alice ventured to say. 'What is it?'

The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. 'What! Never heard of
uglifying!' it exclaimed. 'You know what to beautify is, I suppose?'

'Yes,' said Alice doubtfully: 'it means--to--make--anything--prettier.'

'Well, then,' the Gryphon went on, 'if you don't know what to uglify is,
you ARE a simpleton.'

Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she
turned to the Mock Turtle, and said 'What else had you to learn?'

'Well, there was Mystery,' the Mock Turtle replied, counting off
the subjects on his flappers, '--Mystery, ancient and modern, with
Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel,
that used to come once a week: HE taught us Drawling, Stretching, and
Fainting in Coils.'

'What was THAT like?' said Alice.

'Well, I can't show it you myself,' the Mock Turtle said: 'I'm too
stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.'

'Hadn't time,' said the Gryphon: 'I went to the Classics master, though.
He was an old crab, HE was.'

'I never went to him,' the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: 'he taught
Laughing and Grief, they used to say.'

'So he did, so he did,' said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both
creatures hid their faces in their paws.

'And how many hours a day did you do lessons?' said Alice, in a hurry to
change the subject.

'Ten hours the first day,' said the Mock Turtle: 'nine the next, and so
on.'

'What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice.

'That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon remarked:
'because they lessen from day to day.'

This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little
before she made her next remark. 'Then the eleventh day must have been a
holiday?'

'Of course it was,' said the Mock Turtle.

'And how did you manage on the twelfth?' Alice went on eagerly.

'That's enough about lessons,' the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided
tone: 'tell her something about the games now.'




CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across
his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or
two sobs choked his voice. 'Same as if he had a bone in his throat,'
said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in
the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears
running down his cheeks, he went on again:--

'You may not have lived much under the sea--' ('I haven't,' said
Alice)--'and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--'
(Alice began to say 'I once tasted--' but checked herself hastily, and
said 'No, never') '--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a
Lobster Quadrille is!'

'No, indeed,' said Alice. 'What sort of a dance is it?'

'Why,' said the Gryphon, 'you first form into a line along the
sea-shore--'

'Two lines!' cried the Mock Turtle. 'Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on;
then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--'

'THAT generally takes some time,' interrupted the Gryphon.

'--you advance twice--'

'Each with a lobster as a partner!' cried the Gryphon.

'Of course,' the Mock Turtle said: 'advance twice, set to partners--'

'--change lobsters, and retire in same order,' continued the Gryphon.

'Then, you know,' the Mock Turtle went on, 'you throw the--'

'The lobsters!' shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air.

'--as far out to sea as you can--'

'Swim after them!' screamed the Gryphon.

'Turn a somersault in the sea!' cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly
about.

'Change lobsters again!' yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.

'Back to land again, and that's all the first figure,' said the Mock
Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been
jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly
and quietly, and looked at Alice.

'It must be a very pretty dance,' said Alice timidly.

'Would you like to see a little of it?' said the Mock Turtle.

'Very much indeed,' said Alice.

'Come, let's try the first figure!' said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon.
'We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?'

'Oh, YOU sing,' said the Gryphon. 'I've forgotten the words.'

So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and
then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their
forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly
and sadly:--

 '"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail.
 "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.

 See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
 They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance?

 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?

 "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
 When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
 But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance--
 Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.

 Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
 Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

 '"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
 "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
 The further off from England the nearer is to France--
 Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.

 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"'

'Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,' said Alice, feeling
very glad that it was over at last: 'and I do so like that curious song
about the whiting!'

'Oh, as to the whiting,' said the Mock Turtle, 'they--you've seen them,
of course?'

'Yes,' said Alice, 'I've often seen them at dinn--' she checked herself
hastily.

'I don't know where Dinn may be,' said the Mock Turtle, 'but if you've
seen them so often, of course you know what they're like.'

'I believe so,' Alice replied thoughtfully. 'They have their tails in
their mouths--and they're all over crumbs.'

'You're wrong about the crumbs,' said the Mock Turtle: 'crumbs would all
wash off in the sea. But they HAVE their tails in their mouths; and the
reason is--' here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--'Tell her
about the reason and all that,' he said to the Gryphon.

'The reason is,' said the Gryphon, 'that they WOULD go with the lobsters
to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long
way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get
them out again. That's all.'

'Thank you,' said Alice, 'it's very interesting. I never knew so much
about a whiting before.'

'I can tell you more than that, if you like,' said the Gryphon. 'Do you
know why it's called a whiting?'

'I never thought about it,' said Alice. 'Why?'

'IT DOES THE BOOTS AND SHOES.' the Gryphon replied very solemnly.

Alice was thoroughly puzzled. 'Does the boots and shoes!' she repeated
in a wondering tone.

'Why, what are YOUR shoes done with?' said the Gryphon. 'I mean, what
makes them so shiny?'

Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her
answer. 'They're done with blacking, I believe.'

'Boots and shoes under the sea,' the Gryphon went on in a deep voice,
'are done with a whiting. Now you know.'

'And what are they made of?' Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity.

'Soles and eels, of course,' the Gryphon replied rather impatiently:
'any shrimp could have told you that.'

'If I'd been the whiting,' said Alice, whose thoughts were still running
on the song, 'I'd have said to the porpoise, "Keep back, please: we
don't want YOU with us!"'

'They were obliged to have him with them,' the Mock Turtle said: 'no
wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.'

'Wouldn't it really?' said Alice in a tone of great surprise.

'Of course not,' said the Mock Turtle: 'why, if a fish came to ME, and
told me he was going a journey, I should say "With what porpoise?"'

'Don't you mean "purpose"?' said Alice.

'I mean what I say,' the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And
the Gryphon added 'Come, let's hear some of YOUR adventures.'

'I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning,' said
Alice a little timidly: 'but it's no use going back to yesterday,
because I was a different person then.'

'Explain all that,' said the Mock Turtle.

'No, no! The adventures first,' said the Gryphon in an impatient tone:
'explanations take such a dreadful time.'

So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first
saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first,
the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened
their eyes and mouths so VERY wide, but she gained courage as she went
on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about
her repeating 'YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,' to the Caterpillar, and the
words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath,
and said 'That's very curious.'

'It's all about as curious as it can be,' said the Gryphon.

'It all came different!' the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. 'I
should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to
begin.' He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of
authority over Alice.

'Stand up and repeat "'TIS THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD,"' said the
Gryphon.

'How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!'
thought Alice; 'I might as well be at school at once.' However, she
got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster
Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came
very queer indeed:--

  ''Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,
  "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair."
  As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
  Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.'

       [later editions continued as follows
  When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
  And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark,
  But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
  His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.]

'That's different from what I used to say when I was a child,' said the
Gryphon.

'Well, I never heard it before,' said the Mock Turtle; 'but it sounds
uncommon nonsense.'

Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands,
wondering if anything would EVER happen in a natural way again.

'I should like to have it explained,' said the Mock Turtle.

'She can't explain it,' said the Gryphon hastily. 'Go on with the next
verse.'

'But about his toes?' the Mock Turtle persisted. 'How COULD he turn them
out with his nose, you know?'

'It's the first position in dancing.' Alice said; but was dreadfully
puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject.

'Go on with the next verse,' the Gryphon repeated impatiently: 'it
begins "I passed by his garden."'

Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come
wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:--

  'I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
  How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie--'

    [later editions continued as follows
  The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
  While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.
  When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
  Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
  While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
  And concluded the banquet--]

'What IS the use of repeating all that stuff,' the Mock Turtle
interrupted, 'if you don't explain it as you go on? It's by far the most
confusing thing I ever heard!'

'Yes, I think you'd better leave off,' said the Gryphon: and Alice was
only too glad to do so.

'Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?' the Gryphon went
on. 'Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?'

'Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,' Alice
replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone,
'Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her "Turtle Soup," will you, old
fellow?'

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked
with sobs, to sing this:--

   'Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
   Waiting in a hot tureen!
   Who for such dainties would not stoop?
   Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
   Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
   Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

   'Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
   Game, or any other dish?
   Who would not give all else for two
   Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
   Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
   Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!'

'Chorus again!' cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun
to repeat it, when a cry of 'The trial's beginning!' was heard in the
distance.

'Come on!' cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried
off, without waiting for the end of the song.

'What trial is it?' Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only
answered 'Come on!' and ran the faster, while more and more faintly
came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:--

   'Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beautiful Soup!'




CHAPTER XI. Who Stole the Tarts?

The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they
arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little
birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was
standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard
him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand,
and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court
was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good,
that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them--'I wish they'd get the
trial done,' she thought, 'and hand round the refreshments!' But there
seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about
her, to pass away the time.

Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read
about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew
the name of nearly everything there. 'That's the judge,' she said to
herself, 'because of his great wig.'

The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the
wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did
not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming.

'And that's the jury-box,' thought Alice, 'and those twelve creatures,'
(she was obliged to say 'creatures,' you see, because some of them were
animals, and some were birds,) 'I suppose they are the jurors.' She said
this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of
it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her
age knew the meaning of it at all. However, 'jury-men' would have done
just as well.

The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. 'What are they
doing?' Alice whispered to the Gryphon. 'They can't have anything to put
down yet, before the trial's begun.'

'They're putting down their names,' the Gryphon whispered in reply, 'for
fear they should forget them before the end of the trial.'

'Stupid things!' Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped
hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, 'Silence in the court!' and the
King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who
was talking.

Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders,
that all the jurors were writing down 'stupid things!' on their slates,
and she could even make out that one of them didn't know how to spell
'stupid,' and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. 'A nice
muddle their slates'll be in before the trial's over!' thought Alice.

One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice
could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and
very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly
that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out
at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was
obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was
of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate.

'Herald, read the accusation!' said the King.

On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then
unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:--

   'The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
      All on a summer day:
    The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,
      And took them quite away!'

'Consider your verdict,' the King said to the jury.

'Not yet, not yet!' the Rabbit hastily interrupted. 'There's a great
deal to come before that!'

'Call the first witness,' said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three
blasts on the trumpet, and called out, 'First witness!'

The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one
hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. 'I beg pardon, your
Majesty,' he began, 'for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished
my tea when I was sent for.'

'You ought to have finished,' said the King. 'When did you begin?'

The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the
court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. 'Fourteenth of March, I think it
was,' he said.

'Fifteenth,' said the March Hare.

'Sixteenth,' added the Dormouse.

'Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly
wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and
reduced the answer to shillings and pence.

'Take off your hat,' the King said to the Hatter.

'It isn't mine,' said the Hatter.

'Stolen!' the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a
memorandum of the fact.

'I keep them to sell,' the Hatter added as an explanation; 'I've none of
my own. I'm a hatter.'

Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter,
who turned pale and fidgeted.

'Give your evidence,' said the King; 'and don't be nervous, or I'll have
you executed on the spot.'

This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting
from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in
his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the
bread-and-butter.

Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled
her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to
grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave
the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as
long as there was room for her.

'I wish you wouldn't squeeze so.' said the Dormouse, who was sitting
next to her. 'I can hardly breathe.'

'I can't help it,' said Alice very meekly: 'I'm growing.'

'You've no right to grow here,' said the Dormouse.

'Don't talk nonsense,' said Alice more boldly: 'you know you're growing
too.'

'Yes, but I grow at a reasonable pace,' said the Dormouse: 'not in that
ridiculous fashion.' And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the
other side of the court.

All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and,
just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers
of the court, 'Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!' on
which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off.

'Give your evidence,' the King repeated angrily, 'or I'll have you
executed, whether you're nervous or not.'

'I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' the Hatter began, in a trembling voice,
'--and I hadn't begun my tea--not above a week or so--and what with the
bread-and-butter getting so thin--and the twinkling of the tea--'

'The twinkling of the what?' said the King.

'It began with the tea,' the Hatter replied.

'Of course twinkling begins with a T!' said the King sharply. 'Do you
take me for a dunce? Go on!'

'I'm a poor man,' the Hatter went on, 'and most things twinkled after
that--only the March Hare said--'

'I didn't!' the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.

'You did!' said the Hatter.

'I deny it!' said the March Hare.

'He denies it,' said the King: 'leave out that part.'

'Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said--' the Hatter went on, looking
anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied
nothing, being fast asleep.

'After that,' continued the Hatter, 'I cut some more bread-and-butter--'

'But what did the Dormouse say?' one of the jury asked.

'That I can't remember,' said the Hatter.

'You MUST remember,' remarked the King, 'or I'll have you executed.'

The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went
down on one knee. 'I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' he began.

'You're a very poor speaker,' said the King.

Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by
the officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just
explain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied
up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig,
head first, and then sat upon it.)

'I'm glad I've seen that done,' thought Alice. 'I've so often read
in the newspapers, at the end of trials, "There was some attempts
at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the
court," and I never understood what it meant till now.'

'If that's all you know about it, you may stand down,' continued the
King.

'I can't go no lower,' said the Hatter: 'I'm on the floor, as it is.'

'Then you may SIT down,' the King replied.

Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed.

'Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!' thought Alice. 'Now we shall get
on better.'

'I'd rather finish my tea,' said the Hatter, with an anxious look at the
Queen, who was reading the list of singers.

'You may go,' said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court,
without even waiting to put his shoes on.

'--and just take his head off outside,' the Queen added to one of the
officers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get
to the door.

'Call the next witness!' said the King.

The next witness was the Duchess's cook. She carried the pepper-box in
her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the
court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once.

'Give your evidence,' said the King.

'Shan't,' said the cook.

The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice,
'Your Majesty must cross-examine THIS witness.'

'Well, if I must, I must,' the King said, with a melancholy air, and,
after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were
nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, 'What are tarts made of?'

'Pepper, mostly,' said the cook.

'Treacle,' said a sleepy voice behind her.

'Collar that Dormouse,' the Queen shrieked out. 'Behead that Dormouse!
Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his
whiskers!'

For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse
turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had
disappeared.

'Never mind!' said the King, with an air of great relief. 'Call the next
witness.' And he added in an undertone to the Queen, 'Really, my dear,
YOU must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead
ache!'

Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very
curious to see what the next witness would be like, '--for they haven't
got much evidence YET,' she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when
the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the
name 'Alice!'



             CHAPTER XII

           Alice's Evidence


'Here!' cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how
large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such
a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt,
upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there
they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish
she had accidentally upset the week before.

'Oh, I BEG your pardon!' she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and
began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of
the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea
that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or
they would die.

'The trial cannot proceed,' said the King in a very grave voice, 'until
all the jurymen are back in their proper places--ALL,' he repeated with
great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do.

Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put
the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its
tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got
it out again, and put it right; 'not that it signifies much,' she said
to herself; 'I should think it would be QUITE as much use in the trial
one way up as the other.'

As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being
upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to
them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the
accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do
anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the
court.

'What do you know about this business?' the King said to Alice.

'Nothing,' said Alice.

'Nothing WHATEVER?' persisted the King.

'Nothing whatever,' said Alice.

'That's very important,' the King said, turning to the jury. They were
just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit
interrupted: 'UNimportant, your Majesty means, of course,' he said in a
very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.

'UNimportant, of course, I meant,' the King hastily said, and went on
to himself in an undertone,

'important--unimportant--unimportant--important--' as if he were trying
which word sounded best.

Some of the jury wrote it down 'important,' and some 'unimportant.'
Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates;
'but it doesn't matter a bit,' she thought to herself.

At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in
his note-book, cackled out 'Silence!' and read out from his book, 'Rule
Forty-two. ALL PERSONS MORE THAN A MILE HIGH TO LEAVE THE COURT.'

Everybody looked at Alice.

'I'M not a mile high,' said Alice.

'You are,' said the King.

'Nearly two miles high,' added the Queen.

'Well, I shan't go, at any rate,' said Alice: 'besides, that's not a
regular rule: you invented it just now.'

'It's the oldest rule in the book,' said the King.

'Then it ought to be Number One,' said Alice.

The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. 'Consider your
verdict,' he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.

'There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,' said the White
Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; 'this paper has just been picked
up.'

'What's in it?' said the Queen.

'I haven't opened it yet,' said the White Rabbit, 'but it seems to be a
letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody.'

'It must have been that,' said the King, 'unless it was written to
nobody, which isn't usual, you know.'

'Who is it directed to?' said one of the jurymen.

'It isn't directed at all,' said the White Rabbit; 'in fact, there's
nothing written on the OUTSIDE.' He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and
added 'It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses.'

'Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?' asked another of the jurymen.

'No, they're not,' said the White Rabbit, 'and that's the queerest thing
about it.' (The jury all looked puzzled.)

'He must have imitated somebody else's hand,' said the King. (The jury
all brightened up again.)

'Please your Majesty,' said the Knave, 'I didn't write it, and they
can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end.'

'If you didn't sign it,' said the King, 'that only makes the matter
worse. You MUST have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your
name like an honest man.'

There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really
clever thing the King had said that day.

'That PROVES his guilt,' said the Queen.

'It proves nothing of the sort!' said Alice. 'Why, you don't even know
what they're about!'

'Read them,' said the King.

The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. 'Where shall I begin, please
your Majesty?' he asked.

'Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, 'and go on till you
come to the end: then stop.'

These were the verses the White Rabbit read:--

   'They told me you had been to her,
    And mentioned me to him:
   She gave me a good character,
    But said I could not swim.

   He sent them word I had not gone
    (We know it to be true):
   If she should push the matter on,
    What would become of you?

   I gave her one, they gave him two,
    You gave us three or more;
   They all returned from him to you,
    Though they were mine before.

   If I or she should chance to be
    Involved in this affair,
   He trusts to you to set them free,
    Exactly as we were.

   My notion was that you had been
    (Before she had this fit)
   An obstacle that came between
    Him, and ourselves, and it.

   Don't let him know she liked them best,
    For this must ever be
   A secret, kept from all the rest,
    Between yourself and me.'

'That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet,' said the
King, rubbing his hands; 'so now let the jury--'

'If any one of them can explain it,' said Alice, (she had grown so large
in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting
him,) 'I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't believe there's an atom of
meaning in it.'

The jury all wrote down on their slates, 'SHE doesn't believe there's an
atom of meaning in it,' but none of them attempted to explain the paper.

'If there's no meaning in it,' said the King, 'that saves a world of
trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. And yet I don't know,'
he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them
with one eye; 'I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. "--SAID
I COULD NOT SWIM--" you can't swim, can you?' he added, turning to the
Knave.

The Knave shook his head sadly. 'Do I look like it?' he said. (Which he
certainly did NOT, being made entirely of cardboard.)

'All right, so far,' said the King, and he went on muttering over
the verses to himself: '"WE KNOW IT TO BE TRUE--" that's the jury, of
course--"I GAVE HER ONE, THEY GAVE HIM TWO--" why, that must be what he
did with the tarts, you know--'

'But, it goes on "THEY ALL RETURNED FROM HIM TO YOU,"' said Alice.

'Why, there they are!' said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts
on the table. 'Nothing can be clearer than THAT. Then again--"BEFORE SHE
HAD THIS FIT--" you never had fits, my dear, I think?' he said to the
Queen.

'Never!' said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard
as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his
slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily
began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as
it lasted.)

'Then the words don't FIT you,' said the King, looking round the court
with a smile. There was a dead silence.

'It's a pun!' the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed,
'Let the jury consider their verdict,' the King said, for about the
twentieth time that day.

'No, no!' said the Queen. 'Sentence first--verdict afterwards.'

'Stuff and nonsense!' said Alice loudly. 'The idea of having the
sentence first!'

'Hold your tongue!' said the Queen, turning purple.

'I won't!' said Alice.

'Off with her head!' the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody
moved.

'Who cares for you?' said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this
time.) 'You're nothing but a pack of cards!'

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon
her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and
tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her
head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead
leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

'Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister; 'Why, what a long sleep you've
had!'

'Oh, I've had such a curious dream!' said Alice, and she told her
sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures
of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had
finished, her sister kissed her, and said, 'It WAS a curious dream,
dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it's getting late.' So
Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might,
what a wonderful dream it had been.

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her
hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her
wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and
this was her dream:--

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny
hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking
up into hers--she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that
queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that
WOULD always get into her eyes--and still as she listened, or seemed to
listen, the whole place around her became alive the strange creatures of
her little sister's dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by--the
frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool--she
could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends
shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen
ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution--once more the pig-baby
was sneezing on the Duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed
around it--once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the
Lizard's slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs,
filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock
Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in
Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all
would change to dull reality--the grass would be only rustling in the
wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds--the rattling
teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen's shrill
cries to the voice of the shepherd boy--and the sneeze of the baby, the
shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she
knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard--while the lowing
of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's
heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers
would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would
keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her
childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and
make THEIR eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even
with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with
all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys,
remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

              THE ENDSYLVIE and BRUNO  by  LEWIS CARROLL



Is all our Life, then but a dream
Seen faintly in the goldern gleam
Athwart Time's dark resistless stream?

Bowed to the earth with bitter woe
Or laughing at some raree-show
We flutter idly to and fro.

Man's little Day in haste we spend,
And, from its merry noontide, send
No glance to meet the silent end.





CONTENTS

Preface  [Moved to the end]

CHAPTER 1  Less Bread!  More Taxes!
CHAPTER 2  L'amie Inconnue
CHAPTER 3  Birthday Presents
CHAPTER 4  A Cunning Conspiracy
CHAPTER 5  A Beggar's Palace
CHAPTER 6  The Magic Locket
CHAPTER 7  The Barons Embassy
CHAPTER 8  A Ride on a Lion
CHAPTER 9  A Jester and a Bear
CHAPTER 10 The Other Professor
CHAPTER 11 Peter and Paul
CHAPTER 12 A Musical Gardener
CHAPTER 13 A Visit to Dogland
CHAPTER 14 Fairy-Sylvie
CHAPTER 15 Bruno's Revenge
CHAPTER 16 A Changed Crocodile
CHAPTER 17 The Three Badgers
CHAPTER 18 Queer Street, number forty
CHAPTER 19 How to make a Phlizz
CHAPTER 20 Light come, light go
CHAPTER 21 Through the Ivory Door
CHAPTER 22 Crossing the Line
CHAPTER 23 An outlandish watch
CHAPTER 24 The Frogs' Birthday-treat
CHAPTER 25 Looking Easward
Preface  [Moved to the end]






SYLVIE AND BRUNO


CHAPTER 1.

LESS BREAD!  MORE TAXES!

--and then all the people cheered again, and one man, who was more
excited than the rest, flung his hat high into the air, and shouted
(as well as I could make out) "Who roar for the Sub-Warden?"  Everybody
roared, but whether it was for the Sub-Warden, or not, did not clearly
appear: some were shouting "Bread!" and some "Taxes!", but no one
seemed to know what it was they really wanted.

All this I saw from the open window of the Warden's breakfast-saloon,
looking across the shoulder of the Lord Chancellor, who had sprung to
his feet the moment the shouting began, almost as if he had been
expecting it, and had rushed to the window which commanded the best
view of the market-place.

"What can it all mean?" he kept repeating to himself, as, with his
hands clasped behind him, and his gown floating in the air, he paced
rapidly up and down the room.  "I never heard such shouting before--
and at this time of the morning, too!  And with such unanimity!
Doesn't it strike you as very remarkable?"

I represented, modestly, that to my ears it appeared that they were
shouting for different things, but the Chancellor would not listen to
my suggestion for a moment.  "They all shout the same words, I assure
you!" he said: then, leaning well out of the window, he whispered to a
man who was standing close underneath, "Keep'em together, ca'n't you?
The Warden will be here directly.  Give'em the signal for the march up!"
All this was evidently not meant for my ears, but I could scarcely help
hearing it, considering that my chin was almost on the Chancellor's
shoulder.

The 'march up' was a very curious sight:

[Image...The march-up]

a straggling procession of men, marching two and two, began from the
other side of the market-place, and advanced in an irregular zig-zag
fashion towards the Palace, wildly tacking from side to side, like a
sailing vessel making way against an unfavourable wind so that the head
of the procession was often further from us at the end of one tack than
it had been at the end of the previous one.

Yet it was evident that all was being done under orders, for I noticed
that all eyes were fixed on the man who stood just under the window,
and to whom the Chancellor was continually whispering.  This man held
his hat in one hand and a little green flag in the other: whenever he
waved the flag the procession advanced a little nearer, when he dipped
it they sidled a little farther off, and whenever he waved his hat they
all raised a hoarse cheer.  "Hoo-roah!" they cried, carefully keeping
time with the hat as it bobbed up and down.  "Hoo-roah! Noo! Consti!
Tooshun! Less! Bread! More! Taxes!"

"That'll do, that'll do!" the Chancellor whispered.  "Let 'em rest a bit
till I give you the word.  He's not here yet!"  But at this moment the
great folding-doors of the saloon were flung open, and he turned with a
guilty start to receive His High Excellency.  However it was only Bruno,
and the Chancellor gave a little gasp of relieved anxiety.

"Morning!" said the little fellow, addressing the remark, in a general
sort of way, to the Chancellor and the waiters.  "Doos oo know where
Sylvie is?  I's looking for Sylvie!"

"She's with the Warden, I believe, y'reince!" the Chancellor replied
with a low bow.  There was, no doubt, a certain amount of absurdity in
applying this title (which, as of course you see without my telling
you, was nothing but 'your Royal Highness' condensed into one syllable)
to a small creature whose father was merely the Warden of Outland:
still, large excuse must be made for a man who had passed several years
at the Court of Fairyland, and had there acquired the almost impossible
art of pronouncing five syllables as one.

But the bow was lost upon Bruno, who had run out of the room, even
while the great feat of The Unpronounceable Monosyllable was being
triumphantly performed.

Just then, a single voice in the distance was understood to shout
"A speech from the Chancellor!"  "Certainly, my friends!" the Chancellor
replied with extraordinary promptitude.  "You shall have a speech!"
Here one of the waiters, who had been for some minutes busy making a
queer-looking mixture of egg and sherry, respectfully presented it on a
large silver salver.  The Chancellor took it haughtily, drank it off
thoughtfully, smiled benevolently on the happy waiter as he set down
the empty glass, and began.  To the best of my recollection this is what
he said.

"Ahem! Ahem! Ahem! Fellow-sufferers, or rather suffering fellows--"
("Don't call 'em names!" muttered the man under the window.
"I didn't say felons!" the Chancellor explained.)
"You may be sure that I always sympa--"
("'Ear, 'ear!" shouted the crowd, so loudly as quite to drown the
orator's thin squeaky voice) "--that I always sympa--" he repeated.
("Don't simper quite so much!" said the man under the window.
"It makes yer look a hidiot!"  And, all this time, "'Ear, 'ear!" went
rumbling round the market-place, like a peal of thunder.)
"That I always sympathise!" yelled the Chancellor, the first moment
there was silence.  "But your true friend is the Sub-Warden!
Day and night he is brooding on your wrongs--I should say your rights--
that is to say your wrongs--no, I mean your rights--"
("Don't talk no more!" growled the man under the window.
"You're making a mess of it!") At this moment the Sub-Warden entered
the saloon.  He was a thin man, with a mean and crafty face, and a
greenish-yellow complexion; and he crossed the room very slowly,
looking suspiciously about him as if be thought there might be a
savage dog hidden somewhere.  "Bravo!" he cried, patting the Chancellor
on the back.  "You did that speech very well indeed.
Why, you're a born orator, man!"

"Oh, that's nothing! the Chancellor replied, modestly, with downcast
eyes.  "Most orators are born, you know."

The Sub-Warden thoughtfully rubbed his chin.  "Why, so they are!" he
admitted.  "I never considered it in that light.  Still, you did it very
well.  A word in your ear!"

The rest of their conversation was all in whispers: so, as I could hear
no more, I thought I would go and find Bruno.

I found the little fellow standing in the passage, and being addressed
by one of the men in livery, who stood before him, nearly bent double
from extreme respectfulness, with his hands hanging in front of him
like the fins of a fish.  "His High Excellency," this respectful man was
saying, "is in his Study, y'reince!"  (He didn't pronounce this quite so
well as the Chancellor.) Thither Bruno trotted, and I thought it well
to follow him.

The Warden, a tall dignified man with a grave but very pleasant face,
was seated before a writing-table, which was covered with papers, and
holding on his knee one of the sweetest and loveliest little maidens it
has ever been my lot to see.  She looked four or five years older than
Bruno, but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the
same wealth of curly brown hair.  Her eager smiling face was turned
upwards towards her father's, and it was a pretty sight to see the
mutual love with which the two faces--one in the Spring of Life,
the other in its late Autumn--were gazing on each other.

"No, you've never seen him," the old man was saying: "you couldn't,
you know, he's been away so long--traveling from land to land,
and seeking for health, more years than you've been alive, little Sylvie!"
Here Bruno climbed upon his other knee, and a good deal of kissing,
on a rather complicated system, was the result.

"He only came back last night," said the Warden, when the kissing was
over: "he's been traveling post-haste, for the last thousand miles or
so, in order to be here on Sylvie's birthday.  But he's a very early
riser, and I dare say he's in the Library already.  Come with me and see
him.  He's always kind to children.  You'll be sure to like him."

"Has the Other Professor come too?"  Bruno asked in an awe-struck voice.

"Yes, they arrived together.  The Other Professor is--well, you won't
like him quite so much, perhaps.  He's a little more dreamy, you know."

"I wiss Sylvie was a little more dreamy," said Bruno.

"What do you mean, Bruno?" said Sylvie.

Bruno went on addressing his father.  "She says she ca'n't, oo know.
But I thinks it isn't ca'n't, it's wo'n't."

"Says she ca'n't dream!" the puzzled Warden repeated.

"She do say it," Bruno persisted.  "When I says to her 'Let's stop
lessons!', she says 'Oh, I ca'n't dream of letting oo stop yet!'"

"He always wants to stop lessons," Sylvie explained, "five minutes
after we begin!"

"Five minutes' lessons a day!" said the Warden.  "You won't learn much
at that rate, little man!"

"That's just what Sylvie says," Bruno rejoined.  "She says I wo'n't
learn my lessons.  And I tells her, over and over, I ca'n't learn 'em.
And what doos oo think she says?  She says 'It isn't ca'n't, it's
wo'n't!'"

"Let's go and see the Professor," the Warden said, wisely avoiding
further discussion.  The children got down off his knees, each secured a
hand, and the happy trio set off for the Library--followed by me.
I had come to the conclusion by this time that none of the party
(except, for a few moments, the Lord Chancellor) was in the least able
to see me.

"What's the matter with him?"  Sylvie asked, walking with a little extra
sedateness, by way of example to Bruno at the other side, who never
ceased jumping up and down.

[Image...Visiting the profesor]

"What was the matter--but I hope he's all right now--was lumbago,
and rheumatism, and that kind of thing.  He's been curing himself,
you know: he's a very learned doctor.  Why, he's actually invented
three new diseases, besides a new way of breaking your collar-bone!"

"Is it a nice way?" said Bruno.

"Well, hum, not very," the Warden said, as we entered the Library.
"And here is the Professor.  Good morning, Professor!  Hope you're quite
rested after your journey!"

A jolly-looking, fat little man, in a flowery dressing-gown, with a
large book under each arm, came trotting in at the other end of the
room, and was going straight across without taking any notice of the
children.  "I'm looking for Vol.  Three," he said.
"Do you happen to have seen it?"

"You don't see my children, Professor!" the Warden exclaimed, taking
him by the shoulders and turning him round to face them.

The Professor laughed violently: then he gazed at them through his
great spectacles, for a minute or two, without speaking.

At last he addressed Bruno.  "I hope you have had a good night, my child?"
Bruno looked puzzled.  "I's had the same night oo've had," he replied.
"There's only been one night since yesterday!"

It was the Professor's turn to look puzzled now.
He took off his spectacles, and rubbed them with his handkerchief.
Then he gazed at them again.  Then he turned to the Warden.
"Are they bound?" he enquired.

"No, we aren't," said Bruno, who thought himself quite able to answer
this question.

The Professor shook his head sadly.  "Not even half-bound?"

"Why would we be half-bound?" said Bruno.

"We're not prisoners!"

But the Professor had forgotten all about them by this time, and was
speaking to the Warden again.  "You'll be glad to hear," he was saying,
"that the Barometer's beginning to move--"

"Well, which way?" said the Warden--adding, to the children,
"Not that I care, you know.  Only he thinks it affects the weather.
He's a wonderfully clever man, you know.  Sometimes he says things that
only the Other Professor can understand.  Sometimes he says things that
nobody can understand!  Which way is it, Professor?  Up or down?"

"Neither!" said the Professor, gently clapping his hands.  "It's going
sideways--if I may so express myself."

"And what kind of weather does that produce?" said the Warden.
"Listen, children!  Now you'll hear something worth knowing!"

"Horizontal weather," said the Professor, and made straight for the
door, very nearly trampling on Bruno, who had only just time to get out
of his way.

"Isn't he learned?" the Warden said, looking after him with admiring
eyes.  "Positively he runs over with learning!"

"But he needn't run over me!" said Bruno.

The Professor was back in a moment: he had changed his dressing-gown
for a frock-coat, and had put on a pair of very strange-looking boots,
the tops of which were open umbrellas.  "I thought you'd like to see
them," he said.  "These are the boots for horizontal weather!"

[Image...Boots for horizontal weather]

"But what's the use of wearing umbrellas round one's knees?"

"In ordinary rain," the Professor admitted, "they would not be of much
use.  But if ever it rained horizontally, you know, they would be
invaluable--simply invaluable!"

"Take the Professor to the breakfast-saloon, children," said the
Warden.  "And tell them not to wait for me.  I had breakfast early,
as I've some business to attend to." The children seized the Professor's
hands, as familiarly as if they had known him for years, and hurried
him away.  I followed respectfully behind.


CHAPTER 2.

L'AMIE INCONNUE.

As we entered the breakfast-saloon, the Professor was saying "--and
he had breakfast by himself, early: so he begged you wouldn't wait for
him, my Lady.  This way, my Lady," he added, "this way!"  And then, with
(as it seemed to me) most superfluous politeness, he flung open the
door of my compartment, and ushered in "--a young and lovely lady!"
I muttered to myself with some bitterness.  "And this is, of course,
the opening scene of Vol. I.  She is the Heroine.  And I am one of those
subordinate characters that only turn up when needed for the
development of her destiny, and whose final appearance is outside the
church, waiting to greet the Happy Pair!"

"Yes, my Lady, change at Fayfield," were the next words I heard
(oh that too obsequious Guard!), "next station but one." And the door
closed, and the lady settled down into her corner, and the monotonous
throb of the engine (making one feel as if the train were some gigantic
monster, whose very circulation we could feel) proclaimed that we were
once more speeding on our way.  "The lady had a perfectly formed nose,"
I caught myself saying to myself, "hazel eyes, and lips--" and here
it occurred to me that to see, for myself, what "the lady" was really
like, would be more satisfactory than much speculation.

I looked round cautiously, and--was entirely disappointed of my
hope.  The veil, which shrouded her whole face, was too thick for me to
see more than the glitter of bright eyes and the hazy outline of what
might be a lovely oval face, but might also, unfortunately, be an
equally unlovely one.  I closed my eyes again, saying to myself
"--couldn't have a better chance for an experiment in Telepathy!
I'll think out her face, and afterwards test the portrait with the
original."

At first, no result at all crowned my efforts, though I 'divided my
swift mind,' now hither, now thither, in a way that I felt sure would
have made AEneas green with envy: but the dimly-seen oval remained as
provokingly blank as ever--a mere Ellipse, as if in some mathematical
diagram, without even the Foci that might be made to do duty as a nose
and a mouth.  Gradually, however, the conviction came upon me that I
could, by a certain concentration of thought, think the veil away,
and so get a glimpse of the mysterious face--as to which the two
questions, "is she pretty?" and "is she plain?", still hung suspended,
in my mind, in beautiful equipoise.

Success was partial--and fitful--still there was a result: ever and
anon, the veil seemed to vanish, in a sudden flash of light: but,
before I could fully realise the face, all was dark again.  In each such
glimpse, the face seemed to grow more childish and more innocent:
and, when I had at last thought the veil entirely away, it was,
unmistakeably, the sweet face of little Sylvie!

"So, either I've been dreaming about Sylvie," I said to myself,
"and this is the reality.  Or else I've really been with Sylvie,
and this is a dream!  Is Life itself a dream, I wonder?"

To occupy the time, I got out the letter, which had caused me to take
this sudden railway-journey from my London home down to a strange
fishing-town on the North coast, and read it over again:-

    "DEAR OLD FRIEND,

    "I'm sure it will be as great a pleasure to me, as it can possibly
    be to you, to meet once more after so many years: and of course I
    shall be ready to give you all the benefit of such medical skill as
    I have: only, you know, one mustn't violate professional etiquette!
    And you are already in the hands of a first-rate London doctor,
    with whom it would be utter affectation for me to pretend to compete.        (I make no doubt he
is right in saying the heart is affected:
    all your symptoms point that way.) One thing, at any rate, I have
    already done in my doctorial capacity--secured you a bedroom on the
    ground-floor, so that you will not need to ascend the stairs at all.

    "I shalt expect you by last train on Friday, in accordance with your
    letter: and, till then, I shalt say, in the words of the old song,
    'Oh for Friday nicht!  Friday's lang a-coming!'

    "Yours always,

    "ARTHUR FORESTER.

    "P.S.  Do you believe in Fate?"

This Postscript puzzled me sorely.  "He is far too sensible a man,"
I thought, "to have become a Fatalist.  And yet what else can he mean by
it?"  And, as I folded up the letter and put it away, I inadvertently
repeated the words aloud.  "Do you believe in Fate?"

The fair 'Incognita' turned her head quickly at the sudden question.
"No, I don't!" she said with a smile.  "Do you?"

"I--I didn't mean to ask the question!"  I stammered, a little taken
aback at having begun a conversation in so unconventional a fashion.

The lady's smile became a laugh--not a mocking laugh, but the laugh
of a happy child who is perfectly at her ease.  "Didn't you?" she said.
"Then it was a case of what you Doctors call 'unconscious cerebration'?"

"I am no Doctor," I replied.  "Do I look so like one?  Or what makes you
think it?"

She pointed to the book I had been reading, which was so lying that its
title, "Diseases of the Heart," was plainly visible.

"One needn't be a Doctor," I said, "to take an interest in medical
books.  There's another class of readers, who are yet more deeply
interested--"

"You mean the Patients?" she interrupted, while a look of tender pity
gave new sweetness to her face.  "But," with an evident wish to avoid a
possibly painful topic, "one needn't be either, to take an interest in
books of Science.  Which contain the greatest amount of Science,
do you think, the books, or the minds?"

"Rather a profound question for a lady!"  I said to myself, holding,
with the conceit so natural to Man, that Woman's intellect is
essentially shallow.  And I considered a minute before replying.
"If you mean living minds, I don't think it's possible to decide.
There is so much written Science that no living person has ever read:
and there is so much thought-out Science that hasn't yet been written.
But, if you mean the whole human race, then I think the minds have it:
everything, recorded in books, must have once been in some mind,
you know."

"Isn't that rather like one of the Rules in Algebra?" my Lady enquired.
("Algebra too!"  I thought with increasing wonder.) "I mean, if we
consider thoughts as factors, may we not say that the Least Common
Multiple of all the minds contains that of all the books; but not the
other way?"

"Certainly we may!"  I replied, delighted with the illustration.
"And what a grand thing it would be," I went on dreamily, thinking aloud
rather than talking, "if we could only apply that Rule to books!
You know, in finding the Least Common Multiple, we strike out a quantity
wherever it occurs, except in the term where it is raised to its
highest power.  So we should have to erase every recorded thought,
except in the sentence where it is expressed with the greatest
intensity."

My Lady laughed merrily.  "Some books would be reduced to blank paper,
I'm afraid!" she said.

"They would.  Most libraries would be terribly diminished in bulk.
But just think what they would gain in quality!"

"When will it be done?" she eagerly asked.  "If there's any chance of it
in my time, I think I'll leave off reading, and wait for it!"

"Well, perhaps in another thousand years or so--"

"Then there's no use waiting!", said my Lady.  "Let's sit down.
Uggug, my pet, come and sit by me!"

"Anywhere but by me!" growled the Sub-warden.  "The little wretch always
manages to upset his coffee!"

I guessed at once (as perhaps the reader will also have guessed, if,
like myself, he is very clever at drawing conclusions) that my Lady was
the Sub-Warden's wife, and that Uggug (a hideous fat boy, about the
same age as Sylvie, with the expression of a prize-pig) was their son.
Sylvie and Bruno, with the Lord Chancellor, made up a party of seven.

[Image...A portable plunge-bath]

"And you actually got a plunge-bath every morning?" said the Sub-Warden,
seemingly in continuation of a conversation with the Professor.
"Even at the little roadside-inns?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly!" the Professor replied with a smile on his
jolly face.  "Allow me to explain.  It is, in fact, a very simple problem
in Hydrodynamics.  (That means a combination of Water and Strength.)
If we take a plunge-bath, and a man of great strength (such as myself)
about to plunge into it, we have a perfect example of this science.
I am bound to admit," the Professor continued, in a lower tone and with
downcast eyes, "that we need a man of remarkable strength.  He must be
able to spring from the floor to about twice his own height, gradually
turning over as he rises, so as to come down again head first."

"Why, you need a flea, not a man!" exclaimed the Sub-Warden.

"Pardon me," said the Professor.  "This particular kind of bath is
not adapted for a flea.  Let us suppose," he continued, folding his
table-napkin into a graceful festoon, "that this represents what is
perhaps the necessity of this Age--the Active Tourist's Portable
Bath.  You may describe it briefly, if you like," looking at the
Chancellor, "by the letters A.T.P.B."

The Chancellor, much disconcerted at finding everybody looking at him,
could only murmur, in a shy whisper, "Precisely so!"

"One great advantage of this plunge-bath," continued the Professor,
"is that it requires only half-a-gallon of water--"

"I don't call it a plunge-bath," His Sub-Excellency remarked,
"unless your Active Tourist goes right under!"

"But he does go right under," the old man gently replied.  "The A.T.
hangs up the P. B. on a nail--thus.  He then empties the water-jug
into it--places the empty jug below the bag--leaps into the
air--descends head-first into the bag--the water rises round him to
the top of the bag--and there you are!" he triumphantly concluded.
"The A.T. is as much under water as if he'd gone a mile or two down
into the Atlantic!"

"And he's drowned, let us say, in about four minutes--"

"By no means!" the Professor answered with a proud smile.  "After about
a minute, he quietly turns a tap at the lower end of the P. B.--all
the water runs back into the jug and there you are again!"

"But how in the world is he to get out of the bag again?"

"That, I take it," said the Professor, "is the most beautiful part of
the whole invention.  All the way up the P.B., inside, are loops for the
thumbs; so it's something like going up-stairs, only perhaps less
comfortable; and, by the time the A. T. has risen out of the bag, all
but his head, he's sure to topple over, one way or the other--the Law
of Gravity secures that.  And there he is on the floor again!"

"A little bruised, perhaps?"

"Well, yes, a little bruised; but having had his plunge-bath: that's
the great thing."

"Wonderful!  It's almost beyond belief!" murmured the Sub-Warden.
The Professor took it as a compliment, and bowed with a gratified smile.

"Quite beyond belief!" my Lady added--meaning, no doubt, to be more
complimentary still.  The Professor bowed, but he didn't smile this
time.  "I can assure you," he said earnestly, "that, provided the bath
was made, I used it every morning.  I certainly ordered it--that I am
clear about--my only doubt is, whether the man ever finished making
it.  It's difficult to remember, after so many years--"

At this moment the door, very slowly and creakingly, began to open,
and Sylvie and Bruno jumped up, and ran to meet the well-known footstep.


CHAPTER 3.

BIRTHDAY-PRESENTS.

"It's my brother!" the Sub-warden exclaimed, in a warning whisper.
"Speak out, and be quick about it!"

The appeal was evidently addressed to the Lord Chancellor, who
instantly replied, in a shrill monotone, like a little boy repeating
the alphabet, "As I was remarking, your Sub-Excellency, this portentous
movement--"

"You began too soon!" the other interrupted, scarcely able to restrain
himself to a whisper, so great was his excitement.  "He couldn't have
heard you.  Begin again!"  "As I was remarking," chanted the obedient
Lord Chancellor, "this portentous movement has already assumed the
dimensions of a Revolution!"

"And what are the dimensions of a Revolution?"  The voice was genial and
mellow, and the face of the tall dignified old man, who had just
entered the room, leading Sylvie by the hand, and with Bruno riding
triumphantly on his shoulder, was too noble and gentle to have scared a
less guilty man: but the Lord Chancellor turned pale instantly,
and could hardly articulate the words "The dimensions your--
your High Excellency?  I--I--scarcely comprehend!"

"Well, the length, breadth, and thickness, if you like it better!"
And the old man smiled, half-contemptuously.

The Lord Chancellor recovered himself with a great effort, and pointed
to the open window.  "If your High Excellency will listen for a moment
to the shouts of the exasperated populace--" ("of the exasperated
populace!" the Sub-Warden repeated in a louder tone, as the Lord
Chancellor, being in a state of abject terror, had dropped almost into
a whisper) "--you will understand what it is they want. "

And at that moment there surged into the room a hoarse confused cry, in
which the only clearly audible words were "Less--bread--More--taxes!"
The old man laughed heartily.  "What in the world--" he was beginning:
but the Chancellor heard him not.  "Some mistake!" he muttered,
hurrying to the window, from which he shortly returned with an air of
relief.  "Now listen!" he exclaimed, holding up his hand impressively.
And now the words came quite distinctly, and with the regularity of the
ticking of a clock, "More--bread--Less taxes!'"

"More bread!" the Warden repeated in astonishment.  "Why, the new
Government Bakery was opened only last week, and I gave orders to sell
the bread at cost-price during the present scarcity!  What can they
expect more?"

"The Bakery's closed, y'reince!" the Chancellor said, more loudly and
clearly than he had spoken yet.  He was emboldened by the consciousness
that here, at least, he had evidence to produce: and he placed in the
Warden's hands a few printed notices, that were lying ready, with some
open ledgers, on a side-table.

"Yes, yes, I see!" the Warden muttered, glancing carelessly through
them.  "Order countermanded by my brother, and supposed to be my doing!
Rather sharp practice!  It's all right!" he added in a louder tone.
"My name is signed to it: so I take it on myself.  But what do they
mean by 'Less Taxes'?  How can they be less?  I abolished the last of
them a month ago!"

"It's been put on again, y'reince, and by y'reince's own orders!",
and other printed notices were submitted for inspection.

The Warden, whilst looking them over, glanced once or twice at the
Sub-Warden, who had seated himself before one of the open ledgers,
and was quite absorbed in adding it up; but he merely repeated
"It's all right.  I accept it as my doing."

"And they do say," the Chancellor went on sheepishly--looking much
more like a convicted thief than an Officer of State, "that a change of
Government, by the abolition of the Sub-Warden---I mean," he hastily
added, on seeing the Warden's look of astonishment, "the abolition of
the office of Sub-Warden, and giving the present holder the right to
act as Vice-Warden whenever the Warden is absent --would appease all
this seedling discontent I mean," he added, glancing at a paper he held
in his hand, "all this seething discontent!"

"For fifteen years," put in a deep but very harsh voice, "my husband
has been acting as Sub-Warden.  It is too long!  It is much too long!"
My Lady was a vast creature at all times: but, when she frowned and
folded her arms, as now, she looked more gigantic than ever, and made
one try to fancy what a haystack would look like, if out of temper.

"He would distinguish himself as a Vice!" my Lady proceeded, being far
too stupid to see the double meaning of her words.  "There has been no
such Vice in Outland for many a long year, as he would be!"

"What course would you suggest, Sister?" the Warden mildly enquired.

My Lady stamped, which was undignified: and snorted, which was
ungraceful.  "This is no jesting matter!" she bellowed.

"I will consult my brother, said the Warden.  "Brother!"

"--and seven makes a hundred and ninety-four, which is sixteen and
two-pence," the Sub-Warden replied.  "Put down two and carry sixteen."

The Chancellor raised his hands and eyebrows, lost in admiration.
"Such a man of business!" he murmured.

"Brother, could I have a word with you in my Study?" the Warden said in
a louder tone.  The Sub-Warden rose with alacrity, and the two left the
room together.

My Lady turned to the Professor, who had uncovered the urn, and was
taking its temperature with his pocket-thermometer.  "Professor!" she
began, so loudly and suddenly that even Uggug, who had gone to sleep in
his chair, left off snoring and opened one eye.  The Professor pocketed
his thermometer in a moment, clasped his hands, and put his head on one
side with a meek smile

"You were teaching my son before breakfast, I believe?" my Lady loftily
remarked.  "I hope he strikes you as having talent?"

"Oh, very much so indeed, my Lady!" the Professor hastily replied,
unconsciously rubbing his ear, while some painful recollection seemed
to cross his mind.  "I was very forcibly struck by His Magnificence,
I assure you!"

"He is a charming boy!" my Lady exclaimed.  "Even his snores are more
musical than those of other boys!"

If that were so, the Professor seemed to think, the snores of other boys
must be something too awful to be endured: but he was a cautious man,
and he said nothing.

"And he's so clever!" my Lady continued.  "No one will enjoy your
Lecture more by the way, have you fixed the time for it yet?
You've never given one, you know: and it was promised years ago,
before you--

"Yes, yes, my Lady, I know!  Perhaps next Tuesday or Tuesday week--"

"That will do very well," said my Lady, graciously.  "Of course you will
let the Other Professor lecture as well?"

"I think not, my Lady?  the Professor said with some hesitation.
"You see, he always stands with his back to the audience.
It does very well for reciting; but for lecturing--"

"You are quite right," said my Lady.  "And, now I come to think of it,
there would hardly be time for more than one Lecture.  And it will go
off all the better, if we begin with a Banquet, and a Fancy-dress
Ball--"

"It will indeed!" the Professor cried, with enthusiasm.

"I shall come as a Grass-hopper," my Lady calmly proceeded.
"What shall you come as, Professor?"

The Professor smiled feebly.  "I shall come as--as early as I can,
my Lady!"

"You mustn't come in before the doors are opened," said my Lady.

"I ca'n't," said the Professor.  "Excuse me a moment.  As this is Lady
Sylvie's birthday, I would like to--" and he rushed away.

Bruno began feeling in his pockets, looking more and more melancholy as
he did so: then he put his thumb in his mouth, and considered for a
minute: then he quietly left the room.

He had hardly done so before the Professor was back again, quite out of
breath.  "Wishing you many happy returns of the day, my dear child!"
he went on, addressing the smiling little girl, who had run to meet him.
"Allow me to give you a birthday-present.  It's a second-hand
pincushion, my dear.  And it only cost fourpence-halfpenny!"

"Thank you, it's very pretty!"  And Sylvie rewarded the old man with a
hearty kiss.

"And the pins they gave me for nothing!" the Professor added in high
glee.  "Fifteen of 'em, and only one bent!"

"I'll make the bent one into a hook!" said Sylvie.  "To catch Bruno
with, when he runs away from his lessons!"

"You ca'n't guess what my present is!" said Uggug, who had taken the
butter-dish from the table, and was standing behind her, with a wicked
leer on his face.

"No, I ca'n't guess," Sylvie said without looking up.  She was still
examining the Professor's pincushion.

"It's this!" cried the bad boy, exultingly, as he emptied the dish over
her, and then, with a grin of delight at his own cleverness, looked
round for applause.

Sylvie coloured crimson, as she shook off the butter from her frock:
but she kept her lips tight shut, and walked away to the window, where
she stood looking out and trying to recover her temper.

Uggug's triumph was a very short one: the Sub-Warden had returned,
just in time to be a witness of his dear child's playfulness,
and in another moment a skilfully-applied box on the ear had changed
the grin of delight into a howl of pain.

"My darling!" cried his mother, enfolding him in her fat arms.
"Did they box his ears for nothing?  A precious pet!"

"It's not for nothing!" growled the angry father.  "Are you aware,
Madam, that I pay the house-bills, out of a fixed annual sum?
The loss of all that wasted butter falls on me!  Do you hear, Madam!"

"Hold your tongue, Sir!"  My Lady spoke very quietly--almost in a
whisper.  But there was something in her look which silenced him.
"Don't you see it was only a joke?  And a very clever one, too!
He only meant that he loved nobody but her!  And, instead of being
pleased with the compliment, the spiteful little thing has gone away
in a huff!"

The Sub-Warden was a very good hand at changing a subject.  He walked
across to the window.  "My dear," he said, "is that a pig that I see
down below, rooting about among your flower-beds?"

"A pig!" shrieked my Lady, rushing madly to the window, and almost
pushing her husband out, in her anxiety to see for herself.  "Whose pig
is it?  How did it get in?  Where's that crazy Gardener gone?"

At this moment Bruno re-entered the room, and passing Uggug (who was
blubbering his loudest, in the hope of attracting notice) as if he was
quite used to that sort of thing, he ran up to Sylvie and threw his
arms round her.  "I went to my toy-cupboard," he said with a very
sorrowful face, "to see if there were somefin fit for a present for oo!
And there isn't nuffin!  They's all broken, every one!
And I haven't got no money left, to buy oo a birthday-present!
And I ca'n't give oo nuffin but this!" ("This" was a very earnest hug
and a kiss.)

"Oh, thank you, darling!" cried Sylvie.  "I like your present best of
all!" (But if so, why did she give it back so quickly?)

His Sub-Excellency turned and patted the two children on the head with
his long lean hands.  "Go away, dears!" he said.  "There's business to
talk over. "

Sylvie and Bruno went away hand in hand: but, on reaching the door,
Sylvie came back again and went up to Uggug timidly.  "I don't mind
about the butter," she said, "and I--I'm sorry he hurt you!"  And she
tried to shake hands with the little ruffian: but Uggug only blubbered
louder, and wouldn't make friends.  Sylvie left the room with a sigh.

The Sub-Warden glared angrily at his weeping son.  "Leave the room,
Sirrah!" he said, as loud as he dared.  His wife was still leaning out
of the window, and kept repeating "I ca'n't see that pig!  Where is it?"

"It's moved to the right now it's gone a little to the left," said the
Sub-Warden: but he had his back to the window, and was making signals
to the Lord Chancellor, pointing to Uggug and the door, with many a
cunning nod and wink.

[Image...Removal of Uggug]

The Chancellor caught his meaning at last, and, crossing the
room, took that interesting child by the ear the next moment he and
Uggug were out of the room, and the door shut behind them: but not
before one piercing yell had rung through the room, and reached the
ears of the fond mother.

"What is that hideous noise?" she fiercely asked, turning upon her
startled husband.

"It's some hyaena--or other," replied the Sub-Warden, looking vaguely
up to the ceiling, as if that was where they usually were to be found.
"Let us to business, my dear.  Here comes the Warden." And he picked up
from the floor a wandering scrap of manuscript, on which I just caught
the words 'after which Election duly holden the said Sibimet and
Tabikat his wife may at their pleasure assume Imperial--' before,
with a guilty look, he crumpled it up in his hand.


CHAPTER 4.

A CUNNING CONSPIRACY.

The Warden entered at this moment: and close behind him came the Lord
Chancellor, a little flushed and out of breath, and adjusting his wig,
which appeared to have been dragged partly off his head.

"But where is my precious child?" my Lady enquired, as the four took
their seats at the small side-table devoted to ledgers and bundles and
bills.

"He left the room a few minutes ago with the Lord Chancellor,"
the Sub-Warden briefly explained.

"Ah!" said my Lady, graciously smiling on that high official.
"Your Lordship has a very taking way with children!  I doubt if any
one could gain the ear of my darling Uggug so quickly as you can!"
For an entirely stupid woman, my Lady's remarks were curiously full of
meaning, of which she herself was wholly unconscious.

The Chancellor bowed, but with a very uneasy air.  "I think the Warden
was about to speak," he remarked, evidently anxious to change the
subject.

But my Lady would not be checked.  "He is a clever boy," she continued
with enthusiasm, "but he needs a man like your Lordship to draw him
out!"

The Chancellor bit his lip, and was silent.  He evidently feared that,
stupid as she looked, she understood what she said this time, and was
having a joke at his expense.  He might have spared himself all anxiety:
whatever accidental meaning her words might have, she herself never
meant anything at all.

"It is all settled!" the Warden announced, wasting no time over
preliminaries.  "The Sub-Wardenship is abolished, and my brother is
appointed to act as Vice-Warden whenever I am absent.  So, as I am going
abroad for a while, he will enter on his new duties at once."

"And there will really be a Vice after all?" my Lady enquired.

"I hope so!" the Warden smilingly replied.

My Lady looked much pleased, and tried to clap her hands: but you might
as well have knocked two feather-beds together, for any noise it made.
"When my husband is Vice," she said, "it will be the same as if we had
a hundred Vices!"

"Hear, hear!" cried the Sub-Warden.

"You seem to think it very remarkable," my Lady remarked with some
severity, "that your wife should speak the truth!"

"No, not remarkable at all!" her husband anxiously explained.
"Nothing is remarkable that you say, sweet one!"

My Lady smiled approval of the sentiment, and went on.
"And am I Vice-Wardeness?"

"If you choose to use that title," said the Warden:
"but 'Your Excellency' will be the proper style of address. And I trust
that both 'His Excellency' and 'Her Excellency' will observe the
Agreement I have drawn up.  The provision I am most anxious about
is this." He unrolled a large parchment scroll, and read aloud the words
"'item, that we will be kind to the poor.' The Chancellor worded it
for me," he added, glancing at that great Functionary.
"I suppose, now, that word 'item' has some deep legal meaning?"

"Undoubtedly!" replied the Chancellor, as articulately as he could with
a pen between his lips.  He was nervously rolling and unrolling several
other scrolls, and making room among them for the one the Warden had
just handed to him.  "These are merely the rough copies," he explained:
"and, as soon as I have put in the final corrections--" making a
great commotion among the different parchments, "--a semi-colon or
two that I have accidentally omitted--" here he darted about, pen in
hand, from one part of the scroll to another, spreading sheets of
blotting-paper over his corrections, "all will be ready for signing."

"Should it not be read out, first?" my Lady enquired.

"No need, no need!" the Sub-Warden and the Chancellor exclaimed at the
same moment, with feverish eagerness.

"No need at all," the Warden gently assented.  "Your husband and I have
gone through it together.  It provides that he shall exercise the full
authority of Warden, and shall have the disposal of the annual revenue
attached to the office, until my return, or, failing that, until Bruno
comes of age: and that he shall then hand over, to myself or to Bruno
as the case may be, the Wardenship, the unspent revenue, and the
contents of the Treasury, which are to be preserved, intact, under his
guardianship."

All this time the Sub-Warden was busy, with the Chancellor's help,
shifting the papers from side to side, and pointing out to the Warden
the place whew he was to sign.  He then signed it himself, and my Lady
and the Chancellor added their names as witnesses.

"Short partings are best," said the Warden.  "All is ready for my
journey.  My children are waiting below to see me off" He gravely kissed
my Lady, shook hands with his brother and the Chancellor, and left the
room.

[Image...'What a game!']

The three waited in silence till the sound of wheels announced
that the Warden was out of hearing: then, to my surprise, they broke
into peals of uncontrollable laughter.

"What a game, oh, what a game!" cried the Chancellor. And he and the
Vice-Warden joined hands, and skipped wildly about the room.  My Lady
was too dignified to skip, but she laughed like the neighing of a
horse, and waved her handkerchief above her head: it was clear to her
very limited understanding that something very clever had been done,
but what it was she had yet to learn.

"You said I should hear all about it when the Warden had gone,"
she remarked, as soon as she could make herself heard.

"And so you shall, Tabby!" her husband graciously replied, as he
removed the blotting-paper, and showed the two parchments lying side by
side.  "This is the one he read but didn't sign: and this is the one he
signed but didn't read!  You see it was all covered up, except the place
for signing the names--"

"Yes, yes!" my Lady interrupted eagerly, and began comparing the two
Agreements.

"'Item, that he shall exercise the authority of Warden, in the Warden's
absence.' Why, that's been changed into 'shall be absolute governor for
life, with the title of Emperor, if elected to that office by the
people.' What!  Are you Emperor, darling?"

"Not yet, dear," the Vice-Warden replied.  "It won't do to let this
paper be seen, just at present.  All in good time."

My Lady nodded, and read on.  "'Item, that we will be kind to the poor.'
Why, that's omitted altogether!"

"Course it is!" said her husband.  "We're not going to bother about the
wretches!"

"Good," said my Lady, with emphasis, and read on again.  "'Item, that
the contents of the Treasury be preserved intact.' Why, that's altered
into 'shall be at the absolute disposal of the Vice-Warden'!
"Well, Sibby, that was a clever trick!  All the Jewels, only think!
May I go and put them on directly?"

"Well, not just yet, Lovey," her husband uneasily replied.
"You see the public mind isn't quite ripe for it yet.  We must feel
our way.  Of course we'll have the coach-and-four out, at once.
And I'll take the title of Emperor, as soon as we can safely hold an
Election.  But they'll hardly stand our using the Jewels, as long as
they know the Warden's alive.  We must spread a report of his death.
A little Conspiracy--"

"A Conspiracy!" cried the delighted lady, clapping her hands.
"Of all things, I do like a Conspiracy!  It's so interesting!"

The Vice-Warden and the Chancellor interchanged a wink or two.  "Let her
conspire to her heart's content!" the cunning Chancellor whispered.
"It'll do no harm!"

"And when will the Conspiracy--"

"Hist!', her husband hastily interrupted her, as the door opened,
and Sylvie and Bruno came in, with their arms twined lovingly round each
other--Bruno sobbing convulsively, with his face hidden on his
sister's shoulder, and Sylvie more grave and quiet, but with tears
streaming down her cheeks.

"Mustn't cry like that!" the Vice-Warden said sharply, but without any
effect on the weeping children.  "Cheer 'em up a bit!" he hinted to my
Lady.

"Cake!" my Lady muttered to herself with great decision, crossing the
room and opening a cupboard, from which she presently returned with two
slices of plum-cake.  "Eat, and don't cry!" were her short and simple
orders: and the poor children sat down side by side, but seemed in no
mood for eating.

For the second time the door opened--or rather was burst open,
this time, as Uggug rushed violently into the room, shouting
"that old Beggars come again!"

"He's not to have any food--" the Vice-warden was beginning, but the
Chancellor interrupted him.  "It's all right," he said, in a low voice:
"the servants have their orders."

"He's just under here," said Uggug, who had gone to the window, and was
looking down into the court-yard.

"Where, my darling?" said his fond mother, flinging her arms round the
neck of the little monster.  All of us (except Sylvie and Bruno,
who took no notice of what was going on) followed her to the window.
The old Beggar looked up at us with hungry eyes.  "Only a crust of bread,
your Highness!" he pleaded.

[Image...'Drink this!']

He was a fine old man, but looked sadly ill and worn.
"A crust of bread is what I crave!" he repeated.  "A single crust,
and a little water!"

"Here's some water, drink this!"

Uggug bellowed, emptying a jug of water over his head.

"Well done, my boy!" cried the Vice-Warden.

"That's the way to settle such folk!"

"Clever boy!", the Wardeness chimed in.  "Hasn't he good spirits?"

"Take a stick to him!" shouted the Vice-Warden, as the old Beggar shook
the water from his ragged cloak, and again gazed meekly upwards.

"Take a red-hot poker to him!" my Lady again chimed in.

Possibly there was no red-hot poker handy: but some sticks were
forthcoming in a moment, and threatening faces surrounded the poor old
wanderer, who waved them back with quiet dignity.  "No need to break my
old bones," he said.  "I am going.  Not even a crust!"

"Poor, poor old man!" exclaimed a little voice at my side, half choked
with sobs.  Bruno was at the window, trying to throw out his slice of
plum-cake, but Sylvie held him back.

"He shalt have my cake!"  Bruno cried, passionately struggling out of
Sylvie's arms.

"Yes, yes, darling!"  Sylvie gently pleaded.  "But don't throw it out!
He's gone away, don't you see?  Let's go after him." And she led him out
of the room, unnoticed by the rest of the party, who were wholly
absorbed in watching the old Beggar.

The Conspirators returned to their seats, and continued their
conversation in an undertone, so as not to be heard by Uggug,
who was still standing at the window.

"By the way, there was something about Bruno succeeding to the
Wrardenship," said my Lady.  "How does that stand in the new Agreement?"

The Chancellor chuckled.  "Just the same, word for word," he said,
"with one exception, my Lady.  Instead of 'Bruno,' I've taken the
liberty to put in--" he dropped his voice to a whisper, "to put in
'Uggug,' you know!"

"Uggug, indeed!"  I exclaimed, in a burst of indignation I could no
longer control.  To bring out even that one word seemed a gigantic
effort: but, the cry once uttered, all effort ceased at once: a sudden
gust swept away the whole scene, and I found myself sitting up, staring
at the young lady in the opposite corner of the carriage, who had now
thrown back her veil, and was looking at me with an expression of
amused surprise.


CHAPTER 5.

A BEGGAR'S PALACE.

That I had said something, in the act of waking, I felt sure: the
hoarse stifled cry was still ringing in my ears, even if the startled
look of my fellow-traveler had not been evidence enough: but what could
I possibly say by way of apology?

"I hope I didn't frighten you?"  I stammered out at last.
"I have no idea what I said.  I was dreaming."

"You said 'Uggug indeed!'" the young lady replied, with quivering lips
that would curve themselves into a smile, in spite of all her efforts
to look grave.  "At least--you didn't say it--you shouted it!"

"I'm very sorry," was all I could say, feeling very penitent and
helpless.  "She has Sylvie's eyes!"  I thought to myself, half-doubting
whether, even now, I were fairly awake.  "And that sweet look of
innocent wonder is all Sylvie's too.  But Sylvie hasn't got that calm
resolute mouth nor that far-away look of dreamy sadness, like one that
has had some deep sorrow, very long ago--" And the thick-coming
fancies almost prevented my hearing the lady's next words.

"If you had had a 'Shilling Dreadful' in your hand," she proceeded,
"something about Ghosts or Dynamite or Midnight Murder--one could
understand it: those things aren't worth the shilling, unless they give
one a Nightmare.  But really--with only a medical treatise,
you know--" and she glanced, with a pretty shrug of contempt,
at the book over which I had fallen asleep.

Her friendliness, and utter unreserve, took me aback for a moment;
yet there was no touch of forwardness, or boldness, about the child for
child, almost, she seemed to be: I guessed her at scarcely over
twenty--all was the innocent frankness of some angelic visitant,
new to the ways of earth and the conventionalisms or, if you will,
the barbarisms--of Society.  "Even so," I mused, "will Sylvie look and
speak, in another ten years."

"You don't care for Ghosts, then," I ventured to suggest, unless they
are really terrifying?"

"Quite so," the lady assented.  "The regular Railway-Ghosts--I mean
the Ghosts of ordinary Railway-literature--are very poor affairs.
I feel inclined to say, with Alexander Selkirk, 'Their tameness is
shocking to me'!  And they never do any Midnight Murders.
They couldn't 'welter in gore,' to save their lives!"

"'Weltering in gore'  is a very expressive phrase, certainly.
Can it be done in any fluid, I wonder?"

"I think not," the lady readily replied--quite as if she had thought
it out, long ago.  "It has to be something thick.  For instance, you
might welter in bread-sauce.  That, being white, would be more suitable
for a Ghost, supposing it wished to welter!"

"You have a real good terrifying Ghost in that book?"  I hinted.

"How could you guess?" she exclaimed with the most engaging frankness,
and placed the volume in my hands.  I opened it eagerly, with a not
unpleasant thrill like what a good ghost-story gives one) at the
'uncanny' coincidence of my having so unexpectedly divined the subject
of her studies.

It was a book of Domestic Cookery, open at the article Bread Sauce.'

I returned the book, looking, I suppose, a little blank, as the lady
laughed merrily at my discomfiture.  "It's far more exciting than some
of the modern ghosts, I assure you!  Now there was a Ghost last
month--I don't mean a real Ghost in in Supernature--but in a
Magazine.  It was a perfectly flavourless Ghost.  It wouldn't have
frightened a mouse!  It wasn't a Ghost that one would even offer a chair
to!"

"Three score years and ten, baldness, and spectacles, have their
advantages after all!", I said to myself.  "Instead of a bashful youth
and maiden, gasping out monosyllables at awful intervals, here we have
an old man and a child, quite at their ease, talking as if they had
known each other for years!  Then you think," I continued aloud,
"that we ought sometimes to ask a Ghost to sit down?  But have we any
authority for it?  In Shakespeare, for instance--there are plenty of
ghosts there--does Shakespeare ever give the stage-direction 'hands
chair to Ghost'?"

The lady looked puzzled and thoughtful for a moment: then she almost
clapped her hands.  "Yes, yes, he does!" she cried.
"He makes Hamlet say 'Rest, rest, perturbed Spirit!"'

"And that, I suppose, means an easy-chair?"

"An American rocking-chair, I think--"

"Fayfield Junction, my Lady, change for Elveston!" the guard announced,
flinging open the door of the carriage: and we soon found ourselves,
with all our portable property around us, on the platform.

The accommodation, provided for passengers waiting at this Junction,
was distinctly inadequate--a single wooden bench, apparently intended
for three sitters only: and even this was already partially occupied by
a very old man, in a smock frock, who sat, with rounded shoulders and
drooping head, and with hands clasped on the top of his stick so as to
make a sort of pillow for that wrinkled face with its look of patient
weariness.

"Come, you be off!" the Station-master roughly accosted the poor old
man.  "You be off, and make way for your betters!  This way, my Lady!"
he added in a perfectly different tone.  "If your Ladyship will take a
seat, the train will be up in a few minutes." The cringing servility of
his manner was due, no doubt, to the address legible on the pile of
luggage, which announced their owner to be "Lady Muriel Orme, passenger
to Elveston, via Fayfield Junction."

As I watched the old man slowly rise to his feet, and hobble a few
paces down the platform, the lines came to my lips:-

    "From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
    With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd;
    A hundred years had flung their snows
    On his thin locks and floating beard."

[Image...'Come, you be off!']

But the lady scarcely noticed the little incident.  After one
glance at the 'banished man,' who stood tremulously leaning on his
stick, she turned to me.  "This is not an American rocking-chair, by any
means!  Yet may I say," slightly changing her place, so as to make room
for me beside her, "may I say, in Hamlet's words, 'Rest, rest--'"
she broke off with a silvery laugh.

"--perturbed Spirit!"' I finished the sentence for her.  "Yes, that
describes a railway-traveler exactly!  And here is an instance of it,"
I added, as the tiny local train drew up alongside the platform,
and the porters bustled about, opening carriage-doors--one of them
helping the poor old man to hoist himself into a third-class carriage,
while another of them obsequiously conducted the lady and myself into a
first-class.

She paused, before following him, to watch the progress of the other
passenger.  "Poor old man!" she said.  "How weak and ill he looks!
It was a shame to let him be turned away like that.  I'm very sorry--"
At this moment it dawned on me that these words were not addressed to me,
but that she was unconsciously thinking aloud.  I moved away a few
steps, and waited to follow her into the carriage, where I resumed the
conversation.

"Shakespeare must have traveled by rail, if only in a dream:
'perturbed Spirit' is such a happy phrase."

"'Perturbed' referring, no doubt," she rejoined, "to the sensational
booklets peculiar to the Rail.  If Steam has done nothing else, it has
at least added a whole new Species to English Literature!"

"No doubt of it," I echoed.  "The true origin of all our medical
books--and all our cookery-books--"

"No, no!" she broke in merrily.  "I didn't mean our Literature!
We are quite abnormal.  But the booklets--the little thrilling romances,
where the Murder comes at page fifteen, and the Wedding at page forty
--surely they are due to Steam?"

"And when we travel by Electricity if I may venture to develop your
theory we shall have leaflets instead of booklets, and the Murder and
the Wedding will come on the same page."

"A development worthy of Darwin!", the lady exclaimed enthusiastically.
"Only you reverse his theory.  Instead of developing a mouse into an
elephant, you would develop an elephant into a mouse!"  But here we
plunged into a tunnel, and I leaned back and closed my eyes for a
moment, trying to recall a few of the incidents of my recent dream.

"I thought I saw--" I murmured sleepily: and then the phrase insisted
on conjugating itself, and ran into "you thought you saw--he thought
he saw--" and then it suddenly went off into a song:--


    "He thought he saw an Elephant,
    That practised on a fife:
    He looked again, and found it was
    A letter from his wife.
    'At length I realise,' he said,
    "The bitterness of Life!'"

And what a wild being it was who sang these wild words!  A Gardener he
seemed to be yet surely a mad one, by the way he brandished his
rake--madder, by the way he broke, ever and anon, into a frantic
jig--maddest of all, by the shriek in which he brought out the last
words of the stanza!

[Image....The gardener]

It was so far a description of himself that he had the feet of
an Elephant: but the rest of him was skin and bone: and the wisps of
loose straw, that bristled all about him, suggested that he had been
originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come
out.

Sylvie and Bruno waited patiently till the end of the first verse.
Then Sylvie advanced alone (Bruno having suddenly turned shy)
and timidly introduced herself with the words "Please, I'm Sylvie!"

"And who's that other thing?', said the Gardener.

"What thing?" said Sylvie, looking round.  "Oh, that's Bruno.
He's my brother."

"Was he your brother yesterday?" the Gardener anxiously enquired.

"Course I were!" cried Bruno, who had gradually crept nearer,
and didn't at all like being talked about without having his share in
the conversation.

"Ah, well!" the Gardener said with a kind of groan.  "Things change so,
here.  Whenever I look again, it's sure to be something different!
Yet I does my duty!  I gets up wriggle-early at five--"

"If I was oo," said Bruno, "I wouldn't wriggle so early.  It's as bad as
being a worm!" he added, in an undertone to Sylvie.

"But you shouldn't be lazy in the morning, Bruno," said Sylvie.
"Remember, it's the early bird that picks up the worm!"

"It may, if it likes!"  Bruno said with a slight yawn.  "I don't like
eating worms, one bit.  I always stop in bed till the early bird has
picked them up!"

"I wonder you've the face to tell me such fibs!" cried the Gardener.

To which Bruno wisely replied "Oo don't want a face to tell fibs
wiz--only a mouf."

Sylvie discreetly changed the subject.  "And did you plant all these
flowers?" she said.

"What a lovely  garden you've made!  Do you know, I'd like to live here
always!"

"In the winter-nights--" the Gardener was beginning.

"But I'd nearly forgotten what we came about!"  Sylvie interrupted.
"Would you please let us through into the road?  There's a poor old
beggar just gone out--and he's very hungry--and Bruno wants to give
him his cake, you know!"

"It's as much as my place is worth!', the Gardener muttered, taking a
key from his pocket, and beginning to unlock a door in the garden-wall.

"How much are it wurf?  "Bruno innocently enquired.

But the Gardener only grinned.  "That's a secret!" he said.  "Mind you
come back quick!" he called after the children, as they passed out into
the road.  I had just time to follow them, before he shut the door
again.

We hurried down the road, and very soon caught sight of the old Beggar,
about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and the children at once set off
running to overtake him.

Lightly and swiftly they skimmed over the ground, and I could not in
the least understand how it was I kept up with them so easily.  But the
unsolved problem did not worry me so much as at another time it might
have done, there were so many other things to attend to.

The old Beggar must have been very deaf, as he paid no attention
whatever to Bruno's eager shouting, but trudged wearily on, never
pausing until the child got in front of him and held up the slice of
cake.  The poor little fellow was quite out of breath, and could only
utter the one word "Cake!" not with the gloomy decision with which Her
Excellency had so lately pronounced it, but with a sweet childish
timidity, looking up into the old man's face with eyes that loved
'all things both great and small.'

The old man snatched it from him, and devoured it greedily, as some
hungry wild beast might have done, but never a word of thanks did he
give his little benefactor--only growled "More, more!" and glared at
the half-frightened children.

"There is no more!", Sylvie said with tears in her eyes.
"I'd eaten mine.  It was a shame to let you be turned away like that.
I'm very sorry--"

I lost the rest of the sentence, for my mind had recurred, with a great
shock of surprise, to Lady Muriel Orme, who had so lately uttered these
very words of Sylvie's--yes, and in Sylvie's own voice, and with
Sylvie's gentle pleading eyes!

"Follow me!" were the next words I heard, as the old man waved his
hand, with a dignified grace that ill suited his ragged dress, over a
bush, that stood by the road side, which began instantly to sink into
the earth.  At another time I might have doubted the evidence of my
eyes, or at least have felt some astonishment: but, in this strange
scene, my whole being seemed absorbed in strong curiosity as to what
would happen next.

When the bush had sunk quite out of our sight, marble steps were seen,
leading downwards into darkness.  The old man led the way, and we
eagerly followed.

The staircase was so dark, at first, that I could only just see the
forms of the children, as, hand-in-hand, they groped their way down
after their guide: but it got lighter every moment, with a strange
silvery brightness, that seemed to exist in the air, as there were no
lamps visible; and, when at last we reached a level floor, the room,
in which we found ourselves, was almost as light as day.

It was eight-sided, having in each angle a slender pillar, round which
silken draperies were twined.  The wall between the pillars was entirely
covered, to the height of six or seven feet, with creepers, from which
hung quantities of ripe fruit and of brilliant flowers, that almost hid
the leaves.  In another place, perchance, I might have wondered to see
fruit and flowers growing together: here, my chief wonder was that
neither fruit nor flowers were such as I had ever seen before.
Higher up, each wall contained a circular window of coloured glass;
and over all was an arched roof, that seemed to be spangled all over
with jewels.

With hardly less wonder, I turned this way and that, trying to make out
how in the world we had come in: for there was no door: and all the
walls were thickly covered with the lovely creepers.

"We are safe here, my darlings!" said the old man, laying a hand on
Sylvie's shoulder, and bending down to kiss her.  Sylvie drew back
hastily, with an offended air: but in another moment, with a glad cry
of "Why, it's Father!", she had run into his arms.

[Image...A beggar's palace]

"Father!  Father!"  Bruno repeated: and, while the happy children
were being hugged and kissed, I could but rub my eyes and say
"Where, then, are the rags gone to?"; for the old man was now dressed
in royal robes that glittered with jewels and gold embroidery,
and wore a circlet of gold around his head.


CHAPTER 6.

THE MAGIC LOCKET.

"Where are we, father?"  Sylvie whispered, with her arms twined closely
around the old man's neck, and with her rosy cheek lovingly pressed to
his.

"In Elfland, darling.  It's one of the provinces of Fairyland."

"But I thought Elfland was ever so far from Outland: and we've come
such a tiny little way!"

"You came by the Royal Road, sweet one.  Only those of royal blood can
travel along it: but you've been royal ever since I was made King of
Elfland that's nearly a month ago.  They sent two ambassadors, to make
sure that their invitation to me, to be their new King, should reach me.
One was a Prince; so he was able to come by the Royal Road,
and to come invisibly to all but me: the other was a Baron;
so he had to come by the common road, and I dare say he hasn't even
arrived yet."

"Then how far have we come?"  Sylvie enquired.

"Just a thousand miles, sweet one, since the Gardener unlocked that
door for you."

"A thousand miles!"  Bruno repeated.  "And may I eat one?"

"Eat a mile, little rogue?"

"No," said Bruno.  "I mean may I eat one of that fruits?"

"Yes, child," said his father: "and then you'll find out what
Pleasure is like--the Pleasure we all seek so madly, and enjoy so
mournfully!"

Bruno ran eagerly to the wall, and picked a fruit that was
shaped something like a banana, but had the colour of a strawberry.

He ate it with beaming looks, that became gradually more gloomy,
and were very blank indeed by the time he had finished.

"It hasn't got no taste at all!" he complained.  "I couldn't feel nuffin
in my mouf!  It's a--what's that hard word, Sylvie?"

"It was a Phlizz," Sylvie gravely replied.  "Are they all like that,
father?"

"They're all like that to you, darling, because you don't belong to
Elfland--yet.  But to me they are real."

Bruno looked puzzled.  "I'll try anuvver kind of fruits!" he said,
and jumped down off the King's knee.  "There's some lovely striped ones,
just like a rainbow!"  And off he ran.

Meanwhile the Fairy-King and Sylvie were talking together, but in such
low tones that I could not catch the words: so I followed Bruno,
who was picking and eating other kinds of fruit, in the vain hope of
finding some that had a taste.  I tried to pick so me myself--but it
was like grasping air, and I soon gave up the attempt and returned to
Sylvie.

"Look well at it, my darling," the old man was saying, "and tell me how
you like it."

"'It's just lovely," cried Sylvie, delightedly.  "Bruno, come and look!"
And she held up, so that he might see the light through it,
a heart-shaped Locket, apparently cut out of a single jewel, of a rich
blue colour, with a slender gold chain attached to it.

"It are welly pretty," Bruno more soberly remarked: and he began
spelling out some words inscribed on it.  "All--will--love--Sylvie,"
he made them out at last.  "And so they doos!" he cried, clasping his
arms round her neck.  "Everybody loves Sylvie!"

"But we love her best, don't we, Bruno?" said the old King, as he took
possession of the Locket.  "Now, Sylvie, look at this." And he showed
her, lying on the palm of his hand, a Locket of a deep crimson colour,
the same shape as the blue one and, like it, attached to a slender
golden chain.

"Lovelier and lovelier!" exclaimed Sylvie, clasping her hands in
ecstasy.  "Look, Bruno!"

"And there's words on this one, too," said Bruno.
"Sylvie--will--love--all."

"Now you see the difference," said the old man: "different colours and
different words.

Choose one of them, darling.  I'll give you which ever you like best."

[Image...The crimson locket]

Sylvie whispered the words, several times over, with a thoughtful
smile, and then made her decision.  "It's very nice to be loved,"
she said: "but it's nicer to love other people!  May I have the red one,
Father?"

The old man said nothing: but I could see his eyes fill with tears,
as he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead in a long loving
kiss.  Then he undid the chain, and showed her how to fasten it round
her neck, and to hide it away under the edge of her frock.  "It's for
you to keep you know he said in a low voice, not for other people to see.
You'll remember how to use it?

Yes, I'll remember, said Sylvie.

"And now darlings it's time for you to go back or they'll be missing
you and then that poor Gardener will get into trouble!"

Once more a feeling of wonder rose in my mind as to how in the world we
were to get back again--since I took it for granted that wherever the
children went I was to go--but no shadow of doubt seemed to cross
their minds as they hugged and kissed him murmuring over and over again
"Good-bye darling Father!"  And then suddenly and swiftly the darkness
of midnight seemed to close in upon us and through the darkness
harshly rang a strange wild song:--

    He thought he saw a Buffalo
    Upon the chimney-piece:
    He looked again, and found it was
    His Sister's Husband's Niece.
    'Unless you leave this house,' he said,
    'I'll send for the Police!'

[Image...'He thought he saw a buffalo']

"That was me!" he added, looking out at us, through the half-opened
door, as we stood waiting in the road.' "And that's what I'd have
done--as sure as potatoes aren't radishes--if she hadn't have
tooken herself off!  But I always loves my pay-rints like anything."

"Who are oor pay-rints?" said Bruno.

"Them as pay rint for me, a course!" the Gardener replied.
"You can come in now, if you like."

He flung the door open as he spoke, and we got out, a little dazzled
and stupefied (at least I felt so) at the sudden transition from the
half-darkness of the railway-carriage to the brilliantly-lighted
platform of Elveston Station.

A footman, in a handsome livery, came forwards and respectfully touched
his hat.  "The carriage is here, my Lady," he said, taking from her the
wraps and small articles she was carrying: and Lady Muriel,
after shaking hands and bidding me "Good-night!" with a pleasant smile,
followed him.

It was with a somewhat blank and lonely feeling that I betook myself to
the van from which the luggage was being taken out: and, after giving
directions to have my boxes sent after me, I made my way on foot to
Arthur's lodgings, and soon lost my lonely feeling in the hearty
welcome my old friend gave me, and the cozy warmth and cheerful light
of the little sitting-room into which he led me.

"Little, as you see, but quite enough for us two.  Now, take the
easy-chair, old fellow, and let's have another look at you!  Well, you
do look a bit pulled down!" and he put on a solemn professional air.
"I prescribe Ozone, quant. suff.  Social dissipation, fiant pilulae
quam plurimae: to be taken, feasting, three times a day!"

"But, Doctor!"  I remonstrated.  "Society doesn't 'receive' three times a
day!"

"That's all you know about it!" the young Doctor gaily replied.
"At home, lawn-tennis, 3 P.M.  At home, kettledrum, 5 P.M.
At home, music (Elveston doesn't give dinners), 8 P.M.  Carriages at 10.
There you are!"

It sounded very pleasant, I was obliged to admit.  "And I know some of
the lady-society already," I added.  "One of them came in the same
carriage with me"

"What was she like?  Then perhaps I can identify her."

"The name was Lady Muriel Orme.  As to what she was like--well, I
thought her very beautiful.  Do you know her?"

"Yes--I do know her." And the grave Doctor coloured slightly as he
added "Yes, I agree with you.  She is beautiful."

"I quite lost my heart to her!"  I went on mischievously.  "We talked--"

"Have some supper!"  Arthur interrupted with an air of relief, as the
maid entered with the tray.  And he steadily resisted all my attempts to
return to the subject of Lady Muriel until the evening had almost worn
itself away.  Then, as we sat gazing into the fire, and conversation was
lapsing into silence, he made a hurried confession.

"I hadn't meant to tell you anything about her," he said (naming no
names, as if there were only one 'she' in the world!) "till you had
seen more of her, and formed your own judgment of her: but somehow you
surprised it out of me.  And I've not breathed a word of it to any one
else.  But I can trust you with a secret, old friend!  Yes!  It's true of
me, what I suppose you said in jest.

"In the merest jest, believe me!"  I said earnestly.  "Why, man, I'm
three times her age!  But if she's your choice, then I'm sure she's all
that is good and--"

"--and sweet," Arthur went on, "and pure, and self-denying, and
true-hearted, and--" he broke off hastily, as if he could not trust
himself to say more on a subject so sacred and so precious.
Silence followed: and I leaned back drowsily in my easy-chair,
filled with bright and beautiful imaginings of Arthur and his lady-love,
and of all the peace and happiness in store for them.

I pictured them to myself walking together, lingeringly and lovingly,
under arching trees, in a sweet garden of their own, and welcomed back
by their faithful gardener, on their return from some brief excursion.

It seemed natural enough that the gardener should be filled with
exuberant delight at the return of so gracious a master and mistress
and how strangely childlike they looked!  I could have taken them for
Sylvie and Bruno less natural that he should show it by such wild
dances, such crazy songs!

    "He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
    That questioned him in Greek:
    He looked again, and found it was
    The Middle of Next Week.
    'The one thing I regret,' he said,
    'Is that it cannot speak!"

--least natural of all that the Vice-Warden and 'my Lady' should be
standing close beside me, discussing an open letter, which had just
been handed to him by the Professor, who stood, meekly waiting,
a few yards off.

"If it were not for those two brats," I heard him mutter, glancing
savagely at Sylvie and Bruno, who were courteously listening to the
Gardener's song, "there would be no difficulty whatever."

"Let's hear that bit of the letter again," said my Lady.
And the Vice-Warden read aloud:-

"--and we therefore entreat you graciously to accept the Kingship,
to which you have been unanimously elected by the Council of Elfland:
and that you will allow your son Bruno of whose goodness, cleverness,
and beauty, reports have reached us--to be regarded as Heir-Apparent."

"But what's the difficulty?" said my Lady.

"Why, don't you see?  The Ambassador, that brought this, is waiting in
the house: and he's sure to see Sylvie and Bruno: and then, when he
sees Uggug, and remembers all that about 'goodness, cleverness,
and beauty,' why, he's sure to--"

"And where will you find a better boy than Uggug?" my Lady indignantly
interrupted.  "Or a wittier, or a lovelier?"

To all of which the Vice-Warden simply replied "Don't you be a great
blethering goose!  Our only chance is to keep those two brats out of
sight.  If you can manage that, you may leave the rest to me.
I'll make him believe Uggug to be a model of cleverness and all that."

"We must change his name to Bruno, of course?" said my Lady.

The Vice-Warden rubbed his chin.  "Humph!  No!" he said musingly.
"Wouldn't do.  The boy's such an utter idiot, he'd never learn to answer
to it."

"Idiot, indeed!" cried my Lady.  "He's no more an idiot than I am!"

"You're right, my dear," the Vice-Warden soothingly I replied.
"He isn't, indeed!"

My Lady was appeased.  "Let's go in and receive the Ambassador,"
she said, and beckoned to the Professor.  "Which room is he waiting in?"
she inquired.

"In the Library, Madam."

"And what did you say his name was?" said the Vice-Warden.

The Professor referred to a card he held in his hand.
"His Adiposity the Baron Doppelgeist."

"Why does he come with such a funny name?" said my Lady.

"He couldn't well change it on the journey," the Professor meekly
replied, "because of the luggage."

"You go and receive him," my Lady said to the Vice-Warden,
"and I'll attend to the children."


CHAPTER 7.

THE BARONS EMBASSY.

I was following the Vice-Warden, but, on second thoughts, went after my
Lady, being curious to see how she would manage to keep the children
out of sight.

I found her holding Sylvie's hand, and with her other hand stroking
Bruno's hair in a most tender and motherly fashion: both children were
looking bewildered and half-frightened.

"My own darlings," she was saying, "I've been planning a little treat
for you!  The Professor shall take you a long walk into the woods this
beautiful evening: and you shall take a basket of food with you, and
have a little picnic down by the river!"

Bruno jumped, and clapped his hands.  "That are nice!" he cried.
"Aren't it, Sylvie?"

Sylvie, who hadn't quite lost her surprised look, put up her mouth for
a kiss.  "Thank you very much," she said earnestly.

My Lady turned her head away to conceal the broad grin of triumph that
spread over her vast face, like a ripple on a lake.  "Little simpletons!"
she muttered to herself, as she marched up to the house.
I followed her in.

"Quite so, your Excellency," the Baron was saying as we entered the
Library.  "All the infantry were under my command." He turned, and was
duly presented to my Lady.

"A military hero?" said my Lady.  The fat little man simpered.
"Well, yes," he replied, modestly casting down his eyes.
"My ancestors were all famous for military genius."

My Lady smiled graciously.  "It often runs in families," she remarked:
"just as a love for pastry does."

The Baron looked slightly offended, and the Vice-Warden discreetly
changed the subject.  "Dinner will soon be ready," he said.  "May I have
the honour of conducting your Adiposity to the guest-chamber?"

"Certainly, certainly!" the Baron eagerly assented.  "It would never do
to keep dinner waiting!"  And he almost trotted out of the room after
the Vice-Warden.

He was back again so speedily that the Vice-warden had barely time to
explain to my Lady that her remark about "a love for pastry" was
"unfortunate.  You might have seen, with half an eye," he added,
"that that's his line.  Military genius, indeed!  Pooh!"

"Dinner ready yet?" the Baron enquired, as he hurried into the room.

"Will be in a few minutes," the Vice-Warden replied.  "Meanwhile, let's
take a turn in the garden.  You were telling me," he continued,

as the trio left the house, "something about a great battle in which
you had the command of the infantry--"

"True," said the Baron.  "The enemy, as I was saying, far outnumbered us:
but I marched my men right into the middle of--what's that?"
the Military Hero exclaimed in agitated tones, drawing back behind the
Vice-Warden, as a strange creature rushed wildly upon them, brandishing
a spade.

"It's only the Gardener!" the Vice-Warden replied in an encouraging tone.
"Quite harmless, I assure you.  Hark, he's singing!
Its his favorite amusement."

And once more those shrill discordant tones rang out:--

    "He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
    Descending from the bus:
    He looked again, and found it was
    A Hippopotamus:
    'If this should stay to dine,' he said,
    'There won't be mutch for us!'"

Throwing away the spade, he broke into a frantic jig, snapping his
fingers, and repeating, again and again,

    "There won't be much for us!
    There won't be much for us!"

[Image...It was a hippoptamus]

Once more the Baron looked slightly offended, but the Vice-Warden
hastily explained that the song had no allusion to him,
and in fact had no meaning at all.  "You didn't mean anything by it,
now did you?"  He appealed to the Gardener, who had finished his song,
and stood, balancing himself on one leg, and looking at them, with his
mouth open.

"I never means nothing," said the Gardener: and Uggug luckily came up
at the moment, and gave the conversation a new turn.

"Allow me to present my son," said the Vice-warden; adding,
in a whisper, "one of the best and cleverest boys that ever lived!
I'll contrive for you to see some of his cleverness.  He knows everything
that other boys don't know; and in archery, in fishing, in painting,
and in music, his skill is--but you shall judge for yourself.
You see that target over there?  He shall shoot an arrow at it.
Dear boy,"he went on aloud, "his Adiposity would like to see you shoot.
Bring his Highness' bow and arrows!"

Uggug looked very sulky as he received the bow and arrow, and prepared
to shoot.  Just as the arrow left the bow, the Vice-Warden trod heavily
on the toe of the Baron, who yelled with the pain.

"Ten thousand pardons! "he exclaimed.  "I stepped back in my excitement.
See!  It is a bull's-eye!"

The Baron gazed in astonishment.  "He held the bow so awkwardly,
it seemed impossible!" he muttered.  But there was no room for doubt:
there was the arrow, right in the centre of the bull's-eye!

"The lake is close by," continued the Vice-warden.  "Bring his Highness'
fishing-rod!"  And Uggug most unwillingly held the rod, and dangled the
fly over the water.

"A beetle on your arm!" cried my Lady, pinching the poor Baron's arm
worse than if ten lobsters had seized it at once.
"That kind is poisonous," she explained.  "But what a pity!
You missed seeing the fish pulled out!"

An enormous dead cod-fish was lying on the bank, with the hook in its
mouth.

"I had always fancied," the Baron faltered, "that cod were salt-water
fish?"

"Not in this country," said the Vice-Warden.  "Shall we go in?
Ask my son some question on the way any subject you like!"
And the sulky boy was violently shoved forwards, to walk at the Baron's
side.

"Could your Highness tell me," the Baron cautiously began,
"how much seven times nine would come to?"

"Turn to the left!" cried the Vice-Warden, hastily stepping forwards to
show the way---so hastily, that he ran against his unfortunate guest,
who fell heavily on his face.

"So sorry!" my Lady exclaimed, as she and her husband helped him to his
feet again.  "My son was in the act of saying 'sixty-three' as you fell!"

The Baron said nothing: he was covered with dust, and seemed much hurt,
both in body and mind.  However, when they had got him into the house,
and given him a good brushing, matters looked a little better.

Dinner was served in due course, and every fresh dish seemed to
increase the good-humour of the Baron: but all efforts, to get him to
express his opinion as to Uggug's cleverness, were in vain, until that
interesting youth had left the room, and was seen from the open window,
prowling about the lawn with a little basket, which he was filling with
frogs.

"So fond of Natural History as he is, dear boy!" said the doting
mother.  "Now do tell us, Baron, what you think of him!"

"To be perfectly candid, said the cautious Baron, "I would like a
little more evidence.  I think you mentioned his skill in--"

"Music?" said the Vice-Warden.  "Why, he's simply a prodigy!
You shall hear him play the piano?  And he walked to the window.
"Ug--I mean my boy!  Come in for a minute, and bring the music-master
with you!  To turn over the music for him," he added as an explanation.

Uggug, having filled his basket with frogs, had no objection to obey,
and soon appeared in the room, followed by a fierce-looking little man,
who asked the Vice-Warden "Vot music vill you haf?"

"The Sonata that His Highness plays so charmingly," said the Vice-Warden.
"His Highness haf not--" the music-master began, but was sharply
stopped by the Vice-warden.

"Silence, Sir!  Go and turn over the music for his Highness.
My dear," (to the Wardeness) "will you show him what to do?
And meanwhile, Baron, I'll just show you a most interesting map we
have--of Outland, and Fairyland, and that sort of thing."

By the time my Lady had returned, from explaining things to the
music-master, the map had been hung up, and the Baron was already much
bewildered by the Vice-Warden's habit of pointing to one place while he
shouted out the name of another.

[Image...The map of fairyland]

My Lady joining in, pointing out other places, and shouting
other names, only made matters worse; and at last the Baron,
in despair, took to pointing out places for himself, and feebly asked
"Is that great yellow splotch Fairyland?"

"Yes, that's Fairyland," said the Vice-warden: "and you might as well
give him a hint," he muttered to my Lady, "about going back to-morrow.
He eats like a shark!  It would hardly do for me to mention it."

His wife caught the idea, and at once began giving hints of the most
subtle and delicate kind.  "Just see what a short way it is back to
Fairyland!  Why, if you started to-morrow morning, you'd get there in
very little more than a week!"

The Baron looked incredulous.  "It took me a full month to come," he said.

"But it's ever so much shorter, going back, you know!'

The Baron looked appealingly to the Vice-warden, who chimed in readily.
"You can go back five times, in the time it took you to come here
once--if you start to-morrow morning!"

All this time the Sonata was pealing through the room.  The Baron could
not help admitting to himself that it was being magnificently played:
but he tried in vain to get a glimpse of the youthful performer.
Every time he had nearly succeeded in catching sight of him, either the
Vice-Warden or his wife was sure to get in the way, pointing out some
new place on the map, and deafening him with some new name.

He gave in at last, wished a hasty good-night, and left the room,
while his host and hostess interchanged looks of triumph.

"Deftly done!" cried the Vice-Warden.  "Craftily contrived!
But what means all that tramping on the stairs?"  He half-opened the door,
looked out, and added in a tone of dismay, "The Baron's boxes are being
carried down!"

"And what means all that rumbling of wheels?" cried my Lady.  She peeped
through the window curtains.  "The Baron's carriage has come round!"
she groaned.

At this moment the door opened: a fat, furious face looked in: a voice,
hoarse with passion, thundered out the words "My room is full of
frogs--I leave you!": and the door closed again.

And still the noble Sonata went pealing through the room: but it was
Arthur's masterly touch that roused the echoes, and thrilled my very
soul with the tender music of the immortal 'Sonata Pathetique':
and it was not till the last note had died away that the tired but happy
traveler could bring himself to utter the words "good-night!" and to
seek his much-needed pillow.


CHAPTER 8.

A RIDE ON A LION.

The next day glided away, pleasantly enough, partly in settling myself
in my new quarters, and partly in strolling round the neighbourhood,
under Arthur's guidance, and trying to form a general idea of Elveston
and its inhabitants.  When five o'clock arrived, Arthur proposed without
any embarrassment this time--to take me with him up to 'the Hall,'
in order that I might make acquaintance with the Earl of Ainslie,
who had taken it for the season, and renew acquaintance with his daughter
Lady Muriel.

My first impressions of the gentle, dignified, and yet genial old man
were entirely favourable: and the real satisfaction that showed itself
on his daughter's face, as she met me with the words "this is indeed an
unlooked-for pleasure!", was very soothing for whatever remains of
personal vanity the failures and disappointments of many long years,
and much buffeting with a rough world, had left in me.

Yet I noted, and was glad to note, evidence of a far deeper feeling
than mere friendly regard, in her meeting with Arthur though this was,
as I gathered, an almost daily occurrence--and the conversation
between them, in which the Earl and I were only occasional sharers,
had an ease and a spontaneity rarely met with except between very old
friends: and, as I knew that they had not known each other for a longer
period than the summer which was now rounding into autumn, I felt
certain that 'Love,' and Love alone, could explain the phenomenon.

"How convenient it would be," Lady Muriel laughingly remarked,
a propos of my having insisted on saving her the trouble of carrying
a cup of tea across the room to the Earl, "if cups of tea had no weight
at all!  Then perhaps ladies would sometimes be permitted to carry them
for short distances!"

"One can easily imagine a situation," said Arthur, "where things would
necessarily have no weight, relatively to each other, though each would
have its usual weight, looked at by itself."

"Some desperate paradox!" said the Earl.  "Tell us how it could be.
We shall never guess it."

"Well, suppose this house, just as it is, placed a few billion miles
above a planet, and with nothing else near enough to disturb it:
of course it falls to the planet?"

The Earl nodded.  "Of course though it might take some centuries to do
it."

"And is five-o'clock-tea to be going on all the while?" said Lady Muriel.

"That, and other things," said Arthur.  "The inhabitants would live
their lives, grow up and die, and still the house would be falling,
falling, falling!  But now as to the relative weight of things.
Nothing can be heavy, you know, except by trying to fall, and being
prevented from doing so.  You all grant that?"

We all granted that.

"Well, now, if I take this book, and hold it out at arm's length,
of course I feel its weight.  It is trying to fall, and I prevent it.
And, if I let go, it fails to the floor.  But, if we were all falling
together, it couldn't be trying to fall any quicker, you know: for,
if I let go, what more could it do than fall?  And, as my hand would be
falling too--at the same rate--it would never leave it, for that
would be to get ahead of it in the race.  And it could never overtake
the failing floor!"

"I see it clearly," said Lady Muriel.  "But it makes one dizzy to think
of such things!  How can you make us do it?"

"There is a more curious idea yet," I ventured to say.  "Suppose a cord
fastened to the house, from below, and pulled down by some one on the
planet.  Then of course the house goes faster than its natural rate of
falling: but the furniture--with our noble selves--would go on
failing at their old pace, and would therefore be left behind."

"Practically, we should rise to the ceiling," said the Earl.
"The inevitable result of which would be concussion of brain."

"To avoid that, "said Arthur, "let us have the furniture fixed to the
floor, and ourselves tied down to the furniture.  Then the
five-o'clock-tea could go on in peace."

"With one little drawback!', Lady Muriel gaily interrupted.
"We should take the cups down with us: but what about the tea?"

"I had forgotten the tea," Arthur confessed.  "That, no doubt, would
rise to the ceiling unless you chose to drink it on the way!"

"Which, I think, is quite nonsense enough for one while!" said the
Earl.  "What news does this gentleman bring us from the great world of
London?"

This drew me into the conversation, which now took a more conventional
tone.  After a while, Arthur gave the signal for our departure, and in
the cool of the evening we strolled down to the beach, enjoying the
silence, broken only by the murmur of the sea and the far-away music of
some fishermen's song, almost as much as our late pleasant talk.

We sat down among the rocks, by a little pool, so rich in animal,
vegetable, and zoophytic --or whatever is the right word--life,
that I became entranced in the study of it, and, when Arthur proposed
returning to our lodgings, I begged to be left there for a while,
to watch and muse alone.

The fishermen's song grew ever nearer and clearer, as their boat stood
in for the beach; and I would have gone down to see them land their
cargo of fish, had not the microcosm at my feet stirred my curiosity
yet more keenly.

One ancient crab, that was for ever shuffling frantically from side to
side of the pool, had particularly fascinated me: there was a vacancy
in its stare, and an aimless violence in its behaviour, that
irresistibly recalled the Gardener who had befriended Sylvie and Bruno:
and, as I gazed, I caught the concluding notes of the tune of his crazy
song.

The silence that followed was broken by the sweet voice of Sylvie.
"Would you please let us out into the road?"

"What!  After that old beggar again?" the Gardener yelled, and began
singing :--

    "He thought he saw a Kangaroo
    That worked a coffee-mill:
    He looked again, and found it was
    A Vegetable-pill
    'Were I to swallow this,' he said,
    'I should be very ill!'"

[Image...He thought he saw a kangaroo]

"We don't want him to swallow anything," Sylvie explained.
"He's not hungry.  But we want to see him.  So Will you please--"

"Certainly!" the Gardener promptly replied.  "I always please.
Never displeases nobody.

There you are!"  And he flung the door open, and let us out upon the
dusty high-road.

We soon found our way to the bush, which had so mysteriously sunk into
the ground: and here Sylvie drew the Magic Locket from its hiding-place,
turned it over with a thoughtful air, and at last appealed to Bruno in
a rather helpless way.  "What was it we had to do with it, Bruno?
It's all gone out of my head!"

"Kiss it!" was Bruno's invariable recipe in cases of doubt and difficulty.
Sylvie kissed it, but no result followed.

"Rub it the wrong way," was Bruno's next suggestion.

"Which is the wrong way?", Sylvie most reasonably enquired.
The obvious plan was to try both ways.

Rubbing from left to right had no visible effect whatever.

From right to left-- "Oh, stop, Sylvie!"  Bruno cried in sudden alarm.
"Whatever is going to happen?"

For a number of trees, on the neighbouring hillside, were moving slowly
upwards, in solemn procession: while a mild little brook, that had been
rippling at our feet a moment before, began to swell, and foam,
and hiss, and bubble, in a truly alarming fashion.

"Rub it some other way!" cried Bruno.  "Try up-and-down!  Quick!"

It was a happy thought.  Up-and-down did it: and the landscape, which
had been showing signs of mental aberration in various directions,
returned to its normal condition of sobriety with the exception of a
small yellowish-brown mouse, which continued to run wildly up and down
the road, lashing its tail like a little lion.

"Let's follow it," said Sylvie: and this also turned out a happy
thought.  The mouse at once settled down into a business-like jog-trot,
with which we could easily keep pace.  The only phenomenon, that gave me
any uneasiness, was the rapid increase in the size of the little
creature we were following, which became every moment more and more
like a real lion.

Soon the transformation was complete: and a noble lion stood patiently
waiting for us to come up with it.  No thought of fear seemed to occur
to the children, who patted and stroked it as if it had been a
Shetland-pony.

[Image...The mouse-lion]

"Help me up!" cried Bruno.  And in another moment Sylvie had lifted him
upon the broad back of the gentle beast, and seated herself behind him,
pillion-fashion.  Bruno took a good handful of mane in each hand, and
made believe to guide this new kind of steed.  "Gee-up!', seemed quite
sufficient by way of verbal direction: the lion at once broke into an
easy canter, and we soon found ourselves in the depths of the forest.
I say 'we,' for I am certain that I accompanied them though how I managed
to keep up with a cantering lion I am wholly unable to explain.
But I was certainly one of the party when we came upon an old beggar-man
cutting sticks, at whose feet the lion made a profound obeisance,
Sylvie and Bruno at the same moment dismounting, and leaping in to the
arms of their father.

"From bad to worse!" the old man said to himself, dreamily, when the
children had finished their rather confused account of the Ambassador's
visit, gathered no doubt from general report, as they had not seen him
themselves.  "From bad to worse!  That is their destiny.  I see it,
but I cannot alter it.  The selfishness of a mean and crafty man--the
selfishness of an ambitious and silly woman--- the selfishness of a
spiteful and loveless child all tend one way, from bad to worse!
And you, my darlings, must suffer it awhile, I fear.  Yet, when things
are at their worst, you can come to me.  I can do but little as yet--"

Gathering up a handful of dust and scattering it in the air, he slowly
and solemnly pronounced some words that sounded like a charm,
the children looking on in awe-struck silence:--

    "Let craft, ambition, spite,
    Be quenched in Reason's night,
    Till weakness turn to might,
    Till what is dark be light,
    Till what is wrong be right!"

The cloud of dust spread itself out through the air, as if it were
alive, forming curious shapes that were for ever changing into others.

"It makes letters!  It makes words!"  Bruno whispered, as he clung,
half-frightened, to Sylvie.  "Only I ca'n't make them out!  Read them,
Sylvie!"

"I'll try," Sylvie gravely replied.  "Wait a minute--if only I could
see that word--"

"I should be very ill!', a discordant voice yelled in our ears.

    "Were I to swallow this,' he said,
    'I should be very ill!'"


CHAPTER 9.

A JESTER AND A BEAR.

Yes, we were in the garden once more: and, to escape that horrid
discordant voice, we hurried indoors, and found ourselves in the
library--Uggug blubbering, the Professor standing by with a
bewildered air, and my Lady, with her arms clasped round her son's
neck, repeating, over and over again, "and did they give him nasty
lessons to learn?  My own pretty pet!"

"What's all this noise about?" the Vice-warden angrily enquired,
as he strode into the room.  "And who put the hat-stand here?"

And he hung his hat up on Bruno, who was standing in the middle of
the room, too much astonished by the sudden change of scene to make
any attempt at removing it, though it came down to his shoulders,
making him look something like a small candle with a large extinguisher
over it.

The Professor mildly explained that His Highness had been graciously
pleased to say he wouldn't do his lessons.

"Do your lessons this instant, you young cub!" thundered the Vice-Warden.
"And take this!" and a resounding box on the ear made the unfortunate
Professor reel across the room.

"Save me!" faltered the poor old man, as he sank, half-fainting, at my
Lady's feet.

"Shave you?  Of course I will!" my Lady replied, as she lifted him into
a chair, and pinned an anti-macassar round his neck.
"Where's the razor?"

The Vice-Warden meanwhile had got hold of Uggug, and was belabouring
him with his umbrella. "Who left this loose nail in the floor?" he
shouted, "Hammer it in, I say!

Hammer it in!"  Blow after blow fell on the writhing Uggug, till he
dropped howling to the floor.

[Image...'Hammer it in!']

Then his father turned to the 'shaving' scene which was being enacted,
and roared with laughter.  "Excuse me, dear, I ca'n't help it!"
he said as soon as he could speak.  "You are such an utter donkey!
Kiss me, Tabby!"

And he flung his arms round the neck of the terrified Professor,
who raised a wild shriek., but whether he received the threatened kiss
or not I was unable to see, as Bruno, who had by this time released
himself from his extinguisher, rushed headlong out of the room,
followed by Sylvie; and I was so fearful of being left alone among all
these crazy creatures that I hurried after them.

We must go to Father!"  Sylvie panted, as they ran down the garden.
"I'm sure things are at their worst!  I'll ask the Gardener to let us
out again."

"But we ca'n't walk all the way!"  Bruno whimpered.  "How I wiss we had
a coach-and-four, like Uncle!"

And, shrill and wild, rang through the air the familiar voice:--

    "He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
    That stood beside his bed:
    He looked again, and found it was
    A Bear without a Head.
    'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing!
    It's waiting to be fed!'"

[Image...A bear without a head]

"No, I ca'n't let you out again!" he said, before the children could
speak.  "The Vice-warden gave it me, he did, for letting you out last
time!  So be off with you!"  And, turning away from them, he began
digging frantically in the middle of a gravel-walk, singing, over and
over again, "'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing!  It's waiting to
be fed!'" but in a more musical tone than the shrill screech in which
he had begun.

The music grew fuller and richer at every moment: other manly voices
joined in the refrain: and soon I heard the heavy thud that told me the
boat had touched the beach, and the harsh grating of the shingle as the
men dragged it up.  I roused myself, and, after lending them a hand in
hauling up their boat, I lingered yet awhile to watch them disembark a
goodly assortment of the hard-won 'treasures of the deep.'

When at last I reached our lodgings I was tired and sleepy, and glad
enough to settle down again into the easy-chair, while Arthur
hospitably went to his cupboard, to get me out some cake and wine,
without which, he declared, he could not, as a doctor, permit my going
to bed.

And how that cupboard-door did creak!  It surely could not be Arthur,
who was opening and shutting it so often, moving so restlessly about,
and muttering like the soliloquy of a tragedy-queen!

No, it was a female voice.  Also the figure half-hidden by the
cupboard-door--was a female figure, massive, and in flowing robes,

Could it be the landlady?  The door opened, and a strange man entered
the room.

"What is that donkey doing?" he said to himself, pausing, aghast,
on the threshold.

The lady, thus rudely referred to, was his wife.  She had got one of
the cupboards open, and stood with her back to him, smoothing down a
sheet of brown paper on one of the shelves, and whispering to herself
"So, so!  Deftly done!  Craftily contrived!"

Her loving husband stole behind her on tiptoe, and tapped her on the
head.  "Boh!" he playfully shouted at her ear.  "Never tell me again I
ca'n't say 'boh' to a goose!"

My Lady wrung her hands.  "Discovered!" she groaned.  "Yet no--he is
one of us!  Reveal it not, oh Man!  Let it bide its time!"

"Reveal what not?" her husband testily replied, dragging out the sheet
of brown paper.  "What are you hiding here, my Lady?  I insist upon
knowing!"

My Lady cast down her eyes, and spoke in the littlest of little voices.
"Don't make fun of it, Benjamin!" she pleaded.  "It's--it's---don't
you understand?  It's a DAGGER!"

"And what's that for?" sneered His Excellency.  "We've only got to make
people think he's dead!  We haven't got to kill him!  And made of tin,
too!" he snarled, contemptuously bending the blade round his thumb.
Now, Madam, you'll be good enough to explain.  First, what do you call
me Benjamin for?"

"It's part of the Conspiracy, Love!  One must have an alias, you know--"

"Oh, an alias, is it?  Well!  And next, what did you get this dagger for?
Come, no evasions!  You ca'n't deceive me!"

"I got it for--for--for--" the detected Conspirator stammered,
trying her best to put on the assassin-expression that she had been
practising at the looking-glass.  "For--"

"For what, Madam!"

"Well, for eighteenpence, if you must know, dearest!  That's what I got
it for, on my--"

"Now don't say your Word and Honour!" groaned the other Conspirator.
"Why, they aren't worth half the money, put together!"

"On my birthday," my Lady concluded in a meek whisper.
"One must have a dagger, you know.  It's part of the--"

"Oh, don't talk of Conspiracies!" her husband savagely interrupted, as
he tossed the dagger into the cupboard.  "You know about as much how to
manage a Conspiracy as if you were a chicken.  Why, the first thing is
to get a disguise.  Now, just look at this!"

And with pardonable pride he fitted on the cap and bells, and the rest
of the Fool's dress, and winked at her, and put his tongue in his cheek.
"Is that the sort of thing, now." he demanded.

My Lady's eyes flashed with all a Conspirator's enthusiasm.
"The very thing!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands.
"You do look, oh, such a perfect Fool!"

The Fool smiled a doubtful smile.  He was not quite clear whether it
was a compliment or not, to express it so plainly.  "You mean a Jester?
Yes, that's what I intended.  And what do you think your disguise is to
be?"  And he proceeded to unfold the parcel, the lady watching him in
rapture.

"Oh, how lovely!" she cried, when at last the dress was unfolded.
"What a splendid disguise!  An Esquimaux peasant-woman!"

"An Esquimaux peasant, indeed!" growled the other.  "Here, put it on,
and look at yourself in the glass.  Why, it's a Bear, ca'n't you use
your eyes?"  He checked himself suddenly, as a harsh voice yelled
through the room

    "He looked again, and found it was
    A Bear without a Head!"

But it was only the Gardener, singing under the open window.
The Vice-Warden stole on tip-toe to the window, and closed it noiselessly,
before he ventured to go on.  "Yes, Lovey, a Bear: but not without a
head, I hope!  You're the Bear, and me the Keeper.  And if any one
knows us, they'll have sharp eyes, that's all!"

"I shall have to practise the steps a bit," my Lady said, looking out
through the Bear's mouth: "one ca'n't help being rather human just at
first, you know.  And of course you'll say 'Come up, Bruin!', won't you?"

"Yes, of course," replied the Keeper, laying hold of the chain, that
hung from the Bear's collar, with one hand, while with the other he
cracked a little whip.  "Now go round the room in a sort of a dancing
attitude.  Very good, my dear, very good.  Come up, Bruin!
Come up, I say!"

[Image...'Come up, bruin!']

He roared out the last words for the benefit of Uggug, who had just
come into the room, and was now standing, with his hands spread out,
and eyes and mouth wide open, the very picture of stupid amazement.
"Oh, my!" was all he could gasp out.

The Keeper pretended to be adjusting the bear's collar, which gave him
an opportunity of whispering, unheard by Uggug, "my fault, I'm afraid!
Quite forgot to fasten the door.  Plot's ruined if he finds it out!
Keep it up a minute or two longer.  Be savage!"  Then, while seeming
to pull it back with all his strength, he let it advance upon the
scared boy: my Lady, with admirable presence of mind, kept up what she
no doubt intended for a savage growl, though it was more like the
purring of a cat: and Uggug backed out of the room with such haste that
he tripped over the mat, and was heard to fall heavily outside--
an accident to which even his doting mother paid no heed, in the
excitement of the moment.

The Vice-Warden shut and bolted the door.  "Off with the disguises!"
he panted.  "There's not a moment to lose.  He's sure to fetch the
Professor, and we couldn't take him in, you know!"  And in another
minute the disguises were stowed away in the cupboard, the door
unbolted, and the two Conspirators seated lovingly side-by-side on the
sofa, earnestly discussing a book the Vice-Warden had hastily snatched
off the table, which proved to be the City-Directory of the capital of
Outland.

The door opened, very slowly and cautiously, and the Professor peeped
in, Uggug's stupid face being just visible behind him.

"It is a beautiful arrangement!" the Vice-warden was saying with
enthusiasm.  "You see, my precious one, that there are fifteen houses
in Green Street, before you turn into West Street."

"Fifteen houses!  Is it possible?" my Lady replied.  "I thought it was
fourteen!"  And, so intent were they on this interesting question, that
neither of them even looked up till the Professor, leading Uggug by the
hand, stood close before them.

My Lady was the first to notice their approach.
"Why, here's the Professor!" she exclaimed in her blandest tones.
"And my precious child too!  Are lessons over?"

"A strange thing has happened!" the Professor began in a trembling tone.
"His Exalted Fatness" (this was one of Uggug's many titles)
"tells me he has just seen, in this very room, a Dancing-Bear and a
Court-Jester!"

The Vice-Warden and his wife shook with well-acted merriment.

Not in this room, darling!" said the fond mother.  "We've been sitting
here this hour or more, reading--," here she referred to the book
lying on her lap, "--reading the--the City-Directory."

"Let me feel your pulse, my boy!" said the anxious father.
"Now put out your tongue.  Ah, I thought so!  He's a little feverish,
Professor, and has had a bad dream.  Put him to bed at once, and give
him a cooling draught."

"I ain't been dreaming!" his Exalted Fatness remonstrated, as the
Professor led him away.

"Bad grammar, Sir!" his father remarked with some sternness.
"Kindly attend to that little matter, Professor, as soon as you have
corrected the feverishness.  And, by the way, Professor!"
(The Professor left his distinguished pupil standing at the door,
and meekly returned.) "There is a rumour afloat, that the people wish
to elect an--in point of fact, an --you understand that I mean an--"

"Not another Professor!" the poor old man exclaimed in horror.

"No!  Certainly not!" the Vice-Warden eagerly explained.
"Merely an Emperor, you understand."

"An Emperor!" cried the astonished Professor, holding his head between
his hands, as if he expected it to come to pieces with the shock.
"What will the Warden--"

"Why, the Warden will most likely be the new Emperor!" my Lady
explained.  "Where could we find a better?  Unless, perhaps--"
she glanced at her husband.

"Where indeed!" the Professor fervently responded, quite failing to
take the hint.

The Vice-Warden resumed the thread of his discourse.  "The reason I
mentioned it, Professor, was to ask you to be so kind as to preside at
the Election.  You see it would make the thing respectable--no
suspicion of anything, underhand--"

"I fear I ca'n't, your Excellency!" the old man faltered.
"What will the Warden--"

"True, true!" the Vice-Warden interrupted.  "Your position, as
Court-Professor, makes it awkward, I admit.  Well, well!
Then the Election shall be held without you."

"Better so, than if it were held within me!" the Professor murmured
with a bewildered air, as if he hardly knew what he was saying.
"Bed, I think your Highness said, and a cooling-draught?"
And he wandered dreamily back to where Uggug sulkily awaited him.

I followed them out of the room, and down the passage, the Professor
murmuring to himself, all the time, as a kind of aid to his feeble
memory, "C, C, C; Couch, Cooling-Draught, Correct-Grammar," till,
in turning a corner, he met Sylvie and Bruno, so suddenly that the
startled Professor let go of his fat pupil, who instantly took to his
heels.


CHAPTER 10.

THE OTHER PROFESSOR.

"We were looking for you!" cried Sylvie, in a tone of great relief.
"We do want you so much, you ca'n't think!"

"What is it, dear children?" the Professor asked, beaming on them with
a very different look from what Uggug ever got from him.

"We want you to speak to the Gardener for us," Sylvie said, as she and
Bruno took the old man's hands and led him into the hall.

"He's ever so unkind!"  Bruno mournfully added.  "They's all unkind to us,
now that Father's gone.  The Lion were much nicer!"

"But you must explain to me, please," the Professor said with an
anxious look, "which is the Lion, and which is the Gardener.
It's most important not to get two such animals confused together.
And one's very liable to do it in their case--both having mouths,
you know--"

"Doos oo always confuses two animals together?"  Bruno asked.

"Pretty often, I'm afraid," the Professor candidly confessed.
"Now, for instance, there's the rabbit-hutch and the hall-clock."
The Professor pointed them out.  "One gets a little confused with
them--both having doors, you know.  Now, only yesterday--would you
believe it?--I put some lettuces into the clock, and tried to wind up
the rabbit!"

"Did the rabbit go, after oo wounded it up?" said Bruno.

The Professor clasped his hands on the top of his head, and groaned.
"Go?  I should think it did go!  Why, it's gone?  And where ever it's
gone to--that's what I ca'n't find out!  I've done my best--I've read
all the article 'Rabbit' in the great dictionary--Come in!"

"Only the tailor, Sir, with your little bill," said a meek voice
outside the door.

"Ah, well, I can soon settle his business," the Professor said to the
children, "if you'll just wait a minute.  How much is it, this year,
my man?"  The tailor had come in while he was speaking.

"Well, it's been a doubling so many years, you see," the tailor
replied, a little gruffly, "and I think I'd like the money now.
It's two thousand pound, it is!"

"Oh, that's nothing!" the Professor carelessly remarked, feeling in his
pocket, as if he always carried at least that amount about with him.
"But wouldn't you like to wait just another year, and make it four
thousand?  Just think how rich you'd be!  Why, you might be a King,
if you liked!"

"I don't know as I'd care about being a King," the man said
thoughtfully.  "But it; dew sound a powerful sight o' money!
Well, I think I'll wait--"

"Of course you will!" said the Professor.  "There's good sense in you,
I see.  Good-day to you, my man!"

"Will you ever have to pay him that four thousand pounds?"  Sylvie asked
as the door closed on the departing creditor.

"Never, my child!" the Professor replied emphatically.  "He'll go on
doubling it, till he dies.  You see it's always worth while waiting
another year, to get twice as much money!  And now what would you like
to do, my little friends?  Shall I take you to see the Other Professor?
This would be an excellent opportunity for a visit," he said to
himself, glancing at his watch: "he generally takes a short rest
--of fourteen minutes and a half--about this time."

Bruno hastily went round to Sylvie, who was standing at the other side
of the Professor, and put his hand into hers.  "I thinks we'd like to
go," he said doubtfully: "only please let's go all together.
It's best to be on the safe side, oo know!"

"Why, you talk as if you were Sylvie!" exclaimed the Professor.

"I know I did," Bruno replied very humbly.  "I quite forgotted I wasn't
Sylvie.  Only I fought he might be rarver fierce!"

The Professor laughed a jolly laugh.  "Oh, he's quite tame!" he said.
"He never bites.  He's only a little--a little dreamy, you know."
He took hold of Bruno's other hand; and led the children down a long
passage I had never noticed before--not that there was anything
remarkable in that: I was constantly coming on new rooms and passages
in that mysterious Palace, and very seldom succeeded in finding the old
ones again.

Near the end of the passage the Professor stopped.  "This is his room,"
he said, pointing to the solid wall.

"We ca'n't get in through there!"  Bruno exclaimed.

Sylvie said nothing, till she had carefully examined whether the wall
opened anywhere.  Then she laughed merrily.  "You're playing us a
trick, you dear old thing!" she said.  "There's no door here!"

"There isn't any door to the room," said the Professor.
"We shall have to climb in at the window."

So we went into the garden, and soon found the window of the Other
Professor's room.  It was a ground-floor window, and stood invitingly
open: the Professor first lifted the two children in, and then he and I
climbed in after them.

[Image...The other professor]

The Other Professor was seated at a table, with a large book open
before him, on which his forehead was resting: he had clasped his arms
round the book, and was snoring heavily.  "He usually reads like that,"
the Professor remarked, "when the book's very interesting: and then
sometimes it's very difficult to get him to attend!"

This seemed to be one of the difficult times: the Professor lifted him
up, once or twice, and shook him violently: but he always returned to
his book the moment he was let go of, and showed by his heavy breathing
that the book was as interesting as ever.

"How dreamy he is!" the Professor exclaimed.  "He must have got to a
very interesting part of the book!"  And he rained quite a shower of
thumps on the Other Professor's back, shouting "Hoy! Hoy!" all the
time.  "Isn't it wonderful that he should be so dreamy?" he said to
Bruno.

"If he's always as sleepy as that," Bruno remarked, "a course he's
dreamy!"

"But what are we to do?" said the Professor.  "You see he's quite
wrapped up in the book!"

"Suppose oo shuts the book?"  Bruno suggested.

"That's it!" cried the delighted Professor.  "Of course that'll do it!"
And he shut up the book so quickly that he caught the Other Professor's
nose between the leaves, and gave it a severe pinch.

The Other Professor instantly rose to his feet, and carried the book
away to the end of the room, where he put it back in its place in the
book-case.  "I've been reading for eighteen hours and three-quarters,"
he said, "and now I shall rest for fourteen minutes and a half.
Is the Lecture all ready?"

"Very nearly, "the Professor humbly replied.  "I shall ask you to give
me a hint or two--there will be a few little difficulties--"

"And Banquet, I think you said?"

"Oh, yes!  The Banquet comes first, of course.  People never enjoy
Abstract Science, you know, when they're ravenous with hunger.
And then there's the Fancy-Dress-Ball.  Oh, there'll be lots of
entertainment!"

"Where will the Ball come in?" said the Other Professor.

"I think it had better come at the beginning of the Banquet--it brings
people together so nicely, you know."

"Yes, that's the right order.  First the Meeting: then the Eating: then
the Treating--for I'm sure any Lecture you give us will be a treat!"
said the Other Professor, who had been standing with his back to us all
this time, occupying himself in taking the books out, one by one, and
turning them upside-down.  An easel, with a black board on it, stood
near him: and, every time that he turned a book upside-down, he made a
mark on the board with a piece of chalk.

"And as to the 'Pig-Tale'--which you have so kindly promised to give us--"
the Professor went on, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.  "I think that
had better come at the end of the Banquet: then people can listen
to it quietly."

"Shall I sing it?" the Other Professor asked, with a smile of delight.

"If you can," the Professor replied, cautiously.

"Let me try," said the Other Professor, seating himself at the pianoforte.
"For the sake of argument, let us assume that it begins on A flat."
And he struck the note in question.  "La, la, la!  I think that's
within an octave of it." He struck the note again, and appealed to Bruno,
who was standing at his side. "Did I sing it like that, my child?"

"No, oo didn't," Bruno replied with great decision.  "It were more like
a duck."

"Single notes are apt to have that effect," the Other Professor said
with a sigh.  "Let me try a whole verse.

   There was a Pig, that sat alone,
   Beside a ruined Pump.
   By day and night he made his moan:
   It would have stirred a heart of stone
   To see him wring his hoofs and groan,
   Because he could not jump.

Would you call that a tune, Professor?" he asked, when he had finished.

The Professor considered a little.  "Well," he said at last, "some of
the notes are the same as others and some are different but I should
hardly call it a tune."

"Let me try it a bit by myself," said the Other Professor.
And he began touching the notes here and there, and humming to himself
like an angry bluebottle.

"How do you like his singing?" the Professor asked the children in a
low voice.

"It isn't very beautiful," Sylvie said, hesitatingly.

"It's very extremely ugly!"  Bruno said, without any hesitation at all.

"All extremes are bad," the Professor said, very gravely.
"For instance, Sobriety is a very good thing, when practised in
moderation: but even Sobriety, when carried to an extreme,
has its disadvantages."

"What are its disadvantages?" was the question that rose in my mind--
and, as usual, Bruno asked it for me.  "What are its lizard bandages?'

"Well, this is one of them," said the Professor.  "When a man's tipsy
(that's one extreme, you know), he sees one thing as two.  But, when he's
extremely sober (that's the other extreme), he sees two things as one.
It's equally inconvenient, whichever happens.

"What does 'illconvenient' mean?"  Bruno whispered to Sylvie.

"The difference between 'convenient' and 'inconvenient' is best
explained by an example," said the Other Professor, who had overheard
the question.  "If you'll just think over any Poem that contains the
two words--such as--"

The Professor put his hands over his ears, with a look of dismay.
"If you once let him begin a Poem," he said to Sylvie,
"he'll never leave off again!  He never does!"

"Did he ever begin a Poem and not leave off again?"  Sylvie enquired.

"Three times," said the Professor.

Bruno raised himself on tiptoe, till his lips were on a level with
Sylvie's ear.  "What became of them three Poems?" he whispered.
"Is he saying them all, now?"

"Hush!" said Sylvie.  "The Other Professor is speaking!"

"I'll say it very quick," murmured the Other Professor, with downcast
eyes, and melancholy voice, which contrasted oddly with his face, as he
had forgotten to leave off smiling.  ("At least it wasn't exactly a
smile," as Sylvie said afterwards: "it looked as if his mouth was made
that shape."

"Go on then," said the Professor.  "What must be must be."

"Remember that!"  Sylvie whispered to Bruno, "It's a very good rule for
whenever you hurt yourself."

"And it's a very good rule for whenever I make a noise," said the saucy
little fellow.  "So you remember it too, Miss!"

"Whatever do you mean?" said Sylvie, trying to frown, a thing she never
managed particularly well.

"Oftens and oftens," said Bruno, "haven't oo told me ' There mustn't be
so much noise, Bruno!' when I've tolded oo 'There must!' Why, there
isn't no rules at all about 'There mustn't'!  But oo never believes me!"

"As if any one could believe you, you wicked wicked boy!" said Sylvie.
The words were severe enough, but I am of opinion that, when you are
really anxious to impress a criminal with a sense of his guilt, you
ought not to pronounce the sentence with your lips quite close to his
cheek--since a kiss at the end of it, however accidental, weakens the
effect terribly.


CHAPTER 11.

PETER AND PAUL.

"As I was saying," the Other Professor resumed, "if you'll just think
over any Poem, that contains the words--such as

   'Peter is poor,' said noble Paul,
   'And I have always been his friend:
    And, though my means to give are small,
    At least I can afford to lend.
    How few, in this cold age of greed,
    Do good, except on selfish grounds!
    But I can feel for Peter's need,
    And I WILL LEND HIM FIFTY POUNDS!'

    How great was Peter's joy to find
    His friend in such a genial vein!
    How cheerfully the bond he signed,
    To pay the money back again!
    'We ca'n't,' said Paul, 'be too precise:
    'Tis best to fix the very day:
    So, by a learned friend's advice,
    I've made it Noon, the Fourth of May.

[Image...'How cheefully the bond he signed!']

    But this is April!  Peter said.
    'The First of April, as I think.
    Five little weeks will soon be fled:
    One scarcely will have time to wink!
    Give me a year to speculate--
    To buy and sell--to drive a trade--'
    Said Paul 'I cannot change the date.
    On May the Fourth it must be paid.'

    'Well, well!' said Peter, with a sigh.
    'Hand me the cash, and I will go.
    I'll form a Joint-Stock Company,
    And turn an honest pound or so.'
    'I'm grieved,' said Paul, 'to seem unkind:
    The money shalt of course be lent:
    But, for a week or two, I find
    It will not be convenient.'

    So, week by week, poor Peter came
    And turned in heaviness away;
    For still the answer was the same,
    'I cannot manage it to-day.'
    And now the April showers were dry--
    The five short weeks were nearly spent--
    Yet still he got the old reply,
    'It is not quite convenient!'

    The Fourth arrived, and punctual Paul
    Came, with his legal friend, at noon.
    'I thought it best,' said he, 'to call:
    One cannot settle things too soon.'
    Poor Peter shuddered in despair:
    His flowing locks he wildly tore:
    And very soon his yellow hair
    Was lying all about the floor.

    The legal friend was standing by,
    With sudden pity half unmanned:
    The tear-drop trembled in his eye,
    The signed agreement in his hand:
    But when at length the legal soul
    Resumed its customary force,
    'The Law,' he said, 'we ca'n't control:
    Pay, or the Law must take its course!'

    Said Paul 'How bitterly I rue
    That fatal morning when I called!
    Consider, Peter, what you do!
    You won't be richer when you're bald!
    Think you, by rending curls away,
    To make your difficulties less?
    Forbear this violence, I pray:
    You do but add to my distress!'

[Image...'Poor peter shuddered in despair']

    'Not willingly would I inflict,'
    Said Peter, 'on that noble heart
    One needless pang.  Yet why so strict?
    Is this to act a friendly part?
    However legal it may be
    To pay what never has been lent,
    This style of business seems to me
    Extremely inconvenient!

    'No Nobleness of soul have I,
    Like some that in this Age are found!'
    (Paul blushed in sheer humility,
    And cast his eyes upon the ground)
    'This debt will simply swallow all,
    And make my life a life of woe!'
    'Nay, nay, nay Peter!' answered Paul.
    'You must not rail on Fortune so!

    'You have enough to eat and drink:
    You are respected in the world:
    And at the barber's, as I think,
    You often get your whiskers curled.
    Though Nobleness you ca'n't attain
    To any very great extent--
    The path of Honesty is plain,
    However inconvenient!'

    "Tis true, 'said Peter,' I'm alive:
    I keep my station in the world:
    Once in the week I just contrive
    To get my whiskers oiled and curled.
    But my assets are very low:
    My little income's overspent:
    To trench on capital, you know,
    Is always inconvenient!'

    'But pay your debts!' cried honest Paul.
    'My gentle Peter, pay your debts!
    What matter if it swallows all
    That you describe as your "assets"?
    Already you're an hour behind:
    Yet Generosity is best.
    It pinches me--but never mind!
    I WILL NOT CHARGE YOU INTEREST!'

    'How good!  How great!' poor Peter cried.
    'Yet I must sell my Sunday wig--
    The scarf-pin that has been my pride--
    My grand piano--and my pig!'
    Full soon his property took wings:
    And daily, as each treasure went,
    He sighed to find the state of things
    Grow less and less convenient.

    Weeks grew to months, and months to years:
    Peter was worn to skin and bone:
    And once he even said, with tears,
    'Remember, Paul, that promised Loan!'
    Said Paul' I'll lend you, when I can,
    All the spare money I have got--
    Ah, Peter, you're a happy man!
    Yours is an enviable lot!

[Image...Such boots as these you seldom see]

    'I'm getting stout, as you may see:
    It is but seldom I am well:
    I cannot feel my ancient glee
    In listening to the dinner-bell:
    But you, you gambol like a boy,
    Your figure is so spare and light:
    The dinner-bell's a note of joy
    To such a healthy appetite!'

    Said Peter 'I am well aware
    Mine is a state of happiness:
    And yet how gladly could I spare
    Some of the comforts I possess!
    What you call healthy appetite
    I feel as Hunger's savage tooth:
    And, when no dinner is in sight,
    The dinner-bell's a sound of ruth!

    'No scare-crow would accept this coat:
    Such boots as these you seldom see.
    Ah, Paul, a single five-pound-note
    Would make another man of me!'
    Said Paul 'It fills me with surprise
    To hear you talk in such a tone:
    I fear you scarcely realise
    The blessings that are all your own!

    'You're safe from being overfed:
    You're sweetly picturesque in rags:
    You never know the aching head
    That comes along with money-bags:
    And you have time to cultivate
    That best of qualities, Content--
    For which you'll find your present state
    Remarkably convenient!'

    Said Peter 'Though I cannot sound
    The depths of such a man as you,
    Yet in your character I've found
    An inconsistency or two.
    You seem to have long years to spare
    When there's a promise to fulfil:
    And yet how punctual you were
    In calling with that little bill!'

    'One can't be too deliberate,'
    Said Paul, 'in parting with one's pelf.
    With bills, as you correctly state,
    I'm punctuality itself:
    A man may surely claim his dues:
    But, when there's money to be lent,
    A man must be allowed to choose
    Such times as are convenient!'

    It chanced one day, as Peter sat
    Gnawing a crust--his usual meal--
    Paul bustled in to have a chat,
    And grasped his hand with friendly zeal.
    'I knew,' said he, 'your frugal ways:
    So, that I might not wound your pride
    By bringing strangers in to gaze,
    I've left my legal friend outside!

    'You well remember, I am sure,
    When first your wealth began to go,
    And people sneered at one so poor,
    I never used my Peter so!
    And when you'd lost your little all,
    And found yourself a thing despised,
    I need not ask you to recall
    How tenderly I sympathised!

    'Then the advice I've poured on you,
    So full of wisdom and of wit:
    All given gratis, though 'tis true
    I might have fairly charged for it!
    But I refrain from mentioning
    Full many a deed I might relate
    For boasting is a kind of thing
    That I particularly hate.

[Image...'I will lend you fifty more!']

    'How vast the total sum appears
    Of all the kindnesses I've done,
    From Childhood's half-forgotten years
    Down to that Loan of April One!
    That Fifty Pounds!  You little guessed
    How deep it drained my slender store:
    But there's a heart within this breast,
    And I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!'

    'Not so,' was Peter's mild reply,
    His cheeks all wet with grateful tears;
    No man recalls, so well as I,
    Your services in bygone years:
    And this new offer, I admit,
    Is very very kindly meant--
    Still, to avail myself of it
    Would not be quite convenient!'

You'll see in a moment what the difference is between 'convenient' and
'inconvenient.' You quite understand it now, don't you?" he added,
looking kindly at Bruno, who was sitting, at Sylvie's side, on the
floor.

"Yes," said Bruno, very quietly.  Such a short speech was very unusual,
for him: but just then he seemed, I fancied, a little exhausted.
In fact, he climbed up into Sylvie's lap as he spoke, and rested his
head against her shoulder.  "What a many verses it was!" he whispered.


CHAPTER 12.

A MUSICAL GARDENER.

The Other Professor regarded him with some anxiety.  "The smaller
animal ought to go to bed at once," he said with an air of authority.

"Why at once?" said the Professor.

"Because he can't go at twice," said the Other Professor.

The Professor gently clapped his hands.  'Isn't he wonderful!" he said
to Sylvie.  "Nobody else could have thought of the reason, so quick.
Why, of course he ca'n't go at twice!  It would hurt him to be divided."

This remark woke up Bruno, suddenly and completely.
"I don't want to be divided," he said decisively.

"It does very well on a diagram," said the Other Professor.
"I could show it you in a minute, only the chalk's a little blunt."

"Take care!"  Sylvie anxiously exclaimed, as he began, rather clumsily,
to point it.  "You'll cut your finger off, if you hold the knife so!"

"If oo cuts it off, will oo give it to me, please?  Bruno thoughtfully
added.

"It's like this," said the Other Professor, hastily drawing a long line
upon the black board, and marking the letters 'A,' 'B,' at the two ends,
and 'C' in the middle: "let me explain it to you.  If AB were to be
divided into two parts at C--"

"It would be drownded," Bruno pronounced confidently.

The Other Professor gasped.  "What would be drownded?"

"Why the bumble-bee, of course!" said Bruno.  "And the two bits would
sink down in the sea!"

Here the Professor interfered, as the Other Professor was evidently too
much puzzled to go on with his diagram.

"When I said it would hurt him, I was merely referring to the action of
the nerves--"

The Other Professor brightened up in a moment.  "The action of the
nerves," he began eagerly, "is curiously slow in some people.
I had a friend, once, that, if you burnt him with a red-hot poker,
it would take years and years before he felt it!"

"And if you only pinched him?" queried Sylvie.

"Then it would take ever so much longer, of course.  In fact, I doubt
if the man himself would ever feel it, at all.  His grandchildren might."

"I wouldn't like to be the grandchild of a pinched grandfather, would
you, Mister Sir?"  Bruno whispered.  "It might come just when you wanted
to be happy!"

That would be awkward, I admitted, taking it quite as a matter of
course that he had so suddenly caught sight of me.  "But don't you
always want to be happy, Bruno?"

"Not always," Bruno said thoughtfully.  "Sometimes, when I's too happy,
I wants to be a little miserable.  Then I just tell Sylvie about it,
oo know, and Sylvie sets me some lessons.  Then it's all right."

"I'm sorry you don't like lessons," I said.

"You should copy Sylvie.  She's always as busy as the day is long!"

"Well, so am I!" said Bruno.

"No, no!"  Sylvie corrected him.  "You're as busy as the day is short!"

"Well, what's the difference?"  Bruno asked.  "Mister Sir, isn't the day
as short as it's long?  I mean, isn't it the same length?"

Never having considered the question in this light, I suggested that
they had better ask the Professor; and they ran off in a moment to
appeal to their old friend.  The Professor left off polishing his
spectacles to consider.  "My dears," he said after a minute,
"the day is the same length as anything that is the same length as it."
And he resumed his never-ending task of polishing.

The children returned, slowly and thoughtfully, to report his answer.
"Isn't he wise?"

Sylvie asked in an awestruck whisper.  "If I was as wise as that,
I should have a head-ache all day long.  I know I should!"

"You appear to be talking to somebody--that isn't here," the Professor
said, turning round to the children.  "Who is it?"

Bruno looked puzzled.  "I never talks to nobody when he isn't here!" he
replied.  "It isn't good manners.  Oo should always wait till he comes,
before oo talks to him!"

The Professor looked anxiously in my direction, and seemed to look
through and through me without seeing me.  "Then who are you talking
to?" he said.  "There isn't anybody here, you know, except the Other
Professor and he isn't here!" he added wildly, turning round and round
like a teetotum. "Children!  Help to look for him!  Quick!  He's got
lost again!"

The children were on their feet in a moment.

"Where shall we look?" said Sylvie.

"Anywhere!" shouted the excited Professor.  "Only be quick about it!"
And he began trotting round and round the room, lifting up the chairs,
and shaking them.

Bruno took a very small book out of the bookcase, opened it, and shook
it in imitation of the Professor.  "He isn't here," he said.

"He ca'n't be there, Bruno!"  Sylvie said indignantly.

"Course he ca'n't!" said Bruno.  "I should have shooked him out,
if he'd been in there!"

"Has he ever been lost before?"  Sylvie enquired, turning up a corner of
the hearth-rug, and peeping under it.

"Once before," said the Professor: "he once lost himself in a wood--"

"And couldn't he find his-self again?" said Bruno.  "Why didn't he
shout?  He'd be sure to hear his-self, 'cause he couldn't be far off,
oo know."

"Lets try shouting," said the Professor.

"What shall we shout?" said Sylvie.

"On second thoughts, don't shout," the Professor replied.
"The Vice-Warden might hear you.  He's getting awfully strict!"

This reminded the poor children of all the troubles, about which they
had come to their old friend. Bruno sat down on the floor and began
crying.  "He is so cruel!" he sobbed.  "And he lets Uggug take away all
my toys!  And such horrid meals!"

"What did you have for dinner to-day?" said the Professor.

"A little piece of a dead crow," was Bruno's mournful reply.

"He means rook-pie," Sylvie explained.

"It were a dead crow," Bruno persisted.  "And there were a apple-pudding
--and Uggug ate it all--and I got nuffin but a crust!  And I asked for
a orange--and--didn't get it!"  And the poor little fellow buried his face
in Sylvie's lap, who kept gently stroking his hair,as she went on.
"It's all true, Professor dear!  They do treat my darling Bruno very badly!
And they're not kind to me either," she added in a lower tone,
as if that were a thing of much less importance.

The Professor got out a large red silk handkerchief, and wiped his eyes.
"I wish I could help you, dear children!" he said.  "But what can I do?"

"We know the way to Fairyland--where Father's gone--quite well,"
said Sylvie: "if only the Gardener would let us out."

"Won't he open the door for you?" said the Professor.

"Not for us," said Sylvie: "but I'm sure he would for you.
Do come and ask him, Professor dear!"

"I'll come this minute!" said the Professor.

Bruno sat up and dried his eyes.  "Isn't he kind, Mister Sir?"

"He is indeed," said I.  But the Professor took no notice of my remark.
He had put on a beautiful cap with a long tassel, and was selecting one
of the Other Professor's walking-sticks, from a stand in the corner of
the room.  "A thick stick in one's hand makes people respectful,"
he was saying to himself. "Come along, dear children!"  And we all went
out into the garden together.

"I shall address him, first of all," the Professor explained as we went
along, "with a few playful remarks on the weather.  I shall then question
him about the Other Professor.  This will have a double advantage.  First,
it will open the conversation (you can't even drink a bottle of wine
without opening it first): and secondly, if he's seen the Other Professor,
we shall find him that way: and, if he hasn't, we sha'n't."

On our way, we passed the target, at which Uggug had been made to shoot
during the Ambassador's visit.

"See!" said the Professor, pointing out a hole in the middle of the
bull's-eye.  "His Imperial Fatness had only one shot at it; and he went
in just here!

Bruno carefully examined the hole.  "Couldn't go in there,"
he whispered to me.  "He are too fat!"

We had no sort of difficulty in finding the Gardener.  Though he was
hidden from us by some trees, that harsh voice of his served to direct
us; and, as we drew nearer, the words of his song became more and more
plainly audible:-

    "He thought he saw an Albatross
    That fluttered round the lamp:
    He looked again, and found it was
    A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
    'You'd best be getting home,' he said:
    'The nights are very damp!'"

[Image...He thought he saw an albatross]

"Would it be afraid of catching cold?" said Bruno.

If it got very damp," Sylvie suggested, "it might stick to something,
you know."

"And that somefin would have to go by the post, what ever it was!"
Bruno eagerly exclaimed.  "Suppose it was a cow!  Wouldn't it be
dreadful for the other things!"

"And all these things happened to him," said the Professor.
"That's what makes the song so interesting."

"He must have had a very curious life," said Sylvie.

"You may say that!" the Professor heartily rejoined.

"Of course she may!" cried Bruno.

By this time we had come up to the Gardener, who was standing on one
leg, as usual, and busily employed in watering a bed of flowers with an
empty watering-can.

"It hasn't got no water in it!"  Bruno explained to him, pulling his
sleeve to attract his attention.

"It's lighter to hold," said the Gardener.  "A lot of water in it makes
one's arms ache." And he went on with his work, singing softly to himself

"The nights are very damp!"

"In digging things out of the ground which you probably do now and
then," the Professor began in a loud voice; "in making things into
heaps--which no doubt you often do; and in kicking things about with
one heel--which you seem never to leave off doing; have you ever
happened to notice another Professor something like me, but different?"

"Never!" shouted the Gardener, so loudly and violently that we all drew
back in alarm.  "There ain't such a thing!"

"We will try a less exciting topic," the Professor mildly remarked to
the children.  "You were asking--"

"We asked him to let us through the garden-door," said Sylvie:
"but he wouldn't: but perhaps he would for you!"

The Professor put the request, very humbly and courteously.

"I wouldn't mind letting you out," said the Gardener.  "But I mustn't
open the door for children.  D'you think I'd disobey the Rules?
Not for one-and-sixpence!"

The Professor cautiously produced a couple of shillings.

"That'll do it!" the Gardener shouted, as he hurled the watering-can
across the flower-bed, and produced a handful of keys--one large one,
and a number of small ones.

"But look here, Professor dear!" whispered Sylvie.  "He needn't open
the door for us, at all.  We can go out with you."

"True, dear child!" the Professor thankfully replied, as he replaced
the coins in his pocket.  "That saves two shillings!"  And he took the
children's hands, that they might all go out together when the door was
opened.  This, however, did not seem a very likely event, though the
Gardener patiently tried all the small keys, over and over again.

At last the Professor ventured on a gentle suggestion.  "Why not try
the large one?  I have often observed that a door unlocks much more
nicely with its own key."

The very first trial of the large key proved a success: the Gardener
opened the door, and held out his hand for the money.

The Professor shook his head.  "You are acting by Rule," he explained,
"in opening the door for me. And now it's open, we are going out by
Rule--the Rule of Three."

The Gardener looked puzzled, and let us go out; but, as he locked the
door behind us, we heard him singing thoughtfully to himself

    "He thought he saw a Garden-Door
    That opened with a key:
    He looked again, and found it was
    A Double Rule of Three:
    'And all its mystery,' he said,
    'Is clear as day to me!'"

"I shall now return," said the Professor, when we had walked a few
yards: "you see, it's impossible to read here, for all my books are in
the house."

But the children still kept fast hold of his hands.  "Do come with us!"
Sylvie entreated with tears in her eyes.

"Well, well!" said the good-natured old man.  "Perhaps I'll come after
you, some day soon.  But I must go back now.  You see I left off at a
comma, and it's so awkward not knowing how the sentence finishes!
Besides, you've got to go through Dogland first, and I'm always a
little nervous about dogs. But it'll be quite easy to come, as soon as
I've completed my new invention--for carrying one's-self, you know.
It wants just a little more working out."

"Won't that be very tiring, to carry yourself?"  Sylvie enquired.

"Well, no, my child.  You see, whatever fatigue one incurs by carrying,
one saves by being carried!  Good-bye, dears!  Good-bye, Sir!" he added
to my intense surprise, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze.

"Good-bye, Professor!"  I replied: but my voice sounded strange and far
away, and the children took not the slightest notice of our farewell.
Evidently they neither saw me nor heard me, as, with their arms
lovingly twined round each other, they marched boldly on.


CHAPTER 13.

A VISIT TO DOGLAND.

"There's a house, away there to the left," said Sylvie, after we had
walked what seemed to me about fifty miles.  "Let's go and ask for a
night's lodging."

"It looks a very comfable house," Bruno said, as we turned into the
road leading up to it.  "I doos hope the Dogs will be kind to us,
I is so tired and hungry!"

A Mastiff, dressed in a scarlet collar, and carrying a musket,
was pacing up and down, like a sentinel, in front of the entrance.
He started, on catching sight of the children, and came forwards to meet
them, keeping his musket pointed straight at Bruno, who stood quite
still, though he turned pale and kept tight hold of Sylvie's hand,
while the Sentinel walked solemnly round and round them, and looked at
them from all points of view.

[Image...The mastiff-sentinel]

"Oobooh, hooh boohooyah!"  He growled at last.  "Woobah yahwah oobooh!
Bow wahbah woobooyah?  Bow wow?" he asked Bruno, severely.

Of course Bruno understood all this, easily enough.  All Fairies
understand Doggee---that is, Dog-language.  But, as you may find it a
little difficult, just at first, I had better put it into English for
you.  "Humans, I verily believe!  A couple of stray Humans!
What Dog do you belong to?  What do you want?"

"We don't belong to a Dog!"  Bruno began, in Doggee.
("Peoples never belongs to Dogs!" he whispered to Sylvie.)

But Sylvie hastily checked him, for fear of hurting the Mastiff's
feelings.  "Please, we want a little food, and a night's lodging--if
there's room in the house," she added timidly.  Sylvie spoke Doggee
very prettily: but I think it's almost better, for you, to give the
conversation in English.

"The house, indeed!" growled the Sentinel.  "Have you never seen a
Palace in your life?

Come along with me!  His Majesty must settle what's to be done with you."

They followed him through the entrance-hall, down a long passage, and
into a magnificent Saloon, around which were grouped dogs of all sorts
and sizes.  Two splendid Blood-hounds were solemnly sitting up, one on
each side of the crown-bearer.  Two or three Bull-dogs---whom I guessed
to be the Body-Guard of the King--were waiting in grim silence: in fact
the only voices at all plainly audible were those of two little dogs,
who had mounted a settee, and were holding a lively discussion that
looked very like a quarrel.

"Lords and Ladies in Waiting, and various Court Officials," our guide
gruffly remarked, as he led us in.  Of me the Courtiers took no notice
whatever: but Sylvie and Bruno were the subject of many inquisitive
looks, and many whispered remarks, of which I only distinctly caught
one--made by a sly-looking Dachshund to his friend "Bah wooh wahyah
hoobah Oobooh, hah bah?"  ("She's not such a bad-looking Human, is she?")

Leaving the new arrivals in the centre of the Saloon, the Sentinel
advanced to a door, at the further end of it, which bore an inscription,
painted on it in Doggee, "Royal Kennel--scratch and Yell."

Before doing this, the Sentinel turned to the children, and said
"Give me your names."

"We'd rather not!"  Bruno exclaimed, pulling' Sylvie away from the door.
"We want them ourselves. Come back, Sylvie!  Come quick!"

"Nonsense!', said Sylvie very decidedly: and gave their names in Doggee.

Then the Sentinel scratched violently at the door, and gave a yell that
made Bruno shiver from head to foot.

"Hooyah wah!" said a deep voice inside.  (That's Doggee for "Come in!")

"It's the King himself!" the Mastiff whispered in an awestruck tone.
"Take off your wigs, and lay them humbly at his paws." (What we should
call "at his feet.")

Sylvie was just going to explain, very politely, that really they
couldn't perform that ceremony, because their wigs wouldn't come off,
when the door of the Royal Kennel opened, and an enormous Newfoundland
Dog put his head out.  "Bow wow?" was his first question.

"When His Majesty speaks to you," the Sentinel hastily whispered to Bruno,
"you should prick up your ears!"

Bruno looked doubtfully at Sylvie.  "I'd rather not, please," he said.
"It would hurt."

[Image...The dog-king]

"It doesn't hurt a bit!" the Sentinel said with some indignation. "Look!
It's like this!"  And he pricked up his ears like two railway signals.

Sylvie gently explained matters.  "I'm afraid we ca'n't manage it,"
she said in a low voice.  "I'm very sorry: but our ears haven't got the
right--" she wanted to say "machinery" in Doggee: but she had forgotten
the word, and could only think of "steam-engine."

The Sentinel repeated Sylvie's explanation to the King.

"Can't prick up their ears without a steam-engine!"  His Majesty exclaimed.
"They must be curious creatures!  I must have a look at them!"
And he came out of his Kennel, and walked solemnly up to the children.

What was the amazement--nor to say the horror of the whole assembly,
when Sylvie actually patted His Majesty on the head, while Bruno seized
his long ears and pretended to tie them together under his chin!

The Sentinel groaned aloud: a beautiful Greyhound who appeared to be
one of the Ladies in Waiting--fainted away: and all the other Courtiers
hastily drew back, and left plenty of room for the huge Newfoundland to
spring upon the audacious strangers, and tear them limb from limb.

Only--he didn't.  On the contrary his Majesty actually smiled so far as
a Dog can smile--and (the other Dogs couldn't believe their eyes,
but it was true, all the same) his Majesty wagged his tail!

"Yah! Hooh hahwooh!" (that is "Well! I never!") was the universal cry.

His Majesty looked round him severely, and gave a slight growl, which
produced instant silence. "Conduct my friends to the banqueting-hall!"
he said, laying such an emphasis on "my friends" that several of the
dogs rolled over helplessly on their backs and began to lick Bruno's
feet.

A procession was formed, but I only ventured to follow as far as the
door of the banqueting-hall, so furious was the uproar of barking dogs
within.  So I sat down by the King, who seemed to have gone to sleep,
and waited till the children returned to say good-night, when His
Majesty got up and shook himself.

"Time for bed!" he said with a sleepy yawn.  "The attendants will show
you your room," he added, aside, to Sylvie and Bruno.  "Bring lights!"
And, with a dignified air, he held out his paw for them to kiss.

But the children were evidently not well practised in Court-manners.
Sylvie simply stroked the great paw: Bruno hugged it: the Master of the
Ceremonies looked shocked.

All this time Dog-waiters, in splendid livery, were running up with
lighted candles: but, as fast as they put them upon the table, other
waiters ran away with them, so that there never seemed to be one for
me, though the Master kept nudging me with his elbow, and repeating"
I ca'n't let you sleep here!  You're not in bed, you know!"

I made a great effort, and just succeeded in getting out the words
"I know I'm not.  I'm in an arm-chair."

"Well, forty winks will do you no harm," the Master said, and left me.
I could scarcely hear his words: and no wonder: he was leaning over the
side of a ship, that was miles away from the pier on which I stood.
The ship passed over the horizon and I sank back into the arm-chair.

The next thing I remember is that it was morning: breakfast was just
over: Sylvie was lifting Bruno down from a high chair, and saying to a
Spaniel, who was regarding them with a most benevolent smile, "Yes,
thank you we've had a very nice breakfast. Haven't we, Bruno?"

There was too many bones in the--Bruno began, but Sylvie frowned at him,
and laid her finger on her lips, for, at this moment, the travelers
were waited on by a very dignified officer, the Head-Growler, whose duty
it was, first to conduct them to the King to bid him farewell and then
to escort them to the boundary of Dogland.  The great Newfoundland
received them most affably but instead of saying "good-bye he startled
the Head-growler into giving three savage growls, by announcing that he
would escort them himself.

It is a most unusual proceeding, your Majesty! the Head-Growler
exclaimed, almost choking with vexation at being set aside, for he had
put on his best Court-suit, made entirely of cat-skins, for the occasion.

"I shall escort them myself," his Majesty repeated, gently but firmly,
laying aside the Royal robes, and changing his crown for a small
coronet, "and you may stay at home."

"I are glad!"  Bruno whispered to Sylvie, when they had got well out of
hearing.  "He were so welly cross!"  And he not only patted their Royal
escort, but even hugged him round the neck in the exuberance of his
delight.

His Majesty calmly wagged the Royal tail.  "It's quite a relief,"
he said, "getting away from that Palace now and then!  Royal Dogs have a
dull life of it, I can tell you!  Would you mind" (this to Sylvie, in a
low voice, and looking a little shy and embarrassed) "would you mind
the trouble of just throwing that stick for me to fetch?"

Sylvie was too much astonished to do anything for a moment: it sounded
such a monstrous impossibility that a King should wish to run after a
stick.  But Bruno was equal to the occasion, and with a glad shout of
"Hi then!  Fetch it, good Doggie!" he hurled it over a clump of bushes.
The next moment the Monarch of Dogland had bounded over the bushes, and
picked up the stick, and came galloping back to the children with it in
his mouth.  Bruno took it from him with great decision.  "Beg for it!"
he insisted; and His Majesty begged.  "Paw!" commanded Sylvie; and His
Majesty gave his paw.  In short, the solemn ceremony of escorting the
travelers to the boundaries of Dogland became one long uproarious game
of play!

"But business is business!" the Dog-King said at last.  "And I must go
back to mine.  I couldn't come any further," he added, consulting a
dog-watch, which hung on a chain round his neck, "not even if there
were a Cat insight!"

They took an affectionate farewell of His Majesty, and trudged on.

"That were a dear dog!"  Bruno exclaimed.  "Has we to go far, Sylvie?
I's tired!"

"Not much further, darling!"  Sylvie gently replied.  "Do you see that
shining, just beyond those trees? I'm almost sure it's the gate of
Fairyland!  I know it's all golden--Father told me so and so bright,
so bright!" she went on dreamily.

"It dazzles!" said Bruno, shading his eyes with one little hand, while
the other clung tightly to Sylvie's hand, as if he were half-alarmed at
her strange manner.

For the child moved on as if walking in her sleep, her large eyes
gazing into the far distance, and her breath coming and going in quick
pantings of eager delight.  I knew, by some mysterious mental light,
that a great change was taking place in my sweet little friend
(for such I loved to think her) and that she was passing from the
condition of a mere Outland Sprite into the true Fairy-nature.

Upon Bruno the change came later: but it was completed in both before
they reached the golden gate, through which I knew it would be
impossible for me to follow.  I could but stand outside, and take a
last look at the two sweet children, ere they disappeared within,
and the golden gate closed with a bang.

And with such a bang!  "It never will shut like any other
cupboard-door," Arthur explained.  "There's something wrong with the
hinge.  However, here's the cake and wine.  And you've had your forty
winks.  So you really must get off to bed, old man!  You're fit for
nothing else.  Witness my hand, Arthur Forester, M.D."

By this time I was wide-awake again.  "Not quite yet!"  I pleaded.
"Really I'm not sleepy now.  And it isn't midnight yet."

"Well, I did want to say another word to you," Arthur replied in a
relenting tone, as he supplied me with the supper he had prescribed.
"Only I thought you were too sleepy for it to-night."

We took our midnight meal almost in silence; for an unusual nervousness
seemed to have seized on my old friend.

"What kind of a night is it?" he asked, rising and undrawing the
window-curtains, apparently to change the subject for a minute.
I followed him to the window, and we stood together, looking out,
in silence.

"When I first spoke to you about--" Arthur began, after a long and
embarrassing silence, "that is, when we first talked about her--for I
think it was you that introduced the subject--my own position in life
forbade me to do more than worship her from a distance:
and I was turning over plans for leaving this place finally,
and settling somewhere out of all chance of meeting her again.
That seemed to be my only chance of usefulness in life.

Would that have been wise?"  I said.  "To leave yourself no hope at all?"

"There was no hope to leave," Arthur firmly replied, though his eyes
glittered with tears as he gazed upwards into the midnight sky, from
which one solitary star, the glorious 'Vega,' blazed out in fitful
splendour through the driving clouds.  "She was like that star to me--
bright, beautiful, and pure, but out of reach, out of reach!"

He drew the curtains again, and we returned to our places by the
fireside.

"What I wanted to tell you was this," he resumed.  "I heard this
evening from my solicitor.  I can't go into the details of the
business, but the upshot is that my worldly wealth is much more than I
thought, and I am (or shall soon be) in a position to offer marriage,
without imprudence, to any lady, even if she brought nothing.  I doubt
if there would be anything on her side: the Earl is poor, I believe.
But I should have enough for both, even if health failed."

"I wish you all happiness in your married life!"  I cried.
"Shall you speak to the Earl to-morrow?"

"Not yet awhile," said Arthur.  "He is very friendly, but I dare not
think he means more than that, as yet.  And as for--as for Lady Muriel,
try as I may, I cannot read her feelings towards me.  If there is love,
she is hiding it!  No, I must wait, I must wait!"

I did not like to press any further advice on my friend, whose
judgment, I felt, was so much more sober and thoughtful than my own;
and we parted without more words on the subject that had now absorbed
his thoughts, nay, his very life.

The next morning a letter from my solicitor arrived, summoning me to
town on important business.


CHAPTER 14.

FAIRY-SYLVlE.

For a full month the business, for which I had returned to London,
detained me there: and even then it was only the urgent advice of my
physician that induced me to leave it unfinished and pay another visit
to Elveston.

Arthur had written once or twice during the month; but in none of his
letters was there any mention of Lady Muriel.  Still, I did not augur
ill from his silence: to me it looked like the natural action of a lover,
who, even while his heart was singing "She is mine!", would fear to
paint his happiness in the cold phrases of a written letter, but would
wait to tell it by word of mouth.  "Yes," I thought, "I am to hear his
song of triumph from his own lips!"

The night I arrived we had much to say on other matters: and, tired
with the journey, I went to bed early, leaving the happy secret still
untold.  Next day, however, as we chatted on over the remains of
luncheon, I ventured to put the momentous question.  "Well, old friend,
you have told me nothing of Lady Muriel--nor when the happy day is to be?"

"The happy day," Arthur said, looking unexpectedly grave, "is yet in
the dim future.  We need to know--or, rather, she needs to know me better.
I know her sweet nature, thoroughly, by this time. But I dare not speak
till I am sure that my love is returned."

"Don't wait too long!"  I said gaily.  "Faint heart never won fair lady!"

"It is 'faint heart,' perhaps.  But really I dare not speak just yet."

"But meanwhile," I pleaded, "you are running a risk that perhaps you
have not thought of.  Some other man--"

"No," said Arthur firmly.  "She is heart-whole: I am sure of that.
Yet, if she loves another better than me, so be it!  I will not spoil
her happiness.  The secret shall die with me.  But she is my first--
and my only love!"

"That is all very beautiful sentiment," I said, "but it is not practical.
It is not like you.

    He either fears his fate too much,
    Or his desert is small,
    Who dares not put it to the touch,
    To win or lose it all."

"I dare not ask the question whether there is another!" he said
passionately.  "It would break my heart to know it!"

"Yet is it wise to leave it unasked?  You must not waste your life upon
an 'if'!"

"I tell you I dare not!', "May I find it out for you?"  I asked, with
the freedom of an old friend.

"No, no!" he replied with a pained look.  "I entreat you to say nothing.
Let it wait."

"As you please," I said: and judged it best to say no more just then.
"But this evening," I thought, "I will call on the Earl.  I may be
able to see how the land lies, without so much as saying a word!"

It was a very hot afternoon--too hot to go for a walk or do anything--
or else it wouldn't have happened, I believe.

In the first place, I want to know--dear Child who reads this!--why
Fairies should always be teaching us to do our duty, and lecturing us
when we go wrong, and we should never teach them anything?  You can't
mean to say that Fairies are never greedy, or selfish, or cross, or
deceitful, because that would be nonsense, you know.  Well then, don't
you think they might be all the better for a little lecturing and
punishing now and then?

I really don't see why it shouldn't be tried, and I'm almost sure that,
if you could only catch a Fairy, and put it in the corner, and give it
nothing but bread and water for a day or two, you'd find it quite an
improved character--it would take down its conceit a little, at all
events.

The next question is, what is the best time for seeing Fairies?
I believe I can tell you all about that.

The first rule is, that it must be a very hot day--that we may consider
as settled: and you must be just a little sleepy--but not too sleepy to
keep your eyes open, mind.  Well, and you ought to feel a little--what
one may call "fairyish "--the Scotch call it "eerie," and perhaps
that's a prettier word; if you don't know what it means, I'm afraid I
can hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a Fairy, and then
you'll know.

And the last rule is, that the crickets should not be chirping.
I can't stop to explain that: you must take it on trust for the present.

So, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance of
seeing a Fairy--or at least a much better chance than if they didn't.

The first thing I noticed, as I went lazily along through an open place
in the wood, was a large Beetle lying struggling on its back,
and I went down upon one knee to help the poor thing to its feet again.
In some things, you know, you ca'n't be quite sure what an insect would
like: for instance, I never could quite settle, supposing I were a
moth, whether I would rather be kept out of the candle, or be allowed
to fly straight in and get burnt--or again, supposing I were a spider,
I'm not sure if I should be quite pleased to have my web torn down,
and the fly let loose--but I feel quite certain that, if I were a beetle
and had rolled over on my back, I should always be glad to be helped up
again.

So, as I was saying, I had gone down upon one knee, and was just
reaching out a little stick to turn the Beetle over, when I saw a sight
that made me draw back hastily and hold my breath, for fear of making
any noise and frightening the little creature a way.

Not that she looked as if she would be easily frightened: she seemed so
good and gentle that I'm sure she would never expect that any one could
wish to hurt her.  She was only a few inches high, and was dressed in
green, so that you really would hardly have noticed her among the long
grass; and she was so delicate and graceful that she quite seemed to
belong to the place, almost as if she were one of the flowers.  I may
tell you, besides, that she had no wings (I don't believe in Fairies
with wings), and that she had quantities of long brown hair and large
earnest brown eyes, and then I shall have done all I can to give you an
idea of her.

[Image...Fairy-sylvie]

Sylvie (I found out her name afterwards) had knelt down, just as I was
doing, to help the Beetle; but it needed more than a little stick for
her to get it on its legs again; it was as much as she could do,
with both arms, to roll the heavy thing over; and all the while she
was talking to it, half scolding and half comforting, as a nurse might
do with a child that had fallen down.

"There, there!  You needn't cry so much about it.  You're not killed
yet--though if you were, you couldn't cry, you know, and so it's a
general rule against crying, my dear!  And how did you come to tumble
over?  But I can see well enough how it was--I needn't ask you that--
walking over sand-pits with your chin in the air, as usual.
Of course if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect to tumble.
You should look."

The Beetle murmured something that sounded like "I did look," and Sylvie
went on again.

"But I know you didn't!  You never do!  You always walk with your chin
up--you're so dreadfully conceited.  Well, let's see how many legs are
broken this time.  Why, none of them, I declare!  And what's the good
of having six legs, my dear, if you can only kick them all about in the
air when you tumble?  Legs are meant to walk with, you know.  Now don't
begin putting out your wings yet; I've more to say.  Go to the frog
that lives behind that buttercup--give him my compliments--Sylvie's
compliments--can you say compliments'?"

The Beetle tried and, I suppose, succeeded.

"Yes, that's right.  And tell him he's to give you some of that salve I
left with him yesterday.  And you'd better get him to rub it in for you.
He's got rather cold hands, but you mustn't mind that."

I think the Beetle must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went on
in a graver tone.  "Now you needn't pretend to be so particular as all
that, as if you were too grand to be rubbed by a frog.  The fact is,
you ought to be very much obliged to him.  Suppose you could get nobody
but a toad to do it, how would you like that?"

There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added "Now you may go.
Be a good beetle, and don't keep your chin in the air." And then began
one of those performances of humming, and whizzing, and restless banging
about, such as a beetle indulges in when it has decided on flying, but
hasn't quite made up its mind which way to go.  At last, in one of its
awkward zigzags, it managed to fly right into my face, and, by the time
I had recovered from the shock, the little Fairy was gone.

I looked about in all directions for the little creature, but there was
no trace of her--and my 'eerie' feeling was quite gone off, and the
crickets were chirping again merrily--so I knew she was really gone.

And now I've got time to tell you the rule about the crickets.
They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by--because a Fairy's a
kind of queen over them, I suppose--at all events it's a much grander
thing than a cricket--so whenever you're walking out, and the crickets
suddenly leave off chirping, you may be sure that they see a Fairy.

I walked on sadly enough, you may be sure.  However, I comforted myself
with thinking "It's been a very wonderful afternoon, so far.  I'll just
go quietly on and look about me, and I shouldn't wonder if I were to
come across another Fairy somewhere."

Peering about in this way, I happened to notice a plant with rounded
leaves, and with queer little holes cut in the middle of several of
them.  "Ah, the leafcutter bee!"  I carelessly remarked--you know I am
very learned in Natural History (for instance, I can always tell
kittens from chickens at one glance)--and I was passing on, when a
sudden thought made me stoop down and examine the leaves.

Then a little thrill of delight ran through me --for I noticed that the
holes were all arranged so as to form letters; there were three leaves
side by side, with "B," "R," and "U" marked on them, and after some
search I found two more, which contained an "N" and an "O."

And then, all in a moment, a flash of inner light seemed to illumine a
part of my life that had all but faded into oblivion--the strange
visions I had experienced during my journey to Elveston: and with a
thrill of delight I thought "Those visions are destined to be linked
with my waking life!"

By this time the 'eerie' feeling had come back again, and I suddenly
observed that no crickets were chirping; so I felt quite sure that
"Bruno was somewhere very near.

And so indeed he was--so near that I had very nearly walked over him
without seeing him; which would have been dreadful, always supposing
that Fairies can be walked over my own belief is that they are
something of the nature of Will-o'-the-wisps: and there's no walking
over them.

Think of any pretty little boy you know, with rosy cheeks, large dark
eyes, and tangled brown hair, and then fancy him made small enough to
go comfortably into a coffee-cup, and you'll have a very fair idea of
him.

"What's your name, little one?"  I began, in as soft a voice as I could
manage.  And, by the way, why is it we always begin by asking little
children their names?  Is it because we fancy a name will help to make
them a little bigger?  You never thought of as king a real large man
his name, now, did you? But, however that may be, I felt it quite
necessary to know his name; so, as he didn't answer my question,
I asked it again a little louder.  "What's your name, my little man?"

"What's oors?" he said, without looking up.

I told him my name quite gently, for he was much too small to be angry
with.

"Duke of Anything?" he asked, just looking at me for a moment,
and then going on with his work.

"Not Duke at all," I said, a little ashamed of having to confess it.

"Oo're big enough to be two Dukes," said the little creature.
"I suppose oo're Sir Something, then?"

"No," I said, feeling more and more ashamed.  "I haven't got any title."

The Fairy seemed to think that in that case I really wasn't worth the
trouble of talking to, for he quietly went on digging, and tearing the
flowers to pieces.

After a few minutes I tried again.  "Please tell me what your name is."

"Bruno," the little fellow answered, very readily.  "Why didn't oo say
'please' before?"

"That's something like what we used to be taught in the nursery,"
I thought to myself, looking back through the long years (about a hundred
of them, since you ask the question), to the time when I was a little
child.  And here an idea came into my head, and I asked him "Aren't you
one of the Fairies that teach children to be good?"

"Well, we have to do that sometimes," said Bruno, "and a dreadful
bother it is." As he said this, he savagely tore a heartsease in two,
and trampled on the pieces.

"What are you doing there, Bruno?"  I said.

"Spoiling Sylvie's garden," was all the answer Bruno would give at
first.  But, as he went on tearing up the flowers, he muttered to
himself "The nasty cross thing wouldn't let me go and play this
morning,--said I must finish my lessons first--lessons, indeed!
I'll vex her finely, though!"

"Oh, Bruno, you shouldn't do that!"  I cried.

"Don't you know that's revenge?  And revenge is a wicked, cruel,
dangerous thing!"

"River-edge?" said Bruno.  "What a funny word!  I suppose oo call it
cruel and dangerous 'cause, if oo wented too far and tumbleded in,
oo'd get drownded."

"No, not river-edge," I explained: "revenge" (saying the word very
slowly).  But I couldn't help thinking that Bruno's explanation did
very well for either word.

"Oh!" said Bruno, opening his eyes very wide, but without trying to
repeat the word.

"Come!  Try and pronounce it, Bruno!"  I said, cheerfully.  "Re-venge,
re-venge."

But Bruno only tossed his little head, and said he couldn't; that his
mouth wasn't the right shape for words of that kind.  And the more I
laughed, the more sulky the little fellow got about it.

"Well, never mind, my little man!"  I said.

"Shall I help you with that job?"

"Yes, please," Bruno said, quite pacified.

"Only I wiss I could think of somefin to vex her more than this.
Oo don't know how hard it is to make her angry!"

"Now listen to me, Bruno, and I'll teach you quite a splendid kind of
revenge!"

"Somefin that'll vex her finely?" he asked with gleaming eyes.

"Something that will vex her finely.  First, we'll get up all the weeds
in her garden.  See, there are a good many at this end quite hiding the
flowers."

"But that won't vex her!" said Bruno.

"After that," I said, without noticing the remark, "we'll water this
highest bed--up here.  You see it's getting quite dry and dusty."

Bruno looked at me inquisitively, but he said nothing this time.

"Then after that," I went on, "the walks want sweeping a bit; and I
think you might cut down that tall nettle--it's so close to the garden
that it's quite in the way--"

"What is oo talking about?"  Bruno impatiently interrupted me.
