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 the 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, 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 was 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. Father William "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!" The Whiting and the Snail "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 askanceSaid 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?" From THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snickersnack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice. I wish you were not quite so deafI've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick. After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, "O Oysters," said the Carpenter, But answer came there noneAnd this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. RICHARD WATSON DIXON Ode on Advancing Age THOU goest more and more To the silent things; thy hair is hoar, Emptier thy weary face; like to the shore Far-ruined, and the desolate billow white, That recedes and leaves it waif-wrinkled, gap-rocked, weak. The shore and the billow white Groan, they cry and rest not; they would speak, And call the eternal Night To cease them for ever; bidding new things issue From her cold tissue: Night that is ever young, nor knows decay, Though older by eternity than they. Go down upon the shore. The breakers dash, the smitten spray drops to the roar; The spit upsprings, and drops again, Where'er the white waves clash in the main. Their sound is but one: 'tis the cry That has risen from of old to the sky, 'Tis their silence! Go now from the shore Far-ruined: the grey shingly floor To thy crashing step answers; the doteril cries, And on dipping wings flies: "Tis their silence! And thou, oh thou To that wild silence sinkest now. No more remains to thee than the cry of silence, the cry Of the waves, of the shore, of the bird to the sky. The bald eyes 'neath as bald a brow Of the waves, of the shore, of the bird. The lordly essence which was unlike all, From all others that might be. Thy dog hath died before. Didst thou not mark him? did he not neglect What roused his rapture once, but still loved thee? Till, weaker grown, was he not fain reject With wearied sighs? He sought at last that never-moving night Which is the same in darkness, as in light, The closing of the eyes. So, Age, thou dealest us To the elements: but no! Resume thy pride, O man, that musest thus. Be to the end what thou hast been before: The ancient joy shall wrap thee stillthe tide Return upon the shore. WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) Mother and Son Now sleeps the land of houses, and dead night holds the street, And there thou liest, my baby, and sleepest soft and sweet; My man is away for awhile, but safe and alone we lie, And none heareth thy breath but thy mother, and the moon looking down from the sky On the weary waste of the town, as it looked on the grass-edged road Still warm with yesterday's sun, when I left my old abode; Hand in hand with my love, that night of all nights in the year; When the river of love o'erflowed and drowned all doubt and fear, And we two were alone in the world, and once if never again, We knew of the secret of earth and the tale of its labour and pain. Lo amidst London I lift thee, and how little and light thou art, And thou without hope or fear thou fear and hope of my heart! Lo here thy body beginning, O son, and thy soul and thy life; But how will it be if thou livest, and enterest into the strife, And in love we dwell together when the man is grown in thee, When thy sweet speech I shall hearken, and yet 'twixt thee and me Shall rise that wall of distance, that round each one doth grow, And maketh it hard and bitter each other's thought to know? Now, therefore, while yet thou art little and hast no thought of thine own, I will tell thee a word of the world, of the hope whence thou hast grown; Of the love that once begat thee, of the sorrow that hath made Thy little heart of hunger, and thy hands on my bosom laid. Then mayst thou remember hereafter as whiles when people say All this hath happened before in the life of another day; So mayst thou dimly remember this tale of thy mother's voice, As oft in the calm of dawning I have heard the birds rejoice, As oft I have heard the storm-wind go moaning through the wood; And I knew that earth was speaking, and the mother's voice was good. Now, to thee alone will I tell it that thy mother's body is fair, In the guise of the country maidens who play with the sun and the air; Who have stood in the row of the reapers in the August afternoon, Who have sat by the frozen water in the high day of the moon, When the lights of the Christmas feasting were dead in the house on the hill, And the wild geese gone to the saltmarsh had left the winter still. Yea, I am fair, my firstling; if thou couldst but remember me! The hair that thy small hand clutcheth is a goodly sight to see; I am true, but my face is a snare; soft and deep are my eyes, And they seem for men's beguiling fulfilled with the dreams of the wise. Kind are my lips, and they look as though my soul had learned Deep things I have never heard of, my face and my hands are burned By the lovely sun of the acres ; three months of London town |