Alice's Adventure In Wonderland by Lewis Carroll (free ebooks romance novels .txt) 📖

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 with 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 END

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