Through the Looking-Glass
name, she’d call me ‘Miss!’ as the servants do.”
“Well, if she said ‘Miss,’ and didn’t say anything more,” the Gnat
remarked, “of course you’d miss your lessons. That’s a joke. I wish
_you_ had made it.”
“Why do you wish _I_ had made it?” Alice asked. “It’s a very bad one.”
But the Gnat only sighed deeply, while two large tears came rolling
down its cheeks.
“You shouldn’t make jokes,” Alice said, “if it makes you so unhappy.”
Then came another of those melancholy little sighs, and this time the
poor Gnat really seemed to have sighed itself away, for, when Alice
looked up, there was nothing whatever to be seen on the twig, and, as
she was getting quite chilly with sitting still so long, she got up and
walked on.
She very soon came to an open field, with a wood on the other side of
it: it looked much darker than the last wood, and Alice felt a _little_
timid about going into it. However, on second thoughts, she made up her
mind to go on: “for I certainly won’t go _back_,” she thought to
herself, and this was the only way to the Eighth Square.
“This must be the wood,” she said thoughtfully to herself, “where
things have no names. I wonder what’ll become of _my_ name when I go
in? I shouldn’t like to lose it at all—because they’d have to give me
another, and it would be almost certain to be an ugly one. But then the
fun would be trying to find the creature that had got my old name!
That’s just like the advertisements, you know, when people lose
dogs—‘_answers to the name of “Dash:” had on a brass collar_’—just
fancy calling everything you met ‘Alice,’ till one of them answered!
Only they wouldn’t answer at all, if they were wise.”
She was rambling on in this way when she reached the wood: it looked
very cool and shady. “Well, at any rate it’s a great comfort,” she said
as she stepped under the trees, “after being so hot, to get into
the—into _what_?” she went on, rather surprised at not being able to
think of the word. “I mean to get under the—under the—under _this_, you
know!” putting her hand on the trunk of the tree. “What _does_ it call
itself, I wonder? I do believe it’s got no name—why, to be sure it
hasn’t!”
She stood silent for a minute, thinking: then she suddenly began again.
“Then it really _has_ happened, after all! And now, who am I? I _will_
remember, if I can! I’m determined to do it!” But being determined
didn’t help much, and all she could say, after a great deal of
puzzling, was, “L, I _know_ it begins with L!”
Just then a Fawn came wandering by: it looked at Alice with its large
gentle eyes, but didn’t seem at all frightened. “Here then! Here then!”
Alice said, as she held out her hand and tried to stroke it; but it
only started back a little, and then stood looking at her again.
“What do you call yourself?” the Fawn said at last. Such a soft sweet
voice it had!
“I wish I knew!” thought poor Alice. She answered, rather sadly,
“Nothing, just now.”
“Think again,” it said: “that won’t do.”
Alice thought, but nothing came of it. “Please, would you tell me what
_you_ call yourself?” she said timidly. “I think that might help a
little.”
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll move a little further on,” the Fawn said. “I
can’t remember here.”
So they walked on together though the wood, Alice with her arms clasped
lovingly round the soft neck of the Fawn, till they came out into
another open field, and here the Fawn gave a sudden bound into the air,
and shook itself free from Alice’s arms. “I’m a Fawn!” it cried out in
a voice of delight, “and, dear me! you’re a human child!” A sudden look
of alarm came into its beautiful brown eyes, and in another moment it
had darted away at full speed.
Alice stood looking after it, almost ready to cry with vexation at
having lost her dear little fellow-traveller so suddenly. “However, I
know my name now.” she said, “that’s _some_ comfort. Alice—Alice—I
won’t forget it again. And now, which of these finger-posts ought I to
follow, I wonder?”
It was not a very difficult question to answer, as there was only one
road through the wood, and the two finger-posts both pointed along it.
“I’ll settle it,” Alice said to herself, “when the road divides and
they point different ways.”
But this did not seem likely to happen. She went on and on, a long way,
but wherever the road divided there were sure to be two finger-posts
pointing the same way, one marked “TO TWEEDLEDUM’S HOUSE” and the other
“TO THE HOUSE OF TWEEDLEDEE.”
“I do believe,” said Alice at last, “that they live in the same house!
I wonder I never thought of that before—But I can’t stay there long.
I’ll just call and say ‘how d’you do?’ and ask them the way out of the
wood. If I could only get to the Eighth Square before it gets dark!” So
she wandered on, talking to herself as she went, till, on turning a
sharp corner, she came upon two fat little men, so suddenly that she
could not help starting back, but in another moment she recovered
herself, feeling sure that they must be
CHAPTER IV.
Tweedledum And Tweedledee
They were standing under a tree, each with an arm round the other’s
neck, and Alice knew which was which in a moment, because one of them
had “DUM” embroidered on his collar, and the other “DEE.” “I suppose
they’ve each got ‘TWEEDLE’ round at the back of the collar,” she said
to herself.
They stood so still that she quite forgot they were alive, and she was
just looking round to see if the word ‘TWEEDLE’ was written at the back
of each collar, when she was startled by a voice coming from the one
marked “DUM.”
“If you think we’re wax-works,” he said, “you ought to pay, you know.
Wax-works weren’t made to be looked at for nothing, nohow!”
“Contrariwise,” added the one marked “DEE,” “if you think we’re alive,
you ought to speak.”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” was all Alice could say; for the words of
the old song kept ringing through her head like the ticking of a clock,
and she could hardly help saying them out loud:—
“Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Agreed to have a battle;
For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
Just then flew down a monstrous crow,
As black as a tar-barrel;
Which frightened both the heroes so,
They quite forgot their quarrel.”
“I know what you’re thinking about,” said Tweedledum: “but it isn’t so,
nohow.”
“Contrariwise,” continued Tweedledee, “if it was so, it might be; and
if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.”
“I was thinking,” Alice said very politely, “which is the best way out
of this wood: it’s getting so dark. Would you tell me, please?”
But the little men only looked at each other and grinned.
They looked so exactly like a couple of great schoolboys, that Alice
couldn’t help pointing her finger at Tweedledum, and saying “First
Boy!”
“Nohow!” Tweedledum cried out briskly, and shut his mouth up again with
a snap.
“Next Boy!” said Alice, passing on to Tweedledee, though she felt quite
certain he would only shout out “Contrariwise!” and so he did.
“You’ve been wrong!” cried Tweedledum. “The first thing in a visit is
to say ‘How d’ye do?’ and shake hands!” And here the two brothers gave
each other a hug, and then they held out the two hands that were free,
to shake hands with her.
Alice did not like shaking hands with either of them first, for fear of
hurting the other one’s feelings; so, as the best way out of the
difficulty, she took hold of both hands at once: the next moment they
were dancing round in a ring. This seemed quite natural (she remembered
afterwards), and she was not even surprised to hear music playing: it
seemed to come from the tree under which they were dancing, and it was
done (as well as she could make it out) by the branches rubbing one
across the other, like fiddles and fiddle-sticks.
“But it certainly _was_ funny,” (Alice said afterwards, when she was
telling her sister the history of all this,) “to find myself singing
‘_Here we go round the mulberry bush_.’ I don’t know when I began it,
but somehow I felt as if I’d been singing it a long long time!”
The other two dancers were fat, and very soon out of breath. “Four
times round is enough for one dance,” Tweedledum panted out, and they
left off dancing as suddenly as they had begun: the music stopped at
the same moment.
Then they let go of Alice’s hands, and stood looking at her for a
minute: there was a rather awkward pause, as Alice didn’t know how to
begin a conversation with people she had just been dancing with. “It
would never do to say ‘How d’ye do?’ _now_,” she said to herself: “we
seem to have got beyond that, somehow!”
“I hope you’re not much tired?” she said at last.
“Nohow. And thank you _very_ much for asking,” said Tweedledum.
“So _much_ obliged!” added Tweedledee. “You like poetry?”
“Ye-es, pretty well—_some_ poetry,” Alice said doubtfully. “Would you
tell me which road leads out of the wood?”
“What shall I repeat to her?” said Tweedledee, looking round at
Tweedledum with great solemn eyes, and not noticing Alice’s question.
“‘_The Walrus and the Carpenter_’ is the longest,” Tweedledum replied,
giving his brother an affectionate hug.
Tweedledee began instantly:
“The sun was shining—”
Here Alice ventured to interrupt him. “If it’s _very_ long,” she said,
as politely as she could, “would you please tell me first which road—”
Tweedledee smiled gently, and began again:
“The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
‘It’s very rude of him,’ she said,
‘To come and spoil the fun!’
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying over head—
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
‘If this were only cleared away,’
They said, ‘it _would_ be grand!’
‘If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,
‘That they could get it clear?’
‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!’
The Walrus did beseech.
‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.’
The eldest Oyster looked at him.
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,
‘To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings.’
‘But wait a bit,’ the Oysters cried,
‘Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!’
‘No hurry!’ said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.