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- Journeys Through Bookland V3 - 4/69 -

As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes."

"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 again 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 she 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 oyster were sharing the pie."

"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 p ennyworth 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!"



"Will you walk into my parlor?" Said a spider to a fly: 'Tis the prettiest little parlor That ever you did spy. The way into my parlor Is up a winding stair, And I have many pretty things To show when you are there." "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "To ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair Can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary With soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" Said the spider to the fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around, The sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in." "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "For I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again Who sleep upon your bed."

Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? I have within my pantry Good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome-- Will you please to take a slice?" "Oh, no, no!" said the little fly; "Kind sir, that cannot be; I've heard what's in your pantry, And I do not wish to see."

"Sweet creature," said the spider, "You're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, How brilliant are your eyes. I have a little looking-glass Upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, You shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "For what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning, now, I'll call another day."

The spider turned him round about, And went into his den, For well he knew the silly fly Would soon be back again; So he wove a subtle thread In a little corner sly, And set his table ready To dine upon the fly. He went out to his door again, And merrily did sing, "Come hither, hither, pretty fly, With the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, There's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, But mine are dull as lead."

Alas, alas! how very soon This silly little fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, Came slowly flitting by: With buzzing wings she hung aloft, Then near and nearer drew-- Thought only of her brilliant eyes And green and purple hue; Thought only of her crested head-- Poor foolish thing! At last Up jumped the cunning spider, And fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, Into his dismal den, Within his little parlor--but She ne'er came out again! And now, dear little children Who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you, ne'er give heed: Unto an evil counsellor Close heart and ear and eye, And learn a lesson from this tale Of the spider and the fly.



My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand sweet song.



Alice threw herself down to rest on a lawn as soft as moss, with little flower beds dotted about it here and there. "Oh, how glad I am to get here! And what IS this on my head?" she exclaimed, as she put her hands up to something very heavy, that fitted tight all round her head.

Journeys Through Bookland V3 - 4/69

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