CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON ('LEWIS CARROLL')

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 spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in, With gently smiling jaws!

'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.

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at! Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky.

'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 downstairs!'

From his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood, Made of sliding, folding rosewood; Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the second book of Euclid. This he perched upon a tripod, And the family in order Sat before him for their pictures. Mystic, awful was the process. First a piece of glass he coated With Collodion, and plunged it In a bath of Lunar Caustic Carefully dissolved in water: There he left it certain minutes. Secondly, my Hiawatha Made with cunning hand a mixture Of the acid Pyro-gallic, And of Glacial Acetic, And of Alcohol and water: This developed all the picture. Finally, he fixed each picture With a saturate solution Of a certain salt of Soda— Chemists call it Hyposulphite. (Very difficult the name is For a metre like the present, But periphrasis has done it.) All the family in order Sat before him for their pictures. Each in turn, as he was taken, Volunteered his own suggestions, His invaluable suggestions. First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And the corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die in tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it. Next, his better half took courage; She would have her picture taken: She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress. Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a nosegay Rather larger than a cabbage. All the while that she was taking, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkey in the forest. 'Am I sitting still?' she asked him. 'Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the nosegay higher? Will it come into the picture?' And the picture failed completely. Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curves of beauty, Curves pervading all his figure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centred in the breast-pin, Centred in the golden breast-pin. He had learnt it all from Ruskin (Author of 'The Stones of Venice,' 'Seven Lamps of Architecture,' 'Modern Painters,' and some others); And perhaps he had not fully Understood his author's meaning; But, whatever was the reason, All was fruitless, as the picture Ended in an utter failure. Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little; Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty.' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils. Hiawatha, when she asked him, Took no notice of the question, Looked as if he hadn't heard it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' Bit his lip and changed the subject. Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely. So in turn the other sisters. Last, the youngest son was taken: Very rough and thick his hair was, Very round and red his face was, Very dusty was his jacket, Very fidgetty his manner. And his overbearing sisters Called him names he disapproved of: Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,' Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy,' And, so awful was the picture, In comparison the others Might be thought to have succeeded, To have partially succeeded. Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, 'Grouped' is not the right expression,) And, as happy chance would have it, Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness. Then they joined and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As 'the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of. Giving one such strange expressions! Sulkiness, conceit, and meanness! Really any one would take us (Any one that did not know us) For the most unpleasant people!' (Hiawatha seemed to think so, Seemed to think it not unlikely.) All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus. But my Hiawatha's patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party. Neither did he leave them slowly, With that calm deliberation, That intense deliberation Which photographers aspire to: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mighty hurry, Vowing that he would not stand it. Hurriedly he packed his boxes, Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes; Hurriedly he took his ticket, Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha.

The First Voice. With hands tight clenched through matted hair, He crouched in trance of dumb despair: There came a breeze from out the air. It passed athwart the glooming flat— It fanned his forehead as he sat— It lightly bore away his hat, All to the feet of one who stood Like maid enchanted in a wood, Frowning as darkly as she could. With huge umbrella, lank and brown, Unerringly she pinned it down, Right through the centre of the crown. Then, with an aspect cold and grim, Regardless of its battered rim, She took it up and gave it him. Awhile like one in dreams he stood, Then faltered forth his gratitude, In words just short of being rude: For it had lost its shape and shine, And it had cost him four-and-nine, And he was going out to dine. With grave indifference to his speech, Fixing her eyes upon the beach, She said 'Each gives to more than each.' He could not answer yea or nay: He faltered 'Gifts may pass away.' Yet knew not what he meant to say. 'If that be so,' she straight replied, 'Each heart with each doth coincide. What boots it? For the world is wide.' And he, not wishing to appear Less wise, said 'This Material Sphere Is but Attributive Idea.' But when she asked him 'Wherefore so?' He felt his very whiskers glow, And frankly owned 'I do not know.' While, like broad waves of golden grain. Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane, His colour came and went again. Pitying his obvious distress, Yet with a tinge of bitterness, She said 'The More exceeds the Less.' 'A truth of such undoubted weight, He urged, 'and so extreme in date, It were superfluous to state.' Roused into sudden passion, she In tone of cold malignity: 'To others, yes: but not to thee.' But when she saw him quail and quake, And when he urged 'For pity's sake!' Once more in gentle tone she spake. 'Thought in the mind doth still abide; That is by Intellect supplied, And within that Idea doth hide. 'And he, that yearns the truth to know, Still further inwardly may go, And find Idea from Notion flow. 'And thus the chain, that sages sought, Is to a glorious circle wrought, For Notion hath its source in Thought.' When he, with racked and whirling brain, Feebly implored her to explain, She simply said it all again. Wrenched with an agony intense, He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense, And careless of all consequence: 'Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent— Abstract—that is—an Accident— Which we—that is to say—I meant—' When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed, At length his speech was somewhat hushed, She looked at him, and he was crushed. It needed not her calm reply: She fixed him with a stony eye, And he could neither fight nor fly, While she dissected, word by word, His speech, half guessed at and half heard, As might a cat a little bird. Then, having wholly overthrown His views, and stripped them to the bone, Proceeded to unfold her own. So passed they on with even pace, Yet gradually one might trace A shadow growing on his face. The Second Voice. They walked beside the wave-worn beach, Her tongue was very apt to teach, And now and then he did beseech She would abate her dulcet tone, Because the talk was all her own, And he was dull as any drone. She urged 'No cheese is made of chalk': And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, Tuned to the footfall of a walk. Her voice was very full and rich, And, when at length she asked him 'Which?' It mounted to its highest pitch. He a bewildered answer gave, Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, Lost in the echoes of the cave. He answered her he knew not what: Like shaft from bow at random shot: He spoke, but she regarded not. She waited not for his reply, But with a downward leaden eye Went on as if he were not by. Sound argument and grave defence, Strange questions raised on 'Why?' and 'Whence?' And weighted down with common sense. 'Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss Of other thoughts no thought but this, Harmonious dews of sober bliss? 'What boots it? Shall his fevered eye Through towering nothingness descry The grisly phantom hurry by? 'And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air; See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare And redden in the dusky glare? 'The meadows breathing amber light, The darkness toppling from the height, The feathery train of granite Night? 'Shall he, grown gray among his peers, Through the thick curtain of his tears Catch glimpses of his earlier years, 'And hear the sounds he knew of yore, Old shufflings on the sanded floor, Old knuckles tapping at the door? 'Yet still before him as he flies One pallid form shall ever rise, And, bodying forth in glassy eyes 'The vision of a vanished good, Low peering through the tangled wood, Shall freeze the current of his blood.' Still from each fact, with skill uncouth And savage rapture, like a tooth She wrenched a slow reluctant truth. Till, like some silent water-mill, When summer suns have dried the rill, She reached a full stop, and was still. Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, As when the loaded omnibus Has reached the railway terminus: When, for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine's stifled beat, The velvet tread of porters' feet. With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved her lips without a sound, And every now and then she frowned. He gazed upon the sleeping sea, And joyed in its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she To muse a little space did seem, Then, like the echo of a dream, Harped back upon her threadbare theme. Still an attentive ear he lent, But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent. He marked the ripple on the sand: The even swaying of her hand Was all that he could understand. He left her, and he turned aside: He sat and watched the coming tide Across the shores so newly dried. He wondered at the waters clear, The breeze that whispered in his ear, The billows heaving far and near; And why he had so long preferred To hang upon her every word; 'In truth,' he said, 'it was absurd.' The Third Voice. Not long this transport held its place: Within a little moment's space Quick tears were raining down his face. His heart stood still, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemed to hear and not to hear. 'Tears kindle not the doubtful spark: If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark.' 'Her speech,' he said, 'hath caused this pain; Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main, 'Or, stretched beside some sedgy brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book.' Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more than said, Soundless as ghost's intended tread: 'If thou art duller than before, Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? Why not endure, expecting more?' 'Rather than that,' he groaned aghast, 'I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast, Some loathly vampire's rich repast.' ''Twere hard,' it answered, 'themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings thy scant intelligence.' 'Not so,' he urged, 'nor once alone: But there was that within her tone Which chilled me to the very bone. 'Her style was anything but clear, And most unpleasantly severe; Her epithets were very queer. 'And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise; I did not dare to criticise; 'Nor did I leave her, till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent,' A little whisper inly slid; 'Yet truth is truth: you know you did—' A little wink beneath the lid. And, sickened with excess of dread, Prone to the dust he bent his head, And lay like one three-quarters dead. Forth went the whisper like a breeze; Left him amid the wondering trees, Left him by no means at his ease. Once more he weltered in despair, With hands, through denser-matted hair, More tightly clenched than then they were. When, bathed in dawn of living red, Majestic frowned the mountain head, 'Tell me my fault,' was all he said. When, at high noon, the blazing sky Scorched in his head each haggard eye, Then keenest rose his weary cry. And when at eve the unpitying sun Smiled grimly on the solemn fun, 'Alack,' he sighed, 'what have I done?' But saddest, darkest was the sight, When the cold grasp of leaden Night Dashed him to earth, and held him tight. Tortured, unaided, and alone, Thunders were silence to his groan, Bagpipes sweet music to its tone: 'What? Ever thus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Misery profound Pursue me like a sleepless hound, 'With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I brake of laws?' The whisper to his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadow of forgotten dream; The whisper trembling in the wind: 'Her fate with thine was intertwined,' So spake it in his inner mind: 'Each orbed on each a baleful star, Each proved the other's blight and bar, Each unto each were best, most far: 'Yea, each to each was worse than foe, Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, And she, an avalanche of woe.'

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!