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The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll With All the Original Illustrations + The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll. Lewis CarrollЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll With All the Original Illustrations + The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll - Lewis Carroll


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up his gentle foolish face, as if he enjoyed the music of his song, he began.

      Of all the strange things that Alice saw in her journey Through The Looking-Glass, this was the one that she always remembered most clearly. Years afterwards she could bring the whole scene back again, as if it had been only yesterday—the mild blue eyes and kindly smile of the Knight—the setting sun gleaming through his hair, and shining on his armour in a blaze of light that quite dazzled her—the horse quietly moving about, with the reins hanging loose on his neck, cropping the grass at her feet—and the black shadows of the forest behind—all this she took in like a picture, as, with one hand shading her eyes, she leant against a tree, watching the strange pair, and listening, in a half dream, to the melancholy music of the song.

      ‘But the tune isn’t his own invention,’ she said to herself: ‘it’s “I give thee all, I can no more.”’ She stood and listened very attentively, but no tears came into her eyes.

      ‘I’ll tell thee everything I can;

      There’s little to relate.

      I saw an aged aged man,

      A-sitting on a gate.

      “Who are you, aged man?” I said,

      “and how is it you live?”

      And his answer trickled through my head

      Like water through a sieve.

I saw an aged aged man, a-sitting on a gate

      He said “I look for butterflies

      That sleep among the wheat:

      I make them into mutton-pies,

      And sell them in the street.

      I sell them unto men,” he said,

      “Who sail on stormy seas;

      And that’s the way I get my bread—

      A trifle, if you please.”

      But I was thinking of a plan

      To dye one’s whiskers green,

      And always use so large a fan

      That they could not be seen.

      So, having no reply to give

      To what the old man said,

      I cried, “Come, tell me how you live!”

      And thumped him on the head.

      His accents mild took up the tale:

      He said “I go my ways,

      And when I find a mountain-rill,

      I set it in a blaze;

      And thence they make a stuff they call

      Rolands’ Macassar Oil—

      Yet twopence-halfpenny is all

      They give me for my toil.”

      But I was thinking of a way

      To feed oneself on batter,

      And so go on from day to day

      Getting a little fatter.

      I shook him well from side to side,

      Until his face was blue:

      “Come, tell me how you live,” I cried,

      “And what it is you do!”

      He said “I hunt for haddocks’ eyes

      Among the heather bright,

      And work them into waistcoat-buttons

      In the silent night.

      And these I do not sell for gold

      Or coin of silvery shine

      But for a copper halfpenny,

      And that will purchase nine.

      “I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,

      Or set limed twigs for crabs;

      I sometimes search the grassy knolls

      For wheels of Hansom-cabs.

      And that’s the way” (he gave a wink)

      “By which I get my wealth—

      And very gladly will I drink

      Your Honour’s noble health.”

      I heard him then, for I had just

      Completed my design

      To keep the Menai bridge from rust

      By boiling it in wine.

      I thanked him much for telling me

      The way he got his wealth,

      But chiefly for his wish that he

      Might drink my noble health.

      And now, if e’er by chance I put

      My fingers into glue

      Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot

      Into a left-hand shoe,

      Or if I drop upon my toe

      A very heavy weight,

      I weep, for it reminds me so,

      Of that old man I used to know—

      Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,

      Whose hair was whiter than the snow,

      Whose face was very like a crow,

      With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,

      Who seemed distracted with his woe,

      Who rocked his body to and fro,

      And muttered mumblingly and low,

      As if his mouth were full of dough,

      Who snorted like a buffalo—

      That summer evening, long ago,

      A-sitting on a gate.’

      As the Knight sang the last words of the ballad, he gathered up the reins, and turned his horse’s head along the road by which they had come. ‘You’ve only a few yards to go,’ he said, ‘down the hill and over that little brook, and then you’ll be a Queen—But you’ll stay and see me off first?’ he added as Alice turned with an eager look in the direction to which he pointed. ‘I sha’n’t be long. You’ll wait and wave your handkerchief when I get to that turn in the road? I think it’ll encourage me, you see.’

      ‘Of course I’ll wait,’ said Alice: ‘and thank you very much for coming so far—and for the song—I liked it very much.’

      ‘I hope so,’ the Knight said doubtfully: ‘but you didn’t cry so much as I thought you would.’


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