Alice And The White Knight
Alice
was
walking
beside
the
White
Knight
in
Looking
Glass
Land.
‘You
are
sad.’
the
Knight
said
in
an
anxious
tone:
‘let
me
sing
you
a
song
to
comfort
you.’
‘Is
it
very
long?’
Alice
asked,
for
she
had
heard
a
good
deal
of
poetry
that
day.
‘It’s
long.’
said
the
Knight,
‘but
it’s
very,
very
beautiful.
Everybody
that
hears
me
sing
it
–
either
it
brings
tears
to
their
eyes,
or
else
-‘
‘Or
else
what?’
said
Alice,
for
the
Knight
had
made
a
sudden
pause.
‘Or
else
it
doesn’t,
you
know.
The
name
of
the
song
is
called
‘Haddocks’
Eyes.”
‘Oh,
that’s
the
name
of
the
song,
is
it?’
Alice
said,
trying
to
feel
interested.
‘No,
you
don’t
understand,’
the
Knight
said,
looking
a
little
vexed.
‘That’s
what
the
name
is
called.
The
name
really
is
‘The
Aged,
Aged
Man.”
‘Then
I
ought
to
have
said
‘That’s
what
the
song
is
called’?’
Alice
corrected
herself.
‘No
you
oughtn’t:
that’s
another
thing.
The
song
is
called
‘Ways
and
Means’
but
that’s
only
what
it’s
called,
you
know!’
‘Well,
what
is
the
song
then?’
said
Alice,
who
was
by
this
time
completely
bewildered.
‘I
was
coming
to
that,’
the
Knight
said.
‘The
song
really
is
‘A-sitting
On
a
Gate’:
and
the
tune’s
my
own
invention.’
So
saying,
he
stopped
his
horse
and
let
the
reins
fall
on
its
neck:
then
slowly
beating
time
with
one
hand,
and
with
a
faint
smile
lighting
up
his
gentle,
foolish
face,
he
began:
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.
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
Rowland’s
Macassar
Oil
–
Yet
twopence-halfpenny
is
all
They
give
me
for
my
toil.’
But
I
was
thinking
of
a
way
To
feed
one’s
self
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
for
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
the
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.
Lewis Carroll
Lewis Carroll, (born January 27, 1832, Daresbury, Cheshire, England—died January 14, 1898, Guildford, Surrey), English logician, mathematician, photographer, and novelist, especially remembered for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and its sequel, Through the Looking-Glass (1871). His poem The Hunting of the Snark (1876) is nonsense literature of the highest order.