The Warlus and The Carpenter
‘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.
“A
loaf
of
bread,”
the
Walrus
said,
“Is
what
we
chiefly
need:
Pepper
and
vinegar
besides
Are
very
good
indeed—
Now
if
you’re
ready
Oysters
dear,
We
can
begin
to
feed.”
“But
not
on
us!”
the
Oysters
cried,
Turning
a
little
blue,
“After
such
kindness,
that
would
be
A
dismal
thing
to
do!”
“The
night
is
fine,”
the
Walrus
said
“Do
you
admire
the
view?
“It
was
so
kind
of
you
to
come!
And
you
are
very
nice!”
The
Carpenter
said
nothing
but
“Cut
us
another
slice:
I
wish
you
were
not
quite
so
deaf—
I’ve
had
to
ask
you
twice!”
“It
seems
a
shame,”
the
Walrus
said,
“To
play
them
such
a
trick,
After
we’ve
brought
them
out
so
far,
And
made
them
trot
so
quick!”
The
Carpenter
said
nothing
but
“The
butter’s
spread
too
thick!”
“I
weep
for
you,”
the
Walrus
said.
“I
deeply
sympathize.”
With
sobs
and
tears
he
sorted
out
Those
of
the
largest
size.
Holding
his
pocket
handkerchief
Before
his
streaming
eyes.
“O
Oysters,”
said
the
Carpenter.
“You’ve
had
a
pleasant
run!
Shall
we
be
trotting
home
again?”
But
answer
came
there
none—
And
that
was
scarcely
odd,
because
They’d
eaten
every
one.’
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.