Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

by Lewis Carroll

  Sylvie (I found out her name afterwards) had knelt down, just as I was doing, to help the Beetle; but it needed more than a little stick for her to get it on its legs again; it was as much as she could do, with both arms, to roll the heavy thing over; and all the while she was talking to it, half scolding and half comforting, as a nurse might do with a child that had fallen down.

  "There, there! You needn't cry so much about it. You're not killed yet—though if you were, you couldn't cry, you know, and so it's a general rule against crying, my dear! And how did you come to tumble over? But I can see well enough how it was—I needn't ask you that— walking over sand-pits with your chin in the air, as usual. Of course if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect to tumble. You should look."

  The Beetle murmured something that sounded like "I did look," and Sylvie went on again.

  "But I know you didn't! You never do! You always walk with your chin up—you're so dreadfully conceited. Well, let's see how many legs are broken this time. Why, none of them, I declare! And what's the good of having six legs, my dear, if you can only kick them all about in the air when you tumble? Legs are meant to walk with, you know. Now don't begin putting out your wings yet; I've more to say. Go to the frog that lives behind that buttercup—give him my compliments—Sylvie's compliments—can you say compliments'?"

  The Beetle tried and, I suppose, succeeded.

  "Yes, that's right. And tell him he's to give you some of that salve I left with him yesterday. And you'd better get him to rub it in for you. He's got rather cold hands, but you mustn't mind that."

  I think the Beetle must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went on in a graver tone. "Now you needn't pretend to be so particular as all that, as if you were too grand to be rubbed by a frog. The fact is, you ought to be very much obliged to him. Suppose you could get nobody but a toad to do it, how would you like that?"

  There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added "Now you may go. Be a good beetle, and don't keep your chin in the air." And then began one of those performances of humming, and whizzing, and restless banging about, such as a beetle indulges in when it has decided on flying, but hasn't quite made up its mind which way to go. At last, in one of its awkward zigzags, it managed to fly right into my face, and, by the time I had recovered from the shock, the little Fairy was gone.

  I looked about in all directions for the little creature, but there was no trace of her—and my 'eerie' feeling was quite gone off, and the crickets were chirping again merrily—so I knew she was really gone.

  And now I've got time to tell you the rule about the crickets. They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by—because a Fairy's a kind of queen over them, I suppose—at all events it's a much grander thing than a cricket—so whenever you're walking out, and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping, you may be sure that they see a Fairy.

  I walked on sadly enough, you may be sure. However, I comforted myself with thinking "It's been a very wonderful afternoon, so far. I'll just go quietly on and look about me, and I shouldn't wonder if I were to come across another Fairy somewhere."

  Peering about in this way, I happened to notice a plant with rounded leaves, and with queer little holes cut in the middle of several of them. "Ah, the leafcutter bee!" I carelessly remarked—you know I am very learned in Natural History (for instance, I can always tell kittens from chickens at one glance)—and I was passing on, when a sudden thought made me stoop down and examine the leaves.

  Then a little thrill of delight ran through me —for I noticed that the holes were all arranged so as to form letters; there were three leaves side by side, with "B," "R," and "U" marked on them, and after some search I found two more, which contained an "N" and an "O."

  And then, all in a moment, a flash of inner light seemed to illumine a part of my life that had all but faded into oblivion—the strange visions I had experienced during my journey to Elveston: and with a thrill of delight I thought "Those visions are destined to be linked with my waking life!"

  By this time the 'eerie' feeling had come back again, and I suddenly observed that no crickets were chirping; so I felt quite sure that "Bruno was somewhere very near.

  And so indeed he was—so near that I had very nearly walked over him without seeing him; which would have been dreadful, always supposing that Fairies can be walked over my own belief is that they are something of the nature of Will-o'-the-wisps: and there's no walking over them.

  Think of any pretty little boy you know, with rosy cheeks, large dark eyes, and tangled brown hair, and then fancy him made small enough to go comfortably into a coffee-cup, and you'll have a very fair idea of him.

  "What's your name, little one?" I began, in as soft a voice as I could manage. And, by the way, why is it we always begin by asking little children their names? Is it because we fancy a name will help to make them a little bigger? You never thought of as king a real large man his name, now, did you? But, however that may be, I felt it quite necessary to know his name; so, as he didn't answer my question, I asked it again a little louder. "What's your name, my little man?"

  "What's oors?" he said, without looking up.

  I told him my name quite gently, for he was much too small to be angry with.

  "Duke of Anything?" he asked, just looking at me for a moment, and then going on with his work.

  "Not Duke at all," I said, a little ashamed of having to confess it.

  "Oo're big enough to be two Dukes," said the little creature.

  "I suppose oo're Sir Something, then?"

  "No," I said, feeling more and more ashamed. "I haven't got any title."

  The Fairy seemed to think that in that case I really wasn't worth the trouble of talking to, for he quietly went on digging, and tearing the flowers to pieces.

  After a few minutes I tried again. "Please tell me what your name is."

  "Bruno," the little fellow answered, very readily. "Why didn't oo say 'please' before?"

  "That's something like what we used to be taught in the nursery," I thought to myself, looking back through the long years (about a hundred of them, since you ask the question), to the time when I was a little child. And here an idea came into my head, and I asked him "Aren't you one of the Fairies that teach children to be good?"

  "Well, we have to do that sometimes," said Bruno, "and a dreadful bother it is." As he said this, he savagely tore a heartsease in two, and trampled on the pieces.

  "What are you doing there, Bruno?" I said.

  "Spoiling Sylvie's garden," was all the answer Bruno would give at first. But, as he went on tearing up the flowers, he muttered to himself "The nasty cross thing wouldn't let me go and play this morning,—said I must finish my lessons first—lessons, indeed! I'll vex her finely, though!"

  "Oh, Bruno, you shouldn't do that!" I cried.

  "Don't you know that's revenge? And revenge is a wicked, cruel, dangerous thing!"

  "River-edge?" said Bruno. "What a funny word! I suppose oo call it cruel and dangerous 'cause, if oo wented too far and tumbleded in, oo'd get drownded."

  "No, not river-edge," I explained: "revenge" (saying the word very slowly). But I couldn't help thinking that Bruno's explanation did very well for either word.

  "Oh!" said Bruno, opening his eyes very wide, but without trying to repeat the word.

  "Come! Try and pronounce it, Bruno!" I said, cheerfully. "Re-venge, re-venge."

  But Bruno only tossed his little head, and said he couldn't; that his mouth wasn't the right shape for words of that kind. And the more I laughed, the more sulky the little fellow got about it.

  "Well, never mind, my little man!" I said.

  "Shall I help you with that job?"

  "Yes, please," Bruno said, quite pacified.

  "Only I wiss I could think of somefin to vex her more than this.

  Oo don't know how hard it is to make her angry!"

  "Now listen to me, Bruno, and I'll teach you quite a splendid kind of revenge!"

  "Somef
in that'll vex her finely?" he asked with gleaming eyes.

  "Something that will vex her finely. First, we'll get up all the weeds in her garden. See, there are a good many at this end quite hiding the flowers."

  "But that won't vex her!" said Bruno.

  "After that," I said, without noticing the remark, "we'll water this highest bed—up here. You see it's getting quite dry and dusty."

  Bruno looked at me inquisitively, but he said nothing this time.

  "Then after that," I went on, "the walks want sweeping a bit; and I think you might cut down that tall nettle—it's so close to the garden that it's quite in the way—"

  "What is oo talking about?" Bruno impatiently interrupted me.

  "All that won't vex her a bit!"

  "Won't it?" I said, innocently. "Then, after that, suppose we put in some of these coloured pebbles—just to mark the divisions between the different kinds of flowers, you know. That'll have a very pretty effect."

  Bruno turned round and had another good stare at me. At last there came an odd little twinkle into his eyes, and he said, with quite a new meaning in his voice, "That'll do nicely. Let's put 'em in rows— all the red together, and all the blue together. "

  "That'll do capitally," I said; "and then—what kind of flowers does

  Sylvie like best?"

  Bruno had to put his thumb in his mouth and consider a little before he could answer. "Violets," he said, at last.

  "There's a beautiful bed of violets down by the brook—"

  "Oh, let's fetch 'em!" cried Bruno, giving a little skip into the air. "Here! Catch hold of my hand, and I'll help oo along. The grass is rather thick down that way."

  I couldn't help laughing at his having so entirely forgotten what a big creature he was talking to. "No, not yet, Bruno," I said: "we must consider what's the right thing to do first. You see we've got quite a business before us."

  "Yes, let's consider," said Bruno, putting his thumb into his mouth again, and sitting down upon a dead mouse.

  "What do you keep that mouse for?" I said. "You should either bury it, or else throw it into the brook."

  "Why, it's to measure with!" cried Bruno.

  "How ever would oo do a garden without one? We make each bed three mouses and a half long, and two mouses wide."

  I stopped him, as he was dragging it off by the tail to show me how it was used, for I was half afraid the 'eerie' feeling might go off before we had finished the garden, and in that case I should see no more of him or Sylvie. "I think the best way will be for you to weed the beds, while I sort out these pebbles, ready to mark the walks with."

  "That's it!" cried Bruno. "And I'll tell oo about the caterpillars while we work."

  "Ah, let's hear about the caterpillars," I said, as I drew the pebbles together into a heap and began dividing them into colours.

  And Bruno went on in a low, rapid tone, more as if he were talking to himself. "Yesterday I saw two little caterpillars, when I was sitting by the brook, just where oo go into the wood. They were quite green, and they had yellow eyes, and they didn't see me. And one of them had got a moth's wing to carry—a great brown moth's wing, oo know, all dry, with feathers. So he couldn't want it to eat, I should think—perhaps he meant to make a cloak for the winter?"

  "Perhaps," I said, for Bruno had twisted up the last word into a sort of question, and was looking at me for an answer.

  One word was quite enough for the little fellow, and he went on merrily. "Well, and so he didn't want the other caterpillar to see the moth's wing, oo know—so what must he do but try to carry it with all his left legs, and he tried to walk on the other set. Of course he toppled over after that."

  "After what?" I said, catching at the last word, for, to tell the truth, I hadn't been attending much.

  "He toppled over," Bruno repeated, very gravely, "and if oo ever saw a caterpillar topple over, oo'd know it's a welly serious thing, and not sit grinning like that—and I sha'n't tell oo no more!"

  "Indeed and indeed, Bruno, I didn't mean to grin. See, I'm quite grave again now."

  But Bruno only folded his arms, and said "Don't tell me.

  I see a little twinkle in one of oor eyes—just like the moon."

  "Why do you think I'm like the moon, Bruno?" I asked.

  "Oor face is large and round like the moon," Bruno answered, looking at me thoughtfully. "It doosn't shine quite so bright—but it's more cleaner."

  I couldn't help smiling at this. "You know I sometimes wash my face,

  Bruno. The moon never does that."

  "Oh, doosn't she though!" cried Bruno; and he leant forwards and added in a solemn whisper, "The moon's face gets dirtier and dirtier every night, till it's black all across. And then, when it's dirty all over—so—" (he passed his hand across his own rosy cheeks as he spoke) "then she washes it."

  "Then it's all clean again, isn't it?"

  "Not all in a moment," said Bruno. "What a deal of teaching oo wants! She washes it little by little—only she begins at the other edge, oo know."

  By this time he was sitting quietly on the dead mouse with his arms folded, and the weeding wasn't getting on a bit: so I had to say "Work first, pleasure afterwards: no more talking till that bed's finished."

  CHAPTER 15.

  BRUNO'S REVENGE.

  After that we had a few minutes of silence, while I sorted out the pebbles, and amused myself with watching Bruno's plan of gardening. It was quite a new plan to me: he always measured each bed before he weeded it, as if he was afraid the weeding would make it shrink; and once, when it came out longer than he wished, he set to work to thump the mouse with his little fist, crying out "There now! It's all gone wrong again! Why don't oo keep oor tail straight when I tell oo!"

  "I'll tell you what I'll do," Bruno said in a half-whisper, as we worked. "Oo like Fairies, don't oo?"

  "Yes," I said: "of course I do, or I shouldn't have come here.

  I should have gone to some place where there are no Fairies."

  Bruno laughed contemptuously. "Why, oo might as well say oo'd go to some place where there wasn't any air—supposing oo didn't like air!"

  This was a rather difficult idea to grasp. I tried a change of subject. "You're nearly the first Fairy I ever saw. Have you ever seen any people besides me?"

  "Plenty!" said Bruno. "We see'em when we walk in the road."

  "But they ca'n't see you. How is it they never tread on you?"

  "Ca'n't tread on us," said Bruno, looking amused at my ignorance. "Why, suppose oo're walking, here—so—" (making little marks on the ground) "and suppose there's a Fairy—that's me—walking here. Very well then, oo put one foot here, and one foot here, so oo doosn't tread on the Fairy."

  This was all very well as an explanation, but it didn't convince me.

  "Why shouldn't I put one foot on the Fairy?" I asked.

  "I don't know why," the little fellow said in a thoughtful tone.

  "But I know oo wouldn't. Nobody never walked on the top of a Fairy.

  Now I'll tell oo what I'll do, as oo're so fond of Fairies.

  I'll get oo an invitation to the Fairy-King's dinner-party.

  I know one of the head-waiters."

  I couldn't help laughing at this idea.

  "Do the waiters invite the guests?" I asked.

  "Oh, not to sit down!" Bruno said. "But to wait at table.

  Oo'd like that, wouldn't oo? To hand about plates, and so on."

  "Well, but that's not so nice as sitting at the table, is it?"

  "Of course it isn't," Bruno said, in a tone as if he rather pitied my ignorance; "but if oo're not even Sir Anything, oo ca'n't expect to be allowed to sit at the table, oo know."

  I said, as meekly as I could, that I didn't expect it, but it was the only way of going to a dinner-party that I really enjoyed. And Bruno tossed his head, and said, in a rather offended tone that I might do as I pleased—there were many he knew that would give their ears to go.

  "Have you ever been yourself
, Bruno?"

  "They invited me once, last week," Bruno said, very gravely. "It was to wash up the soup-plates—no, the cheese-plates I mean that was grand enough. And I waited at table. And I didn't hardly make only one mistake."

  "What was it?" I said. "You needn't mind telling me."

  "Only bringing scissors to cut the beef with," Bruno said carelessly.

  "But the grandest thing of all was, I fetched the King a glass of cider!"

  "That was grand!" I said, biting my lip to keep myself from laughing.

  "Wasn't it?" said Bruno, very earnestly. "Oo know it isn't every one that's had such an honour as that!"

  This set me thinking of the various queer things we call "an honour" in this world, but which, after all, haven't a bit more honour in them than what Bruno enjoyed, when he took the King a glass of cider.

  I don't know how long I might not have dreamed on in this way, if Bruno hadn't suddenly roused me. "Oh, come here quick!" he cried, in a state of the wildest excitement. "Catch hold of his other horn! I ca'n't hold him more than a minute!"

  He was struggling desperately with a great snail, clinging to one of its horns, and nearly breaking his poor little back in his efforts to drag it over a blade of grass.

  I saw we should have no more gardening if I let this sort of thing go on, so I quietly took the snail away, and put it on a bank where he couldn't reach it. "We'll hunt it afterwards, Bruno," I said, "if you really want to catch it.

  But what's the use of it when you've got it?" "What's the use of a fox when oo've got it?" said Bruno. "I know oo big things hunt foxes."

  I tried to think of some good reason why "big things" should hunt foxes, and he should not hunt snails, but none came into my head: so I said at last, "Well, I suppose one's as good as the other. I'll go snail-hunting myself some day."

  "I should think oo wouldn't be so silly," said Bruno, "as to go snail-hunting by oor-self. Why, oo'd never get the snail along, if oo hadn't somebody to hold on to his other horn!"