Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (102 page)

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

`Something that'll vex her finely?'
Bruno asked with gleaming eyes.

`Something that'll 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, looking rather puzzled.

`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
are
you 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 in his eye, and he said, with quite a new meaning in his voice, `Very well—let's put 'em in rows—all the 'ed together, and all the blue together.'

`That'll do capitally,' I said; `and then—what kind of flowers does Sylvie like best in her garden?'

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 lake —'

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

I couldn't help laughing at his having so entierly 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 bury it, or throw it into the lake.'

`Why, it's to measure with!'
cried Bruno.
`How ever would you do a garden without one?
We make each bed th'ee 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 you 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 b'ook, just where you go into the wood.
They were quite g'een, and they had yellow eyes, and they didn't see
me
.
And one of them had got a moth's wing to carry—a g'eat b'own moth's wing, you know, all d'y, 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, you know—so what must he do but t'y to carry it with all his left legs, and he t'ied to walk on the other set.
Of course he toppled over after that.'

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

`He toppled over,' Bruno repeated, very gravely, `and if
you
ever saw a caterpillar topple over, you'd know it's a serious thing, and not sit g'inning like that—and I shan't tell you any 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 your eyes—just like the moon.'

`Am
I
like the moon, Bruno?'
I asked.

`Your face is large and round like the moon,' Bruno answered, looking at me thoughtfully.
`It doesn't shine quite so b'ight—but it's cleaner.'

I couldn't help smiling at this.
`You know I wash
my
face, Bruno.
The moon never does that.'

`Oh, doesn'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 ac'oss.
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.'

`And then it's all clean again, isn't it?'

`Not all in a moment,' said Bruno.
`What a deal of teaching you want!
She washes it little by little—only she begins at the other edge.'

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 was obliged to say: `Work first and pleasure afterwards—no more talking till that bed's finished.'

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 tiny fist, crying out: `There now!
It's all 'ong again!
Why don't you keep your tail st'aight when I tell you!'

`I'll tell you what I'll do,' said Bruno in a half whisper, as we worked: `I'll get you an invitation to the 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 hastily replied.
`But to help, you know.
You'd like that, wouldn't you?
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 you're not even Sir Anything, you can't expect to be allowed to sit at the table, you 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 year,' Bruno said, very gravely.
`It was to wash up the soup-plates—no, the cheese-plates, I mean—that was g'and enough.
But the g'andest thing of all was,
I
fetched the Duke of Dandelion a glass of cider!'

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

`Wasn't it?'
said Bruno, very earnestly.
`You know it isn't everyone that's had such an honour as
that
!'

This set me thinking of the various queer things we call `an honour' in this world, which, after all, haven't a bit more honour in them than what the dear little Bruno enjoyed (by the way, I hope you're beginning to like him a little, naughty as he was?) when he took the Duke of Dandelion a glass of cider.

I don't know how long I might 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 can'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 you've got it?'
said Bruno.
`I know you big things hunt foxes.'

I tried to think of some good reason why `big things' should hunt foxes, and he shouldn't 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 you wouldn't be so silly,' said Bruno, `as to go snail-hunting all by yourself.
Why, you'd never get the snail along, if you hadn't somebody to hold on to his other horn!'

`Of course I shan't go alone,' I said, quite gravely.
`By the way, is that the best kind to hunt, or do you recommend the ones without shells?'

`Oh no, we never hunt the ones without shells,' Bruno said, with a little shudder at the thought of it.
`They're always so c'oss about it; and then, if you tumble over them, they're ever so sticky!'

By this time we had nearly finished the garden.
I had fetched some violets, and Bruno was just helping me to put in the last, when he suddenly stopped and said, `I'm tired.'

`Rest, then,' I said.
`I can go on without you.'

Bruno needed no second invitation: he at once began arranging the dead mouse as a kind of sofa.
`And I'll sing you a little song,' he said, as he rolled it about.

`Do,' I said.
`There's nothing I should like better.'

`Which song will you choose?'
Bruno said, as he dragged the mouse into a place where he could get a good view of me.
`"Ting, ting, ting" is the nicest.'

There was no resisting such a strong hint as this: however, I pretended to think about it for a moment, and then said: `Well, I like "Ting, ting, ting" best of all.'

`That shows you're a good judge of music,' Bruno said, with a pleased look.
`How many bluebells would you like?'
And he put his thumb into his mouth to help me to consider.

As there was only one bluebell within easy reach, I said very gravely that I thought one would do
this
time, and I picked it and gave it to him.
Bruno ran his hand once or twice up and down the flowers, like a musician trying an instrument, producing a most delicious, delicate tinkling as he did so.
I had never heard flower-music before—I don't think one can, unless one's in the `eerie' state—and I don't know quite how to give you an idea of what it was like, except by saying that it sounded like a peal of bells a thousand miles off.
When he had satisfied himself that the flowers were in tune, he seated himself on the dead mouse (he never seemed really comfortable anywhere else), and, looking up at me with a merry twinkle in his eyes, he began.
By the way, the tune was rather a curious one, and you might like to try it for yourself, so here are the notes:

`
Rise, oh, rise!
The daylight dies
:

   
The owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting!

Wake, oh, wake!
Beside the lake

   
The elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting!

Welcoming our fairy king
,

   
We sing, sing, sing
.'

He sang the first four lines briskly and merrily, making the bluebells chime in time with the music; but the last two he sang quite slowly and gently, and merely waved the flowers backwards and forwards above his head.
And when he had finished the first verse, he left off to explain.
`The name of our fairy king is Obberwon'—he meant `Oberon', I believe—`and he lives over the lake—
there
—and now and then he comes in a little boat—and then we go and meet him—and then we sing this song, you know.'