A day in the country.
Wocky, my love~
I have tarried overlong, my beautiful emerald beast. I fear you woke in the night and could not find me, for I had run off to play and left you at home. I awoke, and you were sleeping so radiantly, chuffing smoke horshoes at the castle turrets, that I snuck out the window on very stealthy feet, not wanting to wake you from your scaled and flaming dreams. You were so pretty, lying there with your claws all trimmed and painted. But I am not very much domestic, houses tire me quickly. And so I went onto the waving grass of our lands and fields, and read picturebooks to the ants. They were very attentive, waving their mandibles at the bright pages and commenting in piccolo voices on the decline of narrative in modern literature. Presently, a thudding noise came galumphing across the sweetgrass, and the bewildered fuzzy head of the White Knight appeared like a snowball thrown from afar. Attached to his saddle of flamingo feathers was an enormous plum-cake, all glistening and thick with sugar. He was on his way, as you must have guessed, to the joust between the Lion and the Unicorn. (The Unicorn, if the papyrus in the vaults is correct, is your sixteenth cousin on the distaff side.) At any rate, they are battling in Devonshire this year, and I have bet a gold crown on your illustrous relative, in both our names. In nice calligraphy-writing. The Knight let me write our wager in whalebone ink in his gigantic violet betting-book, whose pages turn when you ask them politely. His own invention. The ants had been gathering rum for soaking the cake, and he collected it solemnly from them in acorn buttons, which are great vats to the ants, and gave the cake a good washing. He brushed my hand with a catfish-whisker brush and galloped away, his helmet, greaves, and banner flying off in all directions with a great clatter. He is a fine fellow, if flighty. But really, though the ants and I are still consumed in a debate over the use of hexameter in sparrow songs, I find that I miss you. That great house seems to shine, merely because it contains such a gallant and virtuous beast. It is no fun at all for one out in the forests and glens. To whomever can I sing to when the ants are sleeping? Truly, Madly, Deeply,Alice
