laughed. “Let the jury consider their verdict,” the King said, for
about the twentieth time that day.
“No, no!” said the Queen. “Sentence first—verdict
afterwards.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Alice loudly. “The idea of having the
sentence first!”
“Hold your tongue!” said the Queen, turning purple.
“I wo’n’t!” said Alice.
“Off with her head!” the Queen shouted at the top of her voice.
Nobody moved.
“Who cares for you?” said Alice (she had grown to her full size
by this time). “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!”
At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying
down upon her; she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of
anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the
bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently
brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the
trees upon her face.
“Wake up, Alice dear!” said her sister; “Why, what a long sleep
you’ve had!”
“Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!” said Alice. And she told
her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange
Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and, when
she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, “It was a
curious dream, dear, certainly; but now run in to your tea: it’s
getting late.” So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran,
as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.
But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head
on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice
and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after
a fashion, and this was her dream:—
First, she dreamed about little Alice herself: once again the
tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes
were looking up into hers—she could hear the very tones of her
voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the
wandering hair that would always get into her eyes—and still as she
listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her becamelistened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became
alive the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream.
The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried
by—the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring
pool—she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and
his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of
the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution—once
more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates
and dishes crashed around it—once more the shriek of the Gryphon,
the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the choking of the
suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant
sob of the miserable Mock Turtle.
So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in
Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all
would change to dull reality—the grass would be only rustling in
the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds—the
rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the
Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy—and the
sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other
queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of
the busy farm-yard—while the lowing of the cattle in the distance
would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.
Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of
hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how
she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving
heart of her childhood; and how she would gather about her other
little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a
strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long
ago; and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find
a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own
child-life, and the happy summer days.