Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.”


“I don’t see,” said the Caterpillar.


“I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,” Alice replied

very politely, “for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and

being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.”


“It isn’t,” said the Caterpillar.


“Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,” said Alice;

“but when you have to turn into a chrysalis—you will some day, you

know—and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll

feel it a little queer, won’t you?”


“Not a bit,” said the Caterpillar.


“Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,” said Alice;

“all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.”


“You!” said the Caterpillar contemptuously. “Who are

you?”


Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt

a little irritated at the Caterpillar’s making such very short

remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, “I think, you

ought to tell me who you are, first.”


“Why?” said the Caterpillar.


Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good

reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a very unpleasant state

of mind, she turned away.


“Come back!” the Caterpillar called after her. “I’ve

something important to say!”


This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.


“Keep your temper,” said the Caterpillar.


“Is that all?” said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she

could.


“No,” said the Caterpillar.


Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and

perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes

it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the

hookah out of its mouth again, and said, “So you think you’re

changed, do you?”


“I’m afraid I am, sir,” said Alice; “I can’t

remember things as I used—and I don’t keep the same size for ten