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 of little Alice herself, and 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 became alive with 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 sobs 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