“It must have been that,” said the King, “unless it was

written to nobody, which isn’t usual, you know.”


“Who is it directed to?” said one of the jurymen.


“It isn’t directed at all,” said the White Rabbit; “in

fact, there’s nothing written on the outside.” He unfolded

the paper as he spoke, and added “It isn’t a letter, after all:

it’s a set of verses.”


“Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?” asked another of

the jurymen.


“No, they’re not,” said the White Rabbit, “and

that’s the queerest thing about it.” (The jury all looked puzzled.)


“He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,” said the King.

(The jury all brightened up again.)


“Please your Majesty,” said the Knave, “I didn’t write

it, and they can’t prove I did: there’s no name signed at the

end.”


“If you didn’t sign it,” said the King, “that only

makes the matter worse. You must have meant some mischief, or else

you’d have signed your name like an honest man.”


There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever

thing the King had said that day.


“That proves his guilt,” said the Queen.


“It proves nothing of the sort!” said Alice. “Why, you

don’t even know what they’re about!”


“Read them,” said the King.


The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. “Where shall I begin, please your

Majesty?” he asked.


“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on

till you come to the end: then stop.”


These were the verses the White Rabbit read:—


“They told me you had been to her,

    And mentioned me to him:

She gave me a good character,

    But said I could not swim.


He sent them word I had not gone

    (We know it to be true):

If she should push the matter on,

    What would become of you?


I gave her one, they gave him two,

    You gave us three or more;

They all returned from him to you,

    Though they were mine before.


If I or she should chance to be