“Would it be of any use, now,” thought Alice, “to speak to

this mouse? Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very

likely it can talk: at any rate, there’s no harm in trying.” So she

began: “O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired of

swimming about here, O Mouse!” (Alice thought this must be the right way

of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but she

remembered having seen in her brother’s Latin Grammar, “A

mouse—of a mouse—to a mouse—a mouse—O mouse!”)

The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with

one of its little eyes, but it said nothing.


“Perhaps it doesn’t understand English,” thought Alice;

“I daresay it’s a French mouse, come over with William the

Conqueror.” (For, with all her knowledge of history, Alice had no very

clear notion how long ago anything had happened.) So she began again: “Où

est ma chatte?” which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book.

The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over

with fright. “Oh, I beg your pardon!” cried Alice hastily, afraid

that she had hurt the poor animal’s feelings. “I quite forgot you

didn’t like cats.”


“Not like cats!” cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice.

“Would you like cats if you were me?”


“Well, perhaps not,” said Alice in a soothing tone:

“don’t be angry about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat

Dinah: I think you’d take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She

is such a dear quiet thing,” Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam

lazily about in the pool, “and she sits purring so nicely by the fire,

licking her paws and washing her face—and she is such a nice soft thing

to nurse—and she’s such a capital one for catching mice—oh, I

beg your pardon!” cried Alice again, for this time the Mouse was

bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended. “We