THE BADGERS AND THE HERRINGS.

There be three Badgers on a mossy stone, Beside a dark and covered way.

Each dreams himself a monarch on his throne, And so they stay and stay-- Though their old Father languishes alone, They stay, and stay, and stay.

There be three Herrings loitering around, Longing to share that mossy seat.

Each Herring tries to sing what she has found That makes life seem so sweet Thus, with a grating and uncertain sound, They bleat, and bleat, and bleat.

The Mother-Herring, on the salt sea-wave, Sought vainly for her absent ones; The Father-Badger, writhing in a cave, Shrieked out, "Return, my sons!

You shall have buns," he shrieked, "if you'll behave!

Yea buns, and buns, and buns!"

"I fear," said she, "your sons have gone astray.

My daughters left me while I slept."

"Yes'm," the Badger said, "it's as you say.

They should be better kept."

Thus the poor parents talked the time away, And wept, and wept, and wept.

But the thoughtless young ones, who had wandered from home, are having a good time, a rollicking good time, for the _Herrings_ sing:

Oh, dear, beyond our dearest dreams, Fairer than all that fairest seems!

To feast the rosy hours away, To revel in a roundelay!

How blest would be A life so free-- Ipwergis pudding to consume And drink the subtle Azzigoom!

And if in other days and hours, 'Mid other fluffs and other flowers, The choice were given me how to dine-- "Name what thou wilt: it shall be thine!"

Oh, then I see The life for me-- Ipwergis pudding to consume And drink the subtle Azzigoom!

The Badgers did not care to talk to Fish; They did not dote on Herrings' songs; They never had experienced the dish To which that name belongs.

"And, oh, to pinch their tails" (this was their wish) "With tongs, yea, tongs, and tongs!"

"And are not these the Fish," the eldest sighed, "Whose mother dwells beneath the foam?"

"They _are_ the Fish!" the second one replied, "And they have left their home!"

"Oh, wicked Fish," the youngest Badger cried, "To roam, yea, roam, and roam!"

Gently the Badgers trotted to the sh.o.r.e-- The sandy sh.o.r.e that fringed the bay.

Each in his mouth a living Herring bore-- Those aged ones waxed gay.

Clear rang their voices through the ocean's roar.

"Hooray, hooray, hooray!'"

Most of Lewis Carroll's best nonsense rhymes abounded with all sorts of queer animals. In earlier years he had made quite a study of natural history, so that he knew enough about the habits of the animals who figured in his verses to make humorous portraits of them. Yet we know, apart from the earth-worms and snails of "little boy" days, he never cared to cultivate their acquaintance except in a casual way. He was never unkind to them, and fought with all his might against vivisection (which in plain English means cutting up live animals for scientific purposes), as well as against the cruel pastime of English cross-country hunting, where one poor little fox is run to earth and torn in pieces by the savage hounds. Big hunting, where the object was a man-eating lion or some other animal which menaced human life, he heartily approved of, but wanton cruelty he could not abide. Yet the dog he might use every effort to save from the knife of science did not appeal to him as a pet; he preferred a nice, plump, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, ringleted little girl--if _she_ liked dogs, why, very well, only none of them in _his_ rooms, thank you!

These fairy children, _Sylvie_ and _Bruno_, travel many leagues in the story, for good fairies must be able to go from place to place very quickly. We find them in Elfland, and Outland, and even Dogland.

A quaint episode in this book is the loss of Queen t.i.tania's baby.

"We put it in a flower," Sylvie explained, with her eyes full of tears.

"Only we can't remember _which_!" And there's a real fairy hunt for the missing baby, which must have been found somewhere, for fairies are never completely lost. All through this fairy tale move real people doing real things, acting real parts, coming often in contact with their good fairies, but parting always on the borderland, bearing with them but a memory of the beautiful children, and an echo of _Sylvie's_ song as it dies away in the distance.

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest?

Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest?

What's the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?

'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low-- And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning, Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?

That stirs the vexed soul with an aching--a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace?

Whence the music that fills all our being--that thrills Around us, beneath, and above?

'Tis a secret; none knows how it comes, how it goes; But the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight?

That decks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight?

'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, Though 'tis sung by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear-- And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

CHAPTER XV.

LEWIS CARROLL--MAN AND CHILD.

Love was indeed the keynote of Lewis Carroll's life. It was his rule, which governed everything he did, whether it was a lecture on mathematics or a "nonsense" story to a group of little girls. It was, above all, his religion, and meant much more to him than mere church forms, though the beautiful services at Oxford always impressed him deeply. Living as he did, apart from the stir and bustle of a great city, in a beautiful old town, full of historic a.s.sociations, the heart and center of English learning, where men had time for high thoughts and high deeds, it is no wonder that his ideals should soar beyond the limits of an everyday world, and no one who watched the daily routine of this quiet, self-contained, precise "don" could imagine how the great heart beneath the student's clerical coat craved the love of those for whom he truly cared.

Outsiders saw only a busy scholar, absorbed in his work, to all appearances somewhat of a recluse. It is true, however, that his last busy years, devoted to a book on "Symbolic Logic," kept him tied to his study during most of the Oxford term, and that in consequence he had little time for sociability, if he wished to complete his work.

The first part of "Symbolic Logic" was published in 1896, and although sixty-four years old at the time, his writing and his reasoning were quite as clear as in the earlier days. He never reached the point of "going down hill." Everything that he undertook showed the vigorous strain in him, and though the end of his life was not far off, those who loved him were never tortured by a long and painful illness. As he said of himself, his life had been so singularly free from the cares and worries that a.s.sail most people, the current flowed so evenly that his mental and physical health endured till the last.

In later years the tall, slim figure, the clean-shaven, delicate, refined face, the quiet, courteous, rather distant manner, were much commented upon alike by friends and strangers. With "grown-ups" he had always the air of the absent-minded scholar, but no matter how occupied, the presence of a little girl broke down the crust of his reserve and he became immediately the sunny companion, the fascinating weaver of tales, the old, enticing Lewis Carroll.

But he was above all things what we would call "a settled old bachelor."

He had little "ways" essentially his own, little peculiarities in which no doubt he took a secret and childish pride. With children these were always more or less amusing.

If he was going on a railway journey, for instance, he mapped out every minute of his time; then he would calculate the amount of money to be spent, and he always carried two purses, arranging methodically the sums for cabs, porters, newspapers, refreshments, and so forth, in different part.i.tions, so he always had the correct change and always secured the best of service. In packing he was also very particular; everything in his trunk had to be separately wrapped up in a piece of paper, and his luggage (he probably traveled with several trunks) always preceded him by a day or so, while his only enc.u.mbrance was a well-known little black bag which he always carried himself.

In dress, he was also a trifle "odd." He was scrupulously neat and very scholarly in appearance, with frock coat and immaculate linen, but he never wore an overcoat no matter how cold the weather, and in all seasons he wore a pair of gray and black cotton gloves and a tall hat.

He had a horror of staring colors, especially in little girls' dresses. He loved pink and gray, but any child visiting him, who dared to bring with her a dress of startling hue, such as red or green or yellow, was forbidden to wear it in his company.

His appet.i.te was unusually small, and he used to marvel at the good solid food his girl friends managed to consume. Once, when he took a special favorite out to dine, he warned his hostess to be careful in helping her as she ate far too much.

In writing, he seldom sat down; how he managed we are not told, but most likely his desk was a high one.

He was a great walker in all winds and weather. Sometimes he overdid it, and came home with blistered feet and aching joints, sometimes soaked to the skin when overtaken by an unexpected rain; but always elated over the distance he had traveled. He forgot, in the sheer delight of active exercise, that he was not absolutely proof against illness, and that added years needed added care; and as we find that the many severe colds which now constantly attacked him came usually in the winter, there is every reason to believe that human imprudence weakened a very strong const.i.tution, and that Lewis Carroll minus an overcoat meant Lewis Carroll plus a very bad cold.

On one occasion (February, 1895) he was laid up with a ten days' attack of influenza, with very high and alarming fever. Yet as late as December, 1897, a few weeks before his death, he boasted of sitting in his large room with no fire, an open window, and a temperature of 54.

Another time he had a severe attack of illness which prevented him from spending his usual Christmas with his sisters at Guildford. He was a prisoner in his room for over six weeks, but in writing to one of his beloved child friends he joked over it all, his only regret being the loss of the Christmas plum pudding.