presented to the three Miss Drurys in August, 1869:--

_To three puzzled little girls, from the Author._

Three little maidens weary of the rail, Three pairs of little ears listening to a tale, Three little hands held out in readiness, For three little puzzles very hard to guess.

Three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide, At three little scissors lying side by side.

Three little mouths that thanked an unknown Friend, For one little book, he undertook to send.

Though whether they'll remember a friend, or book, or day-- In three little weeks is very hard to say.

He took the same three children to German Reed's entertainment, where the triple bill consisted of "Happy Arcadia," "All Abroad," and "Very Catching." A few days afterwards he sent them "Phantasmagoria," with a little poem on the fly-leaf to remind them of their treat:--

Three little maids, one winter day, While others went to feed, To sing, to laugh, to dance, to play, More wisely went to--Reed.

Others, when lesson-time's begun, Go, half inclined to cry, Some in a walk, some in a run; But _these_ went in a--Fly.

I give to other little maids A smile, a kiss, a look, Presents whose memory quickly fades, I give to these--a Book.

_Happy Arcadia _may blind, While _all abroad,_ their eyes; At home, this book (I trust) they'll find A _very catching_ prize.

The next three letters were addressed to two of Mr. Arthur Hughes'

children. They are good examples of the wild and delightful nonsense with which Lewis Carroll used to amuse his little friends:--

My dear Agnes,--You lazy thing! What? I'm to divide the kisses myself, am I? Indeed I won't take the trouble to do anything of the sort! But I'll tell _you_ how to do it.

First, you must take _four_ of the kisses, and--and that reminds me of a very curious thing that happened to me at half-past four yesterday. Three visitors came knocking at my door, begging me to let them in. And when I opened the door, who do you think they were? You'll never guess. Why, they were three cats! Wasn't it curious? However, they all looked so cross and disagreeable that I took up the first thing I could lay my hand on (which happened to be the rolling-pin) and knocked them all down as flat as pan-cakes!

"If _you_ come knocking at _my_ door," I said, "_I_ shall come knocking at _your_ heads." "That was fair, wasn't it?"

Yours affectionately,

Lewis Carroll.

My dear Agnes,--About the cats, you know. Of course I didn't leave them lying flat on the ground like dried flowers: no, I picked them up, and I was as kind as I could be to them. I lent them the portfolio for a bed--they wouldn't have been comfortable in a real bed, you know: they were too thin--but they were _quite_ happy between the sheets of blotting-paper--and each of them had a pen-wiper for a pillow. Well, then I went to bed: but first I lent them the three dinner-bells, to ring if they wanted anything in the night.

You know I have _three_ dinner-bells--the first (which is the largest) is rung when dinner is _nearly_ ready; the second (which is rather larger) is rung when it is quite ready; and the third (which is as large as the other two put together) is rung all the time I am at dinner. Well, I told them they might ring if they happened to want anything--and, as they rang _all_ the bells _all_ night, I suppose they did want something or other, only I was too sleepy to attend to them.

In the morning I gave them some rat-tail jelly and b.u.t.tered mice for breakfast, and they were as discontented as they could be. They wanted some boiled pelican, but of course I knew it wouldn't be good _for_ them. So all I said was "Go to Number Two, Finborough Road, and ask for Agnes Hughes, and if it's _really_ good for you, she'll give you some." Then I shook hands with them all, and wished them all goodbye, and drove them up the chimney. They seemed very sorry to go, and they took the bells and the portfolio with them. I didn't find this out till after they had gone, and then I was sorry too, and wished for them back again. What do I mean by "them"? Never mind.

How are Arthur, and Amy, and Emily? Do they still go up and down Finborough Road, and teach the cats to be kind to mice?

I'm _very_ fond of all the cats in Finborough Road.

Give them my love.

Who do I mean by "them"?

Never mind.

Your affectionate friend,

Lewis Carroll.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Arthur Hughes and his daughter Agnes. _From a photograph by Lewis Carroll._]

My dear Amy,--How are you getting on, I wonder, with guessing those puzzles from "Wonderland"? If you think you've found out any of the answers, you may send them to me; and if they're wrong, I won't tell you they're right!

You asked me after those three cats. Ah! The dear creatures!

Do you know, ever since that night they first came, they have _never left me?_ Isn't it kind of them? Tell Agnes this. She will be interested to hear it. And they _are_ so kind and thoughtful! Do you know, when I had gone out for a walk the other day, they got _all_ my books out of the bookcase, and opened them on the floor, to be ready for me to read. They opened them all at page 50, because they thought that would be a nice useful page to begin at. It was rather unfortunate, though: because they took my bottle of gum, and tried to gum pictures upon the ceiling (which they thought would please me), and by accident they spilt a quant.i.ty of it all over the books. So when they were shut up and put by, the leaves all stuck together, and I can never read page 50 again in any of them!

However, they meant it very kindly, so I wasn't angry. I gave them each a spoonful of ink as a treat; but they were ungrateful for that, and made dreadful faces. But, of course, as it was given them as a treat, they had to drink it. One of them has turned black since: it was a white cat to begin with.

Give my love to any children you happen to meet. Also I send two kisses and a half, for you to divide with Agnes, Emily, and G.o.dfrey. Mind you divide them fairly.

Yours affectionately,

C.L. Dodgson.

The intelligent reader will make a discovery about the first of the two following letters, which Miss Maggie Cunningham, the "child-friend" to whom both were addressed, perhaps did not hit upon at once. Mr. Dodgson wrote these two letters in 1868:--

Dear Maggie,--I found that _the friend, _that the little girl asked me to write to, lived at Ripon, and not at Land's End--a nice sort of place to invite to! It looked rather suspicious to me--and soon after, by dint of incessant inquiries, I found out that _she_ was called Maggie, and lived in a Crescent! Of course I declared, "After that" (the language I used doesn't matter), "I will _not_ address her, that's flat! So do not expect me to flatter."

Well, I hope you will soon see your beloved Pa come back--for consider, should you be quite content with only Jack? Just suppose they made a blunder! (Such things happen now and then.) Really, now, I shouldn't wonder if your "John" came home again, and your father stayed at school! A most awkward thing, no doubt. How would you receive him?

You'll say, perhaps, "you'd turn him out." That would answer well, so far as concerns the boy, you know--but consider your Papa, learning lessons in a row of great inky schoolboys! This (though unlikely) might occur: "Haly" would be grieved to miss him (don't mention it to _her_).

No _carte_ has yet been done of me, that does real justice to my _smile_; and so I hardly like, you see, to send you one. However, I'll consider if I will or not--meanwhile, I send a little thing to give you an idea of what I look like when I'm lecturing. The merest sketch, you will allow--yet still I think there's something grand in the expression of the brow and in the action of the hand.

Have you read my fairy tale in _Aunt Judy's Magazine?_ If you have you will not fail to discover what I mean when I say "Bruno yesterday came to remind me that _he_ was my G.o.d-son!"--on the ground that I "gave him a name"!

Your affectionate friend,

C.L. Dodgson.

P.S.--I would send, if I were not too shy, the same message to "Haly" that she (though I do not deserve it, not I!) has sent through her sister to me. My best love to yourself--to your Mother my kindest regards--to your small, fat, impertinent, ignorant brother my hatred. I think that is all.

[Ill.u.s.tration: What I look like when I'm Lecturing. _From a drawing, by Lewis Carroll._]

My dear Maggie,--I am a very bad correspondent, I fear, but I hope you won't leave off writing to me on that account. I got the little book safe, and will do my best about putting my name in, if I can only manage to remember what day my birthday is--but one forgets these things so easily.

Somebody told me (a little bird, I suppose) that you had been having better photographs done of yourselves. If so, I hope you will let me buy copies. f.a.n.n.y will pay you for them. But, oh Maggie, how _can_ you ask for a better one of me than the one I sent! It is one of the best ever done! Such grace, such dignity, such benevolence, such--as a great secret (please don't repeat it) the _Queen_ sent to ask for a copy of it, but as it is against my rule to give in such a case, I was obliged to answer--

"Mr. Dodgson presents his compliments to her Majesty, and regrets to say that his rule is never to give his photograph except to _young_ ladies." I am told she was annoyed about it, and said, "I'm not so old as all that comes to!"

and one doesn't like to annoy Queens; but really I couldn't help it, you know.

I will conclude this chapter with some reminiscences of Lewis Carroll, which have been kindly sent me by an old child-friend of his, Mrs.

Maitland, daughter of the late Rev. E.A. Litton, Rector of Naunton, and formerly Fellow of Oriel College and Vice-Princ.i.p.al of Saint Edmund's Hall:--

To my mind Oxford will be never quite the same again now that so many of the dear old friends of one's childhood have "gone over to the great majority."

Often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the old wainscotted wall, have we--father and I--chatted over the old Oxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together in Long Wall Street. I was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child then, and for some years I was left almost entirely to the care of Mary Pearson, my own particular attendant. I first remember Mr. Dodgson when I was about seven years old, and from that time until we went to live in Gloucestershire he was one of my most delightful friends.

I shall never forget how Mr. Dodgson and I sat once under a dear old tree in the Botanical Gardens, and how he told me, for the first time, Hans Andersen's story of the "Ugly Duckling." I cannot explain the charm of Mr. Dodgson's way of telling stories; as he spoke, the characters seemed to be real flesh and blood. This particular story made a great impression upon me, and interested me greatly, as I was very sensitive about my ugly little self. I remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good and truthful and to try not to think of oneself than to be a pretty, selfish child, spoiled and disagreeable; and, after telling me this story, he gave me the name of "Ducky."

"Never mind, little Ducky," he used often to say, "perhaps some day you will turn out a swan."

I always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of Mr. Dodgson: his stories about them, his knowledge of their lives and histories, his enthusiasm about birds and b.u.t.terflies enlivened many a dull hour. The monkeys in the Botanical Gardens were our special pets, and when we fed them with nuts and biscuits he seemed to enjoy the fun as much as I did.