For a minute or two she stood looking at

the house, and wondering what to do next,

when suddenly a footman in livery came

running out of the wood--(she considered

him to be a footman because he was in

livery: otherwise, judging by his face

only, she would have called him a fish)--

and rapped loudly at the door with his

knuckles.

It was opened by another footman in livery,

with a round face, and large eyes like a

frog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had

powdered hair that curled all over their

heads.

She felt very curious to know what it was

all about, and crept a little way out of

the wood to listen.

The Fish-Footman began by producing from

under his arm a great letter, nearly as

large as himself, and this he handed over

to the other, saying, in a solemn tone,

'For the Duchess.

An invitation from the Queen to play

croquet.'

The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same

solemn tone, only changing the order of the

words a little, 'From the Queen.

An invitation for the Duchess to play

croquet.'

Then they both bowed low, and their curls

got entangled together.

Alice laughed so much at this, that she had

to run back into the wood for fear of their

hearing her; and when she next peeped out

the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other

was sitting on the ground near the door,

staring stupidly up into the sky.

Alice went timidly up to the door, and

knocked.

'There's no sort of use in knocking,' said

the Footman, 'and that for two reasons.

First, because I'm on the same side of the

door as you are; secondly, because they're

making such a noise inside, no one could

possibly hear you.'

And certainly there was a most

extraordinary noise going on within--a

constant howling and sneezing, and every

now and then a great crash, as if a dish or

kettle had been broken to pieces.

'Please, then,' said Alice, 'how am I to

get in?'

'There might be some sense in your

knocking,' the Footman went on without

attending to her, 'if we had the door

between us.

For instance, if you were INSIDE, you might

knock, and I could let you out, you know.'

He was looking up into the sky all the time

he was speaking, and this Alice thought

decidedly uncivil.

'But perhaps he can't help it,' she said to

herself; 'his eyes are so VERY nearly at

the top of his head.

But at any rate he might answer questions.

--How am I to get in?' she repeated, aloud.

'I shall sit here,' the Footman remarked,

'till tomorrow--'

At this moment the door of the house

opened, and a large plate came skimming

out, straight at the Footman's head: it

just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces

against one of the trees behind him.

'--or next day, maybe,' the Footman

continued in the same tone, exactly as if

nothing had happened.

'How am I to get in?' asked Alice again, in

a louder tone.

'ARE you to get in at all?' said the

Footman.

'That's the first question, you know.'

It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like

to be told so.

'It's really dreadful,' she muttered to

herself, 'the way all the creatures argue.

It's enough to drive one crazy!'

The Footman seemed to think this a good

opportunity for repeating his remark, with

variations.

'I shall sit here,' he said, 'on and off,

for days and days.'

'But what am I to do?' said Alice.

'Anything you like,' said the Footman, and

began whistling.

'Oh, there's no use in talking to him,'

said Alice desperately: 'he's perfectly

idiotic!'

And she opened the door and went in.

The door led right into a large kitchen,

which was full of smoke from one end to the

other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-

legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby;

the cook was leaning over the fire,

stirring a large cauldron which seemed to

be full of soup.

'There's certainly too much pepper in that

soup!'

Alice said to herself, as well as she could

for sneezing.

There was certainly too much of it in the

air.

Even the Duchess sneezed occasionally; and

as for the baby, it was sneezing and

howling alternately without a moment's

pause.

The only things in the kitchen that did not

sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat

which was sitting on the hearth and

grinning from ear to ear.

'Please would you tell me,' said Alice, a

little timidly, for she was not quite sure

whether it was good manners for her to

speak first, 'why your cat grins like

that?'

'It's a Cheshire cat,' said the Duchess,

'and that's why.

Pig!'

She said the last word with such sudden

violence that Alice quite jumped; but she

saw in another moment that it was addressed

to the baby, and not to her, so she took

courage, and went on again:--

'I didn't know that Cheshire cats always

grinned; in fact, I didn't know that cats

COULD grin.'

'They all can,' said the Duchess; 'and most

of 'em do.'

'I don't know of any that do,' Alice said

very politely, feeling quite pleased to

have got into a conversation.

'You don't know much,' said the Duchess;

'and that's a fact.'

Alice did not at all like the tone of this

remark, and thought it would be as well to

introduce some other subject of

conversation.

While she was trying to fix on one, the

cook took the cauldron of soup off the

fire, and at once set to work throwing

everything within her reach at the Duchess

and the baby--the fire-irons came first;

then followed a shower of saucepans,

plates, and dishes.

The Duchess took no notice of them even

when they hit her; and the baby was howling

so much already, that it was quite

impossible to say whether the blows hurt it

or not.

'Oh, PLEASE mind what you're doing!' cried

Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of

terror.

'Oh, there goes his PRECIOUS nose'; as an

unusually large saucepan flew close by it,

and very nearly carried it off.

'If everybody minded their own business,'

the Duchess said in a hoarse growl, 'the

world would go round a deal faster than it

does.'

'Which would NOT be an advantage,' said

Alice, who felt very glad to get an

opportunity of showing off a little of her

knowledge.

'Just think of what work it would make with

the day and night!

You see the earth takes twenty-four hours

to turn round on its axis--'

'Talking of axes,' said the Duchess, 'chop

off her head!'

Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook,

to see if she meant to take the hint; but

the cook was busily stirring the soup, and

seemed not to be listening, so she went on

again: 'Twenty-four hours, I THINK; or is

it twelve?

I--'

'Oh, don't bother ME,' said the Duchess; 'I

never could abide figures!'

And with that she began nursing her child

again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as

she did so, and giving it a violent shake

at the end of every line:

| 'Speak roughly to your little boy,

| And beat him when he sneezes:

| He only does it to annoy,

| Because he knows it teases.'

| CHORUS.

| (In which the cook and the baby joined):

| 'Wow! wow! wow!'

While the Duchess sang the second verse of

the song, she kept tossing the baby

violently up and down, and the poor little

thing howled so, that Alice could hardly

hear the words:--

| 'I speak severely to my boy,

| I beat him when he sneezes;

| For he can thoroughly enjoy

| The pepper when he pleases!'

| CHORUS.

| 'Wow! wow! wow!'

'Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you

like!' the Duchess said to Alice, flinging

the baby at her as she spoke.

'I must go and get ready to play croquet

with the Queen,' and she hurried out of the

room.

The cook threw a frying-pan after her as

she went out, but it just missed her.

Alice caught the baby with some difficulty,

as it was a queer-shaped little creature,

and held out its arms and legs in all

directions, 'just like a star-fish,'

thought Alice.

The poor little thing was snorting like a

steam-engine when she caught it, and kept

doubling itself up and straightening itself

out again, so that altogether, for the

first minute or two, it was as much as she

could do to hold it.

As soon as she had made out the proper way

of nursing it, (which was to twist it up

into a sort of knot, and then keep tight

hold of its right ear and left foot, so as

to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried

it out into the open air.

'IF I don't take this child away with me,'

thought Alice, 'they're sure to kill it in

a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to

leave it behind?'

She said the last words out loud, and the

little thing grunted in reply (it had left

off sneezing by this time).

'Don't grunt,' said Alice; 'that's not at

all a proper way of expressing yourself.'

The baby grunted again, and Alice looked

very anxiously into its face to see what

was the matter with it.

There could be no doubt that it had a VERY

turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a

real nose; also its eyes were getting

extremely small for a baby: altogether

Alice did not like the look of the thing at

all.

'But perhaps it was only sobbing,' she

thought, and looked into its eyes again, to

see if there were any tears.

No, there were no tears.

'If you're going to turn into a pig, my

dear,' said Alice, seriously, 'I'll have

nothing more to do with you.

Mind now!'

The poor little thing sobbed again (or

grunted, it was impossible to say which),

and they went on for some while in silence.