 Chapter 8 of Sylvie and Bruno, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Starr. Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll, Chapter 8 A ride on a lion. The next day glided away pleasantly enough, partly in settling myself in my new quarters and partly in strolling round the neighborhood under Arthur's guidance and trying to form a general idea of Elfston and its inhabitants. When five o'clock arrived, Arthur proposed, without any embarrassment this time, to take me with him up to the hall in order that I might make acquaintance with the Earl of Ainsley, who had taken it for the season, and renew acquaintance with his daughter, Lady Muriel. My first impressions of the gentle, dignified, and yet genial old man were entirely favorable, and the real satisfaction that showed itself on his daughter's face as she met me with the words, this is indeed an unlooked for pleasure. Was very soothing for whatever remains of personal vanity, the failures and disappointments of many long years, and much a buffeting with a rough world had left in me. Yet I noted and was glad to note evidence of a far deeper feeling than mere friendly regard in her meeting with Arthur, though this was, as I gathered, an almost daily occurrence, and the conversation between them in which the Earl and I were only occasional sharers had an ease and spontaneity rarely met with except between very old friends, and as I knew that they had not known each other for a longer period than the summer which was now rounding into autumn, I felt certain that love and love alone could explain the phenomenon. How convenient it would be, Lady Muriel lavinly remarked, apropos of my having insisted on saving her the trouble of carrying a cup of tea across the room to the Earl, if cups of tea had no weight at all, then perhaps ladies sometimes would be permitted to carry them for short distances. One can easily imagine a situation," said Arthur, where things would necessarily have no weight relatively to each other, though each would have its usual weight looked at by itself. Some desperate paradox," said the Earl. Tell us how it could be, we shall never guess it. Well, suppose this house, just as it is, placed a few billion miles above a planet and with nothing else near enough to disturb it, of course it falls to the planet. The Earl nodded. Of course, it might take some centuries to do it. And is five o'clock tea to be going on all the while? said Lady Muriel. That and other things, said Arthur. The inhabitants would live their lives, grow up and die, and still the house would be falling, falling, falling, but now as to the relative weight of things. Nothing can be heavy, you know, except by trying to fall and being prevented from doing so. You all grant that. We all granted that. Well now, if I take this book and hold it out at arm's length, of course I feel its weight. It is trying to fall and I prevent it. And if I let it go, it falls to the floor. But if we were all falling together, it couldn't be trying to fall any quicker, you know, for if I let go, what more could it do than fall? And as my hand would be falling to at the same rate, it would never leave it, for that would be to get ahead of it in the race, and it could never overtake the falling floor. I see it clearly, said Lady Muriel, but it makes one dizzy to think of such things. How can you make us do it? There is a more curious idea yet, I ventured to say. Suppose a cord fastened to the house from below and pulled down by someone on the planet. Then, of course, the house goes faster than its natural rate of falling, but the furniture, with our noble selves, would go on falling at their old pace and would therefore be left behind. Practically we should rise to the ceiling, said the Earl. The inevitable result of which would be concussion of brain. To avoid that, said Arthur, let us have the furniture fixed to the floor and ourselves tied down to the furniture. Then the five o'clock tea could go on in peace. With one little drawback, Lady Muriel gaily interrupted, we should take the cup stand with us, but what about the tea? I had forgotten the tea, Arthur confessed. That no doubt would rise to the ceiling, unless you chose to drink it on the way. Which, I think, is quite nonsense enough for one while, said the Earl. What news does this gentleman bring us from the great world of London? This drew me into the conversation, which now took a more conventional tone. After a while, Arthur gave the signal for our departure, and in the cool of the evening we strolled down to the beach, enjoying the silence, broken only by the murmur of the sea and the faraway music of some fisherman's song, almost as much as our late pleasant talk. We sat down among the rocks by a little pool so rich in animal, vegetable, and zoophitic, or whatever is the right word, life, that I became entranced in the study of it. And when Arthur proposed returning to our lodgings, I begged to be left there for a while to watch and muse alone. The fisherman's song grew ever nearer and clearer as their boat stood in for the beach, and I would have gone down to see them land their cargo of fish had not the microcosm at my feet stirred my curiosity yet more keenly. One ancient grab that was forever shuffling frantically from side to side of the pool had particularly fascinated me. There was a vacancy in its stare and an aimless violence in its behavior that irresistibly recalled the gardener who had befriended Sylvie and Bruno, and as I gazed I caught the concluding notes of the tune of his crazy song. The silence that followed was broken by the sweet voice of Sylvie. Would you please let us out into the road? What? After that old beggar again? The gardener yelled and began singing. He thought he saw a kangaroo that worked a coffee mill. He looked again and found it was a vegetable pill. Were I to swallow this, he said, I should be very ill. We don't want him to swallow anything, Sylvie explained. He's not hungry, but we want to see him, so will you please sat and lay? The gardener promptly replied, I always plays, never displaces nobody. There you are, and he flung the door open and led us out upon the dusty high road. We soon found our way to the bush, which had so mysteriously sunk into the ground, and here Sylvie drew the magic locket from its hiding place, turned it over with a thoughtful air, and at last appealed to Bruno in a rather helpless way. What was it we had to do with it, Bruno? It's all gone out of my head. Kiss it? was Bruno's invariable recipe in cases of doubt and difficulty. Sylvie kissed it, but no result followed. Rub it the wrong way? was Bruno's next suggestion. Which is the wrong way? Sylvie most reasonably inquired. The obvious plan was to try both ways. Rubbing from left to right had no visible effect whatever, from right to left. Oh, stop, Sylvie! Bruno cried in sudden alarm. What other is going to happen? For a number of trees on the neighbouring hillside were moving slowly upwards in solemn procession, while a mild little brook that had been rippling at our feet a moment before began to swell and foam and hiss and bubble in a truly alarming fashion. Rub it some other way? cried Bruno. Try up and down, quick! It was a happy thought. Up and down did it, and the landscape, which had been showing signs of mental aberration in various directions, returned to its normal condition of sobriety, with the exception of a small, yellowish-brown mouse which continued to run wildly up and down the road, lashing its tail, like a little lion. Let's follow it! said Sylvie, and this also turned out to be a happy thought. The mouse at once settled down into a business-like jog trot, with which we could easily keep pace. The only phenomenon that gave me any uneasiness was the rapid increase in the size of the little creature we were following, which became every moment more and more like a real lion. Soon the transformation was complete, and a noble lion stood patiently waiting for us to come up with it. No thought of fear seemed to occur to the children, who patted and stroked it as if it had been a shetland pony. Help me up! cried Bruno, and in another moment Sylvie had lifted him upon the broad back of the gentle beast and seated herself behind him, pillion fashion. Bruno took a good handful of mane in each hand and made believe to guide this new kind of steed. Key up! seemed quite sufficient by way of verbal direction. The lion at once broke into an easy canter, and we soon found ourselves in the depths of the forest. I say we, for I am certain that I accompanied them, though how I managed to keep up with the cantering lion I am wholly unable to explain. But I was certainly one of the party when we came upon an old beggar man cutting sticks, at whose feet the lion made a profound obeisance, Sylvie and Bruno at the same moment dismounting and leaping into the arms of their father. From bad to worse. An ambitious and silly woman, the selfishness of a spiteful and loveless child all tend one way, from bad to worse. And you, my darlings, must suffer it a while, I fear. Yet when things are at their worst, you can come to me. I can do but little as yet. Gathering up a handful of dust and scattering it in the air, he slowly and solemnly pronounced some words that sounded like a charm. The children looking on in awe struck silence. Let craft, ambition, spite, be quenched and reasons night, till weakness turn to might, till what is dark be light, till what is wrong be right. The cloud of dust spread itself out through the air, as if it were alive, forming curious shapes that were forever changing into others. It makes letters. It makes words. Bruno whispered as he clung half-brightened to Sylvie. I can't make them out. Read them, Sylvie. I'll try. Sylvie gravely replied. Wait a minute. If only I could see that word. I should be very ill. A discordant voice yelled in our ears. Were I to swallow this? He said. I should be very ill. End of Chapter 8 A Ride on a Lion Recorded by John Starr www.ourmanstar.com Chapter 9 of Sylvie and Bruno This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by John Starr Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll Chapter 9 A Jester and a Bear Yes, we were in the garden once more, and to escape that horrid discordant voice, we hurried indoors and found ourselves in the library. A gug blabbering, the professor standing by with a bewildered air, and my lady with her arms clasped round her son's neck repeating over and over again. And did they give him nasty lessons to learn? Oh, my own pretty pet! What's all this noise about? The vice warden angrily inquired as he strode into the room. And who put the hat stand here? And he hung his hat up on Bruno, who was standing in the middle of the room too much astonished by the sudden change of scene to make any attempt at removing it, though it came down to his shoulders, making him look something like a small candle with a large extinguisher over it. The professor mildly explained that his highness had been graciously pleased to say he wouldn't do his lessons. Do your lessons this instant, you young cub! Thundered the vice warden. And take this! And a resounding box on the ear made the unfortunate professor reel across the room. Shave me, faltered the poor old man, as he sank half-fainting at my lady's feet. Shave you? Oh, of course I will! My lady replied as she lifted him into a chair and pinned an anti-macassar around his neck. Where's the razor? The vice warden, meanwhile, had got hold of Uggug and was belaboring him with his umbrella. Who left this loose nail in the floor? He shouted. Hammer it in, I say! Hammer it in! Blow after blow fell on the writhing Uggug till he dropped howling to the floor. Then his father turned to the shaving scene which was being enacted and roared with laughter. Excuse me, dear, I cannot help it! He said as soon as he could speak, You are such an utter donkey, kiss me, tabby! And he flung his arms round the neck of the terrified professor who raised a wild shriek. But whether he received the threatened kiss or not I was unable to see, as Bruno, who had by this time released himself from his extinguisher, ran headlong out of the room, followed by Sylvie, and I was so fearful of being left alone among these crazy creatures that I hurried after them. We must go to father! Sylvie panted as they ran down the garden. I'm sure things are at their worst. I'll ask the gardener to let us out again. But we cannot walk all the way, Bruno whimpered. How I wish we had a coaching for like uncle! And shrill and wild rang through the air the familiar voice. He thought he saw a coaching for that stood beside his bed. He looked again and found it was a bear without a head. Poor thing, he said. Poor silly thing, it's waiting to be fed. No, I cannot let you out again, he said before the children could speak. The vice warden gave it me, he did, for that knew her last time, so be off with you. And turning away from them, he began digging frantically in the middle of a gravel walk, singing over and over again. Poor thing, he said. Poor silly thing, it's waiting to be fed. But in a more musical tone than the shrill screech in which he had begun, the music grew fuller and richer at every moment. Other manly voices joined in the refrain, and soon I heard the heavy thud that told me the boat had touched the beach, and the harsh grating of the shingle as the men dragged it up. I roused myself, and, after lending them a hand in hauling up their boat, I lingered yet a while to watch them disembark a goodly assortment of the hard-won treasures of the deep. When at last I reached our lodgings, I was tired and sleepy, and glad enough to settle down again into the easy-chair, while Arthur hospitably went to his cupboard to get me out some cake and wine, without which he declared he could not, as a doctor, permit my going to bed. And how that cupboard door did creak! It surely could not be Arthur who was opening and shutting it so often, moving so restlessly about, and muttering like the soliloquy of a tragedy queen. No, it was a female voice. Also, the figure half hidden by the cupboard door was a female figure, massive and in flowing robes. Could it be the landlady? The door opened, and a strange man entered the room. What is that donkey doing? He said to himself, pausing, aghast on the threshold. The lady, thus rudely referred to, was his wife. She had got one of the cupboards open, and stood with her back to him, smoothing down a sheet of brown paper on one of the shelves, and whispering to herself, so, so, deathly done, cruftily contrived. Her loving husband stole behind her on tiptoe, and tapped her on the head. Bow! he playfully shouted at her ear. Never tell me again I cannot say bow to a goose! My lady wrung her hands. Disgoverned! she groaned. Yet, no, he is one of us. Oh, reveal it not, oh man, let it bide its time. Reveal what not? Her husband testily replied, dragging out the sheet of brown paper. What are you hiding here, my lady? I insist upon knowing. My lady cast down her eyes, and spoke in the little list of little voices. Don't make fun of it, Benjamin. She pleaded, It's, it's, don't you understand, it's a dagger. And what's that for? Sneered his excellency. We've only got to make people think he's dead. We haven't got to kill him. And made of tin, too. He snarled, contemptuously bending the blade round his thumb. Now, madam, you'll be good enough to explain. First, what do you call me Benjamin for? It's part of the conspiracy, love. One must have an alias, you know. Oh, an alias is it? Well, and next, what did you get this dagger for? Come, no evasions, you cannot deceive me. I got it for, for, for, for. The detected conspirator stammered, trying her best to put on the assassin expression that she had been practicing at the looking-glass. For? For what, madam? Well, for eighteen pence, if you must know, dearest. That's what I got it for, on my... Now, don't say your word and honor, groaned the other conspirator. Why, they aren't worth half the money put together. On my birthday. My lady concluded in a meek whisper. One must have a dagger, you know. It's part of the... Oh, don't talk of conspiracies. The husband savagely interrupted as he tossed the dagger into the cupboard. You know about as much how to manage a conspiracy as if you were a chicken. Why, the first thing is to get a disguise. Now just look at this. And, with pardonable pride, he fitted on the cap and bells and rest of the fool's dress, and winked at her and put his tongue in his cheek. Is that the sort of thing now? He demanded. My lady's eyes flashed with all the conspirator's enthusiasm. The very thing! She exclaimed, clapping her hands. You do look, oh, such a perfect fool! The fool smiled a doubtful smile. He was not quite clear whether it was a compliment or not to express it so plainly. You mean a jester! Yes, that's what I intended. And what do you think your disguise is to be? And he proceeded to unfold the parcel, the lady watching him, in rapture. Oh, how lovely! She cried when at last the dress was unfolded. What a splendid disguise! An Esquimo peasant woman! An Esquimo peasant indeed! growled the other. Here, put it on and look at yourself in the glass. Why, it's a bear, can't you use your eyes? He checked himself suddenly as a harsh voice yelled through the room. He looked again and found it was a bear without a head. But it was only the gardener singing under the open window. The vice warden stole on tiptoe to the window and closed it noiselessly before he ventured to go on. Yes, lovey, a bear, but not without a head, I hope. You're the bear and me the keeper, and if any one knows us, they'll have sharp eyes, that's all. I shall have to practice the steps a bit, my lady said, looking out through the bear's mouth. One can't help but being rather human just at first, you know, and, of course, you'll say, come up, brewing, won't you? Yes, of course, replied the keeper, laying hold of the chain that hung from the bear's collar with one hand while with the other he cracked a little whip. Now go round the room in a sort of dancing attitude. Very good, my dear, very good. Ah, come up, brewing, come up, I say. He roared out the last words for the benefit of Uggug who had just come into the room now standing with his hands spread out and eyes and mouth wide open, the very picture of stupid amazement. Oh, my! was all he could gasp out. The keeper, pretending to be adjusting the bear's collar, which gave him an opportunity of whispering unheard by Uggug, my fault I'm afraid, quite forgot to fasten the door. Lots ruined if he finds it out. Keep it up a minute or two longer. Be savage. Then, while seeming to pull it back with all his strength, he let it advance upon the scared boy. My lady, with admirable presence of mind, kept up what she no doubt intended for a savage growl, though it was more like the purring of a cat, and Uggug backed out of the room with such haste that he tripped over the mat and was heard to fall heavily outside, an accident to which even his doting mother paid no heed in the excitement of the moment. The vice warden shut and bolted the door. Off with the disguises, he panted. There's not a moment to lose. He sure defetched the professor and we couldn't take him in, you know. And in another minute the disguises were stowed away in the cupboard, the door unbolted, and the two conspirators seated lovingly side by side on the sofa, earnestly discussing a book the vice warden had hastily snatched off the table, which proved to be the city directory of the capital of Outland. The door opened very slowly and cautiously, and the professor peeped in, Uggug's stupid face being just visible behind him. It's a beautiful arrangement, the vice warden was sane with enthusiasm. You see, my precious one, that there are fifteen houses in Green Street before you turn into West Street. Fifteen houses? Is it possible? My lady replied. I thought it was fourteen. And so intent were they on this interesting question that neither of them even looked up till the professor, leading Uggug by the hand, stood close before them. My lady was the first to notice their approach. Why, here's the professor. She exclaimed in her blandest tones. And my precious child, too. All lessons over. A strange thing has happened. The professor began in a trembling tone. He's exalted fatness. This was one of Uggug's many titles. Tells me he has just seen in this very room a dancing bear and a court jester. The vice warden and his wife shook with well-acted merriment. Not at this room, darling, said the fond mother. We've been sitting here this hour or more reading— Here she referred to the book lying on her lap. Reading the—the—city directory. Let me feel your pulse, my boy, said the anxious father. Now put out your tongue. Ah, I thought so. He's a little feverish professor, and he's had a bad dream. Put him to bed at once and give him a cooling draft. I ain't been dreaming. His exalted fatness remonstrated as the professor led him away. Bad grammar, sir, his father remarked with some sternness. Kindly attend to that little matter, professor, as soon as you have corrected the feverishness. And, by the way, professor— The professor left his distinguished pupil standing at the door and meekly returned. There is a rumor afloat that the people wish to elect Anne. In point of fact, Anne— You—you—you understand that I mean Anne. Not another proficient. The poor old man exclaimed in horror. No, certainly not. The vice warden eagerly explained, merely an emperor, you understand. An emperor? cried the astonished professor, holding his head between his hands as if he expected it to come to pieces with the shock. What will the warden? Why, the warden will most likely be the new emperor? My lady explained. Where could we find a better? Unless—perhaps— She glanced at her husband. Where, indeed— The professor fervently responded, quite failing to take the hint. The vice warden resumed the thread of his discourse. The reason I mentioned it, professor, was to ask you to be so kind as to preside at the election. You see, it would make the thing respectable. No suspicion of anything underhand. I fear I can it, your excellency. The old man faltered. What will the warden? True, true, the vice warden interrupted. Your position as court professor makes it awkward, I admit. Very well. Then the election shall be held without you. Better so than if it were held within me. The professor murmured with a bewildered air as if he hardly knew what he was saying. Bed, I think your highness said, and a cool and draught. And he wandered dreamily back to where a gug soakily awaited him. I followed them out of the room and down the passage. The professor murmuring to himself all the time as a kind of aid to his feeble memory. See, see, see. Coach, cool and draught, correct grammar. Till, interning a corner, he met Sylveon Bruno, so suddenly that the startled professor let go of his fat pupil who instantly took to his heels. End of Chapter 9 A Jester and a Bear Recorded by John Starr www.ourmanstar.com Recording by John Starr Sylveon Bruno by Lewis Carroll Chapter 10 The Other Professor We were looking for you, cried Sylveon in a tone of great relief. We do want you so much, you cannot think. What is it, dear children? The professor asked, beaming on them with a very different look from what a gug ever got from him. We want you to speak to the gardener for us. Sylve said, as she and Bruno took the old man's hands and led him into the hall. He's ever so unkind. Bruno mournfully added, These all unkind to us. Now that father's gone, the lion were much nicer. But you must explain to me, please. The professor said, with an anxious look, which is the lion and which is the gardener. It's most important not to get too such animals confused together. And one's very liable to do it in their case, both having mouths, you know. Does you always confuse this two animals together? Bruno asked. Pretty often, I'm afraid. The professor candidly confessed. Now, for instance, there's the rabbit-hutch and the whole clock, the professor pointed them out. One gets a little confused with them, both having doors, you know. Now, only yesterday, which will believe it, I put some lettuces into the clock and tried to wind up the rabbit. It did the rabbit go after he wound it up, said Bruno. The professor clasped his hands on the top of his head and groaned. Go! I should think it did go while it's gone. And wherever it's got to, that's what I cannot find out. I've done my best. I've read all the article rabbit in the Great Dictionary. Come in. Only the tailor, sir, with your little bill, said a meek voice outside the door. Oh, well, I can soon settle his business, the professor said to the children. If you'll just wait a minute. How much is it this year, my man? The tailor had come in while he was speaking. It's been doubling so many years, you see. The tailor replied a little gruffly, and I think I'd like the money now. It's two thousand pound it is. Oh, that's nothing! The professor carelessly remarked, feeling in his pocket, as if he always carried at least that amount about with him. But, eh, wouldn't you like to wait just another year and make it four thousand? Just think how rich you'd be. Why, eh, you might be king if you liked. I don't know as I care about being a king. The man said thoughtfully. But it, eh, it do sound a powerful side of money. Eh, well, I think I'll wait. Of course you will, said the professor. There's good sense in you, I see. Good day to you, my man. Will you ever have to pay him that four thousand pounds? Sylvie asked, as the door closed on the departing creditor. Never, my child, the professor replied emphatically. Here go on doubling it till he dies. You see, it's always worthwhile waiting another year to get twice as much money. And now, what would you like to do, my little friends? Oh, shall I take you to see the other professor? This would be an excellent opportunity for a visit. He said to himself, glancing at his watch, he generally takes a short wish of fourteen minutes and a half about this time. Bruno hastily went round to Sylvie, who was standing on the other side of the professor and put his hand into hers. I think he'd like to go. He said doubtfully. Only, please, let's all go together. It's best to be on the safe side, you know. Why, you talk as if you were Sylvie, exclaimed the professor. I know I did. Bruno replied very humbly. I quite forgot that I wasn't Sylvie. Only, I thought he might be rather fierce. The professor laughed a jolly laugh. Oh, he's quite tame, he said. He never bites. He's only a little dreamy, you know. He took hold of Bruno's other hand and led the children down a long passage I'd never noticed before. Not that there was anything remarkable in that. I was constantly coming on new rooms and passages in that mysterious palace, and very seldom succeeded in finding the old ones again. Near the end of the passage, the professor stopped. This is his room, he said, pointing to the solid wall. We cannot get in through there, Bruno exclaimed. Sylvie said nothing till she had carefully examined whether the wall opened anywhere. Then she laughed merrily. Ha, ha, ha! You're playing us a trick, you dear old thing, she said. There's no door here. There isn't any door to the room, said the professor. We shall have to climb in at the window. So we went into the garden and soon found the window of the other professor's room. It was a ground floor window and stood invitingly open. The professor first lifted the two children in and then he and I climbed in after them. The other professor was seated at a table with a large book open before him on which his forehead was resting. He had clasped his arms round the book and was snoring heavily. He usually reads like that, the professor remarked. When the book's very interesting and then sometimes it's very difficult to get him to attend. This seemed to be one of the difficult times. The professor lifted him up once or twice and shook him violently, but he always returned to his book the moment he was let go of and showed by his heavy breathing that the book was as interesting as ever. How dreamy he is! the professor exclaimed. He must have got to a very interesting part of the book and he reigned quite a shower of thumps on the other professor's back, shouting, Hoi! Hoi! All the time. Isn't it wonderful that he should be so dreamy? He said to Bruno, If he's always as sleepy as day, Bruno remarked, Of course he's dreamy. But what are we to do? said the professor. You see, he's quite wrapped up in the book. Suppose who shats the book? Bruno suggested. That's it? cried the delighted professor. Of course, that'll do it. And he shut up the book so quickly that he caught the other professor's nose between the leaves and gave it a severe pinch. The other professor instantly rose to his feet and carried the book away to the end of the room where he put it back in its place in the bookcase. I've been reading for eighteen hours and three quarters. He said, And now I shall rest for fourteen minutes and a half. Is the lecture all ready? Very nearly, the professor humbly replied, I shall ask you to give me a hint or two. There will be a few little difficulties. And banquet, I think you said? Oh, yes, the banquet comes first, of course. People never enjoy abstract science when they're ravenous with hunger. And then there's the fancy-dressed ball. There'll be lots of entertainment. Where will the ball come in? Said the other professor. I think it had better come at the beginning of the banquet. It brings people together so nicely, you know. Yes, that's the right order. First the meeting, then the eating, then the treating, for I'm sure any lecture you give us will be a treat. Said the other professor, who had been standing with his back to us all this time, occupying himself in taking the books out one by one and turning them upside down. An easel with a blackboard on it stood near him, and every time he turned a book upside down, he made a mark on the board with a piece of chalk. And as to the pigtail, which you have so kindly promised to give us, the professor went on, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. I think that had better come at the end of the banquet. Did people can listen to it quietly? Shall I sing it? The other professor asked with a smile of delight. If you can, the professor replied cautiously. Let me try, said the other professor, seating himself at the piano fort. For the sake of argument, let us assume that it begins on a flat. And he struck the note in question. La, la, la! I think that's within an octave of it. He struck the note again, and appealed to Bruno, who was standing at his side. Did I sing it like that, my child? No, you didn't. Bruno replied with great decision. It was more like a duck. Single notes are apt to have that effect. The other professor said with a sigh. Let me try a whole verse. There was a pig that sat alone beside a ruin-pump. By day and night he made his moan. It would have stirred a heart of stone to see him wring his hooves and groan. Because he could not jump. Would you call that a tune, professor? He asked when he had finished. The professor considered a little. Well, he said at last. Some of the notes are the same as others, and some are different, but I should hardly call it a tune. Let me try to beat him by myself, said the other professor, and he began touching the notes here and there, and humming to himself like an angry blue bottle. How do you like his singing? The professor asked the children in a low voice. It isn't very beautiful, Sylvie said hesitatingly. It's very extremely ugly, Bruno said without any hesitation at all. All extremes are bad, the professor said very gravely. In essence sobriety is a very good thing when practised in moderation, but even sobriety when carried to an extreme has its disadvantages. What are its disadvantages was the question that rose in my mind, and as usual Bruno asked it for me. What are its disadvantages? Well, this is one of them, said the professor. When a man's tipsy, that's one extreme, you know, he sees one thing as two, but when he's extremely sober, that's the other extreme, he sees two things as one. It's equally inconvenient, whichever happens. What does inconvenient mean? Bruno whispered to Sylvie. The difference between convenient and inconvenient is best explained by an example. Said the other professor who had overheard the question, if you'll just think over any poem that contains the two words such as, the professor put his hands over his ears with a look of dismay. If you once let him begin a poem, he said to Sylvie, he'll never live off again, he never does. Did he ever begin a poem and not leave off again? Sylvie inquired. Three times, said the professor. Bruno raised himself on tiptoe till his lips were on a level with Sylvie's ear. What became of them three poems? he whispered. Is he saying them all now? Hush, said Sylvie. The other professor is speaking. I'll say it very quick. murmured the other professor with downcast eyes and melancholy voice, which contrasted oddly with his face as he had forgotten to leave off smiling. At least it wasn't exactly a smile, as Sylvie said afterwards. It looked as if his mouth was made that shape. Go on, then, said the professor. What must be must be? Remember that, Sylvie whispered to Bruno. It's a very good rule for whenever you hurt yourself. And it's a very good rule for whenever I make a noise. said the saucy little fellow. So you remember it too, miss? What ever do you mean? said Sylvie, trying to frown a thing she never managed particularly well. Offence and offence, said Bruno. Haven't you told me there mustn't be so much noise Bruno when I've told you there must? Why, there isn't no rules at all about there mustn't, but who never believes me as if anyone could believe you, you wicked, wicked boy. said Sylvie. The words were severe enough, but I am of the opinion that when you are really anxious to impress a criminal with the sense of his guilt, you ought not to pronounce the sentence with your lips quite close to his cheek, since a kiss at the end of it, however accidental, weakens the effect terribly. CHAPTER 11 As I was saying, the other professor resumed, if you'll just think over any poem that drains the words, such as Peter is poor, said Noble Paul, and I have always been his friend, and though my means to give are small, at least I can afford to lend. How few in this cold age of greed do good except on selfish grounds, but I can feel for Peter's need, and I will lend him fifty pounds. How great was Peter's joy to find his friend in such a genial vein, how cheerfully the bond he signed to pay the money back again. We can't, said Paul, be too precise. It is best to fix the very day. So, by a learned friend's advice, I've made it noon, the fourth of May. But this is April, Peter said, the first of April, as I think. Five little weeks will soon be fled. One scarcely will have time to wink. Give me a year to speculate, to buy and sell, to drive a trade. Said Paul, I cannot change the date. On May the fourth it must be paid. Well, well, said Peter with a sigh, hand me the cash, and I will go. I'll form a joint stock company and turn an honest pound or so. I'm grieved, said Paul, to seem unkind. The money shall, of course, be lent. But for a week or two I find it will not be convenient. So week by week poor Peter came and turned in heaviness away. For still the answer was the same. I cannot manage it to-day. And now the April showers were dry, the five short weeks were nearly spent. Yet still he got the old reply. It is not quite convenient. The fourth arrived, and punctual Paul came with his legal friend at noon. I thought at best, said he, to call. One cannot settle things too soon. Poor Peter shuddered in despair. His flowing locks he wildly tore, and very soon his yellow hair was lying all about the floor. The legal friend was standing by with sudden pity half unmanned. The teardrop trembled in his eye, the signed agreement in his hand. But when at length the legal soul resumed its customary force, the law, he said, we can't control. Pay, or the law must take its course. Said Paul, how bitterly I rue that fatal morning when I called. Consider, Peter, what you do. You won't be richer when you're bald. Think you by rending curls away to make your difficulties less. Forbear this violence, I pray. You do but add to my distress. Not willingly would I inflict, said Peter, on that noble heart, one needless pang, yet why so strict is this to act a friendly part? However legal it may be to pay what never has been lent, this style of business seems to me extremely inconvenient. No nobleness of soul have I, like some that in this age are found. Paul blushed in sheer humility and cast his eyes upon the ground. This debt will simply swallow all and make no difference. This swallow all and make my life a life of woe. Nay, nay, nay, Peter answered Paul. You must not rail unfortunate so. You have enough to eat and drink. You are respected in the world. And at the barbers, as I think, you often get your whiskers curled. Though nobleness you can't attain to any very great extent, the path of honesty is plain, however inconvenient. Tis true, said Peter, I'm alive. I keep my station in the world. Once in the week I just contrive to get my whiskers oiled and curled. But my assets are very low, my little incomes overspent. To trench on capital, you know, is always inconvenient. But pay your debts, cried honest Paul. My gentle Peter, pay your debts. What matter if it swallows all that you describe as your assets? Already you're an hour behind, yet generosity is best. It pinches me, but never mind. I will not charge you interest. How good, how great, poor Peter, cried, yet I must sell my Sunday wig, the scarf pin that has been my pride, my grand piano, and my pig. Full soon his property took wings and daily as each treasure went, he sighed to find the stated things grow less and less convenient. Weeks grew to months and months to years, Peter was warned to skin and bone, and once he even said with tears, remember, Paul, that promised loan, said, Paul, I'll lend you when I can all the spare money I have got. Ah, Peter, you're a happy man. Yours is an enviable lot. I'm getting stout as you may see. It is but seldom I am well. I cannot feel my ancient glee in listening to the dinner bell. But you gamble like a boy. Your figure is so spare and light. The dinner bell is a note of joy to such a healthy appetite. Said Peter, I am well aware. Mine is a state of happiness. Some of the comforts I possess. What you call healthy appetite, I feel is hunger's savage tooth. And when no dinner is in sight, the dinner bell's a sound of Ruth. No scarecrow would accept this coat. Such boots as these you seldom see. Ah, Paul, a single five-pound note would make another man of me. Said Paul, it fills me with surprise to hear you talk in such a tone. I fear you scarcely realize the blessings that are all your own. You're safe from being overfed. You're sweetly picturesque in rags. You never know the aching head that comes along with money-bags. And you have time to cultivate that best of qualities, content, for which you'll find your present state remarkably convenient. Said Peter, though I cannot sound the depths of such a man as you, yet in your character I've found an inconsistency or two. You seem to have long years to spare when there's a promise to fulfill. And yet how punctual you were in calling with that little Bill. One can't be too deliberate, said Paul, in parting with one's pelf. With Bill's, as you correctly state, I'm punctuality itself. A man may surely claim his dues, but when there's money to be lent, a man must be allowed to choose such times as are convenient. It chanced one day as Peter sat gnawing across his usual meal. Paul bustled in to have a chat and grasped his hand with friendly zeal. I knew, said he, your frugal ways, so that I might not wound your pride by bringing strangers into gaze, I've left my legal friend outside. You well remember, I am sure, when first your wealth began to go and people sneered at one so poor. I never used my Peter so. And when you'd lost your little all and found yourself a thing despised I need not ask you to recall how tenderly I sympathised. Then the advice I've poured on you, so full of wisdom and of wit, all given gratis, though it is true, I might have fairly charged for it. But I refrain from mentioning full many a deed I might relate, for boasting is a kind of thing that I particularly hate. How vast the total sum appears of all the kindnesses I've done from childhood's half-forgotten years down to that loan of April 1. That fifty pounds you little guessed how deep it drained my slender store, but there's a heart within this breast and I will lend you fifty more. Not so was Peter's mild reply, his cheeks all wet with grateful tears. No man recalls so well as I your services in bygone years, and this new offer, I admit, is very, very kindly meant. Still, to avail myself of it would not be quite convenient. You'll see in a moment what the difference is between convenient and inconvenient. You quite understand it now, don't you? He added, looking kindly at Bruno, who was sitting at Sylvie's side on the floor. Yes, said Bruno very quietly. Such a short speech was very unusual for him, but just then he seemed, I fancied, a little exhausted. In fact, he climbed up into Sylvie's lap as he spoke and rested his head against her shoulder. What a great many verses it was, he whispered. End of CHAPTER XI. Peter and Paul. Recording by Matt Wills. PATTER XII. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit libruvox.org. Recording by David Moore. Sylvie and Bruno. By Lewis Carroll. CHAPTER XII. A Musical Gardener. The other professor regarded him with some anxiety. The smaller animal ought to go to bed at once, he said with an air of authority. Why at once, said the Professor? Because he can't go at twice, said the other Professor. The Professor gently clapped his hands. Isn't he wonderful, he said to Sylvie? Nobody else could have thought of the reason so quick. Why of course he can't go at twice, it would hurt him to be divided. This remark woke up Bruno suddenly and completely. I don't want to be divided, he said decisively. It does very well on a diagram, said the other Professor. I could show it to you in a minute, only the chalk's a little blunt. Take care, Sylvie anxiously exclaimed as he began rather clumsily to point it. You'll cut your finger off if you hold the knife so. If who cuts it off will give it to me please, Bruno thoughtfully added. It's like this, said the other Professor hastily drawing a long line upon the blackboard and marking the letters A, B at the two ends and C in the middle. Let me explain it to you. If A, B were to be divided into two parts at C, it would be drowned, Bruno pronounced confidently. The other Professor gasped, what would be drowned? Why the bumblebee of course, said Bruno, and the two bits would sink down in the sea. Here the Professor interfered as the other Professor was evidently too much puzzled to go on with his diagram. When I said it would hurt him, I was merely referring to the action of the nerves. The other Professor brightened up in a moment. The action of the nerves, he began eagerly, is curiously slow in some people. I had a friend once that if you burnt him with a red hot poker, it would take years and years before he felt it. And if you only pinched him, queried Sylvie, then it would take ever so much longer, of course. In fact, I doubt if the man himself would ever feel it at all. His grandchildren might. I wouldn't like to be the grandchild of a pinched grandfather. Would you, Mr. Sir? Bruno whispered. It might come just when you wanted to be happy. That would be awkward, I admitted, taking it quite as a matter of course that he had so suddenly caught sight of me. But don't you always want to be happy, Bruno? Not always, Bruno said thoughtfully. Sometimes, when I's too happy, I want to be a little miserable. Then I just tell Sylvie about it, you know. And Sylvie sets me some lessons. Then it's all right. I'm sorry you don't like lessons, I said. You should copy Sylvie. She's always as busy as the day is long. Well, so am I, said Bruno. No, no, Sylvie corrected him. You're as busy as the day is short. Well, what's the difference, Bruno asked? Mr. Sir, isn't the day as short as it's long? I mean, isn't it the same length? Never having considered the question in this light, I suggested that they had better ask the professor, and they ran off in a moment to appeal to their old friend. The professor left off polishing his spectacles to consider. My dears, he said after a minute. The day is the same length as anything that is the same length as it. And he resumed his never-ending task of polishing. The children returned slowly and thoughtfully to report his answer. Isn't he wise, Sylvie asked in an awestruck whisper? If I was as wise as that, I should have a headache all day long. I know I should. You appear to be talking to somebody that isn't here, the professor said, turning round to the children. Who is it? Bruno looked puzzled. I never talks to nobody when he isn't here, he replied. It isn't good manners. We should always wait till he comes before he talks to him. The professor looked anxiously in my direction and seemed to look through and through me without seeing me. Then who are you talking to, he said. There isn't anybody here you know except the other professor and he isn't here, he added wildly, turning round and round like a tea totem. Children, help to look for him, quick, he's got lost again. The children were on their feet in a moment. Where shall we look, said Sylvie. Anywhere, shouted the excited professor, only be quick about it. And he began trotting round and round the room, lifting up the chairs and shaking them. Bruno took a very small book out of the bookcase, opened it and shook it in imitation of the professor. He isn't here, he said. He can't be there Bruno, Sylvie said indignantly. Course he can't, said Bruno. I should have shook him out if he'd been in there. Has he ever been lost before, Sylvie inquired, turning up a corner of the hearth rug and peeping under it. Once before, said the professor. He once lost himself in a wood and couldn't he find a self again, said Bruno. Why didn't he shout? He'd be sure to hear his self because he couldn't be far off, you know. Let's try shouting, said the professor. What shall we shout, said Sylvie. On second thoughts, don't shout, the professor replied. The vice warden might hear you, he's getting awfully strict. This reminded the poor children of all the troubles about which they'd come to their old friend. Bruno sat down on the floor and began crying. He is so cruel, he sobbed, and he lets Uggug take away all my toys and such horrid meals. What did you have for dinner today, said the professor. A little piece of a dead crow, was Bruno's mournful reply. He means, Rookpie, Sylvie explained. It were a dead crow, Bruno persisted, and there were an apple pudding and Uggug ate it all and I got nothing but a crust. And I asked for a orange and didn't get it. And the poor little fellow buried his face in Sylvie's lap, who kept gently stroking his hair as she went on. It's all true, professor dear, they do treat my darling Bruno very badly. And they're not kind to me either, she added in a lower tone, as if that were a thing of much less importance. The professor got out a large red silk handkerchief and wiped his eyes. I wish I could help you, dear children, he said. But what can I do? We know the way to Fairyland, where father's gone, quite well, said Sylvie, if only the gardener would let us out. Won't he open the door for you, said the professor? Not for us, said Sylvie, but I'm sure he would for you. Do come and ask him, professor dear. I'll come this minute, said the professor. Bruno sat up and dried his eyes. Isn't he kind, Mr. Sir? He is indeed, said I. But the professor took no notice of my remark. He had put on a beautiful cap with a long tassel and was selecting one of the other professor's walking sticks from a stand in the corner of the room. A thick stick in one's hand makes people respectful, he was saying to himself. Come along, dear children. And we all went out into the garden together. I shall address him first of all, the professor explained as we went along with a few playful remarks on the weather. I shall then question him about the other professor. This will have a double advantage. First, it will open up the conversation. You can't even drink a bottle of wine without opening it first. And secondly, if he's seen the other professor, we shall find him that way. And if he hasn't, we shan't. On our way, we passed the target, at which Uggug had been made to shoot during the ambassador's visit. See, said the professor, pointing out a hole in the middle of the bull's eye, his imperial fatness had only one shot at it and he went in just here. Bruno carefully examined the hole. Couldn't go in there, he whispered to me. He are too fat. We had no sort of difficulty in finding the gardener. Though he was hidden from us by some trees, that harsh voice of his served to direct us. And as we drew nearer, the words of his song became more and more plainly audible. He thought he saw an albatross that fluttered round the lamp. He looked again and found it was a penny postage stamp, you'd best be getting home, he said, the nights are very damp. Would it be afraid of catching cold, said Bruno. If it got very damp, Sylvie suggested, it might stick to something, you know. And that something would have to go by the post, whatever it was, Bruno eagerly exclaimed. Suppose it was a cow. Wouldn't it be dreadful for the other things? And all these things happened to him, said the professor. That's what makes the song so interesting. He must have had a very curious life, said Sylvie. You may say that, the professor heartily rejoined. Of course she may, cried Bruno. By this time we had come up to the gardener, who was standing on one leg as usual and busily employed in watering a bed of flowers with an empty watering can. It hasn't got no water in it, Bruno explained to him, pulling his sleeve to attract his attention. It's lighter to hold, said the gardener. A lot of water in it makes one's arms ache. And he went on with his work, singing softly to himself. The nights are very damp. In digging things out of the ground, which you probably do now and then, the professor began in a loud voice, in making things into heaps, which no doubt you often do. And in kicking things about with one's heel, which you seem never to leave off doing. Have you ever happened to notice another professor something like me, but different? Never shouted the gardener so loudly and violently that we all drew back an alarm. There ain't such a thing. We will try a less exciting topic, the professor mildly remarked to the children. You were asking. We asked him to let us through the garden door, said Sylvie, but he wouldn't, but perhaps he would for you. The professor put the request very humbly and courteously. I wouldn't mind letting you out, said the gardener, but I mustn't open the door for children. Do you think I'd disobey the rules? Not for one and six pence. The professor cautiously produced a couple of shillings. That'll do it, the gardener shouted as he hurled the watering can across the flower bed and produced a handful of keys, one large one and a number of small ones. But look here, professor dear, whispered Sylvie. He needn't open the door for us at all. We can go out with you. True dear child, the professor thankfully replied as he replaced the coins in his pocket. That saves two shillings. And he took the children's hands that they might all go out together when the door was opened. This however did not seem a very likely event, though the gardener patiently tried all the small keys over and over again. At last the professor ventured on a gentle suggestion. Why not try the large one? I have often observed that a door unlocks much more nicely with its own key. The very first trial of the large key proved a success. The gardener opened the door and held out his hand for the money. The professor shook his head. You are acting by rule, he explained, in opening the door for me. And now it's open, we are going out by rule, the rule of three. The gardener looked puzzled and let us go out. But as he locked the door behind us, we heard him singing thoughtfully to himself. He thought he saw a garden door that opened with a key. He looked again and found it was a double rule of three. And all its mystery, he said, is clear as day to me. I shall now return, said the professor, when we had walked a few yards. You see, it's impossible to read here for all my books are in the house. But the children still kept fast hold of his hands. Do come with us, Sylveon treated with tears in her eyes. Well, well, said the good-natured old man, perhaps I'll come after you some day soon. But I must go back now. You see, I left off at a comma and it's so awkward not knowing how the sentence finishes. Besides, you've got to go through Dogland first and I'm always a little nervous about dogs. But it'll be quite easy to come as soon as I've completed my new invention for carrying one's self, you know. It wants just a little more working out. Wouldn't that be very tiring to carry yourself? Sylveon inquired. Well, no, my child. You see, whatever fatigue one incurs by carrying, one saves by being carried. Goodbye, dears, goodbye, sir. He added to my intense surprise, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze. Goodbye, professor, I replied. But my voice sounded strange and far away and the children took not the slightest note of our farewell. Evidently they neither saw me nor heard me as with their arms lovingly twined around each other, they marched boldly on. End of Chapter 12. A Musical Gardener. Recording by David Moore, Chicago, Illinois. CHAPTER XIII. OF SYLVION BRUNO. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham. SYLVION BRUNO. By Lewis Carroll. CHAPTER XIII. A Visit to Dogland. There's a house, away there to the left, said Sylvie, after we had walked what seemed to me about fifty miles. Let's go and ask for a night's lodging. It looks a very comfortable house, Bruno said, as we turned into the road leading up to it. I do's hope the dogs will be kind to us. I is so tired and hungry. A mastiff, dressed in a scarlet collar and carrying a musket, was pacing up and down like a sentinel in front of the entrance. He started on catching sight of the children and came forwards to meet them, keeping his musket pointed straight at Bruno, who stood quite still, though he turned pale, and kept tight hold of Sylvie's hand while the sentinel walked solemnly round and round them, and looked at them from all points of view. Ooboo! Ho-bo-hoo-ya! He growled at last. Wo-ba-ya-wa, oo-boo! Ba-wo-ba! Wo-bo-ya! Ba-wo! He asked Bruno severely. Of course Bruno understood all this easily enough. All fairies understand dog-ee, that is dog language, but as you may find it a little difficult just at first, I had better put it into English for you. Humans, I verily believe. A couple of stray humans. What dog do you belong to? What do you want? We don't belong to a dog, Bruno began in dog-ee. People's never belong to dogs, he whispered to Sylvie. But Sylvie hastily checked him for fear of hurting the mast of feelings. Please, we want a little food and a night's lodging. If there's room in the house, she added timidly. Sylvie spoke dog-ee very prettily, but I think it's almost better for you to give the conversation in English. The house indeed growled the sentinel. Have you never seen a palace in your life? Come along with me. His Majesty must settle what's to be done with you. They followed him through the entrance hall down a long passage and into a magnificent saloon, around which were grouped dogs of all sorts and sizes. Two splendid bloodhounds were solemnly sitting up one on each side of the crown-bearer. Two or three bulldogs, whom I guessed to be the bodyguard of the king, were wading in grim silence, in fact the only voices that all plainly audible were those of two little dogs who had mounted a settee, and were holding a lively discussion that looked very like a quarrel. Lords and ladies in wading and various court-officials, our guide gruffly remarked as he led us in. Of me the courtiers took no notice whatever, but Sylvie and Bruno were the subject of many inquisitive looks, and many whispered remarks of which I only distinctly caught one, made by a sly-looking doxant to his friend. Bawuwaya huba uba haba! She's not such a bad-looking human, is she? Leaving the new arrivals in the centre of the saloon, the sentinel advanced to a door at the further end of it, which bore an inscription painted on it in doggie, royal kennel, scratch and yell. Before doing this the sentinel turned to the children and said, Give me your names. We'd rather not, Bruno exclaimed, pulling Sylvie away from the door. We want them ourselves. Come back, Sylvie. Come quick." Nonsense, said Sylvie very decidedly, and gave their names in doggie. Then the sentinel scratched violently at the door, and gave a yell that made Bruno shiver from head to foot. Huya wa! said a deep voice inside. That's doggie, for come in. It's the king himself, the mastiff whispered in an awestruck tone. Take off your wigs and lay them humbly at his paws. What we should call at his feet. Sylvie was just going to explain very politely, that really they couldn't perform that ceremony because their wigs wouldn't come off, when the door of the royal kennel opened, and an enormous Newfoundland dog put his head out. Ba'wo! was his first question. When his majesty speaks to you, the sentinel hastily whispered to Bruno, you should prick up your ears. Bruno looked doubtfully at Sylvie. I'd rather not please, he said, it would hurt. It doesn't hurt a bit, the sentinel said, with some indignation. Look, it's like this. And he pricked up his ears like two railway signals. Sylvie gently explained matters. I'm afraid we can't manage it, she said in a low voice. I'm very sorry, but our ears haven't got the right. She wanted to say machinery in doggie. But she had forgotten the word, and could only think of steam engine. The sentinel repeated Sylvie's explanation to the king. Can't prick up their ears without a steam engine, his majesty exclaimed. They must be curious creatures. I must have a look at them. And it came out of his kennel and walked solemnly up to the children. What was the amazement, nor to say the horror, of the whole assembly, when Sylvie actually padded his majesty on the head, while Bruno seized his long ears and pretended to tie them together under his chin? The sentinel groaned aloud. A beautiful greyhound, who appeared to be one of the ladies in waiting, fainted away, and all the other courtiers hastily drew back and left plenty of room for the huge Newfoundland to spring upon the audacious strangers, and tear them limb from limb. Only he didn't. On the contrary, his majesty actually smiled so far as a dog can smile, and the other dogs couldn't believe their eyes, but it was true all the same. His majesty wagged his tail. Yahoo-haw! That is, well, I never was the universal cry. His majesty looked round him severely, and gave a slight growl which produced instant silence. Conduct my friends to the banqueting hall, he said, laying such an emphasis on my friends that several of the dogs rolled over helplessly on their backs and began to lick Bruno's feet. A procession was formed, but I only ventured to follow as far as the door of the banqueting hall, so furious was the uproar of barking dogs within. So I sat down by the king, who seemed to have gone to sleep, and waited till the children returned to say good night when his majesty got up and shook himself. Time for bed, he said, with a sleepy yawn. The attendants will show you your room, he added, aside to Sylvie and Bruno. Bring lights! And with a dignified air, he held out his paw for them to kiss. But the children were evidently not well-practiced in court manners. Sylvie simply stroked the great paw. Bruno hugged it. The master of the ceremonies looked shocked. All this time, dog-waiters, in splendid livery, were running up with lighted candles, but as fast as they put them upon the table, other waiters ran away with them, so that there never seemed to be one for me, though the master kept nudging me with his elbow and repeating, I can't let you sleep here, you're not in bed, you know. I made a great effort, and just succeeded in getting out the words. I know I'm not. I'm in an armed chair. Well, forty winks will do you no harm, the master said, and left me. I could scarcely hear his words, and no wonder he was leaning over the side of a ship that was miles away from the pier on which I stood. The ship passed over the horizon, and I sank back into the armed chair. The next thing I remember is that it was morning. Breakfast was just over. Sylvie was lifting Bruno down from a high chair, and saying to a spaniel who was regarding them with a most benevolent smile, Yes, thank you, we've had a very nice breakfast. Haven't we, Bruno? There was too many bones in the— Bruno began, but Sylvie frowned at him and laid her finger on her lips. For at this moment travelers were waited on by a very dignified officer, the head growler, whose duty it was, first to conduct them to the king to bid him farewell, and then to escort them to the boundary of Dogland. The great Newfoundland received them most affably, but instead of saying good-bye, he startled the head growler into giving three savage growls by announcing he would escort them himself. It is a most unusual proceeding, Your Majesty, the head growler exclaimed, almost choking with vexation at being set aside, for he had put on his best court suit, made entirely of cat-skins for the occasion. I shall escort them myself, His Majesty repeated, gently but firmly, laying aside the royal robes, and changing his crown for a small coronet. And you may stay at home. I are glad, Bruno whispered to Sylvie when they had got well out of hearing. He wore so well he crossed, and he not only padded the royal escort, but even hugged him round the neck in the exuberance of his delight. His Majesty calmly wagged the royal tail. It's quite a relief, he said, getting away from the palace now and then. Royal dogs have a dull life of it, I can tell you. Would you mind—this to Sylvie in a low voice, and looking a little shy and embarrassed—would you mind the trouble of just throwing that stick for me to fetch? Sylvie was too much astonished to do anything for a moment. It sounded such a monstrous impossibility that a king should wish to run after a stick. But Bruno was equal to the occasion, and with a glad shout of, Hi then! Fetch it, good doggie! He hurled it over a clump of bushes. The next moment the monarch of Dogland had bounded over the bushes and picked up the stick, and came galloping back to the children with it in his mouth. Bruno took it from him with great decision. Looking for it, he insisted, and his majesty begged. Pa! commanded Sylvie, and his majesty gave his pa. In short, the solemn ceremony of escorting the travelers to the boundaries of Dogland became one long, uproarious game of play. But business is business, the dog-king said at last, and I must go back to mine. I couldn't come any further, he added, consulting a dog-watch, which hung on a chain round his neck. Not even if there were a cat in sight. They took an affectionate farewell of his majesty, and trudged on. That were a dear dog, Bruno exclaimed. Has we to go far, Sylvie? I's tired. Not much farther, darling, Sylvie gently replied. Do you see that shining just beyond those trees? I'm almost sure it's the gate of Fairyland. I know it's all golden. Father told me so. It was so bright, so bright, she went on dreamily. It dazzles, said Bruno, shading his eyes with one little hand, while the other clung tightly to Sylvie's hand, as if he were half alarmed at her strange manner. For the child moved on as if walking in her sleep, her large eyes gazing into the far distance, and her breath coming and going in quick pantings of eager delight. I knew by some mysterious mental light that a great change was taking place in my sweet little friend, for such I love to think her, and that she was passing from the condition of a mere outland sprite into the true fairy nature. Upon Bruno the change came later, but it was completed in both before they reached the golden gate, through which I knew it would be impossible for me to follow. I could but stand outside and take a last look at the two sweet children ere they disappeared within, and the golden gate closed with a bang. And with such a bang, it never will shut like any other cupboard door Arthur explained. There's something wrong with the hinge. However, here's the cake and wine. And you've had your forty winks, so you really must get off to bed, old man, you're fit for nothing else. Witness my hand, Arthur Forrester, M.D. By this time I was wide awake again. Not quite yet, I pleaded. Really, I'm not sleepy now, and it isn't midnight yet. Well, I did want to say another word to you, Arthur, replied in a relenting tone, as he supplied me with the supper he had prescribed. Only I thought you were too sleepy for it tonight. We took our midnight meal almost in silence, for an unusual nervousness seemed to have seized on my old friend. What kind of a night is it, he asked, rising and untrying the window curtains, apparently to change the subject for a minute. I followed him to the window, and we stood together looking out in silence. When I first spoke to you about, Arthur began, after a long and embarrassing silence. That is, when we first talked about her, for I think it was you that introduced the subject, my own position in life forbade me to do more than worship her from a distance, and I was turning over plans for leaving this place finally, and settling somewhere out of all chance of meeting her again. That seemed to be my only chance of usefulness in life. With that have been wise, I said, to leave yourself no hope at all. There was no hope to leave, Arthur firmly replied, those eyes glittered with tears as he gazed upwards into the midnight sky, from which one solitary star, the glorious Vega, blazed out in fitful splendor through the driving clouds. She was like that star to me, bright, beautiful, and pure. Out of reach, out of reach. He drew the curtains again, and we returned to our places by the fireside. What I wanted to tell you was this, he resumed. I heard this evening from my solicitor. I can't go into the details of the business, but the upshot is that my worldly wealth is much more than I thought, and I am, or shall soon be, in a position to offer marriage without imprudence to any lady, even if she brought nothing. I doubt if there would be anything on her side. The earl is poor, I believe. But I should have enough for both, even if health failed. I wish you all happiness in your married life, I cried. Shall you speak to the earl to-morrow? Not yet awhile, said Arthur. He is very friendly, but I dare not think he means more than that as yet. And as for Lady Muriel, try as I may, I cannot read her feelings towards me. There is love she is hiding it. No, I must wait. I must wait. I did not like to press any further advice on my friend, whose judgment I felt was so much more sober and thoughtful than my own, and we parted without more words on the subject that had now absorbed his thoughts, nay, his very life. The next morning a letter from my solicitor arrived, summoning me to town on important business. CHAPTER XIII A VISIT TO DOGLAND Recording by Patty Cunningham