Category Archives: Lewis Carroll

Christmas Time

Christmas Time – Mistletoe and Wine

The child is a King, the Caroller sing,
The old is past, there’s a new beginning.
Dreams of Santa, dreams of snow,
Fingers numb, faces aglow.

Christmas time, Mistletoe and Wine
Children singing Christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time to rejoice in the good that we see

A time for living, a time for believing
A time for trusting, not deceiving,
Love and laughter and joy ever after
hours for the taking, just follow the master.

Christmas time, Mistletoe and Wine
Children singing Christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts in the tree
A time to rejoice in the good that we see

Silent night, holy night

Its a time for giving, a time for getting,
A time for forgiving and for forgetting.
Christmas is love, Christmas is peace,
A time for hating and fighting to cease.

Christmas time, Mistletoe and Wine
Children singing Christian rhyme
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time to rejo
With logs on the fire and gifts on the tree
A time to rejoice in the good that we see.


An Alice in Wonderland Christmas story

A NEW Alice in Wonderland story this Christmas.


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Alice in Wonderland MAYHAM

A NEW Alice in Wonderland story

Click HERE to purchase and download this exciting new eBook

Dunking the Mouse

Dunking the Mouse, Oh, Dunking the Mouse,

What can be better than dunking the Mouse?

Be it with a fine friend like the Rabbit, so stout,

Or on my old lonesome, I love dunking the Mouse.


I open the pot and stick his head in,

And before he’s awoken he’s half the way in.

With Rabbit a-helping, we finish the job,

Then put the lid on, though Mouse is beginning to sob.


‘Oh please let me out’, he implore us, so meek,

But why should we do that when the tea tastes so sweet?

‘Oh give me a cup of that heavenly brew’,

Says Rabbit to me, ‘and a jam tart for you’.


I pour out two cups and we sit down anew,

With the tea and the tarts – and with Mouse in the brew,

Until Alice strolls by, and unsettles our ruse,

Saving Mouse from his fate and us from the noose.





 The Queen of Hearts

The Queen of Hearts,

She made some tarts,

All on a summer’s day.


The Knave of Hearts;

Did he steal those tarts?

 Did he steal them right away?


 The King of Hearts,

Called for the tarts,

And the knave, to beat, for sure.


But the Knave of Hearts,

 Got off scot free,

With Alice, amidst furor.




Off with her head!

Off with her head, I said, OFF, OFF, OFF!

Off with her head; put it on a block!

Swing your axe high executioner; find the true mark!

I said off with her head, now; make a start!


Why do you want to punish her, so?

Said the King for Alice, standing below.

She is just a child; a mere wisp of a girl,

Searching for Rabbit’s house at the Top of the World.


For a moment the Queen faltered, mulling her plan,

Then she roared, Are you mouse or a man?

Alice’s head it must fall or yours will be next!

Off with her head and don’t make a mess!


Standing, there, listening, Alice thought she was done,

Waiting for the chopper with its final anon.

Then down from the sky an old man appeared,

Then he whisked her away; tucked under his beard!


She won’t be chopping your head, he said with a smile,

Father Christmas, to the poor, startled child.

Let us up and away and follow our snouts,

To the Top of the World and the Rabbit’s fine house.


Hissing her annoyance, the Queen voiced her thoughts,

Behead everyone, and then she went for a walk.




I am a Cat

I am a Cat, it said smiling at her,

A Cheshire Cat; you can tell by my fur,

My paws and whiskers are also a hint,

But the smile on my face is most significant.


I can see by your fur, said Alice – I do,

And also your paws and whiskers; it’s true,

But that smile on your face has me all in a tizz,

Coming and going, in such a whiz.


Still smiling at Alice, the Cat dryly replied,

You’d never believe me; you’d think I had lied,

If the smile on my face was gone; it’s a fact,

No one would listen or look at this Cat.


Without offering Alice a chance to reply,

The Cat went on with his horrible lie,

Creeping closer and closer, until ever so near,

When he pounced, lashed out, cutting her ear.


Feeling the hurt and the blood running down,

Alice said, I was such a clown,

To have ever believed a Cat with a grin,

Take that, and that, you horrible thing!





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A Christmas Carol – Betwixt

Ever since I was a child, I have loved Charles Dickens’ story – A Christmas Carol. The passing of years has done nothing to diminish my love of this story. It was with that story in mind that I wrote this one; a tale that ensues alongside the original. I call it A Christmas Carol Betwixt. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did, writing it.


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A Christmas Carol Betwixt

An Excerpt

Chapter One

Scrooge could never be anything other than cold

of heart, burning his coal one piece at a time


Exiting the counting-house, two gentlemen walked dejectedly away from it. “Mr Fosdyke,” the first gentleman, a plump, grey-haired individual, said, “I am deeply saddened that anyone could be so cold of heart, especially so at this time of the year.”

The second gentleman, sporting thinning, red hair and a ruddy-faced complexion, replied, “Indeed, Mr Hartwell. Imagine, wanting to put the poor and destitute into prisons, to punish them, so, just because of their bad luck. Mr Scrooge must surely be the coldest person in England, this Christmas.”

“His clerk was suffering mightily, so cold that it was in his office,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague. “Did you see the moribund fire they had set in the grate?”

Nodding, Mr Fosdyke replied, “I did. Mr Scrooge could never be anything other than cold of heart, burning his coal one piece at a time.”

“Come; we have others to call upon before this day has finished with us,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague.

“Yes,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “I am sure they will – all of them – offer us a better welcome than Mr Scrooge.” As the gentlemen made their way along the narrow, cobbled street, the sound of their footsteps echoed in the cold, shadowy doorways and arches bordering it.

Rounding a bend in the street, Mr Hartwell gasped; shocked to see someone lying face down upon it. “Look,” he said, pointing to the unfortunate person, “someone is in need of our help.”

Approaching the person (it was a male) they tried to ascertain who it might be. “Who is it?” Mr Fosdyke asked his colleague

“I don’t know,” he replied. “He is mightily thin, though.”

“And small,” said Mr Fosdyke.

“Help me to roll him over, so we can take a look at his face,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague. They rolled him over, onto his back. “My God,” Mr Hartwell gasped, “he is no more than a child!”

“Yes,” Mr Fosdyke concurred. “No more than ten or eleven years of age, I’d hazard a guess.”

“He’s wet to the bone,” Mr Hartwell said, desperately concerned for the child.

“And as cold as the grave,” Mr Fosdyke added. “Come; we must get him indoors, before a warm fire, lest he expires from exposure this very night.”

Later, at the gentlemen’s base in Threadneedle Street, the boy, seated in a chesterfield chair in front of a roaring log fire, offered his hands to the flames, warming them. “Begging your pardon, sirs,” he said, speaking timidly, shyly to his rescuers, “but how did I get here, wherever it is?”

Offering him a mug of piping hot cocoa, Mr Fosdyke said, “You are safe, here; it’s our base. We found you lying unconscious in the street.”

“And on so cold a night,” Mr Hartwell added.  “We feared for your life, so we did.”

Accepting the drink, the boy said, “Thank you, sirs, for helping me.”

Sitting on a chair adjacent the boy, “Mr Fosdyke said, “Pray tell us your name, lad.”

“And why you were lying unconscious in the street at so late of the hour?” Mr Hartwell implored. “Your parents must be sick with worry.”

However, staring blankly into his mug, the boy offered no explanation as to why this was so.

“Has the cat got your tongue,” Mr Fosdyke asked, jesting, trying to lighten the child’s mood.

Running a finger around the rim of his mug, the boy whispered, “My name is Tommy, Tommy Tilbert, sirs.”

“And?” Mr Hartwell asked, urging him to say more.

“And…I had been playing.” he told them, uncomfortably recalling the details.

“Playing outside, at past four of the o’clock – in the month of December?” Mr Hartwell enquired, thinking he heard incorrectly.

“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied. “It’s true!”

“It’s alright,” said Mr Fosdyke,” we believe you, don’t we Mr Hartwell?”

“Humph, yes,” he answered. “Of course! You must have had good reason to be there, on so cold an evening.”

“I did, I did!” Tommy insisted. Running his finger ever faster around the rim of his mug, he said, “You see, sirs…I am homeless – and I was set upon.”

“Set upon?” Mr Hartwell gasped, shocked by this news.

“Yes, sir”” he answered.

“Who attacked you?” Mr Fosdyke asked him.

His finger stopping, Tommy looked up from his mug, and said, “Street urchins.”

“Why did they attack you?” asked the gentlemen.

“Because I am homeless,” he replied.

“But they are also homeless,” said Mr Hartwell, scratching his head, perplexed by it.

“They attacked me because I am not one of them, in their gang,” Tommy explained. “I have not always been homeless, sirs.”

“Why are you homeless, then?” Mr Fosdyke curiously asked him.

His finger running around the ring of his mug once again, Tommy’s thoughts deepened, remembering how it had come about.

“Did you get lost?” Mr Hartwell enquired. “Because if you did, we shall do all that we can to reunite you with your parents.”

Bursting into tears, Tommy wailed, “Mum and dad – are dead!”

Stunned by this news, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke were at a loss as to what they might say in reply.

Continuing, Tommy sobbed, Mum and dad died last year, just before Christmas. They died of consumption, both of them – the same day.”

“I am so sorry to hear that,” Mr Hartwell said, in all honesty.

“Please accept my sincerest sympathies,” Mr Fosdyke said sympathetically to him.

“Thank you, sirs,” Tommy replied. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he said, “The landlord came to our house the day after my parents’ funeral. He told me to get out, that he had to fumigate it, after them dying from consumption, there. That’s what he said. He told me that I could return a week later, after the fumes had dispersed. But when I returned, there was a new family in our house, and they ran me, threatening me with the police if I came back, so they did.”

“Have you any brothers or sisters?” Mr Hartwell enquired.

“No, sir, not any,” Tommy answered despairingly.

“Have you any relatives?” asked Mr Fosdyke.

“Apart from an uncle and aunt, living somewhere in Pimlico, that I was unable to find, I have none at all,” Tommy glumly replied. “That’s why I was on the street.”

“And why the street urchins picked on you,” said Mr Hartwell.

“Yes,” Tommy answered. Taking off one of his shoes, he reached into it. The gentlemen supposed it was to fish out a stray stone.  Withdrawing his hand, Tommy said, “But they didn’t get this.” He showed them a shiny bright sixpence. Seeing it, the gentleman laughed, so amused that they were by his antics. Perturbed by their reaction, Tommy said, “Why are you laughing at me? This is my life savings!”

“We are laughing with you,” Mr Fosdyke kindly explained, “not at you.”

“Mind your money well,” Mr Hartwell told Tommy. Seeing the funny side of it Tommy chuckled quietly to himself.

Later, after the gentlemen had shown Tommy upstairs, where the housekeeper, Mrs Mablethorpe had put him to bed, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke relaxed. Seated in front of a roaring log fire, drinking port, they discussed their find. “The child fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague.

“Indeed,” Mr Fosdyke concurred, “he was so tired from roaming the streets for almost a year, he was unable to keep his eyes open long enough to bid her goodnight.”

“We must search for the child’s uncle and aunt, this very evening,” Mr Hartwell insisted.

“Indubitably,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “And we shall not rest until we have found them. Mrs Mablethorpe, the housekeeper, will take care of Tommy while we are gone.”

Lighting a taper from the fire, Mr Hartwell offered it to his pipe. Sucking, breathing in the sweet smoke, he relaxed, enjoying the moment. “You know something, Mr Fosdyke,” he said, blowing out smoke. “I have been thinking.”

“Thinking?” Mr Fosdyke replied. “About what?”

Chewing thoughtfully on his pipe, Mr Hartwell said, “About Christmas.”


“Yes, Christmas,” he answered. “I have been thinking about it for a while, now. Tommy has focused my thoughts. Let me explain…”

By the time Mr Hartwell had finished explaining, telling Mr Fosdyke his thoughts about Christmas, his colleague was somewhat confused. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “you want to make Christmas better by making it easier?”

“Yes, in a nutshell, that’s it,” Mr Hartwell replied.

“But how is that possible?” Mr Fosdyke asked. “There are so many poor and destitute in England, let alone the rest of the world, it would take a miracle to achieve such a noble ambition.”

Placing his glass of port onto the mantelpiece, Mr Hartwell looked him straight in the eye, and said, “A miracle is exactly what I am hoping for.”

Thinking his colleague had drank one port too many, Mr Fosdyke reached up to the mantelpiece and pushed his glass gently away from him. Laughing good naturedly, Mr Hartwell said, “That was my first glass of port, and well you know it.” Reclaiming his glass, he sipped the delicious liquid. “I can see that you are confused, old chap,” he said, “so I will put it another way.” Returning his glass to the mantelpiece, he continued, “Can you recall what Mr Scrooge said about Christmas?”

“He said many things about Christmas,” Mr Fosdyke answered, “and all of them unfavourable.”

“He most certainly did,” Mr Hartwell admitted. Gazing into the fire, he watched some sparks escaping the logs. When they had disappeared from sight up the chimney, he said, “He also told us that his partner, Mr Marley, died seven years ago, this very night.”

“He did,” Mr Fosdyke answered. “I thought it most peculiar that such a terrible thing happening – and so close to Christmas – had not softened his temperament, not even a bit.”

Inspecting his pipe, Mr Hartwell noticed that it had gone out. Tapping it against the fireplace, he emptied it of spent tobacco. Refilling his pipe, he said, “If I was Mr Marley, alive and well, not dead as a doornail in a cold and damp grave, I would use my money to make this Christmas, indeed every Christmas, better than the one before it.”

“I am sorry, old chap,” said Mr Fosdyke, “but I cannot see how talking about Mr Marley can make Christmas any better or easier.”

“After we have visited his grave, you will,” Mr Hartwell whispered in reply. “After we have visited his grave…”




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Alice in Wonderland on Top of the World

A NEW Alice in Wonderland Story

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Chapter One

Into The Abyss

It was many years later when Alice had her next adventure, and whilst she was quite surprised to be having one at all, after the passing of so many years, she was even more surprised to see that she was a child again, no older than when she had first entered Wonderland and slipped through that fascinating Looking Glass.
“How curious,” she whispered, trying to recall the child she had once been.
“You took your time getting here,” said the White Rabbit who suddenly appeared in front of her.
“I beg your pardon?” Alice replied, remembering how rude he could be, if he felt so inclined.
“I said you took your time getting here. You should have been here fourteen years ago,” the Rabbit huffed indignantly as he began hopping quickly away from Alice.
“But,” Alice spluttered, running after him, “I have no idea how I arrived, let alone why I am so late!”
“We accept no ifs or buts, here – you should know that by now,” said the Rabbit, as he opened a door which had appeared as suddenly as he. Stepping through, he said, “Hurry up, please don’t dawdle.”
As she followed him through the doorway, trying her to keep up with the fast-hopping Rabbit, Alice surmised that he must have got out his bed on the wrong side, this morning, to be so grumpy on so wonderful a day. And it really was a wonderful day, with a warm sun shining brightly upon them.
‘I wonder where I might possibly be?’ thought Alice, as she admired the pink forget-me-nots skirting a winding path before her. “Am I in Wonderland?” she asked, just as another door, the same as the first one, appeared.
Giving Alice a most peculiar look, the Rabbit said, “Of course we are not in Wonderland.” Opening the door, he told her, “We are on the top of the world.” Having said that, he scurried off, hopping down another winding path, also bordered by pink forget-me-nots.
“The top of the world?” Alice cried out, quite in surprise. “Why, that’s impossible!”
The Rabbit stopped hopping. Turning around, facing Alice, he said, “Then how can you be here, if it’s impossible?”
Flummoxed by the Rabbit’s question, Alice found herself struggling to find a reply. The only thing she was able to come up with was, “I bet you are mad!”
“That all depends,” the Rabbit replied quite matter-of-factly.
“It all depends on what?”
“On whether you mean mad or mad.”
“That’s silly,” said Alice. “They both mean the very same thing.”
“If you were mad number one,” said the White Rabbit, with full conviction of the soundness of his case, “and someone happened to tell you that you were mad number two, you might be very mad indeed, at so fundamental a mistake.”
“But I’m not mad!” Alice insisted, becoming ever more frustrated at so silly a conversation.
“How do you know that you aren’t mad,” asked the Rabbit, who appeared to be enjoying flummoxing Alice, so “when you can’t tell the difference between mad number one and mad number two, I might ask?”
“I just know that I’m not mad!” Alice insisted, stamping her foot, displaying her annoyance at what she considered was questionable logic. Changing the subject, from her possible madness or claimed sanity, Alice informed the Rabbit that another door had appeared and was awaiting his attention.
Turning round, the White Rabbit took hold of the handle and tried to open the door, but it remained stubbornly shut.
“Might I try?” Alice asked, feeling very un-mad. Standing away from the door, the White Rabbit said nothing, but his pink, beady eyes watched her intently.
The door opened easily for Alice. Feeling vindicated, she said, “Could a mad person have done that?” Without waiting for a reply, she stepped through the doorway and fell into a gaping hole on the far side.
“No, they mightn’t,” said the Rabbit, laughing as she disappeared into the hole. “But would they have fallen down there?” Laughing again, he hopped through doorway and into the hole, following Alice…
After a long fall in near to total darkness, a fall that reminded Alice of the time she had fallen down the rabbit hole, into Wonderland, the speed of her descent began to slow. In fact it slowed so much it stopped altogether, and she began rising again. “I don’t want to return up there, even if it is to the top of the world,” she insisted. Staring at the speck of light high above her, she said, “It’s far too far!”
Hearing something passing her by (she had no idea what it could be, for it was far too dark to see properly), Alice jumped onto its back. Holding on tightly, she rode out from the well.
Alice was surprised to see that she was riding a baby hippopotamus, whose skin was as smooth as silk. She wondered how she had been able to stay upon it for second let alone long enough to escape from the dark, dreary place. Alice had so sooner begun thinking about this, when she felt herself slipping, sliding off the baby hippopotamus. Landing with a bump on the hard, dusty ground, she moaned, “I don’t like this place I don’t like it at all.”
“You don’t like it!” said the baby hippopotamus, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice for such an extreme animal. “How do you think I feel? There’s not a drop of water to be seen – anywhere. And we hippos need so much of it!”
Brushing her dress, removing the dust from it, Alice said, “Mr Hippopotamus, I would like to thank you for the ride from out of that cave, or whatever it happens to be. Moreover, it was the most comfortable hippopotamus ride I have ever had (Alice omitted to tell the hippopotamus that it was the only one she had had), thank you, again.”
“My dear child,” it answered, “you are so light I hardly noticed you there. Any time you feel the need to take a ride from out of that dark space, please feel free to jump on my back as I pass you by.”
“Thank you, thank you so much,” she told him. “I shall keep your invitation in my invitation book, and if I don’t find a need for it, I will treasure it always.”
After that the hippopotamus returned to the darkness, searching for some water. However, before he had a chance to begin, Alice heard another soft landing (though it has to be said that it was not as soft as hers). Before she could say Jack Robinson, the White Rabbit appeared, sitting back to front on the baby hippo’s back, riding out, into the bright light.
After the White Rabbit had thanked the baby hippopotamus for the ride (Alice felt he was nowhere near as grateful as she had been), he scolded Alice for having fallen down the hole, before him. He said, “If there is to be any hole-falling done around here, we must first have a vote, to decide who shall be first and who second. Is that clear?”
Although Alice nodded in agreement, she harboured a suspicion that he was quite possibly mad number one, and if not that he was most certainly mad number two.
Another winding path suddenly appeared before them, but this one, although also bordered by flowers, was in no way as inviting as the previous ones. You see, instead of pink forget-me-nots, giant aspidistras sporting green, snapping beaks awaited them.
“Come on, Alice, we have to find our way up, to the very top of the world” said the Rabbit as he hurried past the plants with their snap, snapping beaks.
Alice gasped as the first plant, snapping hungrily at his thick fur, tore a large wad from his back. “Come on, we must return to the top of the world,” he ordered, seemingly oblivious to the dangers posed by the snapping beaks. Having no intention of admitting that she was afraid of some silly old flowers that the Rabbit considered quite harmless, and having even less intention of asking him for his help, Alice got ready to pass down the dangerous path.
By now the White Rabbit was so far ahead of her, Alice doubted she might ever catch up with him. Closing her eyes, taking a first tentative step, she began her way down the aspidistra-bordered path, hoping, just hoping to catch up with the fast hopping Rabbit.
Alice hadn’t finished taking her first step, when one of the snapping beaks tried to remove a piece from her left ear. A second beak, sensing an easy target, pulled violently at her hair, while a third green beak tried to bite off her nose.
“Stop that!” Alice told the bad-mannered plants. “Stop that this instant or I shall be forced to dig you all up, and replant you with rhubarb,” she warned.
Like a switch had been turned, the beaks stopped attacking. Inspecting her head, Alice made sure that it was intact. After she was satisfied that everything was as it had previously been, she said, “Thank you. I can’t ever imagine what has got into you, to behave so rudely. Don’t you know that plants are supposed to be nice, not terrible, awful things?”
As she studied the giant plants, with their green beaklike mouths close in front of her, Alice thought she heard a cry, so she asked, “Who is crying?”
Despite listening intently, Alice heard no reply, as all the while the cry from somewhere deep within the group of plants continued. Then they began swaying, their beak mouths on stalks high above them, also swaying.
“Stop it, stop it,” Alice ordered. “Tell me which of you is crying?”
Although it was still swaying, one of the plants began speaking, it said, “She is crying, the little offshoot, close to my wife – see.” One of its long strappy leaves pointed across to the right.
“Your wife?” Alice asked, in surprise that a plant might actually be married.
“Yes,” the aspidistra replied, swaying some more. “Can you see them?”
“I might, if you stopped swaying,” she said. “I am beginning to feel quite sick from it all.”
“I can’t,” the plant told her. “None of us can. When we are upset, we sway. That’s why we sway so much in the wind, because we don’t like it, because it upsets us so.”
“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can promise that you won’t dig us up…” a baby voice sobbed.
“Of course I won’t dig you up,” Alice promised. “I only said that because of the terrible way you were treating me.”
The plants stopped swaying, allowing Alice to see the child aspidistra tucked lovingly under its mother’s green leaves. Showing no fear for her safety, disappearing beneath the huge plants (she now trusted them unquestionably), Alice approached the baby plant and its doting mother.
“I am sorry,” she said, “if I upset you. Will you please forgive me?”
“Yes, I will,” said the baby plant, trying to hold back sob. “And we are sorry, so sorry that we frightened you. We are like this because we are so hungry… we are usually happy, with smiling beaks to welcome the weary traveller.”
Confused, Alice asked, “Hungry? How can you be hungry when your roots can find all the food that you need?”
“Fertilizer, all plants need fertilizer at some time in their lives,” the baby aspidistra explained. “None of us have had any fertilizer for ages. I have never had any – ever! I don’t even know what it looks like!”
“This is a most terrible state of affairs,” said Alice, scratching her head, trying to work out what could be done to remedy the unfortunate situation. Raising a finger, she asked, “Can I go fetch you some?”
If their beaks had been able to smile, every last beak skirting that path would have been smiling radiantly at Alice. They became so excited at the prospect of getting some fertilizer they began talking furiously amongst themselves. In fact, the plants’ conversation became so loud, so noisy Alice could hardly hear herself think. In the end she had to ask them to stop. “Stop, stop talking, please,” she said, “my ears are hurting from it all.”
It stopped; the excited talking stopped, except for one of the plants, the mother aspidistra, who said, “Do you know where you can find us some fertilizer?”
“I, I don’t know,” Alice replied uncertainly.
Smiling, Alice was sure she saw the beak smiling, when it said, “Go to the fertilizer mine, there you will find all the fertilizer we need.”
“Where is it, the mine?” Alice asked.
“I am sorry, I don’t know, none of us know where it is located,” the mother aspidistra confessed. “But we do know that it most surely exists.”
Seeing how sad the mother plant had become, Alice said, “I will find you some fertilizer, I will find enough fertilizer to feed you all – I promise.”



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You Are Old, Father William

Stories for kids 1

You Are Old, Father William

By Lewis Carroll

“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “As I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—
Pray, what is the reason of that?”

“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
“I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—
Allow me to sell you a couple?”

“You are old,” said the youth, “And your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—
Pray, how did you manage to do it?”

“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—
What made you so awfully clever?”

“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”
Said his father; “don’t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!”


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The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

The Walrus and the Carpenter

The Walrus and the Carpenter

by Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright–
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done–
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun!”

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead–
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away,”
They said, “it would be grand!”

“If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

“O Oysters, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head–
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat–
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn’t any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more–
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed–
Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”

“But not on us!” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?

“It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf–
I’ve had to ask you twice!”

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we’ve brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter’s spread too thick!”

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none–
And this was scarcely odd, because
They’d eaten every one.


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Giggle My Boots

Giggle My Boots

Giggle my boots, gaggle my hat,

Goggle my shirtsleeves and fraggle that cat.

I am friggled with laughter, for I know that it’s true,

That you really do love me, not Johnny Lazoo.


You see, Johnny Lazoo, a man of some strength,

Wanted to court you, wanted to bend,

Your ear with his stories, your eye with his looks,

But you never gave him as much as a look.


The day that you said, ‘Yes, I’ll marry you, I will,’

Was the happiest day of my life; it was brill,

To think that you chose me over Johnny Lazoo,

Makes me friggle with laughter, knowing it’s true.


Before I heard off with my bride and my life,

I will give you this piece of excellent advice.

If you are planning to woo your beau, here’s the rub,

Friggle her with laughter and griggle her with love.


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