as oddly coloured as Harlequin's clothes, with puffs of sentiment dear
to the soul of Columbine, and Clownish fun with Pantaloonish wisdom and
chuckles. When you were young, you used, I think, to enjoy a butterfly's
kiss; and that, you remember, was when your mother brushed your cheek with
her eye-lashes. And also when you were young you held a buttercup under
other children's chins to see if they liked butter, and they always did,
and the golden glow showed and the world was glad. And you held a shell to
your ear to hear the sound of the sea, and when it rained, you pressed your
nose against the window-pane until it looked flat and white to passers-by.
It is rather in that spirit that Alice and her Uncle present this excursion
to you.

I suppose it has taken over a thousand people to write this excursion, and
we are, so far, the last. And not by any means do we pretend because of
that to be the best of them; rather, because of that, perhaps, we cannot be
the best. We should have done much better--if we could. Oh, this has been
written by Greeks and Romans and Mediaeval Italians and Frenchmen and
Englishmen, and it has been played thousands and thousands of times under
every sort of weather and conditions. Think of it: when the gardeners of
Egypt sent their boxes of roses to Italy to make chaplets for the Romans to
wear at feasts this play was being performed; when the solemn Doges (which
Alice once would call "Dogs") of Venice held festa days, this play was
shown to the people.

And here Alice interrupts and says: "Do you think people really like to
read all that sort of thing? Why don't you let me tell the story, please?
I'm sitting here waiting to." Well, so she shall.