The real sentiment always cropped out in his verses to little girls; from youth to age he was their “good knight and true” and all his fairest thoughts were kept for them. Many a grown woman has carefully hoarded among her treasures some bit of verse from Lewis Carroll, which her happy childhood inspired him to write; but the dedication of “Alice through the Looking-Glass” was to the unknown child, whom his book went forth to please:
Child of the pure, unclouded brow
And dreaming eyes of wonder!
Though time be fleet, and I and thou
Are half a life asunder,
Thy loving smile will surely hail
The love-gift of a fairy tale.
I have not seen thy sunny face,
Nor heard thy silver laughter:
No thought of me shall find a place
In thy young life’s hereafter,
Enough that now thou wilt not fail
To listen to my fairy tale.
A tale begun in other days,
When summer suns were glowing,
A simple chime, that served to time
The rhythm of our rowing,
Whose echoes live in memory yet,
Though envious years would say “forget.”
Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
With bitter tidings laden,
Shall summon to unwelcome bed
A melancholy maiden!
We are but older children, dear,
Who fret to find our bedtime near.
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness;
Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,
And childhood’s nest of gladness.
The magic words shall hold thee fast;
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
For “happy summer days” gone by
And vanished summer glory,
It shall not touch, with breath of bale,
The pleasance of our fairy tale.
These are only a meager handful of his many poems. Through his life this gift stayed with him, with all its early spirit and freshness; the added years but added grace and lightness to his touch, for in the “Story of Sylvie and Bruno” there are some gems: but that is another chapter and we shall hear them later.
And so the years passed, and the writer of the “Alices” and the “Jabberwocky” and “The Hunting of the Snark” and other poems fastened himself slowly but surely into the loyal hearts of his many readers, and the grave mathematical lecturer of Christ Church seemed just a trifle older and graver than of yore. He was very reserved, very shy, and kept somewhat aloof from his fellow “dons”; but let a little girl tap ever so faintly at his study door, the knock was heard, the door flung wide, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson vanished into some inner sanctum, and Lewis Carroll stood smiling on the threshold to welcome her with open arms.
CHAPTER XI.
GAMES, RIDDLES, AND PROBLEMS.
ewis Carroll had a mind which never rested in waking hours, and as is the case with all such active thinkers, his hours of sleeping were often broken by long stretches of wakefulness, during which time the thinking machinery set itself in motion and spun out problems and riddles and odd games and puzzles.