”' All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide,
For both our oars with little skill
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.'”
And then in another verse in just so many words, 'Thus grew the tale of Wonderland.' Oh, yes, I choose to believe everything in those two books.”
“Well, I don't blame you,” laughed Dorothy, “for everything is told as a matter of course, and it seems the most natural thing in the world for a rabbit to carry white gloves, and for little girls to seek advice of caterpillars.”
“Well, the parts I used to like best were the verses;” for Harold, after the manner of the genus who pride themselves on early outgrowing many of the best things of life, relegated the books to the days of his early childhood; “the stories themselves always seemed more meant for girls than for boys.”
“Now, excuse me, Harold,” said Marie-Celeste, bristling up a little, “but I don't see why you boys are so afraid of peeping into what you call a girl's book. Of course there are books that tell only about girls that you wouldn't like. To tell the truth, I don't care much for them myself; but if a book ever happens to have a kind of girlish name to it, that settles it at once. Now, suppose it were possible for any one to write a story about me; I presume they would have to give a sort of girl's name to the story; but would that mean that it was all about girls? Well, I guess not;” and Marie-Celeste laughed as she realized how wide such an estimate would fall of the mark. “Chris would be in it, of course, and you and Donald and—” and Marie-Celeste was going to say Ted, but checked herself in time to make an exchange for Mr. Belden—“and Albert. Why, gracious, Harold, come to think of it, I haven't a girl friend this summer—only Miss Dorothy here, if she will excuse me.”