“It’s very rude to contradict,” said the Hatter; “you would like to hear me sing something.”
Alice felt that it would be unwise to contradict again, so she said nothing, and the Hatter began:
Dwindle, dwindle, little war,
How I wonder more and more,
As about the veldt you hop
When you really mean to stop.
“Talking about stopping,” interrupted the March Hare anxiously, “I wonder how my timepiece is behaving.”
He took out of his pocket a large chronometer of complicated workmanship, and mournfully regarded it.
“It’s dreadfully behind the times,” he said, giving it an experimental shake. “I would take it to pieces at once if I was at all sure of getting the bits back in their right places.”
“What is the matter with it?” asked Alice.
“The wheels seem to get stuck,” said the March Hare. “There is too much Irish butter in the works.”
“Ruins the thing from a dramatic point of view,” said the Hatter; “too many scenes, too few acts.”
“The result is we never have time to get through the day’s work. It’s never even time for a free breakfast-table; we do what we can for education at odd moments, but we shall all die of old age before we have a moment to spare for social duties.”