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All in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glideFor both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are pliedWhile little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guideAh, cruel three! in such an hour beneath such dreamy wheatherTo beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest featherAnd what can one poor voice avail against three tongues togetherAnon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they persueThe dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and newIn friendly chat with bird or beast- and half believe it trueAnd ever as the story drained the wells of fancy dryAnd faintly strove that weary one to put the subject byThe next time. it is next time the happy voices cryThus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly, one by oneIt's quaint events were hammered outAnd now the tale is done and home we steerA merry crewBeneath the setting sunLewis carrol