jokes

excerpts from through the looking glass by lewis carroll (charles lutwidge dodson)

"what sort of insects do you rejoice in, where you come from?" the gnat inquired.
"i don't rejoice in insects at all," alice explained, "because i'm rather afraid of them -- at least the large kinds. but i can tell you the names of some of them."
"of course they answer to their names?" the gnat remarked carelessly.
"i never knew them do it."
"what's the use of their having names," the gnat said, "if they won't answer to them?"
"no use to them," said alice; "but it's useful to the people that name them, i suppose. if not, why do things have names at all?"
"i can't say," the gnat replied. "further on, in the wood down there, they've got no names -- however, go on with your list of insects: you're wasting time."
"well, there's the horse-fly," alice began, counting off the names on her fingers.
"all right," said the gnat. "half way up that bush, you'll see a rocking-horse-fly, if you look. it's made entirely of wood, and gets about by swinging itself from branch to branch."
"what does it live on?" alice asked, with great curiosity.
"sap and sawdust," said the gnat. "go on with the list."
alice looked at the rocking-horse-fly with great interest, and made up her mind that it must have been just repainted, it looked so bright and sticky; and then she went on.
"and there's the dragon-fly."
"look on the branch above your head," said the gnat, "and there you'll find a snap=dragon-fly. its body is made of plum-pudding, its wings of holly-leaves, and its head is a raisin burning in brandy."
"and what does it live on?" alice asked, as before.
"frumenty and mince-pie," the gnat replied; "and it makes its nest in a christmas-box."
"and then there's the butterfly," alice went on, after she had taken a good look at the insect with its head on fire, and had thought to herself, "i wonder if that's the reason insects are so fond of flying into candles -- because they want to turn into snap-dragon-flies!"
"crawling at your feet," said the gnat (alice drew her feet back in some alarm), "you may observe a bread-and-butter-fly. its wings are thin slices of bread-and-butter, its body is a crust, and its head is a lump of sugar."
"and what does it live on?"
"weak tea with cream in it."
a new difficulty came into alice's head. "supposing it couldn't find any?" she suggested.
"then it would die, of course."
"but that must happen very often," alice remarked thoughtfully.
"it always happens," said the gnat.
after this, alice was silent for a minute or two, pondering. the gnat amused itself meanwhile by humming round and round her head: at last it settled again and remarked "i suppose you don't want to lose your name?"
"no, indeed," alice said, a little anxiously.
"and yet i don't know," the gnat went on in a careless tone: "only think how convenient it would be if you could manage to go home without it! for instance, if the governess wanted to call you to your lessons, she would call out 'come here -------,' and there she would have to leave off, because there wouldn't be any name for her to call, and of course you wouldn't have to go, you know."
"that would never do, i'm sure," said alice: "the governess would never think of excusing me lessons for that. if she couldn't remember my name, she'd call me 'miss,' as the servants do."
"well, if she said 'miss,' and didn't say anything more," the gnat remarked, "of course you'd miss your lessons. that's a joke. i wish you had made it."
"why do you wish i had made it?" alice asked. "it's a very bad one."
but the gnat only sighed deeply, while two large tears came rolling down its cheeks.
"you shouldn't make jokes," alice said, "if it makes you so unhappy."

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"how can you go on talking so quietly, head downwards?" alice asked, as she dragged him out by the feet, and laid him in a heap on the bank.
the knight looked surprised at the question. "what does it matter where my body happens to be?" he said. "my mind goes on working all the same. in fact, the more head-downwards i am, the more i keep inventing new things."
"now the cleverest thing of the sort that i ever did," he went on after a pause, "was inventing a new pudding during the meat-course."
"in time to have it cooked for the next course?" said alice. "well, that was quick work, certainly!"
"well, not the next course," the knight said in a slow thoughtful tone: "no, certainly not the next course."
"then it would have to be the next day. i suppose you wouldn't have two pudding-courses in one dinner?"
"well not the next day," the knight repeated as before: "not the next day. in fact," he went on, holding his head down, and his voice getting lower and lower, "i don't believe that pudding ever was cooked! in fact, i don't believe that pudding ever will be cooked! and yet it was a very clever pudding to invent."
"what did you mean it to be made of?" alice asked, hoping to cheer him up, for the poor knight seemed quite low-spirited about it.
"it began with blotting-paper," the knight answered with a groan.
"that wouldn't be very nice, i'm afraid ---"
"not very nice alone," he interrupted, quite eagerly: "but you've no idea what a difference it makes, mixing it with other things - such as gunpowder and sealing-wax. and here i must leave you." they had just come to the end of the wood.
alice could only look puzzled: she was thinking of the pudding.
"you are sad," the knight said in an anxious tone: "let me sing you a song to comfort you."
"is it very long?" alice asked, for she had heard a good deal of poetry that day.
"it's long," said the knight, "but it's very, very beautiful. everybody that hears me sing it - either it brings the tears into their eyes, or else ----"
"or else what?" said alice, for the knight had made a sudden pause.
"or else it doesn't, you know. the name of the song is called 'haddocks' eyes.'"
"oh, that's the name of the song, is it?" alice said, trying to feel interested.
 "no, you don't understand," the knight said, looking a little vexed. "that's what the name is called. the name really is "the aged aged man.'"
"then i ought to have said, 'that's what the song is called'?" alice corrected herself.
"no, you oughtn't: that's quite another thing! the song is called 'ways and means': but that's only what it's called, you know!"
"well, what is the song, then?" said alice, who was by this time completely bewildered.
"i was coming to that," the knight said. "the song really is 'a-sitting on a gate': and the tune's my own invention."
so saying, he stopped his horse and let the reins fall on its neck: then, slowly beating time with one hand, and with a faint smile lighting up his gentle foolish face, as if he enjoyed the music of his song, he began.
of all the strange things that alice saw in her journey through the looking-glass, this was the one that she always remembered most clearly. years afterwards she could bring the whole scene back again, as if it had been only yesterday -- the mild blue eyes and kindly smile of the knight -- the setting sun gleaming through his hair, and shining on his armour in a blaze of light that quite dazzled her -- the horse quietly moving about, with the reins hanging loose on his neck, cropping the grass at her feet -- and the black shadows of the forest behind -- all this she took in like a picture, as with one hand shading her eyes, she leant against a tree, watching the strange pair, and listening, in a half-dream, to the melancholy music of the song.

morals

excerpts from alice's adventures in wonderland by lewis carroll [charles lutwidge dodgson]

* * * 
"tut, tut, child!" said the duchess. "everything's got a moral, if only you can find it." and she squeezed herself up closer to alice's side as she spoke.
alice did not much like her keeping so close to her: first, because the duchess was very ugly, and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin on alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. however, she did not like to be rude: so she bore it as well as she could.
"the game's going on rather better now," she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. 
"'tis so," said the duchess: "and the moral of that is - 'oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!'"
"somebody said," alice whispered, "that it's done by everybody minding their own business!"
"ah well! it means much the same thing," said the duchess, digging her sharp little chin into alice's shoulder as she added, "and the moral of that is - 'take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.'"
"how fond she is of finding morals in things!" alice thought to herself.
"i dare say you're wondering why i don't put my arm round your waist," the duchess said, after a pause: the reason is, that i'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. shall i try the experiment?"
"he might bite," alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried.
"very true," said the duchess: "flamingoes and mustard both bite. and the moral of that is - 'birds of a feather flock together.'"
"only mustard isn't a bird," alice remarked.
"right, as usual," said the duchess: "what a clear way you have of putting things!"
"it's a mineral, i think," said alice.
"of course it is," said the duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that alice said: "there's a large mustard-mine near here. and the moral of that is - 'the more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'"
"oh, i know," exclaimed alice, who had not attended to this last remark. "it's a vegetable. it doesn't look like one, but it is."
"i quite agree with you," said the duchess; "and the moral of that is - 'be what you would seem to be' - or, if you'd like it put more simply - 'never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.'"
"i think i should understand that better," alice said very politely, "if i had it written down: but i can't quite follow it as you say it."
"that's nothing to what i could say if i chose," the duchess replied, in a pleased tone.
"pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that," said alice.
"oh, don't talk about trouble!" said the duchess. "i made you a present of everything i've said as yet."
"a cheap sort of present!" thought alice. "i'm glad they don't give birthday-presents like that!" but she did not venture to say it out loud.
"thinking again?" the duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin.
"i've a right to think," said alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried.

* * *

"i've been to a day-school too," said alice. "you needn't be so proud as all that."
"with extras?" asked the mock turtle, a little anxiously.
"yes," said alice: "we learned french and music."
"and washing?" said the mock turtle.
"certainly not!" said alice indignantly.
"ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the mock turtle, in a tone of great relief. "now, at ours, they had, at the end of the bill, 'french, music, and washing - extra.'"
"you couldn't have wanted it much," said alice; "living at the bottom of the sea."
"i couldn't afford to learn it," said the mock turtle with a sigh. "i only took the regular course."
"what was that?" enquired alice.
"Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the mock turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic - Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision."
"i never heard of 'Uglification,'" alice ventured to say. "what is it?"
the gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "you know what to beautify is, i suppose?"
"yes," said alice doubtfully: "it means - to - make - anything - prettier."
"well, then," the gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you are a simpleton."
alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it: so she turned to the mock turtle, and said "what else had you to learn?"
"well, there was Mystery," the mock turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, - "Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography : then Drawling - the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come in once a week : he taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils."
"what was that like?" said alice.
"well, i can't show it you, myself," the mock turtle said: "i'm too stiff. and the gryphon never learnt it."
"hadn't time," said the gryphon: "i went to the classical master, though. he was an old crab, he was."
"i never went to him," the mock turtle said with a sigh. "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say."
"so he did, so he did," said the gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws.