New Adventures of Alice - John Rae

Summary

Classic Science Fiction Books Podcast

Episode: New Adventures of Alice – John Rae

Host: solgoodmedia.com
Date: July 26, 2026

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Episode Overview

This episode features a complete audiobook reading of The New Adventures of Alice by John Rae—a whimsical sequel to Lewis Carroll's classic Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Rae’s story pays loving homage to Carroll’s original, inviting listeners into a dream-like world overflowing with clever wordplay, nonsense logic, satirical poetry, and parodic adventures with Mother Goose and nursery rhyme characters. The tale follows a young girl named Betsey (who becomes Alice in her dreams) as she journeys through a landscape where imagination rules and reality bends.

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Key Discussion Points & Story Highlights

Foreword & Author’s Intent

[01:33] Librivox Foreword Reader:

• John Rae describes his enduring childhood wish for more Alice stories.
• Inspired by repeated readings and his own imaginings, Rae penned additional adventures for Alice, hoping to delight new generations.
• Rae presents the book as a gift to “the sweet spirit of the immortal Lewis Carroll...a dear indulgent storytelling uncle to all children.”

“If any of my love for the dear old dog eared volume of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland has crept…that is excuse enough for its being. It is offered as a loving gift from thankful children to the sweet spirit of the immortal Lewis Carroll…” — John Rae, [02:50]

Chapter 1: Found in the Attic

[03:54] Isana (Narrator):

• Betsey and her siblings lament the end of their Alice stories and wish for more.
• Betsey dreams herself into an attic, discovers a series of “Wish There Were More Books” (sequels to favorite tales), and is thrilled to find “More Adventures of Alice.”
• As she reads, Betsey becomes Alice herself and steps into new wonders.

Chapter 2: To Bunbury Cross or Along Came a Snipe

[08:06] Narrator:

• Alice, reading to her kittens, meets a talking snipe who smokes a pipe and prompts her to climb a magical, moving staircase/tree.
• She meets the Man in the Moon (a peddler of green cheese) and gives him nonsensical directions, feeling guilty for his confusion.
• Flying with the snipe, Alice soars above a village, meets whimsical townsfolk, and is swept into a world shaped by nursery rhymes and literary allusions.

“You can always get to Babylon by candle light...Great view, he added absently, as if to change the subject.” — Snipe, [15:56]

Chapter 3: The Peevish Printer

[24:53] Stacy Colon (Narrator):

• Alice encounters the Peevish Printer, who uses a press to communicate—printing instead of speaking due to a weak, fading voice.
• The Printer shares wordplay, poems, and puns about his role in creating Mother Goose books.
• Alice receives a magically warm “paper pie” and learns about the playful logic of this world: printing becomes conversation and sustenance.

Chapter 4: Fire!

[34:26] Stacy Colon (Narrator):

• A false fire alarm causes chaos. Alice meets the Barber and then leaps with Jack Be Nimble and Jumping Joan to the source of the fire—King Cole’s burning haystack.
• The Snipe fears punishment for accidentally starting the fire (with a dropped pipe), adding comic anxiety and a sense of chase.
• The group escapes the King’s archers by riding flying arrows, which transform into geese.

Chapters 5–7: The Poet’s Attic & Nonsense Verse

• Alice and the Poet reach a “house all attic” and write verses with self-steering pens. Creative inventions abound, including quills that write on their own and floors that recycle ink.
• She’s startled by a fantastical cuckoo (bell-horse) clock, and more oddballs arrive: Johnny Stout (hero), a white kitten, and a march through threatening forests.
• Alice is swept into a series of rapid, dreamlike transitions—including a dramatic dumpling chase, a magical grenadier, and a misty, cloud-bound voyage aboard the ship Somersault Sally.

“Best kind I calls it,” the captain said very positively of his useless, self-winding watch. “Never a prodding of you by reminding you it’s getting late for something or other. Leaves all that to your own good judgment.” — Captain Ti Wee, [72:04]

Chapters 8–9: Buttermilk Channel, Tub Boat, & Parodies

[82:44] SC Kaplan, Amy Ball (Narrators):

• Alice finds herself in a sea of buttermilk with the Milkman (whose goats give buttermilk).
• She witnesses a tub full of the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.
• Food, poetry, and logic are always off-kilter: cakes are poetry, milk is from goat “butters,” and birthdays are calculated via mysterious equations.
• Much of the humor riffs on nursery rhymes, puns, and wordplay: “Are you good at figures?”, “It stands for my last name. Your last name, eh? How often do you change your name?”, [108:59].
• Alice’s adventures include a parade of swimming rats, a musical march through a tunnel, a wild ride on a handcar followed by a train, and a comic scene with a snowman station agent.

“If that ever strikes between the ears, it’ll do the work. It’s just full of heavy words. Always ready to argue.” — Candlestick Maker, [115:36]

Chapters 10–12: Iceberg, Skating Party, & More Dream Logic

[117:17] Greg Giordano, Lynne Thompson (Narrators):

• Arriving at Iceberg station, Alice meets a snowman who ponders ownership logic (“if it was mine it would be marked mine”) and gives her a bottomless birdcage.
• She joins a skating party featuring dancing animals, clownish Mother Goose figures, and a comic chase involving a cow on skates.
• After a whirlwind skating disaster, Alice crashes through a greenhouse roof, finds a “gruel bush” and other edible plants, meets Dr. Foster, and is stymied by a stubborn snail doorman enforcing absurd rules (“No one allowed unless you leave your umbrella at the door”).

Chapter 13: King Cole's Court

[162:45] Greg Giordano (Narrator):

• Alice stumbles into a tennis party run by King Cole, with oranges for tennis balls, fans for rackets, and bellows-armed wooden soldiers.
• The king’s humor and lively spirit set the tone for more slapstick and wordplay (“A standing army can’t sit down!”).
• The Queen prizes Alice’s patchwork quilt, and Alice is made guest of honor, leading to games, a band-in-a-box, and a bustling, noisy party.

“It’s so that without the expense of the ammunition, they could always return blow for blow.” — King Cole, [169:47]

Chapters 14–15: Pantomime, Curtain Calls, & Return Home

[179:45] Libby Gone, Robin King (Narrators):

• The Mother Goose characters mount a musical pantomime about chasing an enchanted cheese, riddled with slapstick, mishaps, and silly logic.
• The action spins into joyful absurdity, with Alice floated out of the coach, drifting into an artist’s studio where the “creator” behind it all appears.
• The artist discusses the power of pictures (a mouse deterrent, crows returning stolen corn, etc.), and Alice reads poems (“Pray visit our shop on the side of the hill...”).
• The boundary between art and reality dissolves as drawn characters leap from the canvas, the world transforms into a vast party, and a kaleidoscopic dance erupts.
• Alice wakes up—her adventure revealed as a dream sparked by finding a storybook in the attic.

“Who’d ever even fancy that so many unusual things could happen in less than an hour!” — Alice, [203:17]

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

• "If only I had them all on my shelves now,” said Betsey to herself...Perhaps I’ll find another Alice book." — [04:41]
• “You can always get to Babylon by candle light, replied the snipe severely. And you ought to know it.” — [15:56]
• “I said show me your penny, not give me your penny.” — The Peevish Printer [31:11]
• "Don't forget—I'm the one who printed Mother Goose!" — The Peevish Printer [32:10]
• “The bell on her horse’s collar made a terrifying amount of noise in the silent woods. I’m sure the beggars will hear it and know where I am.” — Alice, [54:53]
• “Best kind I calls it. Never a prodding of you by reminding you it’s getting late for something or other...leaves all that to your own good judgment.” — Captain Ti Wee, [72:04]
• “It must have been a wonderful scarecrow,” said Alice, laughing. — [191:12]

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Thematic Elements

• Imaginative Expansion: Rae channels Carroll’s whimsy, folding in nursery rhymes, literary jokes, and playful logic.
• Meta-Storytelling: Much is made of books, reading, printing, and drawing—stories inventing stories.
• Parody & Satire: The story often pokes fun at bureaucracy, rules, adult logic, and the absurdity of “order.”
• Dream World Rules: The narrative follows dream logic—swift, surreal transitions, and transformations are frequent.

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Timestamps of Major Sections

| Section/Event | Timestamp | |-------------------------------------------|-------------| | Foreword & Book Setup | 01:33–03:54 | | Chapter 1: The Attic Discovery | 03:54–08:06 | | Chapter 2: Snipe, Moon, Flying | 08:06–19:23 | | Chapter 3: The Peevish Printer | 24:53–34:26 | | Chapter 4: Bunbury Cross, Fire, Escape | 34:26–47:22 | | Chapter 5: Poet’s Attic, Pens, Verse | 47:22–54:53 | | Chapter 6: Dark Forest, Dumpling, Heroics | 54:53–70:55 | | Chapters 7–8: Somersault Sally, Buttermilk| 70:55–95:10 | | Chapters 9–10: Tub Boat, Post, Iceberg | 95:10–117:17| | Chapter 11: Skating Party | 136:56–158:40| | Chapter 12: The Greenhouse, Palace | 158:40–162:45| | Chapter 13: King Cole’s Court | 162:45–179:45| | Chapter 14: Enchanted Cheese Rehearsal | 179:45–185:25| | Chapter 15: The Studio, Wake-Up | 185:25–204:33|

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Tone & Style

Faithful to Carroll, Rae’s prose sparkles with lighthearted nonsense, clever banter, oddball rhymes, and riddles. Characters are by turns deadpan, self-referential, and satirical. The language is rich in puns, inversions, and playful logic that children and adults can enjoy.

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Summary

John Rae’s The New Adventures of Alice is a loving homage to Carroll’s Wonderland, brimming with witty nonsense, whimsical poetry, nursery rhyme crossovers, and dream-world storytelling where every rule is made to be twisted. It’s a playful celebration of imagination—and a gentle satire of grown-up worldliness—framed as the perfect “found sequel” Betsey wished for in her attic. Any fan of classic children’s fantasy or Carrollian wordplay will find delight in this inventive, energetic, and affectionately crafted adventure.

“Who’d ever even fancy that so many unusual things could happen in less than an hour!” — Alice, [203:17]

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For full enjoyment, listen at your leisure and let the nonsense wash over you—much as it does Alice herself.

Transcript

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[Librivox Foreword Reader]

Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org foreword of the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray probably you, like myself, have often wished that Lewis Carroll might have found time to write another book about Alice. Certainly most of the children who have delightedly followed her through Wonderland and the Looking Glass country have sighed regretfully when Mother finished reading the last chapter to them. After reading the marvelous tale for perhaps the 10th time when I was a little boy, I started trying to imagine what Lewis Carroll would have written had he continued the adventures. And it has been great fun for me to go on with these imaginings from time to time, and finally to write them down. The children with dreaming eyes of wonder to whom I have related some of these new adventures have frankly enjoyed them and their accompanying nonsense verses, and have helped with many stimulating questions and suggestions. This leads me to hope that even Lewis Carroll himself might have enjoyed some of these added doings of his little adventuress, Alice. And so I make no excuse or apology for what to some may at first seem my shocking assurance, and if any of my love for the dear old dog eared volume of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and through the Looking Glass has crept, as I meant it should, between the lines of this humble supplement, that is excuse enough for its being. It is offered as a loving gift from thankful children to the sweet spirit of the immortal Lewis Carroll, who has always seemed to me a dear indulgent story telling uncle to all children. John Ray Caldwell, New Jersey End of Foreword.

[Isana (Narrator)]

Chapter one of the New Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Isana the New Adventures of Alice By John Ray Chapter One Found in the Attic but the provoking kitten only began on the other paw and pretended it hadn't heard the question. Which do you think it was? Mother closed the book, and Sister Betsey and brother Billy both sighed. Oh dear, I wish there were more of it, said Betsey. Isn't there another book about Alice, Mother? It was the fifth or sixth time that Mother had read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and threw the Looking Glass to them out of the fat red book, and every time they had reached the end, Betsy had asked the same question. I'm just as sorry as you are, dears, that there isn't, said Mother, but even if there were, we couldn't read any more tonight. It's your bedtime. And sure enough the old fashioned hall clock had begun to buzz and grind and click as it always did before striking the hour as though it were chuckling wickedly to itself. Betsy thought Betsey must have been thinking of Alice and making up for herself. More adventures and wishing there were another book. All the time she was getting undressed and brushing her nice little white teeth. For when she said her prayers, she added, and please send me another book about Alice. She had hardly got comfortably snugged and settled into the pillow and kissed Mother and called good night to Dick the canary, who answered with a sleepy little thrill when she found herself up in the attic looking for things to dress up in. The bedclothes seemed to have turned into dusty old dresses and coats, which she was pulling over looking for a little dress her mother had worn when Mother herself was only 8 years old. She knew it was somewhere in the pile of things in the attic and would be just what she wanted, to dress the part of Alice in a little play which she and brother and some of the other children were going to give perhaps the next Saturday afternoon. Somehow or other the dresses and coats, as she handled them, became smaller and stiffer and smaller still, and flats. And pretty soon she realized that they weren't dresses and coats at all, but a pile of neat little books, none of which Betsy had ever seen before and which seemed to come in a sort of set. They were called Wish There Were More Books or the Sequel Series. Oh, if only I had them all on my shelves now, said Betsy to herself. Perhaps I'll find another Alice book. And she took them up one by one with eager hands. There was more Robinson Crusoe, more Arabian Nights, more Grimm's Fairy Tale, more Wonder Clock Stories, and oh, dreams Come True. There was the book she had longed for, More Adventures of Alice. She turned the pages with trembling fingers, afraid that she might find that it was a cruel joke. But no, there were exactly the same kind of stiff little pictures of Alice that she had loved in the battered old red book from which Mother had just been reading Alice, Alice doing this or Alice doing that, and usually surrounded by strangely dressed people or creatures. With a sigh of complete contentment, she settled herself comfortably and cozily on a moth eaten old buffalo robe in a corner nearest the half moon attic window and started to read. In her dream she seemed to change and become dear, quaint little Alice herself and be living and acting in the story instead of simply reading it. What follows is what she read, and the pictures that follow are those she looked at in the Wish There Were More Book, for Betsy has often and often told me all about that wonderful dream of hers. End of Chapter One Recording by Isana.

[Narrator (Chapter 2)]

Chapter two of the New Adventures of Alice. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 2 to Bunbury Cross or Along Came a Snipe. It was a sleepy springtime Sunday afternoon. Alice was lying on the grass near the garden house reading Mother Goose rhymes to her kittens, who were tumbling about near her in the slanting yellow sunshine. She often pretended the kittens were small children. Just now she was reading Ding Dong Bell Pussies in the well. I'm sure you'll like this one and it may prove a warning to you. She said. Her sister was sitting on the garden house step making a pretty little Sketch of a blossoming hawthorn tree which stood in the corner of the hedge at the foot of the garden. Over the hedge they could see the church spire across the river. Somewhere far off, a bell was ringing. Its sweetly sleepy sound mingled with the scent of blossoms. The droning of Alice's voice very harmoniously. She had just come to the line. What a naughty boy was that. When she noticed a bird with a straw in its beak alighting on the hedge nearby. Alice stopped reading to watch him, for she always liked to find out where the nests were being built. The bird was very sprightly little fellow, cocking his head from side to side and looking directly at Alice with remarkably intelligent bright eyes. Why, thought Alice, he looks as if he were actually going to speak. And sure enough, he did. Wonderful view from here, said the bird casually in a rather muffled voice. Alice now saw it was a snipe, much larger than she had first supposed, and instead of a straw, he held in his beak a long clay pipe from which a thin wisp of bluish smoke was curling, which probably caused the indistinct muffling voice. The hedge, too seemed to be changing strangely. It was growing higher and higher, and soon she saw it was a hedge no longer, but a grove of tall oaks, and the muffled voice of the snipe now sounded very far away indeed. I've something important to ask you. Do you? She thought she heard him say, and then she could not catch any more, though he was still to be seen on the topmost branch of the tree nearest her.

[Narrator (Chapter 2 continuation)]

Now, Alice was a very polite little girl, and it seemed to her that the only right thing for her to do was to climb the tree and find out what it was that this knight wished to know. So she was very pleased to see a narrow spiral stairway, which she had certainly not noticed before winding up around the trunk. She placed her foot upon the lowest step and grasped the rail, and was greatly surprised to find that the railing seemed to be moving spirally upward, pulling her along at first slowly and gently, but getting faster and faster, so that by the time she was halfway up the tree, her feet were no longer touching the steps at all. Somehow, though, the sensation was rather pleasant, and she felt no alarm. She even kept calm enough to notice that as the trunk apparently slid down past her, little bird, faces appeared open curtained windows here and there, and one old lady blackbird in a blue sunbonnet called out as Alice shot past. Hoity toity, my dear child, there's really no such hurry, you know.

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[Narrator (Chapter 2 continuation)]

Faster and faster she went, so that when the treetop was reached the she could not seem to stop, but went right on up into the air quite a ways and then gently floated down her skirt, spreading out like a parachute and supporting her, and finally alighted on the topmost branch right beside the snipe. Talking to the snipe was a curious little fellow with a big round shiny face and very slender little legs and arms. In one hand he carried a covered basket, in the other a big blue handkerchief decorated with little white stars. In his belt was a great cheese knife. His round face was shining with perspiration, and from time to time he mopped it with the blue handkerchief. He looks as though he'd come a long way, thought Alice as she settled herself on a swaying branch and smoothed out her skirt. The snipe was saying thoughtfully, puffing hard on his pipe, norwich, Norwich. Now let me see. I should know and that's a fact. Perhaps she can tell you. He exclaimed, brightening the man in the moon. For of course Alice knew now the that it must be. He turned respectfully towards her.

[Narrator (Chapter 2)]

Your pardon, miss, but could you perhaps tell me how I could get to Norwich? I'm anxious to get there by nightfall, that I am, miss. He speaks exactly like the nice old farmer who comes around to sell us cheese, thought Alice, and that's exactly what he does. Put in the snipe, just as if

[Narrator (Chapter 2 continuation)]

she had said it aloud.

[Narrator (Chapter 2)]

Of course, you know, he continued, the moon's made of green cheese, and pointing to the man in the moon, he peddles it. Give her a sample. Certainly, miss. To be sure, beamed the man in the moon, no obligation to buy either, miss. He opened his basket and taking his knife from his belt, cut off a thin slice of the most beautiful and curious cheese that Alice had ever seen. It was soft and glowed with a greenish silver light, and when she bit into it it was like eating marshmallows dipped in moonlight, she said. Afterwards Alice was just about to take a second bite when she remembered that the man had a curious question had not been answered, and she started to direct him as well as she could. But somehow her geography lessons in some directions she had heard the gardener give a wagon driver the day before became hopelessly mixed in her mind as she found herself Norwich is a town of 7,000 inhabitants in the north eastern part of Norfolk on the river Yare. You take the road to the right as far as the Earl Bridge and follow the river to the old Exton Mill, settled in the year 1340. Turn to the left and the principal exports are. She stopped, realizing how absurdly she was talking and intending to say, no, that's not at all what I meant. But the jolly little man had already started. He was not flying, but stepping briskly along on nothing at all, swinging his basket, and Aleck could just hear him anxiously repeating part of her ridiculous directions to Old Exton mill, settled in 1340. She called after him, but he evidently did not hear, for he kept straight ahead and soon disappeared behind a great flock of blackbirds. The snipe shook his head sadly and blew tremendous puffs of whirling smoke from his pipe in silence for a while, but finally he sighed. Poor fellow, poor fellow. But I dare say he'll happen on the finger posts, and then he can get to Babylon anyhow. That is, of course, if he has a candle about him.

[Narrator (Chapter 2 continuation)]

What good would that do him? Asked Alice anxiously, for she was quite worried about the man in the moon. She naturally felt responsible and guilty. Of course she hadn't really meant to give him those absurd directions. I don't believe I even got the population right, she said to herself helplessly. Why, silly, you can always get to Babylon by candle light, replied the snipe severely. And you ought to know it. Great view, he added absently, as if to change the subject. Now, for the first time, Alice looked down. How changed everything was. The gravel garden path had become a dusty road winding under the oaks, and in place of her sister there was a strange little man in very baggy clothes and a flowing necktie so long that the ends hung down almost to the ground. He was busily sketching just as her sister had been. Alice, although she was ever so high up in the tree tops, could somehow or other see just what he was drawing on his little pad. This was what she saw. Why, it's the old lady with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, just like the picture in my Mother Goose. She exclaimed delightedly. Yes, he drew us all. Dread him, murmured the snipe crossly. He made one of my wings shorter than the other two. When the artist's picture was finished, it seemed immediately to grow to natural size and come to life. By this time Alice was quite used to unusual happenings, and about the only thing could have startled her very much was have been for something to look just every dayish or act in a perfectly normal manner. She was not at all surprised, therefore, to see see the white hobby horse starting off down the road with a rocking sort of gait, the old lady in her familiar spotted dress and strange bonnet jouncing up and down on his back, and in a cloud of dust Alice could just catch the faint jingling of the bells on her toes. This must be the road to Banbury Cross, then, said Alice half aloud. Bunbury Cross, corrected the snipe kindly. No fault of yours, my child. The painter ran out of yews, that's all. You see, it's where they make the hot cross berry buns. You'd never say hot cross bands. No, certainly not. In the first place, it would never rhyme with Sons, and in the second pl. But no matter. What do you think of the view?

[Alice (Narrator)]

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[Alice (Narrator)]

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[Narrator (Chapter 2 continuation)]

And pointing to the artist with his pipe, he drew it all. All the houses and trees and the hills, just as he had to draw all of us birds and animals and people. Now Alice knew why it was that the landscape looked strangely familiar. It too, was like the pictures in her Mother Goose, but also quite a little like Wonderland, the strange looking glass country that she had once dreamt about. Isn't it hilly? Alice began. And what's that? Of course it has to be hilly, interrupted the snipe impatiently. There's got to be Jack and Jill's Hill and Blackbeard's Hill and the hill the old woman lived under, and Pippin Hill and all the rest of the hills. Now else. Ever since Alice had reached the treetop, a faraway bell had been ringing just as one had rung before she left the garden and her sister and the kittens and dear, dear, how long ago that did seem, Alice wondered idly, what the bell could be. It's a bellman over at Bunbury Cross, I'm pretty sure, said the snipe, who always seemed good at guessing just what one was going to say. Probably somebody's stolen something or other, and the king has offered a reward for the capture of the thief. There's lots of thieves among em Tom the piper's son, who stole the pig, and dozens more. Why, even one of their kings years ago stole some barley meal for a bag of pudding. What a bad example. Exclaimed Alice. Let's go and see what the ROE's about, suggested the snipe. I've got to return this pipe anyway. Of course, that pipe business was just a practical joke. I hope you don't think I was a thief. He looked anxiously at Alice, then added more brightly, Bombay's the next village beyond, and the old man's a great friend of King Colt's. In fact, he's Prime Minister. Let's start. Ever fly? Before Alice realized what was happening, the snipe had given her a gentle push, and she found herself awkwardly floundering about in the air, not exactly frightened, but a Bit cross that the snipe should have given her no warning. Well, I don't think that was very nice, and I did so want to see what the artist was going to draw next, said she. It's the only way to ever learn to fly or swim, said the Snape, amiably but decidedly. Try it more this way. That's better. And then, as if to put her in a better humor, he began to sing as well as possible with the pipe still in his mouth. You never know what you can do till you try. A bird like a fly may be able to buzz Things stranger have happened and every day does. I've heard many times. I have proofs if you wish. A deaf and dumb oyster can sing like a fish, but fish can't sing, interrupted Alice, who by this time was managing to fly fairly well and was going remarkably fast. She had to keep a little ahead of the snipe, as the smoke trailing from the pipe was very choking and blinding. What's their scales for, then? I'd like to know, snapped the snipe, and after a moment he added triumphantly, some of em fly anyhow, but don't interrupt again or we'll never get there. Alice couldn't see just what the song had to do with getting them there, but said nothing, and the bird continued. Why, how? Let me ask you, my dear, do you suppose I learned to smoke pipes and to eat with my nose? There is one thing, however, that cannot be done with all of your trying. That's this. Have a bun. The strangest thing had happened. They were bumping into a flock of buns. As the snipe expressed it, the air was full of hot cross buns, which seemed to be floating up from an open window of a house on the outskirts of the village far below them. That's the baker's shop, and there's the butcher's, and there's the candlestick maker's, said the snipe. Alice saw that they were now right over a little village. She had been too busy listening to the snipe to realize how fast they had approached it. Drop him a penny. Drop him a penny. Called the snipe. And then, in his effort to snatch one of the floating buns with his beak, lost the pipe, which fell through the air, leaving behind it a trail of blue smoke. Now I'm in a pretty pickle and no mistake, he mumbled in a scared voice. I didn't mean to keep the old pipe, it was just a joke. But here we are. Cried Alice between bites. She had caught two of the buns, which were still very warm and wonderfully light. Perhaps that's why they float away, she thought. Yes, here we are. And sure enough, they were hovering directly over the village green, where a maypole stood decked out with streamers and flowers, ready for the dance. It was just like one Alice had seen a few days ago before on their village green at home. Then she saw that the bell, whose ding donging had been growing louder and louder as they had approached the village, was being rung by the bellman or town crier, who stopped his ringing now and then to bawl out. Has anyone seen Master Thomas B. Green? Be he dead or alive, the reward is 2 and 5. Let's stop here, said Alice, clutching at the maypole to stop her flight. You see, she had never practiced alighting gracefully she swung round and round and round and round. Petals from the blossom wreaths were shaken off and floated down all about her. When she softly struck the ground after her long spiral descent, no one seemed to have noticed her, for the bellman was the center of attention. All the strange townsfolk and animals were crowding about him, listening to his bawling or listening together in excited groups. When she looked about her for the snipe, he was nowhere to be seen, but finally she spied him perched on the very top of the maypole. He seemed agitated and was whispering something hoarsely to her, but she could only make out the words, don't dare to come down and they'll put me in jail and I'll see you sometime again. Then he flapped heavily away, and Alice suddenly felt very lonesome and just a little scared. End of Chapter two.

[Stacy Colon (Narrator, Chapter 3 & 4)]

Chapter three of the New Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, Please please visit Librivox.org recording by Stacy Colon the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 3 the peevish printer it makes me sick. Absolutely sick. Exclaimed a small peevish voice at Alice's elbow. They ought to let me have print em some neat handbills to stick up at every corner instead of having all this hubbub. Turning, Alice saw a little spectacled man, almost bald, with a very inky apron and the dirtiest hand she had ever she simply couldn't help looking at them a little disapprovingly as her mother looked at hers sometimes. He did not seem to notice her reproving glance, however, but continued to exclaim, it makes me sick. More bitterly than before. Now putting his hands over his ears as if to shut out the din made by the town criers bawling in the noisy bell. Of course, when he did this, his ears and cheeks became almost as dirty as his hands, and Alice found herself saying, now just look at your face. Don't be ridiculous, said the little man. How can I look at my face? That's for you to do. There are no mirrors in this town. Anyhow, even if I wanted to look at my face, which I don't, you see, King Cole. But that's a long story. Perhaps I have it with me. I'm a printer, as you may have guessed. That is, I'm a printer most of the time. Fair time. I sell pies. Have to make a living somehow, you know. Oh, the nearer the pie man. Exclaimed Alice. Yes, but pastry purveyor would have sounded much better. Don't you think so? Looked well in print, too. He had been fumbling in his pocket and now fished out a folded sheet of very soiled paper, which he carefully spread out on the grass. This isn't it, I'm afraid, he murmured, but it will do pretty well. It was the strangest page of print Alice had ever seen. She could make nothing of it, except for the title at the top, which was Printer's Pie in very black capital letters. But even that spelled wrong, she said to herself. It should be Pie. The rest was a jumble of letters and figures and punctuation marks of all kinds and sizes. Perhaps it's a puzzle. It looks very interesting and like some foreign language. Such, said Alice doubtfully. But what does it mean? That's what I was hoping you'd be able to tell me, said the printer thoughtfully, tapping the paper as though to shake the jumble of letters into some more readable arrangement. Children usually know all about pie, you see. I have to print this sort of thing now and then just to keep busy. Now that they have a town crier, he added apologetically, I wish I had a piece of apple pie right this minute, sighed Alice, suddenly reminded that she was very hungry in spite of the two flying buns she had eaten. You ought to have come at fair time, you know, said the printer, but perhaps we can manage it. It's only a matter of spelling, after all. He drew from the huge pocket in his apron a very compactly folded up little printing press and some small sheets of paper found in E, which he inked with the palm of his hand and printed it carefully after the PI of the title, Making it Pie. They're kicking up such a noise. I almost forgot how to spell, he muttered to himself. Don't want to see you go hungry though, and I'll do the best I can for you. But show me first your penny, he added absentmindedly. While he talked, he had been tearing the paper into the form of scalloped circle and finally handed it to her. Alice was somehow not in the least surprised that the paper pie had become brown and warm and fragrant and the letters pie had turned into the usual row of cuts in the crust. She handed him a penny, which he took and examined with great interest, turning it over and over and murmuring in a hoarse whisper, very pretty, very pretty. Good likeness too. Very good indeed. Alice had noticed that his voice had been growing hoarser and hoarser as he talked. It was now scarcely audible. When he had thoroughly examined the coin, he put it back into her hand, pushing it away without a word when she tried to return it to him.

[Alice (Narrator)]

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[Stacy Colon (Narrator, Chapter 3 & 4)]

cap apply Then he started setting type with great rapidity and slipping a small piece of paper into the press. He jammed down the lever, raised it again, and pulled out this neatly printed little slip. I said show me your penny, not give me your penny. Oh, said Alice, so you did. This seemed to her a strange way of carrying on a conversation. But after all, she said to herself, it's really a very nice sort of game. I wonder if he usually talks this way. The printer seemed to have read her thoughts, for in the twinkling of an eye he had printed another little slip like this. Well, in the first place, as you see, my voice is rather weak. It very rapidly becomes a whisper, so to speak. Just think how handy it might be to print instead of talk if I should fall into the sea. Help. Help. I'd never squawk, not I. I'd print some circulars in bold faced type. Display your kind assistance is required. I'm sinking in the bay. Or if I took to me a wife, stone deaf, of course you see in converse then how indispensable my press would be. That sounds very reasonable, I must say, mused Alice. Of course it's reasonable, said, or rather printed the peevish printer petulantly. Then something seemed to occur to him. He smiled mysteriously and printed this. The tiny type looks just like a whisper, thought Alice. This is a secret. I'm the man who printed Mother Goose. This is a rhyme the poet wrote about me. Printer man, printer man, Print me a book, Tell what a great man am I. Make me a hero by hook or by crook, Or I'll beat you and blacken your eye. I didn't just like that one, especially the part about beating me. So I simply left it out. You see, I might have been twice as famous. There's just that Pieman rhyme about me now. Then too, I wasn't anxious to be known as the printer of the book either. The poet who wrote the rhymes has had to live in hiding for years. Some folks didn't like what he said about him and wanted to kill him, and they might have felt the same about me for printing what he wrote. I don't know, as I'm exactly proud of being classed with that Mother Goose crowd. Anyway, they're a mixed lot, beggars, pigs, and pipers, and very few gentlemen among em. You'll notice. Alice had noticed that the crowd gathered about the town crier in the street was a strangely assorted lot, though all looked familiar, tall and Short, fat and thin beggars and fine folks, and a great many quaintly dressed old women and children, pigs, cats, dogs and crows and other beasts and birds seemed to mingle with the rest on equal terms. One neatly shaven pig, she noticed, coming out of a shop, over the door of which hung a sign, I SHAVE EM BARBER and Wig Maker. She had been so interested in the printed conversation game that she'd almost forgotten to eat her pie, which lay on the grass beside them. Now she took it up. What a dear little brown piece. How good it will taste, she thought.

[Narrator/Storyteller]

Mmm.

[Stacy Colon (Narrator, Chapter 3 & 4)]

I'd better eat it before it's all cold, she thought, and politely started to offer a bite to the printer, but saw that he was furiously busy printing a lot of little circulars on bright red paper. When he had printed 50 or more, he gathered them up and jumped to his feet. Then, thrusting one into Alice's hand so excitedly that he caused her to drop the pie, he dashed off into the crowd, distributing his red circulars right and left in mad haste. Even a bellman stopped his din in amazement. Alice looked at the scarlet sheet and read in huge capitals, fire. Fire. Fire. Chapter four of the New Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Stacy Colon the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 4 Fire all was confusion and excitement. Some of the Mother Goose people were running in one direction and some in another. Most of the crowd were trying to squeeze through the town gate and seemed to be hopelessly stuck in the narrow opening. While Alice stood wondering in which direction the fire really lay, she noticed nearby a little man in green pointing excitedly with a long flute. Looking in the direction in which he was pointing, she saw, through an opening between the bakery and the barber shop, a thin column of smoke which seemed to be coming from behind a barn in a field about half a mile away. That must be it, thought Alice, for where there's smoke there must be fa. Just then somebody collided with her so violently that she was almost knocked off her feet. I beg your pardon, miss, but really, you know, Miss, you should be more careful how you stands about staring. That was, as you might say, a close shape. I might have cut your ear off. It was the barber. He held a large nicked razor and a mug of lather in one hand and an unfinished wig in the other. He was very much confused and flustered by the collision and began to mutter, I'll never get it done I'll never get it done that I won't. Something hallways interrupts. He seemed so unhappy that Alice, wishing to divert his mind, bethought herself of the pie and politely offered him a bite. Thank you, Miss, said the barber, brightening. A pinch or two. A pinch or two is jest what I needs. Puzzled by his words, Alice, Alice looked down at the pie and saw to her surprise that it was a pie no longer but a very large round snuff box, the COVID of which still slightly resembled a pie crust, being made of yellow ivory inlaid with flying blackbirds. The edge was scalloped. You're wery kind, Miss. I'm sure. You're wery kind indeed, though I'm bound to say, he added, as how ladies doesn't usually carry Look. Cried Alice. Who are they? Two quaint figures, a boy and a girl, were coming down the street in long leaps. It seemed to be a sort of race, and the strange girl who had just cleared the maypole in a tremendous jump, was slightly in the leap. It'll be jumping Joan and Jack Be Nimble. Of course, Miss, they always gets to fires first, muttered the barber complainingly. And then, struck by a bright idea, he shouted at the fast approaching figures, give us a lift, give us a lift. And turning to Alice, itch on an old tight. The next moment Alice found herself clinging to Jack Be Nimble's hand and leaping with him over the candlestick maker's shop. Just like big grasshoppers, she said to herself. Soon they could see the fire distinctly. It's the King's haystacks, just as I thought, said Jack excitedly. And we ought to be the first ones there. I hope that big barn near the stack doesn't catch fire, for all the King's horses are in there. Maybe Boy Blue's been playing with matches, ventured Alice. That looks like the pictures of the haystack he always takes his nap in. Listen, there's a new fire alarm. Cried Jack, bounding along in his excitement faster than ever, so that they really seemed not to touch the ground at all. It's the cat, you know. He's paid by the town according to the amount of noise he makes. And he added with a happy sigh, he can make a delicious amount when he really tries. He plays a fiddle and a pair of bagpipes at the same time. Oh, there he comes now, out of the barn. Cried Alice, as the caterwauling din rose louder and more piercing. And look at the fire now. Do you think it was our fault Too, interrupted a familiar voice at her elbow. In a hoarse stage whisper, she turned to see the Snipe who was flying along by her side. He seemed very much agitated and there was an air of mystery about him. That is to say, he continued, it's really the baker's fault, you know, for if he hadn't let those buns escape and fly away, we never would have dropped that dratted pipe.

[Alice (Narrator)]

Here.

[Stacy Colon (Narrator, Chapter 3 & 4)]

The Snipe hesitated a moment, looked this way and that, and then, getting very close to Alice's ears, whispered louder than before. It must have been that pipe that set fire to the King's haystack. If the Prime Minister finds it out, we'll go to the dungeons. Of course, I don't quite see why he says we shouldn't have dropped the pipe and we'll go to the dungeons, thought Alice. I had nothing to do with it. I am sure. She had begun to feel very impolite not to have introduced Jack Be Nimble to the Snipe. Then too, it seemed extremely rude for the Snipe to continue whispering to her and ignoring her companion. Have you met my friend? She began, but when she turned it was quite a different person from her leaping partner of a few moments before, whose hand she now held. He was a strange little stranger, spindle legged man, rather shabby, with very long hair, large wistful eyes, and a friendly smile. I'm the poet. Jack was only a disguise. Have to do it or they'll get me, I surmise, said he, pointing back at the crowd they had left far behind. Alice, the Snipe and the poet were now walking hurriedly across a broad stubbly field toward the burning haystack. As they approached, a cloud of ladybugs passed over them, coming from the direction of the fire. Poor things, said the snipe remorsefully to himself.

[Alice (Narrator)]

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[Stacy Colon (Narrator, Chapter 3 & 4)]

They probably lived in that haycock. Let's watch the blaze awhile from here until the townsfolk get too near, suggested the poet, smiling at Alice, and added, then we must skip. You know, my dear, all three of us have cause to fear. Alice now noticed for the first time that the little man wore a brass chain about his neck with a metal tag numbered 33 3. She wondered what it could possibly be, but was of course far too polite to ask on such short acquaintance. My poet's license. As you see, my number is 333, the poet remarked pleasantly, noticing her curiosity. A thing I'm very proud of, too. Becoming quite, I think, don't you? All this time the smoke from the hay was growing blacker and thicker, and the din of the fire alarm bagpipes was getting louder and wilder, and the scraping of the cat's fiddle, more shrimp piercing now. From the big barn nearby came sounds of trampling feet and ungrammatical shouts of that's him, that's him, there he is. And what seemed to Alice like hundreds of archers, each with a big gold crown embroidered on his left sleeve, rushed pell mell out of the big barn door. We are lost. Alack a day, friends. We must flee. All the king's men I know they're after me. Exclaimed the poet. It's me, their after neighbor, if you must know, said the snipe a little jealously, I dropped the pipe that caused this fire in the king's hay. Alice was a little frightened, it must be confessed, and very impatient at the poet and the snipe for waiting to talk when it did seem as though they all should be running for their lives. The archers had drawn up in line in front of the barn, and one who seemed to be their Captain stepped forward and gave the commands. Ready. Aim. The poet turned to Alice excitedly and whispered very rapidly, I have a plan. We'll wait until they shoot each grab a shaft and out of danger scoot. Then fire. Yelled the captain of the king's men, and the air was full of flying arrows. All aboard. Don't be slow. Hold on tight. Home we go. Shouted the poet. Whirr. An arrow whizzed by close to Alice's head, and following the suggestion of the poet, she grasped it as it flew past and scrambled aboard. An arrow escape. She heard the snipe chuckle. The goose feather tip made a very comfortable, springy seat, and she could hold firmly to the shaft near the head. The arrow was going at a frightful speed, and the wind whistled behind Alice's ears. In fact, it whistled a real tune. London Bridge. And very prettily too, thought Alice. I wonder if Bluebells of Scotland comes next, as it does on my music box. She had just turned to see if the poet and snipe were anywhere near her when suddenly everything grew black as night and she realized they had dived into the thick cloud of smoke from the fire. Alice clutched the arrow tighter, for she said to herself, it would be nasty to fall into the fire with this clean pinafore on. Somehow the shaft of the arrow had grown softer and feathery, and when Alice looked down, she saw it was now a fat gray goose she rode. The goose seemed to have lost her way in the dense smoke and was flying hither and thither in an aimless fashion. The smoky darkness was full of sparks. Or are they stars? She wondered. And isn't that the light from a little window way off there? The goose seemed to have seen the lighted window, too, for she stopped darting about and flew very rapidly in that direction, murmuring half under her breath, that's the house, I'm sure. I smell the cakes a burnin'. As they came nearer, Alice saw that the light came from a tiny little thatched cottage built high in the air on four tremendously long poles. Why, it's all upstairs. She exclaimed. To prove that I am erratic, I built my house all attic, said a voice near at hand. And there was a poet flying along beside her on a goose exactly like hers. End of Chapter Four.

[Alice (Narrator)]

Chapter five of the New Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Lynn Thompson the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 5 Self steering pens by the time they had reached the front door of the strange little four legged house and alighted, the smoke had all cleared away. Instead of sparks, the sky was full of wonderfully brilliant stars, thickly spread and so carefully arranged in their constellations that one could easily pick out the Great Bear, the Little Bear, and all the rest. The dragon was so real that Alice was almost frightened for the moment. It's just like the chart in Uncle's Big Astronomy. She cried, clapping her hands. The poet turned to Alice and said earnestly, if the dipper were nearer, twould do very well. Perhaps you have noticed a scorched sort of smell, but we're short here of water so far from the ground, and cakes always burn if I just turn around. He had been fumbling with a curious big brass key that hung at his belt and had finally managed by trying it backwards to push it into the keyhole and turn the lock, which sprung with a loud report. There, that's locked now, so let's go in. It's time our supper to begin, he murmured, and then dived in through an open window. It seemed to Alice a strange performance to carefully lock the door and enter by the window, but she was getting used to surprises of all all sorts. I suppose he has a reason, she decided, and followed. In so doing she knocked over a huge bottle of ink which had been standing on a little desk near the window. Alice was a very neat little girl and anything of this sort distressed her almost beyond words. Oh dear, now I've done it. She wailed as the ink, which was bright green, ran down over the stool and onto the floor. She started desperately mopping it up with her handkerchief, but this seemed useless as by this time it was at least an inch deep all over the floor. No matter an accident worry no more. But just take a look at my ink saving floor, remarked the poet, casually turning from the stove where he had been mournfully examining the burnt remnants of the patty cakes through a large reading glass. It happens so often, about once a day that week ago Wednesday. I fixed it this way, he added, and raised a small trap door in the middle of the floor. Alice now saw that the floor was full of shallow grooves which led the ink to a little ink well under the trap door. Soon the last drop had run into the ink well. The poet now went over to what looked like a sort of umbrella stand with which was full of enormous quill pens, and selecting a beautiful bright blue one, he handed it politely to Alice, taking a green one with yellow spots for himself, then took from a drawer in the little desk some very long narrow sheets of bright crimson paper, remarking with a chuckle as he held them up. It's easily read, as somebody said. Sitting cross legged on the floor, the poet dipped his pen into the inkwell and started to write rapidly. Try it, try it. Don't sit quiet. He cried, pushing several sheets of the crimson paper towards Alice and excitedly running his fingers through his long hair. Alice noticed that even when he did this the big quill pen kept on writing busily making a wonderful flourish at the end of each verse and occasionally adding a Spenserian swan for good measure. Alice dipped her pen in the bright green ink and was delighted to find that it started immediately to write and in a neat rounded script, fairly dragging her small hand along with it. We may as well finish up volume eight. No supper to night, says the voice of fate, muttered the poet after he had written a verse or two, adding after a moment's reflection, though I'm not sure I shall ever dare to publish these, I must have a care. Alice hardly heard a word of what the poet was saying, for she was fascinated by the very unusual sensation of using a sad self stirring pen and tremendously interested to see what it would write. Of course it will all be nonsense, she said to herself, and nonsense it surely was. After a minute or two the blue quill stopped and this is what she who'll buy my cakes? The crocus croaked and Echo answered. Who? Echo was dressed all in his best, in brilliant buoyant blue. His belt was trimmed with big bright bells and yet he rung his hands, and in despair he clawed his hair, all bound with rubber bands. Yet though he'd bands upon his hair he played upon a comb. The air was fresh and soft and sad, somewhat like home sweet home, though this fresh air was all about. He breathed a last farewell. Who'll buy my cakes? The croakers croaked, for he had soap to sell. The poet scratched his head judicially for a moment and then said slowly, that's rather good. Yes, rather good. But really now I think I should leave out that part about the cake. It almost makes one's stomach ache, though if one makes it of a lather. Soap's not bad eating, if you'd rather. Let's see if this one's worth its ink. The title's pleasing, come to think. The poet then started to read from the sheet he was holding. Come to think.

[Lady Luck]

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[Alice (Narrator)]

Why is it zebra's sometimes spelled with double X? And why? I don't know, but I'll ask Aunt Ann, Perhaps she'll tell me why. And why you ask me, does a dog face always nor nor'? West? I cannot answer that, although I've tried my level best. And why, oh why do you and I walk on our thumbs and ears? I do not know. You do not know? They do not know, my dears. Why is a porpoise always pink? I'll try hard to recall. Why come to think they're never pink. They're never pink at all. That'll do, I guess, said the poet doubtfully, setting the sheet aside. It's got a good moral, anyway. Alice couldn't exactly see just where the moral came, but she didn't interrupt to ask about it, for the poet had already begun to chuckle over another sheet, which he soon started to read as as far follows secrets come close to me, that I to you a secret may impart. A secret's more important to than how to toss a tart, I'll whisper in your purple Ear like this a word or two come nearer, lest they overhear, they seek a wirbaloo. At three o' clock I heard them creep. At four I heard them crawl. At five fifty, seen in silence deep I dong dong dong. Alice jumped to her feet in alarm, for a sudden deafening sound of bells filled the tiny room. Whoa. They're back. Dobbin Jack. Shouted the poet over his shoulder. In a matter of fact way. Alice, looking in the direction of the furious ringing, saw that it came from bells on the collars of two tiny dappled horses who had stepped out on to little platforms under the face of a very curiously carved clock, like a toy stable, which hung in the corner of the room. Well, Said Alice, much relieved, that is a strange sort of cuckoo clock. It's not a cuckoo clock, my dear. Those are bell horses that you hear. One o', clock, two o' clock often away, quoted Alice. Yes. Shouted the poet, for the bells were still jangling loudly. At two o' clock the beggars always come and we have nothing for em. Not a crumb and hark. I think I hear another bell. That must be pussy. Once more down the well. You jump on, Dobbin, and I'll take old Jack and off we'll go before. At this moment the snipe whom Alice had almost forgotten, poked his head in the little window and whispered hoarsely, Quick, they're coming. Don't you hear the dogs barking? Run for it. End of Chapter five. Chapter six of the New Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Lynn Thompson the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 6 It's a dangerous place Almost before the snipe had finished his warning, Alice found herself mounted on one of the dappled bell horses and galloping along at a furious pace on a dark road which wound in and out through a very dismal forest of twisted, bare trees. The bell on her horse's collar made a terrifying amount of noise in the silent woods. I'm sure the beggars will hear it and know where I am, said Alice half aloud. She finally managed to reach down over her horse's neck and tie her handkerchief about the bell clapper. She could now hear the watch dogs barking far in the rear and had just settled herself quite comfortably in the big wooden saddle with when a friendly voice behind her panted, I say wait up a bit, can't you? What's your hurry, though, for that matter, I'm usually in a hurry myself. It keeps you busy being a hero, always running about to drowning, accidents and affairs of that sort. The owner of the voice had now caught up with Alice, who was pulling in the bell horse as well as she could. Looking down she saw a short, very fat little fellow, dripping wet from head to foot, running along beside her as fast as his ridiculously short chubby legs would carry him. Under his arm he carried a small white kitten. Just like my own pussykins, thought Alice, which was wetter if possible than he. There's nothing for you to be afraid of now that I'm here, he continued cheerily. I'm sure the beggars would never dare to follow you into this forest anyhow. They for they know it's a dangerous place and full of dangerous people. The raven lives here, he continued in his gossipy way, the one with the frightful voice, you know, and the old man who wouldn't say his prayers, and John O. Gudgeon, the wild man and Peg's father, the miller and Marjorie daw, and the 4 and 20 tailors, though of course they're not so very dangerous, he added reassuringly, for Alice was beginning to look just a bit frightened. Don't you think you'd better get up here behind me and ride a ways? She suggested, for the roly poly little fellow was beginning to puff from his exertions in keeping up with a galloping bell horse. And anyhow, it would be rather a comfort, she thought, under the circumstances, to have such a hero as Johnny Stout near her for a while at least. He assented very readily, and handing Alice, the bedraggled white kitten gave clambered up panting. The further they rode into the wood the darker it became. The trees were now so tall and the branches so interwoven that no sky was to be seen. From these gnarled black branches hung long grey moss like the threadbare garments of ugly old giants. In fact, I'm not at all sure that they are really trees and not ogres of some sort, said Alice to herself. Once or twice she looked back over her shoulder, and it was very disturbing to notice that the trees had apparently closed in behind them and seemed to be standing in the road, pointing at her and whispering together. In these rather terrifying surroundings it was a comfort to have the little white kitten to hug. Damp though it was, its purring sounds very homelike, thought Alice. Must be long past tea time, and this riding gives a chap an awful appetite, sighed Johnny Stout. After they had gone what seemed miles and miles. It was now almost pitch dark. We'll soon be at the mill though, and if you'll just pretend you've a wooden leg, we may get a dumpling or two. Alice was about to ask for an explanation of this puzzling remark when she caught sight of a lighted window through the trees ahead and and heard the clattering and creaking of a mill wheel. What a strange place for a mill here in this deep forest. She exclaimed. But perhaps it's a saw mill. You're almost right, said Johnny, but not exactly. It's an axe mill, a place where they grind axes. You know, they have to have axes to cut down trees and make axe helves. To say nothing of the jack straws and toothpicks they make from the smaller pieces. As they drew nearer they heard loud harsh voices raised in angry dispute. They're always at it, said Johnny. Never saw such a family for fighting. You see, the old miller has dyspepsia, and no wonder he lives on crab apple dumplings. By this time they had almost reached the mill, the door of which now burst violently open. The out hopped a dishevelled young woman with a wooden leg, followed closely by an ugly bald man who stopped just outside the door to hurl a huge heavy looking dumpling at her. What did I tell you? Chuckled Johnny. That old gawk, gawk, gawk. Suddenly there had risen the most unearthly clamor that Alice had ever heard. The bell horse stumbled and fell, and as she floated gently to the ground, Alice thought she heard Johnny's voice far, far away, shouting, the raven. The raven. Mind the trees don't fall on you. That must be the raven that cried croak. And they all fell down, said Alice to herself. And I've only eight lives left, the kitten murmured sadly, opening one eye, then going to sleep again immediately on Alice's shoulder. Alice was too much interested in what was happening about her to realize that this was the first time the kitten had spoken a word. Everything seemed befalling. The mill had collapsed like a cardboard toy, the miller and his daughter were both sprawling on the ground, and the trees of the forest themselves swayed, tottered and fell in a curious, noiseless way. Even the road was slowly caving in and becoming a sort of shallow gully. When Alice thought to look for the raven, the great black bird was just disappearing in the distance, and she was almost sure she heard its hoarse, far off laughter. I really can't see that this is all such a joke, said Alice, severely to nobody in particular. You'll have to hurry or we'll never catch up to it, murmured the kitten in a very sleepy voice, pointing feebly ahead, then falling asleep immediately as before.

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[Alice (Narrator)]

Alice looked and saw the big steaming dumpling rolling slowly along down the sunken road not far ahead of them. Now that most of the trees had fallen, there was more light and she could see quite a distance. The bell horse had disappeared. So remembering that she was very hungry and feeling too that the sooner they got out of the way of the ill tempered miller, the better, Alice acted upon the white kitten's advice and started to run as fast as she could after the rolling dumpling. Before Alice had gone more than a dozen yards, there came the sound of running footsteps behind her, and thinking that it was surely the miller in swift pursuit, she redoubled her speed and actually flew, for the road was now caving in so rapidly and Alice was bounding along at such a remarkable speed that her feet only occasionally touch the ground. It was with great relief that Alice soon heard a familiar voice just behind her Panting, you need not fear. Tis I, my dear. Looking back, she saw the poet, whom she had forgotten all about, with his long hair streaming out behind him. A pink riding coat, several sizes too large, which he was now wearing, flapped about his slender legs as he caught up to her with tremendous leaps. Alice was really very glad to see him again. After all, he is a good natured fellow and pleasant company, even if he does always talk in verse. She said to herself, I too have lost my good bell horse. The raven was the cause, of course, said the poet conversationally. Then, noticing the dumpling, which somehow, no matter how fast they went, kept just about the same distance ahead of them, he exclaimed, I say, how lucky. As for me, I'm just as empty as can be. We really must increase our speed, if on yon dumpling we would feed. But there's the sentry box, my dear. And now perhaps the grenadier. Halt. A tremendous voice, coming apparently from the sentry box at the side of the road, boomed out. And the next moment a soldier at least 7ft tall, in a brilliant scarlet and white uniform and very heavy hobnail shoes, stepped stiffly out. He held a musket in one hand and a large pewter tankard in the other. At the thunderous command, Halt. Alice. And the poet stopped short, for the huge grenadier was really a terrifying person. The dumpling, however, paid no attention, but. But bounced past the sentry box without any slackening of its speed. Alice now noticed for the first time that the dumpling was provided with short arms and legs and was not really rolling, but was progressing by turning handsprings in rapid succession. The grenadier scowled at it in stupid surprise and again bawled out, halt. This time so loud that the tin sentry box rocked and clattered. Then, to Alice's astonishment, he laid his musket on the ground and balanced himself clumsily upon his head. Taking his musket again and placing it upside down to his shoulder, he now aimed long and carefully at the fast disappearing dumpling. While the grenadier was doing this, the poet said to Alice in a rapid he shows by his actions he knows how to shoot. His idea's original, clever and cute. A musket will kick, as you probably know, one's often knocked over, so hard is the blow, one's neck is as likely as not to be broke. He's wise then to stand on his head, I repeat, for when the gun kicks, he'll be knocked to his feet. Moreover, here was a deafening explosion, and from the grenadier's musket came a great puff of white smoke. Smoke which, instead of quickly blowing away as smoke usually does, kept spreading and spreading and getting thicker and whiter and thicker and whiter until finally it blocked out the sentry box and the fallen trees and the road. Chapter 6.

[Rich Keeble (Narrator, Chapter 7)]

Chapter seven of the New Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Rich Keeble the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 7 the Somersault Sally why, it isn't smoke at all any more. Exclaimed Alice. It's more like clouds. And we're flying again. And sure enough, she and the poet were flying through a sky full of billowy white clouds as soft and inviting as feather beds.

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[Rich Keeble (Narrator, Chapter 7)]

The kitten had disappeared. Couldn't we stop and rest for a while on one of these comfortable looking clouds? Suggested Alice. Perhaps the kitten is coming along behind us and would catch up. The poet replied very earnestly. My child, if I may be allowed, please never rest upon a cloud whatever else you do. You might while lying there, fall fast asleep, you see, and as time passed, your couch might break in two. Or as your cloud went sailing by, some mountain top or spire high might bump you black and blue. Or say you slumbered softly there, rocked by the west wind, I declare a weather vane. Look, do. The poet pointed excitedly ahead to where a picturesque ship weather vane had just appeared above the slowly settling clouds. It's exactly like the one on the big old house at the turn of the river near Godstow. Exclaimed Alice. The clouds, which during the last few minutes had been flattening out and settling, had changed by now to a rather milky looking sea through which the weather vane ship seemed to be sailing. Alice. As they neared, the vessel was surprised at her size and completeness. Why, I do believe it's a real ship. She cried. And what's that name on the stern? Well, Chuckled the poet, may I be Pursued by the pump in the alley. If that's not the crazy old Somersault Sally. When they arrived on the sloping deck of the antiquated Somersault Sally, the first thing Alice noticed was a number of enormous white rats in sailor suits busily engaged in coiling up cordage. Perhaps, she said to herself, those ropes are the rat lines. But why, she asked the poet, should anyone want rats for sailors? The poet considered a moment, and then rats always leave a sinking ship, you see, so I suppose the captain takes em every trip for while they're round. He knows. Here. A rumbling voice from the forward part of the ship reached their ears and the poet cut short his explanation of the rat sailors to say, ah, there's good Captain Ti Wee now just hear him singing in the bow. Looking in the direction whence the sound came, Alice saw a tiny man hardly more than 2ft high, dressed in a very exaggerated nautical costume. He was doing a curious sort of a revolving sailor dance and singing in a voice that might have belonged to a giant the following song oh never, never leave, my lads, your happy happy home, your parents hearts twill grieve, my lads, if oft to see you roam. Then listen too polite, my lads. This ballad hark ye well for sure as black is white, my lads, it is the truth I tell young Percival, Old Pink, my lads, he ran away to sea. Although you'd never think, my lads, a thing like that could be. For Percy's home, you know, my lads was fine as one could wish so why then should he go, my lads, to fly face the flying fish? Pink's parrot sang, they say, my lads, the Battle of the Ford 500 times a day, my lads. And Percy he was bored. His mother most went mad, my lads, when Perce could not be found. She says, says she, he went to sea and surely will be drowned. His father Peter Pink, my lad, says, Dry your hyese my dear, for looky peg, his wooden leg will fly, float him never fare. She sobbed afresh and said, my lads, when hof to sea he chased that wooden limb. Oh woe is him, he left it in his haste, says Pete, Your tears you waste, my love. His haste with him must be so, if it's in his ace, my love, he's got it, don't you see? Then do the captain's jig, my lads, and keel and double all and lower away the gig, my lads, and catch me if I fall. The diminutive captain's whirling, bounding dance had been growing more and more energetic as the song proceeded, and with the last words, which were panted rather than sung, he bounced right into Alice, who, to keep him from falling, caught him in her arms, where for a while he lay gasping like a fish out of water. When Captain Ti wee had recovered his breath, Alice placed him carefully on the deck, thinking as she did so, he looks just like a live sailor doll. The tiny fellow still seemed a trifle dizzy and uncertain, but after a moment he remarked casually, last time it was the snipe caught me. Oh, is the snipe on board? Cried Alice. I was afraid he might have been caught and put inerthat is here. She broke off, for it occurred to her that it might be just as well to say nothing about the pipe and the setting of fire of the king's haystack. Oh, yes, he was caught. Thundered the captain, who had now entirely recovered his voice. He was caught all right enough, missy, but they lets him out on bail, though I'd about as lief go to the dungeons as had to ride around on that there lubberly beast. They're looking for his accomplice now, he went on very seriously, but with a mischievous wink at the poet, some say, as how he was seen at the time the haystack caught fire with a little girl with lightish hair. About your age he was, missy, I should judge here. The captain looked hard at Alice, then raised his eyebrows and slowly winked at the poet. They ought to be back soon, he said reflectively. After a moment Alice, who was beginning to feel a little anxious, was about to ask whom he meant by they, when the ship, which had been rolling and pitching only moderately, gave a more decided lurch than usual, and the poor captain tumbled over flat on his back. Alice and the poet had barely picked him up and set him on his feet when again he tumbled, now falling forward on his nose. As they helped him to rise, he muttered, if only I hadn't lost that key, I'd not be fooling about. So then, after a vain search through all his pockets, he that confounded snipes probably carried it off for a joke. Souse him in bilge water. Like as not, he's a usein of it now for a sinker, please. What key are you talking about, and what can it possibly have to do with your falling down so much? Asked Alice with some impatience. Why, the key to my sea chest, of course, child, roared the captain. That's where I keep my sea legs, he added in quieter explanation. The feet on em, you know, are werry much larger than land feet and the knees have springs in em that pulls you up straight whenever you starts to fall. As if to illustrate this point, Captain Ti Wee bent his knees and began to sway back and forth, and the somersault sally pitching. Just then, unexpectedly, down he went once more, this time rolling over and over along the deck toward an open hatchway. Just as he reached it, a man, evidently a cook, appeared, coming up through the opening carrying a very large full soup tureen, and into this with a great splash fell the poor little captain. Evidently the soup was not very hot, for the cook unconcernedly fished the sputtering captain out and set him dripping on his feet, merely saying respectfully as he peered anxiously into the taurine, I'm wery much afraid as how most of it's spilled, sir, here. The cook glanced meaningly at Alice and the poet and shook his head in a discouraged sort of way, as if to say, this sort of thing happens almost every day, you know, and it's probably ruined my watch, joked the captain mournfully, pulling from a pocket in his blouse a short length of foot fish line and a very curious object which looked more like a large brass peg top than a watch, though Alice saw that there was a row of numerals painted around it up near the peg. You may look at it if you like, missy, the captain added, handing the strange watch and the fishing line to Alice. She had started to mop him off with her small handkerchief and was having a very discouraging time of it. It's my self winding port watch, he went on proudly. You see, I wind it myself. I suppose you have to spin it with a fish line like a boy's top, said Alice, smiling at the captain's last remark. That's the beauty of it, missy, that's the beauty of it. Cried the captain enthusiastically. You see, this here watch only goes while you're a spinning of it, and while it's a spinning you naturally can't tell time by it, missy. Cause why? Cause you can't see the numbers on it then, nohow. Well, said Alice doubtfully, I shouldn't call that a very satisfactory kind of timepiece. A very good one, I should say. To lose a train by any way, put in the poet with a grin. Best kind I calls it, said the captain very positively. Never a prodding of you by reminding you it's getting late for something or other. Leaves all that to your own good judgment. Light. He had been clumsily winding the fishing line about the watch as he spoke, and now drew back his arm to spin it. In so doing, he jostled the cook who during the conversation had been standing behind him thoughtfully drinking up what was left of the soup. The taurine dropped from the cook's hands, but instead of breaking into a thousand pieces on the deck, as might have been expected, it bounced like a large rubber ball. Alice, who had been sitting on the ship's low rail, reached out wildly in an attempt to catch the taurine as it bounced over the side end of chapter seven recording by Rich Keeble www.richkeble.com

[Lady Luck]

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[SC Kaplan (Narrator, Chapter 8)]

Chapter 8 of the New Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 8 Buttermilk Channel Milkman, milkman, where have you been in Buttermilk Channel up to my chin. I spilled my milk. I spoiled my clothes and got a long icicle hung to my nose. The next thing Alice knew, she she was floundering about in a sea of buttermilk. The buttermilk, curiously enough, did not seem to wet or chill her, though, as she discovered later, it was deliciously cool to drink. When she had recovered her wits sufficiently to look about her, Alice saw that the somersault Sally was already some distance away and plunging along at a great speed, she could just make out the familiar figure of the poet leaning far out over the rail, waving his hand. And carried on the breeze came the words, so sorry that you had to leave. Goodbye. Give my regards to Steve. The next moment the ship had disappeared in a bank of fog. After swimming about aimlessly for a time, Alice found to her surprise that she could touch bottom with her feet and still keep her head and shoulders above the surface. This, of course, was a great relief, but it was very tedious just standing about in this way with nothing in sight but buttermilk and not a soul to converse with. So after a while Alice began talking aloud to herself, as she usually did when all Alone. Well, of all the uninteresting lonesome situations, this is the very worst. I do wish someone would come, and I wonder who Steve is, she continued after a moment or two, remembering the poet's farewell words. I dare say I shall meet him before long, anyway. Wery probably, miss. Wery probably. Cause long can't be found nowhere, said a melancholy voice startlingly close behind her. Alice turned in such haste that she lost her footing on the slippery bottom and went under. When she came up again, sputtering, the little girl saw this rather curious sight, a large dented milk can balanced on the head of a very sad face, undersized man who was standing almost up to his neck in the buttermilk. A long icicle hanging from the end of his nose helped to make his expression almost ludicrously woebegone and ots more. He was now continuing dolefully, apparently not having taken the slightest notice of Alice's mishap. I'm Stevesteve, for short. That is Stephen. Short's me ole name, Miss. Longy was my pardner, and that, as you might say, is the long and short of it. But as I was sayin afore, he hasn't been seen for days, miss. How did he happen to get lost? Asked Alice, feeling that it was time for her to make some sort of remark. It's a sad story, a most distressin story, that it is. Here the milkman's voice almost broke. Ye see, miss, my pardner long were an oncomin tall man, a regular giant he were, an hunfortunately his eyesight were wery poor, an it's probable that he is gettin worse an in beIN so tall he finally got so as he couldn't see no further than his knees, miss, an his feet. They took him hup the wrong road somewheres. Leastways, that's my opinion. How very unfortunate, was all Alice could think to say in consolation. And the milkman, after sighing deeply, went, that ain't my wust trouble, miss. Not by no means, mooly geezer. That's my cow. She went plumb crazy, miss, what with jumpin hover the moon, an I can't never ketch her no more at milkin time, so I as to keep goats now here he choked back a sob. And sell buttermilk. I never knew that goats gave buttermilk, said Alice, rather timidly. My goats, you see, miss, are all butters, groaned the milkman, so dismally that Alice hastened to change the subject. Please, she inquired why do you carry that big milk can balanced on your head? It must be very tiring. Well, miss, answered the milkman thoughtfully, there's several reasons. It makes me look a bit taller, for one thing, and then too it protects my head where the air's getting scarce, as you might say. I lost my at, miss, an when I hups, it slips off in the iceberg an I'll probably never set eyes on that at again. Here the poor milkman began to weep openly, most of the tears running down his long nose and thence down the icicle which hung from the end of it. I suppose, thought Alice, who always liked to find good reasons for everything, that's how the icicle was formed. It must have been the freezing cold on that iceberg, and every time he cried the tears ran down his nose and froze. The milkman continued sobbing quietly, only stopping now and then to say in a choking voice, it's all been wery depressing for me. Wery depressing indeed. Alice racked her brain to discover some way to divert his mind from his many troubles, and finally, unable to think of any consoling or amusing remarks of her own, she decided in desperation to simply recite the first thing that came into her head. This happened to be down by the river. It went along quite correctly for a line or two, but changed very queerly after that, and this was the result. I was walking by the river one spring morning long ago, and the reeds were all a quiver. They're such nervous things, you know. I had paused a while to listen to the singing of the stream, when a voice said, now it isn't my desire to make you scream or alarm you, ma' am unduly, but if I were you, I'd run, for you're in great danger, truly, and you haven't got a gun. This surprising voice of warning came, I noticed, from a bird on a tree top just this morning. It continued, I have heard a voracious tigerilla growling round this very tree. My advice is seek your villa. Why, from here I plainly see seven frying panthers stealthily coming hot upon your trail. And you know they're most unhealthy, lest you catch em by the tail. So you see, you'd better scramble, though there's hardly any hope for approaching at an amble comes an elephantalope. These were words to make one worry. I stood shivering with dread and was just about to scurry when a catfish calmly said, nothing's coming to pursue you, ma'.

[Lady Luck]

Am.

[SC Kaplan (Narrator, Chapter 8)]

Don't you believe a word for that Fellow talking to you is the far famed lyre bird. Although Alice's verse did not seem to have had a very noticeably cheering effect on the milkman, he had at any rate ceased sobbing, and the tears were no longer running off the end of his nose. Medium, good medium, he murmured gloomily after quite a long pause. But just listen to these here worses, he added more brightly, and drew a sogging dripping sheet of familiar crimson paper from his breast pocket. The tide was evidently ebbing, for the second button of the milkman's coat was now visible. The poety wrote it special for me to pay my milk bill, you see, missy. Oh, do you know the poet too? Interrupted Alice. He's really quite a friend of mine. It somehow seemed to her that she had known the poet for a very long time. I knowed him last week, miss, but my gallons e has that many disguises that you can't always rightly tell. Oo's im as you might say. I knows im when e's a scarecrow and I knows Im when e's a wheel and a pie. And they do say he's wonderful. Convincing as a signpost, he added earnestly, handing Alice the dripping sheet. He had been clumsily attempting to dry it by rubbing it with his coat sleeve, which was, if possible possible, even wetter than the paper. You'd better read it to yourself, Ms. Hafter all, he said huskily. You see, it's really too hafectin to me. Not only for its own sake, as you might say, but for the sake o the six bob he never paid me. Fearing that the milkman would burst into tears again, Alice took the sheet. She could just manage to make out the blurred writing, and this is what she read. Yearnings for years and years I've peddled milk from Trent to Timbuctoo and also cream Though twas my dream Far different things to do, Far different things to do to do Far finer things to do. For instance, I should like to drive around and round the square A pink and purple omnibus. How people all would stare or think how pleasant it would be to stand for hours and hours upon some snow capped mountain peak A selling paper flowers then one might fish for griddle cakes each night twixt twelve and two I sob and sigh to think that I so many things don't do. I'd take soft soap and sea shore sand and mix em up with tea and of them make a cobble cake to sell at 1 and 3. My sweetest dream of all is this I love a Change of scene at the North Pole to dig a hole and plant a lima bean. And plant a lima bean. A bean. A lovely lima bean. While she was reading, Alice had noticed that the buttermilk they were standing in was gradually thinning and changing to clear water. She was just about to call the milkman's attention to this when she suddenly heard the sharp rub, a dub dubbing of a drum behind her. Looking in the direction from whence the sound came, Alice beheld a most amusing spectacle. A stiff breeze had sprung up and a huge tub was approaching, spinning round and round and bobbing up and down on the choppy waves. In the tub were three men, a butcher and a baker, easily recognizable by their dress, and a third occupant, whom Alice, because of his very insignificant size, did not notice at first. The baker had tried to rig up a sale by tying his apron to a long French loaf and was making desperate efforts to brace the strange mast with his knees and hold the flapping ends of the apron at the same time. At his wild contortions, even the melancholy milkman smiled feebly. The butcher, his face purple with exertion, was paddling as best he could with a large meat cleaver. The only result of this was, of course, to keep the tub spinning faster and faster and make the work of holding up the mast all the harder for the poor baker. As the strange craft drew nearer, Alice saw a tiny fellow, even smaller than Captain Ti Wee, standing in it, furiously busy beating a drum almost as big as himself. He was apparently wholly oblivious to his surroundings. I've never seen as many dwarfish people as there are in this queer country, thought Alice. Perhaps it's because the artist wasn't as careful as he should have been in drawing some of them. So intent were the occupants of the tub upon what they were doing that Alice and her companion attracted no notice at all from them, until a shrill whistle and a surprisingly loud milk o from the milkman caused them to cease their frantic efforts. Lard pork. Shouted the butcher after a moment's panting pause. And then, steering with his cleaver, he brought the spinning craft about so sharply that it bumped heavily into the poor milkman, knocking the milk can off his head. The COVID of the can came off and the milk spilled into the tub, knocking over and nearly drowning the little man with the big drum. Oh, dear. We beg your pardon, began Alice, for somehow or other she felt responsible for the mishap. We really didn't mean. She was interrupted in her apologies by a loud, joyful shout of dinner time from the baker, who was already breaking up the long French loaf he had been using as a master, and throwing the pieces into the milk, which was swashing about in the now almost submerged tub. End of Chapter 8 recording by SC Kaplan.

[Amy Ball (Narrator, Chapter 9)]

Chapter nine of the New Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Amy Ball the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 9 Alice soon found herself sitting on the edge of the tub with the others, who were all now eating in ravenous silence. On one side of her sat the milkman, who was having a very hard time to keep his own equilibrium on the unstable seat, and at the same time balanced the now empty can which he had again placed on his head, and on the other side sat the tiny fellow with the drum, which he was now using with great success as a bowl for the bread and milk. Having this advantage over the others who were forced to scoop it up with their hands, he finished his meal first. Poor Alice, on the other hand, although very hungry, had been unable to get any of the food, for every time she reached down to scoop it up she nearly lost her balance, and besides, the tub seemed always to roll in such a way that as to keep the bread and milk just out of her reach. So after a while she gave up the attempt altogether and turned to look at the dwarfish being beside her. Alice now noticed for the first time that he wore a curious shiny yellow hat exactly like a small brass candle holder, on top of which was a short stub of candle. From an inside pocket of his long tightly buttoned yellow duster, he now drew forth a large card with a deep breath. Black border Joe Smith 36 +4 -7 m m candlesticks executed and repaired. This card he handed to Alice with quite a flourish. Why, she exclaimed, I thought you were a drummer. Although, she added, I might have known that the candlestick maker went about with the butcher and the baker. You see, said the little man with really quite a high society air, as Alice said afterward, and candlestick making is nice light work for one of my size. I'm a trifle small, as you may possibly have noticed, my dear. The butcher and baker are old neighbors of mine, he went on, and we always take our vacations together. As to the drum, I learned to play to please Pansy. Pansy is very musical. Oh, very musical indeed. And pointing to the letters MM after his name on the card, Alice was holding, he continued, you see, I'm a married man. Clever abbreviation that. Rather impressive too, and avoids all confusion, eh? But what are the numbers on the card for? And the morning border? Asked Alice, feeling that she ought to show a proper amount of interest.

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[Amy Ball (Narrator, Chapter 9)]

The numbers give my age, beamed the candlestick maker triumphantly. That is, if you're good at figures. 2 and 20 is the answer, I believe if you work it out carefully, I make it three and 30, Alice ventured rather timidly, for nothing seemed really dependable any more, not even the rules of arithmetic. Possibly you're right, my dear, possibly you're right, answered the candlestick maker hastily. You know yourself how time flies, eh? Then after a moment's pause, he added solemnly, the morning band is for the candlesticks I have to execute. I never did like that part of the business. Why once. But do let's talk of something else, my dear. That's not at all a cheerful subject for an after dinner conversation. I say, are you good at telling stories? There's nothing like a good exciting yarn after dinner, eh? Alice intended to reply that she could think of no really exciting story at the moment, but upon opening her mouth to do so, she was astonished to hear herself reciting with appropriate gestures the following O the fire bell was ringing in the town of Ballyhack, and the village choir was singing Bring, oh, bring my Benny back. Now a simple soothing story is this tale of Shanghaied Ben just perhaps a bit too gory where his ears are clipped. But then there's a fairly happy ending, Though the tune is mostly glum as a rule, it's quite heartrending on the fog horn and the drum, well, the songing and the singing about the bringing back of Ben and the donging and the dinging, and mingled sweetly, so that when the policeman who was taking of his after dinner snooze heard it, he instead of waking dreamed he read the Oxford News during the recital of Alice's verses the Butcher, the Baker, and the Melancholy Milkman who had finally finished eating the last of the bread and milk, had all been yawning audibly, which was of course very rude under the circumstances, and seemed to be having an increasingly difficult time to keep awake and and to preserve their balance on the rim of the tub. Just as she came to the last word, they all tumbled overboard very neatly and quietly and floated off, bobbing up and down like corks on the green water, all three snoring in perfect unison. They do it precisely as though they had practiced it together a great many times, thought Alice. The little candlestick maker held his sides and rocked back and forth so alarmingly that Alice feared he too would fall overboard. It was either that part about the after dinner snooze or the last line about reading the Oxford News that finished em, he managed to say when he could control his shrill laughter. It was very unmannerly of them at any rate, said Alice, but shouldn't we try to get them aboard again? She felt vaguely that something ought to be done, though as a matter of fact all three of the floating sleepers looked perfectly comfortable and happy where they were. I make it a rule, said the candlestick maker seriously, never to disturb a man when he's taking his after dinner nap. He's apt to wake up very cross. Besides, it'll help their digestions to sleep a bit. And speaking of digestions, he rattled on, reminds me of cheese, and cheese reminds me of cake. Here he reached toward the pocket of his yellow coat. Now what would you say to a piece? Oh, answered Alice in delighted anticipation, I'd say thank you very much. There's nothing I like better, especially pound cake. Well, I'd hardly say all that to a piece of cake I'd never met before, said the candlestick maker reprovingly. However, it doesn't really matter, for I wasn't referring to a piece of cake anyhow, only to a piece of poetry. It's my turn, you know, he added with a chuckle, apparently enjoying his little joke immensely. Alice sat back with a long sigh of resignation. These repeated disappointments in the matter of food were becoming most aggravating. I wonder, she said to herself wistfully, and if I shall ever really get anything to eat again. The candlestick maker now drew from his pocket a folded sheet of yellow paper, which he smoothed out and dusted carefully on both sides with his tiny handkerchief. He then handed it to Alice, remarking with a pleasant smile, perhaps you'd rather read it yourself, eh? It's really most appropriate to this occasion, my dear. Then without Waiting for a reply, he cleared his throat complacently once or twice, and taking the paper out of Alice's hand before she had had time to more than glance at the first line, he read with great satisfaction, A matter of Taste what kind of food do I prefer? My tastes are simple quite I like the pickled chestnut burr and now and then a bite of sugared oleander bark, and in the early spring green cactus gathered after dark on Tuesday is a thing. Some claim that kerosene and sand, though ticklish to the tongue, beats even frozen fritters, and is fine for old and young. A friend of mine once used to make a stew of lizard legs and linseed oil, while jelly cake he'd salt away in kegs. Of course, we can't be all alike in what we choose to chew. A fine puree of railroad spike might not appeal to you, but that reminds me, Uncle Ben, to ask you, what's your choice? What victuals do you call for when your appetite you, voice? Do you demand wild roses, panned, or chocolate coated eels? Unc scratched his head, then slowly said, what I like most is meals. As any reference to food was becoming very painful to Alice, she made no comment on this dodgerell, and in the interval of silence that followed, the candlestick maker, with the injured air of one whose best efforts have been unappreciated, carefully folded the sheet, sealed it with a bright yellow wafer which he had taken from a pocket of his coat, affixed a stamp with elaborate care, and then, taking a stubby pencil from behind his ear, he hastily printed Important Please Rush across the back of the folded paper and threw it into the water. The silence finally became so depressing to Alice that she decided to introduce a new subject for conversation. So, pointing to a large foresail tag which was tied to one of the handles of the tube, she asked very politely, is this boat of yours really for sale, please? Or is that only its name? It may be for sale, answered the candlestick maker without looking up. He was now gloomily trying to shine his wet shoes with the ends of his yellow necktie. It may be for sale, he repeated bitterly, but as it hasn't even a for sale certainly wasn't made for sailing, he seemed quite pleasantly surprised at his own feeble joke, and much to Alice's relief, recovered his good humor immediately and began vigorously beating his flabby little drum, finally placing it on the floor and dancing a bacchy pipes jig upon the drum head. The jarring of this dancing loosened some of the stabs of the tub, and Alice saw that leaks were starting in a dozen places. Do leave off. She cried anxiously. You'll sink us. I'm sure. The candlestick maker stopped his jigging abruptly and, selecting the worst leak, tried to stop it first with his tiny handkerchief and then by lying along the crack through which the water was pouring, pouring in quite a torrent. Of course, this did no good whatever. After trying vainly in several other ridiculous ways to stop the increasing leaks, he finally shouted in a dramatic voice, all hands stand by to man the boats. But there aren't any boats, said Alice, smiling in spite of her anxiety and feeling quite proud of her own calmness. Well, women and children first, anyhow.

[Lady Luck]

Then.

[Amy Ball (Narrator, Chapter 9)]

Cried the candlestick maker, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the excitement of sinking. Alice had prepared herself for the worst. The tub was filling fast and seemed to take the final plunge when, with a very gentle scraping bump, they struck bottom in about eight inches of water. Must be low tide, muttered the candlestick maker in a disappointed voice. Of course, it's all right, I suppose, for the sea to be tidy, but there is such a thing as carrying it too far. I say, just as we were going down so famously, too. Well, said Alice, I'm rather glad we went aground on the whole. But we didn't go aground on any hole, for that can't be done, you know, said the candlestick maker, very positively and impressively, as if stating some surprisingly unusual fact. I meant on the W H O L E. Not on the hole, of course, retorted Alice, somewhat annoyed by the little man's air of superior wisdom. Well, since you're so sure of it, perhaps we had better take a look. At any rate, said the candlestick maker in a conciliatory manner, adding hopefully as he peered over the side, it may be only a half, you know. Alice now saw that in the sparkling clear water were a great many goldfish, who seemed to be having a sort of pursuit race around and round the tub. Besides the goldfish, there were many other aquatic creatures of different sorts and sizes, most of them watching the race. And a little apart from the rest, Alice noticed a group of three or four very brown fried oysters talking earnestly together. Upon catching sight of these, the candlestick maker exclaimed, my eye. But aren't they tanned? They must have lived in the tropics a long time. By the way, you don't happen to have any oyster crackers with you? I suppose we could. He was interrupted by the familiar shrill sound of a postman's whistle. A rather Large Fish was approaching, carrying a leather mail bag. As he drew near, Alice saw that he wore a neat little gray visored cap upon which was lettered neatly Postman. He seemed to be in a great hurry, as postmen usually are. Taking a rather bulky package from his bag, he tossed it to Alice, remarking pleasantly, proper fine day, Miss. Then, touching his cap, he was off. Nothing for me. The candlestick maker called after him, but the postman kept on unheeding and soon disappeared from view. It's high time I was getting an answer, said the little man complainingly. But who do you suppose sent me this? Alice exclaimed, surprised and delighted at receiving this unexpected piece of mail. Probably it's only a note from the stage manager reminding you to be on time for the rehearsal, said the candlestick maker, trying hard to keep the envy out of his voice. Though of course after all this delay, we're frightfully late already. Although she had not the slightest idea what rehearsal her little companion was referring to, Alice did not ask for particulars just then. She was too much occupied with her fascinating mail package. It was a most interesting looking one too, wrapped in oiled silk and tied with a piece of seaweed. Furthermore, the packet was rather heavy for its size and almost completely covered with two penny stamps, except for the small space where Alice M was written in green ink.

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[Amy Ball (Narrator, Chapter 9)]

What does the M stand for? Asked the candlestick maker rather suspiciously. You see, he went on before giving her time to reply, it might mean Alice. Maybe so. Perhaps it's not for you after all. It might even be intended for me. This was a rather disturbing thought, especially as, curiously enough, Alice could not for the life of her at the moment remember her full name. It stands, she said, hesitating uncertainly as she started to open the package. I think it stands for my last name. Your last name, eh? How often do you change your name? I'd like to know. And you can't even be sure what the last one was. I suppose Alice is the name you had before you changed it for this last one that you can't remember. Well, there's something mighty suspicious about it, that's all I can say. Poor Alice was so confused by this rapid and complicated speech that she did not even try to argue about the name, but said weakly, I suppose so, and went on unwrapping her package, which proved to contain a small collapsible telescope and a thin pack of little red cards tied together with a broad white ribbon upon which were printed the letters SCT upon each of the cards was written a single word. Alice read them off just as they happened to come in the little pack. Look. Yours, Ben P. C. Truly Spyglass through that the yule weave and wrecked. No doubt it means something, said Alice half aloud after she had tried many different combinations of the word without success. Maybe it's some sort of a cipher message, said the candlestick maker eagerly. He seemed to have entirely forgotten his suspicions and had been looking through the large end of the pocket telescope with great intentness now at Alice and not out to where the butcher, the baker, and the milkman were just disappearing on the horizon. He now handed the glass to Alice and taking the cards, examined them carefully one by one. Of course that P means that it's a message from the poet. He cried excitedly after a moment or two, and he almost always uses a secret code. Then, taking from his pocket a little yellow covered book, he started rapidly thumbing over the pages of all of which seemed to be covered with row after row of zeros. Here it is. The candlestick maker finally cried delightedly. The SCT on the ribbon means shuffle cards twice. Then, in his excitement, instead of putting the book back in his pocket, he threw it into the water where it was immediately swallowed by a fat, sleepy looking fish labeled librarian. You shuffle him once and then I'll shuffle him once, he suggested eagerly. They did this and the cards then read, look through the spyglass and you'll see that we've been wrecked. Yours truly, P. How exciting. Cried Alice. And what fun that puzzle was. But I do hope none of them was drowned. And then, shutting one eye, she raised the spyglass to the other. Alice found to her astonishment that she was not looking through a telescope at all, but was standing in a dark, narrow railroad tunnel. The opening at the end of the tunnel seemed miles ahead, and yet as Alice looked at the circle of light, she began to see what looked at first like a rather blurry magic lantern picture of a storm at sea. As the picture grew clearer, she made out in the foreground a number of rats swimming through the waves in Two very straight lines, like soldiers, with one especially large rat, who seemed to be a sort of colonel, in the lead. A little behind these came the poet, the cook, and the captain, apparently engaged in an animated conversation. Back of this group were the butcher, the baker, and the milkman, all three still sleeping heavily. Bringing up the rear of this curious procession was a tremendous turtle, floundering doggedly along. Alice laughed heartily at the strangely ridiculous picture. If only they had a fife and drum, it would be a regular aquatic parade. She chuckled. I'm sure I wish. She was interrupted at this point by the scraping splutter of a match just back of her, and turning, saw that it was the candlestick maker, whom of course she had not noticed in the darkness of the tunnel. He was lighting the short candle on top of his hat. This done, he drew from his pocket, which seemed to be inexhaustible, a small fife, and handing it to Alice, remarked, not bad, that idea of yours about the fife and drum music, my dear. Fancy what a tremendous beautiful noise it'll make in this tunnel, too. He went on enthusiastically. We might try Soldiers of the Queen first, eh? Now, Alice had never before even tried to play a fife, so she was more than a little surprised to find, upon attempting it very doubtfully, that she could play with considerable ease and flourish. The candlestick maker adjusted his drum, and they marched along up the track, the tunnel reverberating with the din of their fifing and drumming. Alice was so occupied with her delightful new found accomplishment that for a time she forgot the strange procession of swimmers. And when, after finishing Soldiers of the Queen, she looked for it again, it had changed to merely a blank spot of bright light, such as one always sees at the end of a tunnel. They were about to start on another lively tune when the candlestick maker, pointing excitedly, shouted, here's luck. And the dim light thrown by the candle revealed a small hand carried, standing motionless just ahead of them on the track. It proved to be beautifully finished in mahogany and gold, with soft blue cushions upon the little platform. How jolly. Exclaimed Alice. The child had always longed to ride on one of these cunning little cars. And running forward, she scrambled aboard, and then, after helping her tiny companion up to the platform beside her, started to work the propelling handles up and down. Away they went, very slowly at first, but steadily gaining momentum, until they were finally going at a very respectable speed. Speed, though strangely enough, this did not seem to get them any nearer the mouth of the tunnel. The candlestick maker, who was of course too small to help much with the handles was enjoying the ride immensely. He kept saying complacently over and over, if Pansy could see me now, eh? If she only could. Ever since they had finished playing Soldiers of the Queen, Alice had heard a muffled sound of low rumbling and whistling, which she had at first supposed to be merely the re echoing of of their drumming and fifing in the narrow tunnel. But instead of diminishing, it was now growing louder and louder and beginning to resemble, more and more alarmingly, the sound of a railroad engine. Looking back over her shoulder, Alice saw to her dismay that it was an engine, still some distance behind them, to be sure, but gaining fast. She redoubled her efforts, working the propelling handles up and down frantically in her terror, and the handcar fairly flew along the track, their speed being now just about that of the engine. The distance between them remained for a while undiminished. Perhaps we won't have a collision after all. Alice shouted pantingly. The din in the tunnel was now terrific. I'm afraid not. Shrieked the candlestick maker in reply. He seemed to be deriving even more pleasure from this form of dangerous adventure than he had from the threatened sinking of the tub. And in spite of her anxiety and exertions, Alice could not help smiling a little when he extracted from his wonderful pocket a large onion, a baby's nursing bottle, the kind with a long rubber tube, and a dictionary, and hurled them one after another at the approaching railroad engine. This seemed to afford the little man huge enjoyment. As he threw the dictionary, he panted happily, if that ever strikes between the ears, it'll do the work. It's just full of heavy words. Always ready to argue. And feeling, besides that a little conversation might stiffen her courage a bit, Alice shouted, but engines haven't any ears, you know.

[Alice (Narrator)]

What?

[Amy Ball (Narrator, Chapter 9)]

Shrieked the candlestick maker. Do you mean to say you never saw an engineer? And then, completely overcome with appreciation of his own little joke, he rolled about on the platform of the swaying handcar, holding his sides and fairly choking with merriment, his drum breaking from its strap as he rolled about, went bouncing off onto the track in front of the oncoming engine. The candle went out and boom. There was a terrific explosion, and the car, with Alice clinging desperately to it, shot out of the dark tunnel into brilliant sunlight. End of Chapter nine.

[Narrator/Storyteller]

Chapter 10 of the new Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Greg Giordano the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 10 Iceberg the speed at which they went tearing along was at first so great Alice could make out nothing but a blur of dazzling light. The handcar soon slowed down, however, and she saw that they were approaching a neat little station at the end of a long dock which ran out into the ocean. The waves were running very high, although the sun was shining brightly, and the tiny station, which was built entirely of ice blocks, was dripping with sparkling spray from the breakers. The name of the station, Iceberg, was lettered on a board which hung from the icicle fringed eaves. Alice felt much relieved when the handcar came to a gentle stop at the station platform, for she had noticed that the traffic track just beyond simply ran off the end of the dock and down into the water. She lighted hastily, and then, remembering the candlestick maker, whom she'd entirely forgotten in the excitement of the last few minutes, she turned to help him off. He had vanished, leaving only his curious hat behind. Alice now saw the hat was in fact simply an average sized brass candlestick of this sort. Saying to herself, I'll just keep this as a memento, she picked it up and was just starting for the door of the station when a bell jangled loudly and a voice cried, all aboard. And the handcar, starting with a jerk, ran down the few remaining yards of track into the sea and disappeared. Well, of all the strange railroads. Alice began, but just then she caught sight of a very white face with large coal black eyes, a pointed red nose, and a scrubby stiff go goatee. It was staring at her from a small window in the station. For a moment Alice was really frightened at this strange apparition, but it suddenly occurred to her that of course this was only a snowman and that carroty red nose was a carrot, the black lumps of coal and the goatee a worn out paintbrush. And he really has a very kindly expression in spite of his unusual features, thought the little girl. It somehow did not surprise her much now to hear him ask pleasantly, any baggage miss his paintbrush goatee wagging stiffly as he spoke.

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[Narrator/Storyteller]

Nothing but this, answered Alice, holding up the candlestick and noting as she did so that the candle was again burning. The sight of the candle apparently made the snowman quite nervous, for he said rather shakily, you might just blow that out, miss, if you don't mind. I can't abide a flame of any sort, not since my brother almost died of a bonfire. Alice blew out the candle, and the snowman, who seemed greatly relieved, continued politely, just leave your bundle in the baggage room if you like. He pointed out the very short, fat arm to a large, clumsily wrapped package, which Alice had certainly not seen before, standing just beside her on the platform. She was about to tell the station agent, for that was what the snowman evidently was that it did not belong to her, when she noticed, tied to the bundle, a large tag upon which was printed in bold letters, yours. But. Said Alice to herself, but half aloud, really hoping that the interesting package might prove to belong to her, how do I know that the tag doesn't mean that it belongs to the snowman? The snowman heard her question. Why, miss, he said slowly, like a good natured teacher patiently explaining something to a stupid child, you see, if it were mine, it would be marked mine. But as it isn't marked mine, why then of course it isn't mine. But if, on the other hand, it it were yours, miss, then it would be marked yours. And as it is marked yours, why then of course it is yours and not mine. Or to put it another way, he went on triumphantly, after taking a breath, if it were not yours. Here he stopped, for Alice was no longer listening, but was already unwrapping the bundle, for like most of us, she was always easily convinced of what she wanted to believe. First came several layers of newspapers, most of them the Gloucester Gazette and the Norwich News, then straw tied round and round with a heavy cord like the winter covering for a rose bush. Next came a ragged old quilt decorated with a design of cabbage like scarlet flowers. As the air was now very chilly in spite of the bright sunshine, Alice stopped to drape this quilt about her shoulders like a sort of cape. She then removed the remaining wrappings from from the bundle, consisting of a fish net and several more newspapers, those being mostly Bunbury Bugles. Well, of all preposterous things. Exclaimed Alice as she finally pulled off the last of the papers, for after all her trouble in undoing the great package, its contents proved to be only a rickety old bottomless bird cage upon the little padlock door of which on the card bearing the words Gone for the Day. The snowman, his head and shoulders craned as far as possible out of the station window, had been watching with great interest the unwrapping of the mysterious bundle, and he now exclaimed with a chuckle which nearly dislodged his paint brush goatee. Very interesting luggage, miss, and also very instructive. However, he added more seriously, you might just hang it on that hook by the door there. Alice was about to throw the battered cage into the sea. You never can tell when that sort of thing will come in handy, miss. You might be able to use that card on it someday when you go off for a vacation, suggested Alice, smiling in spite of her disappointment at the idea of a bottomless birdcage like this one ever coming in handy. I'm afraid I'll never be going on a vacation, miss, said the snowman sadly. You see, whoever it was made me he didn't give me any legs to speak of, though I don't complain, as very few snowmen has em. And furthermore, miss, it saves me lots of steps. I'm what you might call, he went on more brightly, a stationary station agent. Or perhaps at this juncture Alice heard a sound of joyful squeaking and shrill cheering at the end of the dock, and, turning, saw that the handcar had emerged from the water and was coming back toward the station. It was swarming with the sailor rats, who were waving their dripping caps and generally behaving like a crowd of schoolboys off for a vacation. The car did not stop at the station, but kept on at steadily increasing speed, and the shrill cry soon died away in the distance. Those must be the sailors from the Somersault Sally. Except. Exclaimed Alice, remembering the dissolving magic lantern view she had seen in the tunnel, and the others must be close behind. I'm sure rats are always the first to leave a sinking ship. At least so the poet says. It's just as well those sailors didn't stop off here, said the snowman decidedly. Always a rough, noisy lot, miss, and like as not, they'd have stolen the station sign. And why here are the others. Cried Alice. While the snowman was speaking, she had spied four familiar heads on the crest of an oncoming wave. The wave broke, depositing the poet, Captain Ti Wee, the cook, and the milkman in a neat row at the extreme end of the dock. The milkman, after looking sadly about in a bewildered way for a moment or two, apparently, but half awakened by the slight shock of landing, settled back against a convenient post, closed his melancholy eyes, and and started snoring at once. The others rose unconcernedly to their feet and shook themselves like three water spaniels. And Alice now heard the cook, who seemed to be continuing an interrupted conversation, and what I says is, it's a good riddance to em if them two lubbers and that old shell back wanted to sail with that. Now eat it softly, Captain Shaftu. Why shouldn't they? I says, and wery good too right you are, matey, roared Captain Ti wee so heartily that several icicles fell jingling from the station. E the poet who had just caught sight of Alice showed no surprise whatsoever. He merely smiled pleasantly, as if he had naturally expected her to be there, and remarked casually, jerking his thumb at his companions, they refer to the Butcher, the Baker, and Turtle who were taken aboard the Meandering Myrtle. But I don't remember seeing a turtle aboard the Somersault. Sally, said Alice, where did he come from? The waves ran so high, you see, our ship turned turtle. Pardon me if I now leave you for a while to give my new disguise a trial. Thus saying, the poet stepped into the little station from the door of which, after but a few moments hopped a very large black and white penguin. Startled by this sudden transformation, Alice took a step backward and, tripping over the trailing end of the bed quilt which she had had wrapped about her, fell flat. The penguin helped her up clumsily, remarking as he did so, there's no need to feel such a shock of alarm. I'm only that poet will do you no harm. When Alice got to her feet again, the snowman, Captain Ti Wee, the cook, and the sleeping milkman were gone, though she was quite sure she still heard muffled snoring. The station itself had disappeared too, and she and the ridiculously discreet disguised poet were standing on what seemed at first to be the flat icy roof of a high tower of some sort, the end of a ladder, it looked just like the railroad track stood up on end, thought Alice, showed above a low parapet which bordered the roof. The snoring soon changed to a sound like that of surf. Far below them, and peering over the parapet, Alice saw to her astonishment and dismay, that they were on the very highest pinnacle of a tremendous iceberg. Owing to a heavy fog which surrounded the base of the iceberg, it was impossible to see what the latter led to. It probably rests on the bottom of the sea, and I'm sure I should never dare to climb down. Anyway, thought Alice miserably Adding half aloud, oh dear, I wish I had never come. Then it occurred to her that she had nothing to do with coming. In fact, she had not come at all. This was a very confusing thought. She felt, though, that the poet was somehow or other to blame for their predicament. So turning to him, she said, whatever shall we do? Patting her shoulder with one of his ridiculous flipper like wings, the poet answered reassuringly, don't fret yourself. Be calm, my dear. I'm really rather glad we're here. An iceberg safe if gales don't rise. And how it suits my new disguise. Still, if you're feeling timid, well, you just might try your fire bell. My fire bell? I haven't any fire bell and you know it, said Alice crossly, for she felt that the poet had chosen a very poor time for teasing her. Then what's that hanging from a chain about your neck? A bell, it's plain, retorted the poet rather impatiently. Alice looked and saw that there was a tiny bell about the size of a thimble, hanging from a very fine chain about her neck. But how it got there she couldn't possibly imagine. If that's a fire bell, it must be a very young one, she said, smiling, and her satisfaction at having made this amusing conjecture quite restored her usual good humor. Curious to see what sort of a tinkle such a diminutive bell would make, Alice gently shook the chain. Instantly a deafening crashing clangor filled the air. Frightening the poor child. Nearly out of her senses, she hastily dropped the little bell, and after one last tremendous echoing peal, the ringing stopped. The poet, who seemed to be shaking under his disguise with suppressed laughter, now remarked very gravely, well, what a voice for one so young. I thought at first Big Ben had rung, and after a moment's pause he the firemen should soon be here to rescue you. But look, my dear, a snowstorm starting. Really, though, it looks to me like paper snow. And sure enough, the air was soon full of little curled up strips of paper, such as come inside of snapper mottoes. Oh. Cried Alice excitedly, I do hope they have proverbs on them. It will be such fun. She picked up several of the paper snowflakes and straightening one out, found the following rather disappointing line printed in small red letters, the penguin is mightier than the swordfish. She handed it to the poet, saying doubtfully, perhaps this one was meant especially for you.

[Robin King (Narrator, Chapter 15)]

You.

[Narrator/Storyteller]

Then, half to herself, it sounds familiar, but that isn't quite the usual wording, I'm sure. The poet took the slip and after reading it aloud several times, very thoughtfully and slowly, he said with great complacency, a very proper proverb, that, and how twill irritate old Sprat. He takes the swordfish part, you see, your Aunt Crusader. As for me, perhaps you know me, my dear, that I am the hero. In the pantomime. Alice recollected that the candlestick maker had said something about being late to a rehearsal of some sort, and she wondered if it were this pantomime that he had referred to. She was too much interested in the snowflake mottoes, however, to ask about it. Just then, unrolling another of the slips, she read aloud, honey makes the hair grow. Of course, that's just not nonsense, she said impatiently. Though come to think, I have heard a proverb, something like it. Money makes the mare go. I believe it was well, said her companion judiciously. Perhaps that other too is true, Although the wording's tricky. For honey in the comb, you know, would make the hair grow sticky.

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[Narrator/Storyteller]

Perhaps you can tell what this one means too, said Alice, smiling at the ingenious explanation of the other. Don't count your chickens before you put all your eggs in one basket. After a moment's reflection, the poet replied, in counting chickens, don't you see there's apt to be some slip? That is, if on arithmetic you've not the firmest grip. And if you slip, why, like as not upon your eggs you fall. And if those eggs are in one lot, it's plain you'll break them all. Alice was growing very much interested in this game of explanations. It's my turn. She now exclaimed, and here's one that I can almost understand myself. It says, it's never too straight to bend, and I dare say that means. She was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a hidden head and shoulders above the edge of the parapet, and the next moment a stocky fellow, unmistakably a fireman, stepped from the ladder and stood before them, panting. His shirt was the brightest crimson Alice had ever seen, and he wore A big tin fire hat, the brim of which extended like a wide shovel at the back. Hanging from his belt was a small pickaxe, a brass fire trumpet, and a leather bucket about half half full of water. Two of em to save, the fireman muttered complainingly when he had recovered his breath, two of em and me on a holiday. Then, taking the bucket from his belt in a businesslike way, he dashed the water over the poet, saying mournfully as he did so, not even enough water for one. I'm glad of that, thought Alice. The poet doesn't seem to much mind being soaked. The poet, who apparently had hardly noticed the unexpected bath, was saying cheerfully, don't bother about me, I'll flap down to the ground. Help her, old chap. Then, holding up the bottomless birdcage, he went on my helmet for the pantomime. So glad I thought of it in time. He certainly didn't have that cage a moment ago, thought Alice confusedly. I didn't know that old thing was yours, she started to say, but the poet, in his awkward penguin disguise, had hopped to the parapet, and now, after a few preliminary flappings of his unwieldy wings, flew heavily away. He left the birdcage behind, and the fireman, picking it up, hurled it after him with a loud shout of heads below. Then, turning to Alice, who half feared that she was about to be be thrown after the cage, he said politely enough, but in a rather bored voice, which plainly showed that he did not enjoy working like this while on a holiday, well, miss, will it be for you? Ladder or life net? Now, Alice did not like the idea of either method of descent, but she felt at least she was somewhat familiar with ladders, while she had never even seen a life net. And that ladder, she reasoned, must lead to somewhere after all, for the fireman came up that way. So, she finally answered, rather doubtfully, I think I prefer the ladder, if you don't mind. Did you say the ladder or the latter, miss? Inquired the fireman, who'd been busy readjusting the things on his belt, though come to think, he added, it doesn't really make much difference, as there ain't any life net, miss. He jammed his hat down, gave a last twitch to his belt, and exclaimed, with more animation than Alice had seen him exhibit, well, miss, latter it is then. And the next moment Alice found to her surprise that she was enjoying the very agreeable sensation of sliding at a pleasurable speed down a smooth, straight banister in a strangely sunlit mist. All about her, the paper snow was still falling. Recording by greg giordano, newport richey, florida.

[Alice (Narrator)]

Chapter 11 of the new Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Lynne Thompson the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 11 the Skating Party after sliding for what seemed miles and miles, Alice was just about to begin a conversation with herself to relieve the lonesome stillness when she was quite still startled to hear a familiar voice near by exclaim, I trust we're getting near the ground. These wings work poorly, I have found. Looking up over her shoulder, Alice saw the poet floundering along through the air. He seemed to be having some difficulty in steering himself, but on the whole was doing remarkably well considering his short flipper like wings, though his flying did perhaps look more like a sort of slow aerial tumble. A little above him was the birdcage drifting down through the air as lightly as though it had been made of paper. Can't you get hold of the banister? Called Alice as he flopped nearer. It would be much easier for you to slide, I'm sure. The poet, as if seriously considering this suggestion, scratched his head thoughtfully with his wing. This of course caused him to fall through the air in an alarmingly lopsided sided way for quite a distance. When he had steadied himself somewhat again, he shouted, I'm really afraid that it's too long a jump from here, and besides at the bottom you bump the banister. Coming to an abrupt end, Alice had landed in a surprisingly painless manner on a surface of very smooth ice, where, owing to the momentum gained in her long descent, she slid backward in a sitting position at great speed. As she started to slow down after going for what seemed a tremendous distance, Alice heard a confused sound of cheering and hoarse shouts of bravo. Wonderful and very well done, Miss. Growing nearer and nearer and looking up as she finally came to a stop, found herself in the midst of an excited group of of curiously dressed animals and people, some of whom she had already met on her strange adventures and others whom she recognised only because she had seen their pictures in her Mother Goose. Most of the group had on skates of a very antiquated pattern, curled up in a large spiral at the toe. The manner of wearing these was in some cases decidedly unusual, Alice noticed, particularly a clown who wore his skates on his hands, and the old man all dressed in leather, Alice felt sure it was he, at any rate a wrinkled old fellow with only one skate, but that an enormous one strapped to a great shoe which he wore in place of a coat. This necessitated a very strange method of skating, as the illustration shows, the old man, all dressed in leather, propelled himself forward, forward. As Alice rose to her feet after her long slide, he pinned to the quilt which was still wrapped about her a large blue rosette from which hung a long end of ribbon bearing the word winner, exclaiming with a good deal of flourish as he did so, we compliment you, ma', am, on your most commendable performance and well earned victory. The cheering which had been hushed during the old man's little presentation speech now broke out afresh, and Alice, who had stood grinning sheepishly while the old man pinned on the rosette, could not help finally laughing outright at the absurdity of the whole situation. For to cap the climax, the poet in his clumsy penguin disguise had appeared, hopping heavily towards them, rolling the rickety clattering bird cage ahead of him across across the ice. As Alice stood watching his approach and laughing uncontrollably, a voice which she recognized as Captain Ti Wee's boomed out all entries for the second race this way. No one seemed to pay the slightest attention, however, either to this announcement or to the approaching penguin, for the fireman, whom Alice now noticed for the first time, had started a bonfire on the ice a short distance away and the crowd was hastening in that direction. A little bent old woman with an old fashioned witch broom was industriously sweeping up the paper snowflakes that had fallen on the ice. It was a pile of these that the fireman had lighted. When Alice approached, he stopped his work of tending fire and said in a rather apologetic way, as though he felt that he had been caught at a very childish piety time, it's a real change, as you can easy understand, miss, this lighting fires, me being on vacation for other times I'm mostly busy a puttin of im out. Besides which I've arranged this here fire so the smoke's all a blowin his way in hopes of waking him up here. The fireman pointed to a little wooden bench nearby. Upon this bench Alice was somehow not at all surprised to see the milkman stretched out, still snoring loudly. We've done about everything else, miss, went on the fireman in a discouraged voice. But it's amazin how sound like Miltman does sleep in the daytime. While the fireman was speaking, Alice had observed a large red cow, evidently a new arrival, skating towards them in a leisurely way. She was a raw boned powerful animal with skates on all four of her feet and even an extra one fastened on near the end of her frowzy tail.

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[Alice (Narrator)]

I can't see what use that one is to her, thought Alice, apparently unconscious of the fact that she skated in an awkward, sprawling manner, the cow wore an air of haughty superiority. Just as Alice was about to call the fireman's attention to the this ridiculous creature, she felt a nudge and turning, saw that the captain and the cook had joined them. Souse my tarry pigtail, if there ain't old Mooley Geezer, the milkman's crazy cow. Exclaimed the captain in what he perhaps intended for a whispering voice, and prouder like than ever since the poet wrote them verses bout her jumpin over the moon. Put in the cook, who seemed to be having a difficult time adjusting his skates, which were as a matter of fact not really skates but long soup Ladles Mooligezer, who was now laboriously attempting a figure 8, evidently overheard the captain's uncomplimentary stage whisper, for she tossed her head contemptuously. In so doing she lost her precarious balance and fell to the ice cream with a crash. Her cow bell, which heretofore had only tinkled, now jangling loudly as she went down directly in front of the bench on which lay her sleeping master. Roused by the sound of the cow bell, the milkman sat up jerkily, and after looking wildly about in a sleep dazed way for a moment or two, he spied the cow, who was just getting angrily to her feet again amid general laughter and jeering. With a hoarse cry of I've got you now, you old moon jumper, the milkman made a desperate lunge for the cow's tail, but missed it. Falling on the ice, though evidently greatly hampered by her skates, Muley Geezer started off with a series of great galloping leaps, and the most ridiculous chase that Alice had ever taken part in began. By the time the crowd of strangely assorted skaters had gotten their wits together Sufficiently to start after her. The ungainly creature was crashing along over the ice at an amazing rate of speed, now running on all fours and now coasting as it were, on her hind legs, using her tail when she did this as a sort of rudder. Most of the pursuers, in their frenzied effort to get started, quickly have fallen down like the milkman whom Alice heard muttering wistfully as he picked himself up and started after the others. It's wery disappointing. Werry. Not wishing to be left alone, and quite interesting besides to see how the chase would end, Alice ran along after the noisy crowd. The old man, dressed all in leather notwithstanding his curiously attached single skate, led the pursuit by a good distance. Perhaps it's because skating on his back in the way he does, he can't very well fall down, said Alice to herself. Next came the clown, who was going along very smoothly and gracefully on his hands, fanning himself industrially all the while with a large palm leaf fan, which he held somehow with one of his feet. Behind him came the captain, fairly bellowing with delirious enjoyment of the chase. Then the cook on his soup ladle scape, and the poet. He was now wearing his bird cage helmet, instead of rolling it clumsily hopping and flying by turns. Close behind the poet came the fireman, shouting a confusion of orders through his brass trumpet. Strung along after this leading group were many others, some of whom Alice did not remember having seen on the ice before, but who all looked very vaguely familiar. One of these last was a round faced little man carrying a hammer and saw and a number of other tools. He seemed to be skating with the greatest difficulty and was going very slowly. Alice was not surprised at this when she saw that his skates were made entirely of wood. She also saw a large black J painted on the back of his coat, and remembering the line J was a joiner, decided that this must be he. The poor fellow finally stopped, removed his wooden skates and was examining them in a disappointed way When Alice caught up. She was now very much out of breath and had slowed down to a fast walk. Upon seeing her, the joiner politely raised his little square topped white hat, saying in a very gentlemanly way as he fell into step, may I be permitted to join this little party? You see, joining is my trade, he added, as if to explain any seeming boldness in making his request. Of course you may. But I'm quite alone, replied Alice, rather puzzled by his reference to the little party. Or at least I was alone a second ago, she added, doubtfully looking behind her as though half expecting to see several hitherto unnoticed companions. Why, I should call you rather a little party, explained. Explained the joiner. That is, he went on hastily, as though fearing that Alice might not have liked his way of putting it, you're not so very large, you know. Oh, I see. It was a sort of joke, said Alice, smiling. Well, answered her companion thoughtfully, perhaps it was, but these are no joke. At any rate, he held up his wooden skates, which he was now carrying in his hand. They didn't see seem to slide along very easily, said Alice, feeling that some sympathetic remark was expected of her. And I spent days and days selecting the very slipperiest kind of slippery elm to make them of, said the other with a regretful sigh. Have them do, he added sadly, handing one of the skates to Alice and starting to chew on the other in an absent sort of way. As the joiner ceased speaking, Alice's ears caught a sound quite different from that of the noisy pursuit which was now almost out of earshot. It was the ominous soughing of an approaching wind storm, which seemed to be coming up behind them. She looked over her shoulder and was really terrified at the threatening look of an oncoming bank of darkness which seemed about to overtake and envelop them. Oh dear, whatever shall we do? Cried the poor child piteously, turning to the joiner. He was gone. Alice had no time to soliloquize on his sudden disappearance, for the fast rising wind soon began to blow her along at constantly increasing speed, and when she glanced once more behind her, the bank of darkness had taken on much the look of an onrushing crowd of screaming black giants, and moreover great cracks were appearing in the ice on all sides. If only there was something to hold on to, groaned Alice, who was now fairly flying along, and as if in cruel answer to her wish, there suddenly appeared, sticking up out of one of the cracks just ahead of her, a pole bearing a signboard lettered danger. In a moment she would be upon it. As Alice stretched out her hands to ward off the pole, the ice, which had been getting very wobbly, gave way beneath her with a curious tinkling crash like the breaking of thin glass, and all was darkness. The next thing she knew, the astonished child found herself sitting up unhurt on the damp floor of a large greenhouse. Chapter 11. Chapter 12 of the new Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, Please visit Librivox.org Recording by Lynn Thompson the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 12 Strange Growths and a Stupid Snail Looking up, Alice saw there was a jagged hole in the high glass roof above her head. That's where I came through, I suppose, she began saying to herself as she started to get to her feet, though I don't see how ihere. She was interrupted by the unpleasant sensation of a hot, thick fluid splattering down her arm. And turning to discover from whence this came, Alice saw that just behind her was a tall, sturdy bush covered with the largest and strangest blue and white blossoms. They look just like big boles, she thought, then after examining one more closely, added aloud, why, they are bowls, but what's more, they're all full of gruel. The gruel bush was really a very pretty sight, for every one of the big blue and white bowls was full of appetizing yellow gruel, the steam from which was rising in beautiful delicate rings and spirals, as the branches were now trembling a little. I probably jarred it when I came through the roof, said Alice sagely, and it was some of the hot gruel that splattered on my arm. Now this, she went on to herself in an amusingly chatty way, is what I call a very practical bush. Reaching up, she carefully picked one of the bole blossoms, taking care to break off quite a length of stem to hold it by. When Alice did this, she noticed the that the bowl was conveniently provided with a silver spoon, which stood up in the middle of the thick fluid contents like the pistil of a flower. As the appetizing odour of the steaming gruel had made her extremely hungry, Alice of course wished to sample it at once. She found, however, that it was far too hot to be eaten. I can look about the greenhouse while I wait for it to cool off a bit, she told herself, for there may be other flowers here just as interesting and practical as these. Near the gruel bush was a curious growth which proved to be a clay pipe plant. This did not interest the little girl particularly, but observing that the pipes were exactly the same as the one the snipe had lost, she picked one, thinking that if she met him again he might like to have it to replace the other. Next to the clay pipe pipe plant and near the door of the greenhouse grew a vine upon which hung what looked at first glance to be only rather large gourds. But as Alice came nearer, she saw to her surprise that they were really quaint little old fashioned fiddles just as she was about to pick one of these to add to her unusual bouquet, she heard, not far off, sounds as though someone were pounding insistently upon a door door, and now and then angrily demanding admission in a loud voice. As the sounds came from somewhere outside the greenhouse, Alice, without waiting to pick one of the fiddles, opened the nearby door and stepped out. She now found herself on a narrow grass grown path, bordered by neat little signs about a foot high, set close together. All of these signs bore the same words, Keep on the grass. On each side of the grassy walk was a sort of shallow moat, almost full of dirty, slimy water, and beyond this, in place of trees, were rows of large open green umbrellas standing upright. The path led directly to the ornate front door of a smallish but showy sort of palace, at no great distance but. And in front of this door stood Dr. Foster. Alice recognized him at once, for he was exactly like his picture. He seemed to be in a great state of impatience and was pounding vigorously on the door with the handle of his umbrella, which was bright green like those standing beyond the moat. Alice, who had by this time come to within a few rods of the palace, was about to call out to the doctor when without any warning, the path she was on started, started with sudden violence to swing from side to side like a hammock that had been given an unexpected jerk. And almost before she realized what was happening, the poor child found herself sliding off into the slimy water, which luckily was only up to her knees. At this point the path stopped swaying almost immediately, and Alice scrambled back on to it and ran the remaining distance to the castle door. And feeling somehow very angry and foolish at the same time, the doctor, who in spite of his pounding and shouting had heard the commotion of Alice's mishap, had dropped his umbrella and was already opening his little black medicine satchel. When she arrived, panting, she was much surprised to find that she still held the pipe and bowl. The contents of the bowl had changed mysteriously to what looked like cider in which a small crab was swimming about. Just what happened to me a few minutes ago. Just what happened to me. And a poor sort of joke too, I say, the doctor remarked without looking up. Now where did I. Ah, here it is, he added, taking from his satchel a small blue bottle labelled for wet feet. And before Alice had time to protest, he clapped it to her lips and emptied the entire contents down her throat. Then. Then, putting the empty bottle back in his satchel, he turned again to the door, only pausing for a moment to say, very Seriously, you know, my child, there's nothing so dangerous as wet feet. Nothing so dangerous? Why, I once knew a centipede. But here he resumed his battering on the door panels, and the rest of the centipede's story was drowned out by the dinner. The medicine had apparently started to do its work immediately, for already Alice felt a very decided sensation of warmth in her feet, and a thick cloud of steam had begun to rise from them. This steaming continued violently for about half a minute, and when it stopped she found that her shoes and stockings were perfectly dry. By this time the doctor had broken his umbrella and was sitting in a discouraged way on the doorstep step, absently swallowing two or three at a time, some large red capsules from a box labelled Pa's Patience Pills. Take one every 24 hours. Alice was about to remind him that he was taking what seemed to her entirely too many of these when the door opened inward and the doctor, who had been resting his back against it, fell back, sprawling, colliding as he did so with an enormous snail.

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[Alice (Narrator)]

About 4ft tall, which wore, in addition to the usual shell, a rather jaunty little red hat with doorman lettered upon it. Through the open door, Alice, to her astonishment, looked not into a dark hallway or room, as she had expected to, but into what seemed to be a kind of formal garden, at the far end of which, behind a hedge of huge st sunshades, she could now hear the sound of many voices. The castle, in fact, consisted of only one wall, and was not much more substantial than a piece of scenery. The strange doorman, with scarcely a glance at Alice, or the sprawling doctor, very deliberately picked up three or four of the pills, which had scattered in all directions, and began munching them in a sort of dreamy satisfaction. The doctor, who had risen to his feet, waited with great patience until the snail had entirely satisfied his appetite for the pills, and then said very meekly, you'll pardon my knocking, I feel sure. You see, I have an appointment with the King, but Really, you needn't have hurried so, my man. The surprised Alice wondered whether the doctor's suddenly acquired docility of manner was due to the great number of Part ha's patient's pills he had eaten, or to the rather threatening appearance of the snail's long horns. Without giving any evidence that he had even heard the doctor's humble remarks, the snail laboriously took from the lining of his hat a small, fat, leather covered book Entitled Door Rules, Volume 7 and began thumbing over the pages. While he was doing this, Alice noticed that on the wall near the door hung a placard which read Court jesters wanted apply between 12 and 12 KC. At the end of a full minute, the snail cleared his throat and with an air of solemn Importance read, Rule 149 no one is allowed to pass in unless he leaves his umbrella at the door. He then languidly motioned to the doctor to drop his umbrella and enter, and drew back very deliberately to allow him to pass. But when Alice started to follow, the snail, to her surprise refused to let her pass. Orders is orders, Miss, he said in a stupid voice, and then recited very slowly the rule he had just read. But I haven't any umbrella. Exclaimed Alice, much annoyed at all this delay. Though as I don't know where I'm going, she told herself, I don't suppose there's really any great hurry about getting there. Then you'll have to go back and get one, Miss, said the snail stubbornly repeating for the third time, no one is allowed to pass in unless he leaves his umbrella at the door. And even if she had one to leave, he added reflectively, speaking aloud but to himself, it wouldn't be his umbrella, it would be her umbrella. This, to the snail's way of thinking, seemed to settle the matter, for he turned without another word and started to close the door. He did this so slowly, however, that Alice had time to reflect. I can slip by him while his back is turned, and being a snail, he'll never be able to catch me. Suiting the action to the thought, she dodged noiselessly pa past him and ran. End of Chapter 12.

[Greg Giordano (Narrator, Chapter 13)]

Chapter 13 of the new Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Greg Church Giordano the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 13 King Cole's Court Alice raced down the little path, pausing to look neither to right nor left until she came to an opening in the hedge of giant sunshades. Here she stopped short. Curiously picturesque, lively scene brilliant in color met her eyes. Before her lay a vivid green tennis lawn, upon which quite a number of gaily dressed Mother Goose people and animals, each carrying a Japanese fan and an orange, were moving about with a great deal of merry chatter. Some of the party Alice had seen before, but many were entirely new to her. Among the latter was a gigantic woman, at least 10ft tall, with hands which were immense even for one of her size. She wore a crinoline skirted dress of bright brilliant yellow. That must be the candlestick maker's wife, Pansy, alice began saying to herself, and that pig with wings and the funny old bonnet is. Her. Observations were at this point interrupted, however, by a great booming voice calling out play. Then began what proved to be a most confusing and noisy game of tennis. In the first place, almost everyone present, and there were a score or more, took part. The only ones not actually playing were some dwarfish Woodeny soldiers about 3ft in height, all armed with bellows, who stood in a row across the court in place of a net, and four or five court attendants, cats who busied themselves by continually shifting the white ribbon boundary lines of the tennis court about during the game. In place of balls and rackets that strange players use, the oranges and fans they have been carrying, and their frenzied beating about with the large fans raised a breeze which soon grew to be quite a gale. Sitting on a very gaudy throne near the far side of the court, Alice had noticed an immensely fat, jolly looking man dressed in bright scarlet with a crown on his head and a scepter in his hand. King Cole. Without a doubt the king acted as umpire at first, bawling out rules, decisions and scores in a voice choking with merriment. But as this ridiculous game proceeded, he became more and more hilariously excited and finally leaped from his throne and joined the boisterous contestants, using his scepter as a racket. The game now became more confused and noisy than ever. King Cole, in spite of his great girth, proved to be as lively as a cricket. He bounced about here, there and everywhere, whacking at the flying oranges with loud whoops of joy and turning a handspring now and then out of pure exuberance. His contagious enthusiasm caused the others to redouble their exertions, and they tore about the court, tripping over the moving boundary tapes and shouting with laughter the clumsy efforts of some of their number to imitate the acrobatic agility of the king. The ludicrous attempts of one extremely bandy legged man to turn a cartwheel caused Alice to almost go into hysterics. Though most of the fans were broken, by this time neither side seemed to have the advantage. Players had begun throwing the oranges about at each other, and this kept Alice constantly dodging, as she was now standing very near the court in order to watch the game better. When the uproarious excitement was at its height, King Cole, who had just had his crown knocked awry by a collision with the giantess Pansy, suddenly held up his hand to command order and silence, and when he could get his breath, shouted in a voice that might easily have been heard a mile away, refreshments. At this there was a loud outburst of cheering and hand clapping and cries of long live King Cole in every key, after which most of the tennis players started immediately and noisily to suck the oranges with which they had been playing. King Cole now turned and started to walk back to the throne, shouting over his shoulder as he went, we declare the game a tie. Adding in an aside to a large gray goose who was standing near him. Our games are always ties. Everybody happy then, and no unpleasantness? I suppose, thought Alice, now that the game is over, the king will notice me, and perhaps I'll be put out. It had suddenly occurred to her that she had not been invited to this tennis party, and furthermore, that the snail doorman, despite his slowness, might be expected back almost any time now with a report of her breaking of the umbrella rule. She felt rather relieved, therefore, when King Cole, catching sight of her standing near the throne, showed no surprise, but smiled beamingly upon her and beckoned for her to approach. Just what we need, my dear, just what we need. He exclaimed joyfully, rubbing his hands together and taking the bowl and pipe which Alice had almost forgotten she was holding, he settled himself upon the throne with a deep sigh of happiness. Then, motioning Alice to a place near him on the edge of the little circular dais upon which the throne stood, King Cole cried jovially, everybody be seated. Alice saw with surprise that the soldiers alone disregarded this royal commission man and remained standing stolidly in line as before, and she felt that here was a good opportunity to begin a conversation. A friendly chat with a king would be something she could boast about a little afterward. So she asked in her very politest manner, please, your majesty, why don't the soldier sit down like the rest? The king had taken off a long piece of the pipe stem, and through this he was contentedly sucking up the contents of the bowl upon hearing Alice's question. Question. He removed the pipe stem from his lips to say with a chuckle, oh, it's all right about them, my dear. You see, that's our standing army. And naturally a standing army can't sit down. Most of the guests must have been familiar with this little joke of King Cole's, for many of them had started to laugh extravagantly as soon as Alice asked her question. This seemed to encourage the king, who waited until the applause had ceased, then continued complacently. We suppose you've noticed, my dear, that our soldiers are all armed with bellows. A rather clever idea of our own, that perhaps you can guess the reason, eh?

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[Greg Giordano (Narrator, Chapter 13)]

Then, without warning more than a second or two for an answer from poor Alice, who was beginning to feel uncomfortably conspicuous and extremely stupid, the King said triumphantly, it's so that without the expense of the ammunition, they could always return blow for blow. At this the soldiers all suddenly raised their pairs of bellows and squeezed them in perfect unison with a most surprising result. All of the parties sitting in front of the army on the tennis lawn, with the exception of the ponderous Pansy, were rolled over and over by the blast, and there was a great deal of squealing and laughter and good natured scrambling about to recover lost hats and oranges, King Cole fairly rocked the with his enjoyment of this lively scene. In the midst of all this uproar, Alice noticed coming through a nearby opening in the sunshade hedge, a roly poly little old lady wearing a crown like the King's and a very soiled robe of light lavender velvet trimmed with ermine. Behind her walked the cook of the somersault, Sally, carrying a plate piled high with slices of bread and a tremendous jar labelled Honey. They had almost reached the throne by the time the king, who had caught sight of them when they first appeared, managed to control his mirth and shout to the boisterous guests on the lawn, silence. The Queen. Of course we don't mean by that? That she needs silencing, you understand? He whispered loudly, turning to Alice with a jolly wink. That is not just. Now perhaps, though, she is something of a talker, my dear. The Queen, who had evidently overheard this last remark, seemed to take it as a great compliment. She hastily swallowed all she possibly could of a large bite she had just taken from a slice of bread and honey, which the cook had handed to her a moment before, and said coyly, with her mouth still half full, you see, my child, he's a great flatterer. Oh yes, indeed, a most atrocious flatterer. But there is truth in what he just said about my being a wonderful talker. Not so stingy with that honey, my good fellow. This to the cook. Why, once in my younger days, I remember talking from 7 in the morning till 10 in the evening to an admirer of mine. Deaf he was, and never even here. The Queen took another prodigious bite of bread and honey, and though she kept right on talking, her mouth was so full that for a time one could only catch almost unintelligible word now and then. Alice soon gathered from gestures, however, that the Queen had changed the subject and was now excited, expressing extravagant admiration for the ridiculous ragged old quilt which Alice still wore. I really don't need the quilt any longer, now that it has grown so much warmer, thought Alice. And besides, her Majesty really does need a large napkin of some sort. So she removed the gaudy covering and was quite surprised to hear herself saying, I beg of you to accept this trifling gift which your Majesty admires as yours. She vaguely remembered having read those words somewhere, but they seemed to fit the situation perfectly. The Queen seemed quite overcome with astonished gratitude, for her jaws even stopped working, and she stared at the quilt as though doubtful whether the offer of so rich a gift were meant seriously. Then suddenly, regardless of the bread and honey with which both her hands and her mouth were now full, she threw her short arms about Alice and kissed her heartily on both cheeks. That's a great honor for you, my dear child. A great honor, chuckled the King, then with another of his elaborate winks, added, I suppose you'll be very much stuck up for a while. Then, finishing his refreshment with a loud smacking of lips and a tremendous sigh of satisfaction, the rotund monarch hurled the empty bowl over the hedge. And then, placing his four fingers against his teeth, he whistled ear splittingly. Just the way our baker's boy does it, thought Alice. The King's whistle was apparently a signal for Immediately the cat attendants appeared at the entrance to the court court dragging a small wheeled platform upon which stood a huge gaily painted bandbox at least six feet in diameter. The attendant stopped in front of the throne, and the crowd of guests threw away their oranges and formed an expectant semicircular group behind the platform. Now. Exclaimed the king, rubbing his hands in joyful anticipation. We'll have some music. His Majesty dotes on good music, the Queen remarked to Alice, though it usually puts him to sleep. That is, when the band plays loud enough, and this one always does. Except. But where are the musicians? Alice interrupted, puzzled. I'm sure I don't see any band. Why, the band's in the bandbox, silly, chuckled King Cole, who had overheard her query where a band should be. Now, if you'll listen. Just then there was a sort of musical explosion as Alice expressed an afterword, and the COVID of the the bandbox flew off and went skimming over the hedge. Standing in the box with only their heads and shoulders visible were the famous Fiddlers 3 and the Piper and his son Tom. And seated on the piper's shoulder was none other than Alice's old friend, the candlestick maker with his drum. Each one of these zealous musicians seemed to be trying desperately to drown out the other five, and the candlestick maker, having the noisiest instrument, was almost succeeding in doing this. Alice soon recognized the tune, though they were playing it at about twice its usual speed, as over the Hills and Far Away. In response to the enthusiastic applause of the audience, the band kept repeating this one air over and over in a very monotonous fashion, the only variation being that at each repetition they went a little faster. I suppose, thought Alice, the reason is that it's the only tune the piper song can play, and probably King Cole doesn't mind anyhow, as long as they make plenty of noise. Why, he's nodding already, she added. I'm sure I never saw so many sleepy heads as there are in this country. And sure enough, as the Queen had predicted, the king, after a minute or two of the noisy music, was sleeping quite peacefully upon the crowd of guests. However, it had a very different effect, for they all began a very lively and curious kind of square dance, the principal figure in which was like a combination of the games of Ring Around a Rosie and Snap the Whip. When the band, apparently exhausted by its efforts, finally stopped playing, the queen, who was always either eating or talking, hastily gulped on the last of the supply of bread and honey and turned to Alice. While the musicians Are resting between selections, she said pleasantly. We usually play games, and as you, my dear, here she unexpectedly kissed the poor child again heartily, are the guests of honor today. We shall leave the choice of the first game to you. Although she rattled on, I should strongly suggest Stagecoach. That's a delightful game, my dear, and a great favorite of mine. Such a lot of talking in it too, you know. If you'd just as soon, ventured Alice, I'd like to start. She was about to say that she would like to start with a game of Blind Man's Buff. Just imagine what fun it would be played by this crowd, she thought. The talkative Queen, however, did not wait for the little girl to finish the sentence, but exclaimed enthusiastically, you'd like to start right now? Of course, my dear. Well, so we can, and so we shall. Then, motioning the crowd to be seated on a number of little blue three legged stools which the attendants had just brought in and placed near the throne, she announced, this young lady has especially requested that we now play Stagecoach, which happens to be a game of which I too am particularly fond, as some of the younger readers of this tale may never have played. The music Old fashioned game of Stagecoach Let me explain it in a few words. Before the game begins, the parts are given out. That is, each player is given the name of one of the characters in a story of an adventurer Stagecoach trip. Excepting the leader, the one who recites or reads the story, the players are all seated. Whenever during the recitation of the adventures, any one of the characters is mentioned, the player having that part rises from his seat, turns around twice and sits down again, the failure to do this calling for a forfeit. Whenever the word stage coach is heard, all rise and change seats, the leader trying it in a general scramble to obtain a seat for himself. If the leader succeeds in this, the player left standing must go on with the story. Alice took his seat among the others on one of the little stools, and the Queen gave out the parts, her haphazard distribution of these causing a great deal of merriment to the gigantic Panty. For example, she gave the part of the little dog, a traditional Stagecoach character, and to Jack Spratt, that of Ponderous, Captain Swordfish. While Alice herself was Old Aunty Crusader, and many of the others had parts equally inappropriate. When all were ready, the Queen started to read very rapidly from a dog eared little book which she had taken from a pocket in her skirt, and the game began. Alice happened to be sitting between the tremendous Pansy and the old man of Bombay. This proved to be rather an unfortunate thing for her, as the old man, growing very much excited as the game progressed, puffed harder and harder on his pipe, filling the air with such a dense cloud of curling smoke the little girl could only now and then catch a glimpse of the Queen and the other players. The giantess occupied not only her own stool, but about two thirds of Alice's most of the time, and this kept the child terribly worried, for in the course of the story the little dog was mentioned more often any of the other characters, and Pansy was therefore continually having to get up, turn, and sit down again, and it's almost certain that sooner or later she'll sit right down on top of poor little me, said Alice to herself, and if she ever does. But just then the story reached the point where Captain Swordfish said, where is the big cheese we brought along for our lunch? I'm afraid, answered the footman, that the little dog has eaten it, sir. The giantess, who was doubtless growing rather angry at having to get up so oftener than the others, reseated herself, this time with a petulant flounce, and the little stool gave way beneath her weight at the same instant. As if to make the occurrence more dramatic, the music began again with a long rolling rub. A dub, a dub, a dub from the drum, and the old man of Bombay blew such a blinding cloud of smoke from his pipe that for a few moments I, Alice, could see nothing. End of Chapter 13 recording by Greg Giordano, Newport Richey, Florida.

[Libby Gone (Narrator, Chapter 14)]

Chapter 14 of the new Adventures of Alice. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Libby gone the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 14.

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[Libby Gone (Narrator, Chapter 14)]

The rehearsal of the Enchanted Cheese. The smoke had changed to a thick cloud of dust, and when this cleared away somewhat, Alice saw that everything else had changed remarkably too. She was now sitting in the midst of a curiously costumed, costumed jostling crowd on top of a lumbering stage coach. Though the people and animals in this party were the same ones she had just been with at King Cole's court, except that Pansy had disappeared. Alice observed that their clothes had changed strangely, all having now a swollen, padded outlook which gave even to the attenuated Jack Spratt, a ridiculously puffy appearance. The little girl herself felt as though her dress were still stuffed out with pillows. From beneath her inside the coach, Alice could hear the band playing discordantly. Fortunately, the sound was somewhat muffled. I suppose the windows are closed, and I'm very thankful for that, she remarked to Dr. Foster, who was sitting next to her. And I'm also thankful that I'm not inside, even though it is so crowded up here. It's these puffed up clothes everyone's wearing that makes it so crowded, replied the doctor. He was now about the shape of a balloon himself. You see, my child, the reason for these full clothes is that this is to be a full dress rehearsal. But the stage really ought to be bigger. Why, I once knew a man who got hemmed in by a crowd, and he's had a stitch in his side ever since. Oh, then this must be the rehearsal the candlestick maker spoke of, began Alice, delighted at the prospect of theatricals. And come to think of it, the poet said something about here. She was interrupted by the poet himself, who rose in his seat and began to shout. Friends, fellow citizens, silence please. We're going to rehearse the enchanted cheese. The poet was still dressed as a penguin, and his ridiculous birdcage helmet was set at a rakish angle on his head. Curtain goes up. On the opening scene, he went on showing a grocery. Enter Queen. At this juncture, the stage coach, which had evidently just then struck a very rough piece of road, began to bounce and bang along so noisily that Alice, who was sitting on the back seat, could catch only a few words now and then of what the poet was saying. Then too, the dust became so thick that at times she could scarcely see anything at all, so that afterwards the memory of the rehearsal was always confused and unsatisfactory. She gathered, however, from the parts of the first deck that she did hear and see that the plot of the pantomime had to do principally with the chase of an enchanted stilton cheese, which had escaped from the queen's buttery. And this seemed to necessitate on the part of the actors a great deal of tripping over each other's feet and falling down and throwing things about in the first place, said Alice, in telling her sister about it all. Afterward there was a good deal of quarrelling about who should have the parts the most eating in them. And when the rehearsing finally started, it was very much like the gang of stage coach we had just been playing at King Cole's court, for as each different character in the pantomime was mentioned by the poet, the one taking that part would jump up and go through all sorts of strange antics. And the top of the stage was so crowded and we were rocking so from side to side that quite often some one would be pushed off, though I don't suppose the fall could have hurt any of them much as their clothes were all padded out. So after this sort of thing had been going on for about 10 minutes, the coach began to slow down, and the noise of the bands inside diminished at the same time. Soon both the stage coach and the music stopped. When the dust had settled, Alice, looking forward, was astonished to see that there were no horses hitched to their strange conveyance. It almost seems as though it must have been the music that kept us going, said Alice aloud to herself, for when the band stopped, the stage stopped. The doctor, who was now rummaging about in his little medicine satchel, overheard this remark and said, without looking up, of course a stage can't go without noise, silly, but this will soon revive that band, I dare say, he added, and then we can go on again. As he said this, he pulled out of his satchel a small bottle labeled Excello's Elixir for exhausted musicians. He then climbed down the little steps on the side of the coach and opened the door and stepped in. Most of the actors had by this time jumped down to the ground and were peering anxiously in at the windows in a helpless sort of way. If that medicine works as quickly as the stuff he gave me for wet feet, we ought to be going again very shortly, said Alice to herself, though I'm not so tremendously anxious to go on with here. There was a sudden deafening burst of drumming, fiddling, and piping, and the stage coach started off with such unexpected violence that Alice was jerked backwards out of her seat. End of chapter 14.

[Robin King (Narrator, Chapter 15)]

Chapter 15 of the new Adventures of Alice this is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org recording by Robin King the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Chapter 15 in the studio and and found herself floating through the air like a soap bubble. She struck lightly on the top of the tall hedge bordering the road, bounced once or twice in a really delightful manner, then drifted along and was finally carried by a gentle breeze in through the open window of a dear little thatched house that stood just beyond the hedge. Alice landed with scarcely a jolt on a small table in the middle of a room which was very evidently an artist's studio, for stacked against the walls were canvases of all sizes, and there were two or three easels standing about. She was just going to jump down to the floor and begin a tour of inspection when from behind the largest easel stepped a thin, pleasant faced little gentleman in baggy paint, daubed corduroy clothes, and an extremely long ended necktie. It was the artist whom the snipe had pointed out to her at the very start of all these adventures as the maker of the wonderful pictures in Mother Goose. How long ago. That does seem, too, thought Alice rather wistfully. The artist carried a palette and a curious assortment of brushes. There was a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and a clothes brush besides, two or three of the sort that house painters generally use. In thinking about this afterward, Alice decided that it was really a very good idea on the part of the artist, for why not use a clothes brush for painting clothes, a hairbrush for hair, and so on? If it's a portrait you're after, said the artist politely, I'm afraid you'll have to wait till next week, for as soon as I finish some pictures I'm working on now for the Poet's Book of Verses, I've got to start writing on the scenery for that Plaguy pantomime. And the worst of that is that the Queen has insisted that in the grocery scene all the vegetables must be painted so well that they'll be really eatable, and that's going to take a lot of time. But by the way, my child, he added, lowering his voice, when you came in, did you happen to see anything of an old wolf hanging round outside the door? Well, sir, answered Alice, a little timidly, I didn't come in through the door, but through the window. You see, I fell off the stage coach and I understand, interrupted the artist genially, you just dropped in, as one might say, and I see you came down plump too. He added with a smiling glance at the child's strangely balloon like clothes, you're a bit puffed up still, I dare say, about having been on the stage, though you needn't worry about that, he added consolingly, you'll soon be quite your normal size again, I'm sure. This seemed indeed to be so, for already her dress had shrunk perceptibly and Alice was beginning to look more as usual. It still, however, gave her rather a ridiculously blousy appearance and made her feel uncomfortably self conscious, especially in the presence of an artist. So she hastened to change the subject by asking, won't you please tell me more about that wolf you're expecting? Is he a friend of yours? I should say he isn't a friend of mine, child, whispered the artist, glancing apprehensively toward the door. In fact, he's my worst enemy. He's a bill collector, you see, and a most frightful nuisance he is too, always knocking at the door just when I'm especially anxious not to be disturbed.

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[Robin King (Narrator, Chapter 15)]

But speaking of nuances here he chuckled, evidently reminded by something which gave him grace great satisfaction. I must tell you about the crows. They used to be a worse nuisance to my neighbour the farmer than that old wolf is to me. But I've fixed them. Yesterday I painted a full length portrait of John O. Gudgeon, the Wild man, and set it up out there in Farmer's field as a scarecrow. Those thieving birds won't bother him again. But I saw some crows flying right by this window just a few seconds ago, put in Alice. I noticed them particularly for each one carried a little sack. That's just what I was coming to, my dear child. Exclaimed the artist delightedly. You see, they were sore, fearfully frightened by that scarecrow of mine, but they're even bringing back the grain they stole last summer. It must have been a wonderful scarecrow, said Alice, laughing. This complimentary remark evidently pleased the artist tremendously, for he smiled beamingly and led Alice to the large easel, the one he'd been working at before the interruption of her arrival. Upon the easel was a drawing of a rather timorous young girl dressed in quaint old fashioned costume and carrying a bucket in her hand. In the background there were three or Four dogwood trees. As I told you before, the artist remarked affably, I'm doing the pictures that are to go with the rhymes in the poem Poet's new book. More Mother Goose Rhymes, I think he's going to call it. And this one that I've just finished goes with a verse that the murmuring brook to Betsey said, why have you turned so pale? I thought I heard the dogwood bark, quoth she, down in the vale. But you haven't drawn any brook in the picture, ventured Alice, rather timidly.

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[Robin King (Narrator, Chapter 15)]

Exclaimed the artist, so I haven't to be sure. But come to think it really isn't necessary, for the girl has a pail, you see, so she can draw the water herself. Perhaps, he added, you'd like to read some of the new rhymes while I'm making the next picture. As he said this, the artist took from the side pockets of his baggy brown coat several rolled up sheets of the kind of paper Alice remembered writing on with the self steering pen. She settled herself comfortably on a soft green rug, smoothed out the sheets, and began to read. The following verse is the one that happened to come first. Novelties Pray visit our shop on the side of the hill at the sign of the galloping door. Come in and examine and buy if you will these novelties ne' er shown before. We've muzzles for dogfish and splitters for hair, and switches for beating the Dutch. We've pills that prevent one from falling down stairs, and even a clog dancing crutch. We keep a contrivance for waking one up by setting one's pillow afire. A book of instructions for training a pup to climb to the top of a spire. A safety device for exploding ideas, A guaranteed smokeless clay pipe, but better than that, a fine self raising hat and a pattern for cutting up tripe. Don't fail please to notice. Upon the third shelf right next to the yarn spinning top, a wonderful thing I invented myself a new silent soup spoon. So stop, step in for a minute or two and look round our wares. We feel sure we'll surprise, for we've everything here that is usefully queer. But you've heard of that word to the wise. As Alice finished reading, a feeling of homesickness came over her, for she was reminded of the many times she had read Mother Goose verses to her pets in the garden at home. If only I had my dear dear Pussykins and Patsy here right now. She sighed piteously. Curiously enough, just as she said this, a sudden breeze from the open window disturbed a pile of papers lying on a small stand near which Alice was sitting. And there drifted down to the floor directly in front of her, a very pretty sketch of two sleeping kittens. I can pretend these are pussykins and Patsy, said Alice, trying hard to be cheerful, and it will be really quite easy too, for I never saw such a lifelike picture. The artist, who was tacking a fresh sheet of paper to the drawing board on his easel, overheard this and said, it is lifelike, if I do say so. Why would you believe it? Since I drew that picture there hasn't been a mouse in the place and they used to take my bread and cheese off the shelf right from under my nose. Perhaps, suggested Alice, smiling at her own idea, if you'd paint a picture of a large full grown cat, a real mouser like our Thomas, the mice would bring back the bread and cheese just as the crows brought back the corn. That's a really fine idea, my child, said the artist thoughtfully, and I'll try it just as soon as I get these drawings done. Alice now set the sketch of the sleeping kittens up against the leg of a nearby stool, and picking up another of the long sheets, she assumed a serious air and said, now children, I want you to be very attentive. The title of this is an explanation. She then very gravely read the the early bird at 2am Once met the rolling stone. I don't exactly envy them their working hours I own of course they pass the time o day or rather time o night, said Stone. Looks quite like rain, I'd say. And Bird replied it might. They talked of this for quite a while, till confidential groan, the bird remarked, look here, don't smile, I'm ettenbious friend Stone folks don't expect a thing of you, not even any moss, while I the worm howe' er he squirm must get it makes me cross. My reputation is at stake, Responsibility I always seem to have to take it's slowly killing me. I'll gladly occupations change. Kind hearted Stone replied, To hunt for worms I will arrange and I'll just roll. Bird cried. If you should meet a rolling bird or early stone no doubt twould seem absurd had you not heard just how it came about. When she had finished reading these verses, Alice looked up to see how the artist's work was progressing and was astonished to find that he was putting the very last touches on a most spirited crowd of Mother Goose characters, all dancing gaily about in a large circle. There's the captain. Cried Alice delightedly, and the milkman and the cow and Dr. Foster. And do look at King Cole and the fiddlers. Why, even the snail's dancing here. She stopped short in amazement, for the very familiar figures in the drawing had begun to really move slowly at first, but soon faster and faster, and growing larger too, all the while as they danced. And finally, led by King Cole and the fiddlers, the merry boisterous party leapt one after another from the paper on the drawing board down to the floor of the studio, where they formed a ring about Alice and the artist and continued their capering. The room now began to expand. The ceiling melted away and changed to blue sky in which little pink clouds were floating, and the walls became more and more like a hedge. Even the soft green rug that Alice was sitting on seemed to be turning into a thick turfed lawn and the easels into hawthorn trees. As the dancers circled round and round, the ungainly antics of some of them threw Alice into spasms of uncontrollable laughter. The milkman's cow, the muligiza, was the most irresistibly comic of them all. She was still wearing her skates and though lurching and tripping ridiculously at almost every step, seemed to be trying desperately to preserve her haughty, contemptuous manner. Dr. Foster's medicine case had come open and was scattering pills, powders and bottles in every direction. The old man, all dressed in leather, was dancing on his back very much as he'd skated. The only one that Alice did not remember having seen before at some stage of her adventures, was a gaunt, hungry looking wolf, evidently the dreaded bill collector who had slipped into the studio under the COVID of the general tumult. The dancers were soon moving so fast that it was impossible to distinguish any individual figures. Do look at them go. You're missing such a sight, my dears, said Alice, turning to the pretend kittens. They too had come to life, but were still sleeping quietly. The paper upon which they had been drawn was nowhere to be seen. Wake up, my dears. Cried Alice. And as she said this, she noticed that the sheets of paper in her hand had changed into a book. Her own Mother Goose. Wake up, my dears. Wake up. Continued a voice like an echo of her own. She looked up. The dancers had disappeared. The artist was putting away his brushes and. But no, it was not the artist. It was her own sister who was saying as she folded up her paintbox, wake up, dear. Why, you've been asleep for almost a whole hour. Who'd ever even fancy that? So Many unusual things could happen in less than an hour, said Alice, slowly, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. And that was the end of the story in the book that Betsie found the attic. To the readers of this children, I've told this tale to you. Won't you now tell to me the dreams you've had? I'd be so glad to hear them. Certainly. Tis only fair to do your share. Therefore, sit down and write. Send me. Don't fail by early mail your place. Pleasant dreams. Good night. End of Chapter 15 recording by Robin King www.mrtheatrestudies.com End of the New Adventures of Alice by John Ray Foreign

[Alice (Narrator)]

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