but he interrupted me.  “No!  I don’t mean that.  I mean, what’s the good of little girls, when they send such heavy letters?” “Well, they’re not much good, certainly,” I said, rather sadly.

“Mind you don’t get any more such letters,” he said, “at least, not from that particular little girl. I know her well, and she’s a regular bad one!" That’s not true, is it?  I don’t believe he ever saw you, and you’re not a bad one, are you?  However, I promised him we would send each other very few more letters—­“Only two thousand four hundred and seventy, or so,” I said.  “Oh!” he said, “a little number like that doesn’t signify.  What I meant is, you mustn’t send many.”

    So you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two
    thousand four hundred and seventy, we mustn’t write any
    more, unless the postman gives us leave.

    I sometimes wish I was back on the shore at Sandown; don’t
    you?

    Your loving friend,

    Lewis Carroll.

    Why is a pig that has lost its tail like a little girl on
    the sea-shore?

    Because it says, “I should like another tale, please!”

    Christ Church, Oxford, July 21, 1876.

My dear Gertrude,—­Explain to me how I am to enjoy Sandown without you.  How can I walk on the beach alone?  How can I sit all alone on those wooden steps?  So you see, as I shan’t be able to do without you, you will have to come.  If Violet comes, I shall tell her to invite you to stay with her, and then I shall come over in the Heather-Bell and fetch you.

If I ever do come over, I see I couldn’t go back the same day, so you will have to engage me a bed somewhere in Swanage; and if you can’t find one, I shall expect you to spend the night on the beach, and give up your room to me.  Guests of course must be thought of before children; and I’m sure in these warm nights the beach will be quite good enough for you.  If you did feel a little chilly, of course you could go into a bathing-machine, which everybody knows is very comfortable to sleep in—­you know they make the floor of soft wood on purpose.  I send you seven kisses (to last a week) and remain

    Your loving friend,

    Lewis Carroll.

    Christ church, Oxford, October 28, 1876.

My dearest Gertrude,—­You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since you went.  I sent for the doctor, and said, “Give me some medicine, for I’m tired.”  He said, “Nonsense and stuff!  You don’t want medicine:  go to bed!” I said, “No; it isn’t the sort of tiredness that wants bed.  I’m tired in the face.”  He looked a little grave, and said, “Oh, it’s your nose that’s tired:  a person often talks too much when he thinks he nose a