Tom swam up to the nearest whale, and asked the way to Mother Carey.

“There she sits in the middle,” said the whale.

Tom looked; but he could see nothing in the middle of the pool but one peaked iceberg, and he said so.

“That’s Mother Carey,” said the whale, “as you will find when you get to her.  There she sits making old beasts into new all the year round.”

“How does she do that?”

“That’s her concern, not mine,” said the old whale; and yawned so wide (for he was very large) that there swam into his mouth 943 sea moths, 13,846 jellyfish no bigger than pins’ heads, a string of salpae nine yards long, and forty-three little ice crabs, who gave each other a parting pinch all round, tucked their legs under their stomachs, and determined to die decently, like Julius Caesar.

“I suppose,” said Tom, “she cuts up a great whale like you into a whole shoal of porpoises?”

At which the old whale laughed so violently that he coughed up all the creatures; who swam away again, very thankful at having escaped out of that terrible whalebone net of his, from which bourne no traveler returns; and Tom went on to the iceberg, wondering.

And when he came near it, it took the form of the grandest old lady he had ever seen—­a white marble lady, sitting on a white marble throne.  And from the foot of the throne there swam away, out and out into the sea, millions of newborn creatures, of more shapes and colours than man ever dreamed.  And they were Mother Carey’s children, whom she makes out of the sea water all day long.

She sat quite still with her chin upon her hand, looking down into the sea with two great, grand blue eyes, as blue as the sea itself.  Her hair was as white as the snow, for she was very, very old—­in fact, as old as anything which you are likely to come across, except the difference between right and wrong.  And when she saw Tom, she looked at him very kindly.

“What do you want, my little man?  It is long since I have seen a water baby here.”

Tom told her his errand, and asked the way to the Other-end-of-Nowhere.

“You ought to know yourself, for you have been there already,”

“Have I, ma’am?  I’m sure I forgot all about it.”

“Then look at me.”

And as Tom looked into her great blue eyes, he recollected the way perfectly.

Now, was not that strange?

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Tom.  “Then I won’t trouble your ladyship any more; I hear you are very busy.”

“And now, my pretty little man,” said Mother Carey, “you are sure you know the way to the Other-end-of-Nowhere?” Tom thought; and behold, he had forgotten it utterly.

“That is because you took your eyes off me.”

Tom looked at her again, and recollected; and then looked away, and forgot in an instant.

“But what am I to do, ma’am?  For I can’t keep looking at you when I am somewhere else.”