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 knows a
great deal.” I said,
“No, it isn’t the nose. Perhaps it’s the hair.” Then he looked rather grave, and
said, “Now I understand: you’ve been playing too many hairs on the
pianoforte.”
“No, indeed I haven’t!” I said, “and it isn’t exactly the
hair: it’s more about the nose and chin.” Then he looked a good deal graver, and
said, “Have you been walking much on your chin lately?” I said, “No.” “Well!” he
said, “it puzzles me very much.
Do you think it’s in the lips?” “Of
course!” I said. “That’s exactly what it is!”
Then he looked very grave
indeed, and said, “I think you must have been giving too many kisses.” “Well,” I
said, “I did give one kiss to a baby child, a little friend of
mine.”
“Think again,” he said; “are you sure it was only one?” I thought
again, and said, “Perhaps it was eleven times.” Then the doctor said, “You must
not give her any more till your lips are quite rested
again.” “But what am I
to do?” I said, “because you see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more.” Then
he looked so grave that tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, “You may send
them to her in a box.”
Then I remembered a little box that I once bought
at Dover, and thought I would someday give it to some little girl or other. So I
have packed them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe or if any
are lost on the way.”
Lewis Carroll
