A Thick Stick In One's Hand Makes

Alice: This Is Impossible. The Mad Hatter: Only If You Believe It Is.

If You Limit Your Actions In Life To Things That Nobody Can Possibly Find Fault With, You Will Not Do Much!

You're Thinking About Something, My Dear, And That Makes You Forget To Talk. I Can't Tell You Just Now What The Moral Of That Is, But I Shall Remember It In A Bit." "perhaps It Hasn't One," Alice Ventured To Remark. "tut, Tut, Child!" Said The Duchess. "everything's Got A Moral, If Only You Can Find It.

Alice! A Childish Story Take, And With A Gentle Hand, Lay It Where Childhood's Dreams Are Twined In Memory's Mystic Band, Like Pilgrim's Withered Wreath Of Flowers Plucked In Far-off Land.

Come, Hearken Then, Ere Voice Of Dread, With Bitter Tiding Laden, Shall Summon To Unwelcome Bed A Melancholy Maiden! We Are But Older Children, Dear, Who Fret To Find Our Bedtime Near.