The Walrus and the Carpenter

The sun was shining on the sea with all his strength, trying to make the waves smooth and bright. There was something odd about this: it was the middle of the night. The moon was shining as well, but rather crossly. She felt that the sun had no business appearing after the day was over. It was rude of him to spoil her fun.

The sea was as wet as could be, and the sand was perfectly dry. There were no clouds to be seen, because there were none in the sky; no birds flew overhead, because there were no birds to fly.

Nearby, the walrus and the carpenter were walking along the beach. The sight of so much sand made them weep. Wouldn't it be wonderful, they agreed, if only someone could clear it all away?

“Suppose seven women with seven mops swept for half a year,” the walrus said. “Do you think they could get rid of it?”

“I doubt it,” replied the carpenter, shedding another tear.

The walrus invited some oysters to take a pleasant walk with them along the beach. They could not manage more than four guests, he explained, since they wanted to give a hand to each.

The oldest oyster looked at him, winked and shook his head. Without saying a word, he made it clear that he preferred to stay where he was. Four young oysters, however, hurried up eagerly. Their coats were brushed, their faces washed and their shoes neat, which was strange, as they had no feet. Another four followed, then four more, until oysters were pouring through the waves towards the shore.

After walking about a mile, the walrus and the carpenter rested on a conveniently low rock. The oysters stood waiting in a row.

The walrus announced that it was time to discuss all sorts of subjects: shoes and ships, cabbages and kings, why the sea was boiling hot and whether pigs had wings.

The oysters asked for a pause before the conversation. Some were out of breath, and all were fat. The carpenter assured them there was no hurry, which earned their thanks.

What they chiefly needed, the walrus continued, was a loaf of bread, with pepper and vinegar. Once the oysters were ready, they could begin to eat.

“But not us!” the oysters protested, turning a little blue. After such kindness, that would be a terrible thing to do.

The walrus praised the fine night and asked whether they admired the view. The carpenter requested another slice of bread, complaining that he had already asked twice.

The walrus said it seemed a shame to play such a trick after bringing the oysters so far and making them hurry. The carpenter only complained that the butter had been spread too thickly.

“I feel deeply sorry for you,” declared the walrus. He selected the largest oysters while sobbing into his handkerchief.

At last, the carpenter asked whether the oysters were ready to return home after their pleasant walk. No answer came. This was hardly surprising: the two companions had eaten every one.