The Walrus and the Carpenter

The sun shone on the sea with all his might, doing his utmost to make the waves smooth and bright. This was distinctly odd, since it was the middle of the night. The moon was shining too, though in a sulky mood: she considered it extremely rude of the sun to appear after the day was done and spoil her fun.

The sea was as wet as wet could be, and the sands as dry as dry. Not a cloud could be seen, for the excellent reason that there were no clouds in the sky. No birds flew overhead, because there were no birds to fly.

The walrus and the carpenter, walking nearby, wept at the sight of such quantities of sand. If only it could all be cleared away, they agreed, how splendid that would be!

“If seven women with seven mops swept it for half a year,” the walrus wondered, “do you suppose they could get it clear?”

“I doubt it,” said the carpenter, shedding a bitter tear.

The walrus appealed to the oysters to come walking with them. He promised a pleasant walk and a pleasant conversation along the salty beach. No more than four could accompany them, however: they wanted to give a hand to each.

The eldest oyster looked at him without saying a word. He winked and shook his heavy head, indicating that he had no wish to leave the place where the oysters lived. Four young oysters, on the other hand, hurried up, eager for the treat. Their coats were brushed, their faces washed and their shoes clean and neat. This was another oddity, considering that they had no feet.

Four more oysters followed, and then another four. Soon they were coming thick and fast, more and more of them, hopping through the foamy waves and scrambling ashore.

The walrus and the carpenter walked on for a mile or so before resting on a conveniently low rock. All the little oysters stood waiting in a row.

The time had come, the walrus announced, to talk of many things: shoes, ships and sealing wax; cabbages and kings; why the sea was boiling hot; and whether pigs had wings.

The oysters begged them to wait before beginning their conversation. Some were out of breath, and all were fat. “No hurry!” said the carpenter, for which they thanked him warmly.

A loaf of bread was what they chiefly needed, the walrus explained. Pepper and vinegar would be very good as well. If the dear oysters were ready, they could begin to feed.

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

The walrus remarked on the fine night and asked whether they admired the view. It had been so kind of them to come, he added; they were very nice. The carpenter merely requested another slice of bread. He wished the walrus were not so deaf: he had already had to ask twice.

“It seems a shame to play them such a trick,” the walrus observed, “after bringing them out so far and making them hurry so.” The carpenter said only that the butter was spread too thickly.

Declaring his deep sympathy, the walrus wept for the oysters. With sobs and tears, he selected those of the largest size, holding his handkerchief in front of his streaming eyes.

“Oysters,” said the carpenter, “you've had a pleasant walk! Shall we go home again?” No answer came. This was scarcely odd, since they had eaten every one.