all in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide 
for both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied 
while little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide 
ah, cruel three! in such an hour beneath such dreamy wheather 
to beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather 
and what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together 
anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they persue 
the dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new 
in friendly chat with bird or beast- and half believe it true 
and ever as the story drained the wells of fancy dry and faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by 
the next time. it is next time the happy voices cry 
thus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly, one by one 
it's quaint events were hammered out 
and now the tale is done and home we steer 
a merry crew 
beneath the setting sun