This really will _not_ do, you know, sending one more kiss every time
by post: the parcel gets so heavy it is quite expensive. When the
postman brought in the last letter, he looked quite grave. “Two pounds
to pay, sir!” he said. “_Extra weight_, sir!” (I think he cheats a
little, by the way. He often makes me pay two _pounds_, when I think it
should be _pence_.)
[Illustration]
“Oh, if you please, Mr. Postman!” I said, going down gracefully on one
knee (I wish you could see me going down on one knee to a postman--it’s
a very pretty sight), “do excuse me just this once! It’s only from a
little girl!”
“Only from a little girl!” he growled. “What are little girls made
of?” “Sugar and spice,” I began to say, “and all that’s ni----,” but
he interrupted me. “No! I don’t mean _that_. I mean, what’s the good
of little girls when they send such heavy letters?” “Well, they’re not
_much_ good, certainly,” I said, rather sadly.
“Mind you don’t get any more such letters,” he said, “at least, not
from that particular little girl. _I know her well, and she’s a regular
bad one!_”
That’s not true, is it? I don’t believe he ever saw you, and you’re not
a bad one, are you? However, I promised him we would send each other
_very_ few more letters. “Only two thousand four hundred and seventy,
or so,” I said. “Oh!” said he, “a little number like _that_ doesn’t
signify. What I meant is, you mustn’t send _many_.”
So you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two thousand four
hundred and seventy, we mustn’t write any more, unless the postman
gives us leave.
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 nose a great deal.” I said, “No
it isn’t the nose. Perhaps it’s the _hair_.” Then he looked grave and
said, “_Now_ I understand: you’ve been playing too many hairs on the
piano-forte.” “No, indeed I haven’t!” I said, “and it isn’t exactly
the _hair_: it’s more about the nose and the 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 that 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 the 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 some day 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.
[38] From letters written in 1875 and 1876 to Gertrude Chataway, a
little child whom he met at Sandown, Isle of Wight, and to whom he
dedicated “The Hunting of the Snark.”