and lower. 'I don't believe that pudding ever was cooked!' In fact, I don't believe that pudding ever will be cooked! And yet it was a very clever pudding to invent.'
'What did you mean it to be made of?' Alice asked, hoping to cheer him up, for the poor Knight seemed quite low-spirited about it.
'It began with blotting-paper,' the Knight answered with a groan.
'That wouldn't be very nice, I'm afraid –'
'Not very nice alone,' he interrupted, quite eagerly: 'but you've no idea what a difference it makes mixing it with other things – such as gunpowder and sealing-wax. And here I must leave you.' They had just come to the end of the wood.
Alice could only look puzzled: she was thinking of the pudding.
'You are sad,' the Knight said in an anxious tone: 'let me sing you a song to comfort you.'
'Is it very long?' Alice asked, for she had heard a good deal of poetry that day.
'It's long,' said the Knight. 'but it's very, very beautiful. Everybody that hears me sing it – either it brings the tears into their eyes, or else –'
'Or else what?' said Alice, for the Knight had made a sudden pause.
'Or else it doesn't, you know. The name of the song is called "Haddock's Eyes."'
'Oh, that's the name of the song, is it?' Alice said, trying to feel interested.
