Fit the Eighth
THE VANISHING
They sought it
with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued
it with forks and hope;
They threatened
its life with a railway-share;
They charmed
it with smiles and soap.
They shuddered to
think that the chase might fail,
And the
Beaver, excited at last,
Went bounding
along on the tip of its tail,
For the
daylight was nearly past.
"There is
Thingumbob shouting!" the Bellman said,
"He is
shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his
hands, he is wagging his head,
He has
certainly found a Snark!"
They gazed in
delight, while the Butcher exclaimed
"He was
always a desperate wag!"
They beheld
him—their Baker—their hero unnamed—
On the top
of a neighboring crag.
Erect and
sublime, for one moment of time.
In the next,
that wild figure they saw
(As if stung by a
spasm) plunge into a chasm,
While they waited and listened in awe.
"It's a
Snark!" was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed
almost too good to be true.
Then followed a
torrent of laughter and cheers:
Then the
ominous words "It's a Boo-"
Then,
silence. Some fancied they heard in the
air
A weary and
wandering sigh
Then sounded like
"-jum!" but the others declare
It was only
a breeze that went by.
They hunted till
darkness came on, but they found
Not a button, or feather, or mark,
By which they
could tell that they stood on the ground
Where the
Baker had met with the Snark.
In the midst of
the word he was trying to say,
In the midst
of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and
suddenly vanished away—-
For the
Snark was a Boojum, you see.
THE
END
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