An island-farm — broad seas of corn Stirred by the wandering breath of morn — The happy spot where I was born. - Lewis Carroll

Yet still to choose a brat like you, To haunt a man of forty-two, Was no great compliment!"

The dying crimson of the West That faintly tinged his haggard cheek, Fell on her as she stood, and shed A glory round the patient head.

Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle!