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   Our wanderings to guide      Ah, cruel three! In such an hour, beneath such dreamy weather   To beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather   Yet what can one poor voice avail, against three tongues together   Against three tongues together      Anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they pursue   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 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!   The happy voices cry!      Thus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly one by one   Its quaint events were hammered out--and now the tale is done   And home we steer   A merry crew   Beneath the setting sun