"But, you know," said Dorothy very earnestly, "I couldn't sit down if they bent the other way." "Sitting down is all very well," said the Stork, with a solemn shake of his head, "but you couldn't collect fares with 'em, to save your life," and with this he went into the house and shut the door. [Illustration: "'THEY'RE ENTIRELY DIFFERENT FROM MINE, ANYHOW,' SAID THE STORK."] "It seems to me this is a very strange adventure," said Dorothy to herself. "It appears to be mostly about people's legs," and she was gazing down again in a puzzled way at her little black stockings when she heard a cough, and looking up she saw that the Stork had his head out of a small round window in the wall of the house. "Look here," he said confidentially, "I forgot to ask what your fare was for." He said this in a sort of husky whisper, and as Dorothy looked up at him it seemed something like listening to an enormous cuckoo-clock with a bad cold in its works. [Illustration: "IT SEEMED LIKE LISTENING TO AN ENORMOUS CUCKOO-CLOCK."] "I don't think I know exactly _what_ it was for," she said, rather confusedly. "Well, it's got to be for _something_, you know, or it won't be fair," said the Stork. "I suppose you don't want to go over the ferry?" he added, cocking his head on one side, and looking down at her, inquiringly. "Oh, no indeed!" said Dorothy, very earnestly. "_That's_ lucky," said the Stork. "It doesn't go anywhere that it ever gets to. Perhaps you'd like to hear about it. It's in poetry, you know." "Thank you," said Dorothy politely. "I'd like it very much." "All right," said the Stork. "The werses is called 'A Ferry Tale'"; and, giving another cough to clear his voice, he began: Oh, come and cross over to nowhere, And go where The nobodies live on their nothing a day! A tideful of tricks is this merry Old Ferry, And these are the things that it does by the way: It pours into parks and disperses The nurses; It goes into gardens and scatters the cats; It leaks into lodgings, disorders The boarders, And washes away with their holiday hats. It soaks into shops, and inspires The buyers To crawl over counters and climb upon chairs; It trickles on tailors, it spatters On hatters, And makes little milliners scamper up-stairs. It goes out of town and it rambles Through brambles; It wallows in hollows and dives into dells; It flows into farm-yards and sickens The chickens, And washes the wheelbarrows into the wells. It turns into taverns and drenches The benches; It jumps into pumps and comes out with a roar; It pounds like a postman at lodges-- Then dodges And runs up the lane when they open the door.