“Let’s see,” said the wooden man. “Dolls were first on the list, weren’t they? Well, here we are. We call this room ‘The Kingdom of Dolls,’ although as a matter of fact it is ruled by a Queen, and never did have a King, because the Queen is rather old and nobody will marry her. And as she won’t allow any of the other dolls to marry until she herself finds a King, it makes it hard for the younger ones.” “Dear me,” said Alice. “Do you suppose I might get a peep at the Queen, without being seen?” “Easy enough,” said the wooden man, “for there she is――that long-haired doll with the purple robe. She likes to be looked at, and I need hardly remark that her hair is false. She’s awfully stuck up, though, and we won’t tarry long, for she’d only snub us.” “What a funny crown she is wearing,” laughed Alice, turning her head to look back. “You may well say so,” said the wooden man, ironically, “for it is made of kistletoe. She never takes it off!” “Kistletoe!” said Alice, and then, forgetting her humiliating experience about the chimley, “Don’t you mean mistletoe?” “No, I mean kistletoe,” replied the wooden man, rather impatiently. “Everybody knows what kistletoe is. But then, perhaps you are too young. When you are older you will know more.” “I’m thirteen,” said Alice, with proper dignity. “Thirteen!” shrieked the wooden man, so loudly that Alice felt sure she had offended again. “What a dreadfully unlucky number! I should be frightened to death to be thirteen. How long have you been thirteen?” “Nearly two months now,” Alice confessed, miserably. Then she brightened. “But everybody has to be thirteen sometime. Weren’t you ever thirteen?” “Never!” declared the wooden man, firmly. “When my thirteenth birthday approached, I tore off an entire year of the calendar, and passed right into my fourteenth year. Of course, there was a fearful row about it! But it’s really just like skipping a grade at school. If you’re smart enough you can do it. We have some very nice calendars,” he added, professionally. Alice was frankly bewildered, but she had forgotten her wounded dignity. In a moment her attention was attracted by a succession of melodious sounds, ending on a queer upward inflection that seemed to leave the phrase unfinished, and hanging in the air. “Do listen!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that too sweet? It sounds like a bird singing.” “Most birds do,” said the wooden man, drily. “That’s your bird,” he added, more politely. “You asked for a bird, you know.” “But why does it end its song so abruptly?” asked Alice. “It doesn’t seem to finish.” “Confinement,” answered the little guide, briefly. “Its cage is too small. Its notes only reach the top of the cage, and then echo back into its own ears, which naturally surprises it into silence. It’s too bad, for it’s losing its upper register. It once sang very well.” “I shall let it go when I get it,” declared Alice, with decision.