This didn’t sound like a remark that needed any answer, so Alice said nothing, but pulled away. There was something very queer about the water, she thought, as every now and then the oars got fast in it, and would hardly come out again. “Feather! Feather!” the Sheep cried again, taking more needles. “You’ll be catching a crab directly.” “A dear little crab!” thought Alice. “I should like that.” “Didn’t you hear me say ‘Feather’?” the Sheep cried angrily, taking up quite a bunch of needles. “Indeed I did,” said Alice: “you’ve said it very often—and very loud. Please, where _are_ the crabs?” “In the water, of course!” said the Sheep, sticking some of the needles into her hair, as her hands were full. “Feather, I say!” “_Why_ do you say ‘feather’ so often?” Alice asked at last, rather vexed. “I’m not a bird!” “You are,” said the Sheep: “you’re a little goose.” This offended Alice a little, so there was no more conversation for a minute or two, while the boat glided gently on, sometimes among beds of weeds (which made the oars stick fast in the water, worse then ever), and sometimes under trees, but always with the same tall river-banks frowning over their heads. “Oh, please! There are some scented rushes!” Alice cried in a sudden transport of delight. “There really are—and _such_ beauties!” “You needn’t say ‘please’ to _me_ about ’em,” the Sheep said, without looking up from her knitting: “I didn’t put ’em there, and I’m not going to take ’em away.” “No, but I meant—please, may we wait and pick some?” Alice pleaded. “If you don’t mind stopping the boat for a minute.” “How am _I_ to stop it?” said the Sheep. “If you leave off rowing, it’ll stop of itself.” So the boat was left to drift down the stream as it would, till it glided gently in among the waving rushes. And then the little sleeves were carefully rolled up, and the little arms were plunged in elbow-deep to get the rushes a good long way down before breaking them off—and for a while Alice forgot all about the Sheep and the knitting, as she bent over the side of the boat, with just the ends of her tangled hair dipping into the water—while with bright eager eyes she caught at one bunch after another of the darling scented rushes. “I only hope the boat won’t tipple over!” she said to herself. “Oh, _what_ a lovely one! Only I couldn’t quite reach it.” And it certainly _did_ seem a little provoking (“almost as if it happened on purpose,” she thought) that, though she managed to pick plenty of beautiful rushes as the boat glided by, there was always a more lovely one that she couldn’t reach. “The prettiest are always further!” she said at last, with a sigh at the obstinacy of the rushes in growing so far off, as, with flushed cheeks and dripping hair and hands, she scrambled back into her place, and began to arrange her new-found treasures.