“Why is a raven like a writing-desk?” On this very subject, he dwells at tea time. Granted it’s always time for tea in the March Hare’s room; Time took offense to the Mad Hatter’s wasteful rhymes. Abandoned ears twitch, thrown hats wobble, masterless mice scamper off. The day of the twelves means every wonder is left to fend for themselves. 

“I tire of songs; let’s move one place on,” she says, so he does. 

Changing seats at the long table, she flips on a top hat. She looks smart under its brim. The butter has bread crumbs, but she butters biscuits for runaway wonders anyway. March Hare, Mad Hatter, Dormouse. How coincidental to miss the madness by a mere day. 

“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” she says, but he has not. 

“No, I give it up,” he replies. “What’s the answer?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she shrugs. Grabbing some loose ears, she mimes, “Nor I!” 

Of all riddles to ask, she asks the one she cannot solve. Just as well! Answers are worrisome boxes. Happenstance is a sign it’s a gamble to trust. Wonders: the ambiguity tickles his fancy like rabbit ears and dirty dishes. 

“Let’s move one place on; make sure to grab a bonbon!” she says, so he does. 

They switched places 12 times now. With Time on leave till to-day’s end, want for a clean cup is vast. But a dirty dish is a clean cup! Each time they move on, is the dish not changed; the cup not new? Perception is twisted twistless in Wonderland. 

Eagerly placing elongated ears atop his head, he yawns to shoot the long. “I vote dear rabbit tells us a story!” The March Hare cannot sit straight up. Good thing a story never slips if she tells it.

“Once upon a time there was a boy,” she began in a great hurry; “and his name was Lacie; and he lived in a box—”

“What did he live on?” he asks, taking great interest in questions of living. 

“He lived on peanuts,” she decides, after thinking a minute or two. Peanuts are hardly as nice as buttered biscuits and bonbons. What an extraordinary way of living; Lacie must drive himself mad in his box. Madder than a mad hatter!

“Why did he live in a box?” he goes on — it’s not yet time to move one place.

She takes a minute or two to think about it, and then says, “It was a peanut-box.” He offers no interjection, chewing on bonbons to remind himself what wonders live on. “This boy — he was learning to draw, you know—”

“What did he draw?” he asks; piquing curiosity brings ears to stiff attention. 

“Peanuts,” she says, without considering at all, this time. 

To know only his box and what’s in it, Lacie is a pitiable soul, indeed. For the boy to whom every answer is peanuts, happenstance is a gamble worth taking. He has no more questions. It’s time to move one place. Coincidentally, Cheshire is doing the same.

Plates rattle. Butter knives clatter. She retreats beneath the long table cloth. He follows as he should; the way Lacie in his peanut-box would. 

Red eyes and a white grin float along the purple walls. Its ears have yet to appear — could it hear? He whispers all the same, “I don’t know of any cats that grin.” 

“Hush! It’s a Cheshire-Cat! You don’t know much, and that’s a fact!” she exclaims. She looks oh-so smart. Of all rabbits to follow! Luck is a lady most lenient to spare him peanuts and boxes — no matter how convenient.