Alice was be­gin­ning to get very tired of sit­ting by her sis­ter on the bank, and of hav­ing noth­ing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sis­ter was read­ing, but it had no pic­tures or con­ver­sa­tions in it, "and what is the use of a book," thought Alice, "with­out pic­tures or con­ver­sa­tions?" So she was con­sid­er­ing, in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stu­pid), whether the plea­sure of mak­ing a daisy-chain would be worth the trou­ble of get­ting up and pick­ing the daisies, when sud­denly a White Rab­bit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was noth­ing so very re­mark­able in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the Rab­bit say to it­self, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!" (when she thought it over af­ter­wards, it oc­curred to her that she ought to have won­dered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite nat­ural); but, when the Rab­bit ac­tu­ally took a watch out of his waist­coat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hur­ried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never be­fore seen a rab­bit with ei­ther a waist­coat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and, burn­ing with cu­rios­ity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rab­bit-hole under the hedge.