Alice entered the gate, which squeaked on its hinges, then squealed, then launched into a full blown version of The Irish Washerwoman. "Why!" Alice exclaimed,"that's wonderful!"

"Not when you have to listen to it everytime a wandering soul stumbles through it intent on crashing the party!" called a rather snide and jaded voice. She turned to behold a grizzled, flop-eared rabbit wearing a monocle and a sailing cap. " I b-beg your pardon, Mr Rabbit," she stammered. "That's hare!" he retorted, slamming the gate shut with his great padded foot, then mumbling "damned repetitious piece of hardware, lets every fool stumble through, rock fans, jazz bands, drug addicted zeppelin pilots." Alice clasped her hand over her mouth and said "why you must be the March Hare!" The rabbit grimaced, pretending to tie a bowline hitch in its cravat."That's Maine Hare," he mumbled in what Alice would have recognized as a down-east accent, had she been privy to such arcane knowledge. "Excuse me?" she replied. "Maine!" He shouted in consternation, then lowered his voice, saying " nevermind. It's supposed to be a party. Let me introduce you to the others." And he firmly grasped her elbow, steering her toward two figures who had emerged from the cottage and were busy playing a guitar and a fiddle, arguing for an instant, and then exchanging instruments, then commencing the cycle all over again. "They seem to be out of sorts," ventured Alice. "Yes," said the Maine Hare, "they can never agree on a key. But lets join them, shall we?" The Hare was showing physical stress from the unnatural effort to be polite."Curmudgeon!" hissed the gate, and the Maine Hare lifted a huge foot as if to deal it a blow, but was distracted by the cacophony being generated by the odd pair by the cottage." For God's sake play it in A! You'll end up there anyway!" he sighed heavily, then hustled Alice forward.