The Lorax

The Lorax

At the far end of town where the Gtickle-grass grows and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows and no birds ever sing excepting old ctows. . . is the street of the Iifted Iorax.

And deep in the Grickle-grass, some pcople say, if you look deep enough you can still scc, today. where the Lorax once stoodjust as long as it couldbefore somebody lifted the Lorax away. What was the Lorax?And why was it there? And why was it lifted and taken somewherefrom the far end of town where the Grickle gras growsThe old Once-ler still lives here. Ask him. He knows.

You won't see the Once-lerDon't knock at his door. He stays in his Lerkim on top of his store. He lurks in his Lerkim, cold under the roof, where he makes his own clothesout of miff-muffered moof And on special dank midnights in August, he pecksout of the shuttersand sometimes he speaksand tells how the Lorax was lifted away. He'll tell you, perhaps. . if you're willing to pay.

On the end of a ropehe lets down a tin pailand you have to toss in fifeen centsand a nail and the shell of a great-great-great-grandfather snail.

Then he pulls up the pail, makes a most careful count to see if you've paid him the proper amount. Then he hides what you paid him away in his Snuvy, his secret strange hole in his gruvvulous glove. Then he grunts, " I will call you by Whisper-ma: Phons, for the secrets Itell are for your cars alone. "