She had found the toys in a box one day, as she played by the Thames. And they were indeed wonderful.
Her little song — Uncle Charles thought it didn't mean anything. (He wasn't her real uncle, she parenthesized. But he was nice.) The song meant a great deal. It was the way. Presently she would do what it said, and then —
But she was already too old. She never found the way.

Mimsy Were The Borogoves (1943)