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At the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows and no birds ever sing excepting old crows.. is the Street of the Lifted Lorax.
And deep in the Grickle-grass, some people say, if you look deep enough you can still see, today, where the Lorax once stood just as long as it could
before somebody lifted the Lorax away.
What was the Lorax? And why was it there? And why was it lifted and taken somewhere from the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows?
The old Once-ler still lives here.
Ask him. He knows.

You won´t see the Once-ler. Don´t knock at his door.
He stays in his Lerkim on top of his store.
He stays in his Lerkim, cold under the roof,
where he makes his own clothes
out of miff-muffered moof.
And on special dank midnights in August,
he peeks out of the shutters
and sometimes he speaks
and tells how the Lorax was lifted away.
He´ll tell you, perhaps... if you´re willing to pay.

On the end of a rope he lets down a tin pail
and you have to toss in fifteen cents
and 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 Snuvv,
his secret strange hole
in his gruvvulous glove.
Then he grunts, "I will call you by Whisper-ma-Phone,
for the secrets I tell you are for your ears alone."

-Dr. Seuss