Think of any pretty little boy you know, rather fat, with rosy cheeks,
large dark eyes, and tangled brown hair, and then fancy him made small
enough to go comfortably into a coffee-cup, and you'll have a very fair
idea of what the little creature was like.

"What's your name, little fellow?" I began, in as soft a voice as I
could manage. And, by the way, that's another of the curious things in
life that I never could quite understand--why we always begin by asking
little children their names; is it because we fancy there isn't quite
enough of them, and a name will help to make them a little bigger? You
never thought of asking a real large man his name, now, did you? But,
however that may be, I felt it quite necessary to know _his_ name; so,
as he didn't answer my question, I asked it again a little louder.
"What's your name, my little man?"

"What's yours?" he said, without looking up.

"My name's Lewis Carroll," I said, quite gently, for he was much too
small to be angry with for answering so uncivilly.

"Duke of Anything?" he asked, just looking at me for a moment, and then
going on with his work.

"Not Duke at all," I said, a little ashamed of having to confess it.

"You're big enough to be two Dukes," said the little creature. "I
suppose you're Sir Something, then?"

"No," I said, feeling more and more ashamed. "I haven't got any title."