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." The fairy seemed to think that in that case I really wasn't worth the trouble of talking to, for he quietly went on digging, and tearing the flowers to pieces as fast as he got them out of the ground. After a few minutes I tried again: "_Please_ tell me what your name is." "Bruno," the little fellow answered, very readily. "Why didn't you say 'please' before?" "That's something like what we used to be taught in the nursery," I thought to myself, looking back through the long years (about a hundred and fifty of them) to the time when I used to be a little child myself. And here an idea came into my head, and I asked him, "Aren't you one of the fairies that teach children to be good?" "Well, we have to do that sometimes," said Bruno, "and a dreadful bother it is." As he said this, he savagely tore a heart's-ease in two, and trampled on the pieces. "What _are_ you doing there, Bruno?" I said. "Spoiling Sylvie's garden," was all the answer Bruno would give at first. But, as he went on tearing up the flowers, he muttered to himself, "The nasty c'oss thing--wouldn't let me go and play this morning, though I wanted to ever so much--said I must finish my lessons first--lessons, indeed! I'll vex her finely, though!" "Oh, Bruno, you shouldn't do that!" I cried. "Don't you know that's revenge? And revenge is a wicked, cruel, dangerous thing!" "River-edge?" said Bruno. "What a funny word! I suppose you call it cooel and dangerous because, if you went too far and tumbled in, you'd get d'owned."