A magnum of port was decanted for the Minimum.
A short pint of sherry was set before the Maximum.
We heard the Mite bellowing by himself, “The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!”
The Mammoth hummed “The Streamlet.”
The Tiny, we learned, was bound to Plimpton Magna.
The Huge, we found, was going to Plimpton Parva.
A hundred other circumstances have escaped from Memory through the holes that time has made in her sieve: but I remember distinctly, as we passed the bar in our passage outwards, that while
The Pigmy bussed the landlady—a buxom widow, fat, fair, and forty—
The Giant kissed her daughter—a child ten years old, and remarkably small for her age.