The Elf turned and with deadly accuracy shot an arrow where his nose pointed him. The shaft sliced through the air, pierced the tall grass, and struck the Dwarf's shoes one hundred yards out . . . but the Dwarf was not in them!

He was proud of his faculty of organisation—what we call bundobust.

Come to Granny. You must surely be making strange, with all these foreign faces huffing and puffing around you, you poor little precious diddledums.

Then his food doth taste savourily, then his divertisements and recreations have a lively gustfulness.