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The path down from the Moon

Onions won me a wife. I peeled one in front of her father, and the old miser wept for the first time in his life. He gave me her hand, her dowry, and the key to the pantry. I still keep the onion in a velvet box.

Crabs walk sideways on account of a bet I won. Long ago they marched straight ahead like good soldiers. I wagered their king a bushel of clams that he could not pass a mirror without stopping. He turned to admire himself, got stuck that way, and his whole nation copied him.

Mermaids sing badly, and someone had to tell them. I sailed to the rocks near Corfu with a music stand and a stern look. We worked on breathing and pitch. After a year they could hold a note. Now ships crash there only on purpose, just to catch the show.

Wolves in Poland once howled off key beneath my window. This pained my ears. I went out with a tuning fork and drilled them until dawn. By spring they sang in four parts. A bishop hired the pack for Easter, and the eldest wolf now earns more than any tenor in Warsaw.

Generals have always sought my advice, and I have always.