Broken images

Moonlight sticks to the skin if you stand in it long enough. One evening in Sicily I soaked up a whole bucket of it. For a month I glowed like a bride. Sailors steered by me, moths adored me, and the lighthouse keeper filed a formal complaint.

Tea in China nearly drowned me, and I say this with pride. The Emperor poured, and out of good manners I kept on sipping. After the ninth barrel my feet floated off the rug. Two servants towed me home by my sash. I did not need a drink for eleven years.

Pistols need no powder if you load them with insults. I proved this in a duel at Dresden. I aimed and then I called him a turnip. He fell to the grass in a dead faint. His seconds took it up with me, but I had a spare insult for each.

Cobblers in Vienna made me a pair of boots that argued. The left wished to go to Italy. The right preferred the sea. I split the difference and walked to Trieste, where they shook hands and calmed down. I still keep them apart at night, to be on the safe side.

Summer came late one year because the Sun overslept. I rode east and knocked on the horizon with my sword. A sleepy voice asked me.