Deep pages, 3

Down to the bottom of the well

London fog was so thick one morning that I cut a slice and took it home. My cook fried it with onions. It tasted of coal and old rain. We sold the rest as gray wool, and a tailor in Leeds made me a fine suit that vanished at noon.

My gray mare could read, a fact I kept from the neighbors. She liked poems and hated sums. Once she found a spelling error on a road sign and refused to pass. We stood there for two days until the king himself sent a painter with a brush and a humble note.

Mount Etna owed me a favor after I cleaned its throat. I went down with a long broom and a wet towel. Soot flew, sparks rained, and the mountain coughed up a lost Roman. Now it smokes only on Sundays, and the farmers below leave me lemons by the cart.

Goats in Albania climb better than any sailor, and I once hired a few for my navy. They went up the masts and ate the rigging. Then they ate the flag. We lost the ship but won the respect of the enemy, who laughed so hard.