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Frogs near Riga held a loud meeting under my window every June. I attended one and asked for the floor. My speech on silence ran six hours. The frogs elected me mayor and then fell asleep. That pond has been quiet since, apart from the odd croak when I am up for a vote.

Pisa had a straight tower until I leaned on it to fix my shoe. I heard a small creak. Nobody else saw, so I tipped my hat and strolled away. The town has since made a good living from my bad habit, and I have never asked for a share.

Stars fall, as we all know, but few men catch one. I held out my dinner plate over Vienna and took a bright one on the rim. It hissed, it rolled, and it cooked my egg. I ate the egg and threw the star back before anyone could notice.

My favorite cannon caught a cold that winter. Each shot came out with a sneeze and flew sideways. The enemy could never guess where to stand. I fed the gun hot broth and wrapped its barrel in wool. It got well at once, which I regret, for we lost the very next battle.

Teeth are no trouble to me. A molar came loose at.