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Parrots make terrible spies, as the Doge learned from mine. I gave the bird to him as a gift, and it sat in his room all winter. Back in my hands, it told me every secret in Venice, along with some very poor jokes and a long recipe for eels.

Oysters at Ostend gave me a bright idea. I fed a hundred of them on my finest sand and whispered kind words. Each one made me a pearl the size of a plum. I strung them up for my mother, who used them as doorknobs and for rolling out dough.

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.

Apple trees in Normandy once went on a long march to find better soil. I met them on the road and showed them the way to a valley near Rouen. They took root by supper. Every fall, in thanks, they drop their finest fruit straight into my open hat.

Rainbows make poor bridges, as I learned in Ireland. I rode up one side.