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My uncle grew a turnip so large it had its own weather. Rain fell on the north side. Sheep grazed on the leaves and got lost. I dug for a week and struck a Roman road. We boiled it in a lake, and all of Saxony had supper that night.

Rainbows make poor bridges, as I learned in Ireland. I rode up one side with a full pack and a goat. The red was firm, the blue was slick, and the violet gave way at once. We landed in a bog. The goat has been a strange color ever since.

Earthquakes are just the ground getting an itch. In the hills of Persia I took a long rake and scratched the worst of it. The ground let out a low sigh. The shaking stopped at once, and the shah gave me a fine rug that I had to hold down.

Hiccups shook me so hard in Madrid that a wall came down. Doctors ran in and out with leeches. Nothing worked. At last a small child said boo, and I flew across the plaza and out to sea. I was cured by the time I reached the Azores.

Pirates boarded our ship off Tunis and asked for gold. I offered them a riddle instead. It was so hard that the captain sat down to think. His crew joined.