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Forty of my hussars once got lost inside a single fog bank. I called the roll and they answered from four countries. So I blew my horn, and each man followed the sound home. The last rider came back after nine years, with a wife, six sons, and a fine new saddle.

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.

Butterflies lifted my carriage over the Pyrenees after the mules gave out. I whistled up about a million of them and tied each to the roof with a silk thread. The flight was smooth, though quite pale and dusty. Customs officers at the border charged me for one very large moth.

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.

Nobody could shoe my black stallion, for.