Mixed content

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.

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.

Pickles kept me alive for a month on a lonely island off Goa. I had only one, but it was the size of a rowboat. I ate the inside and sailed away in the rest. The sea got in, and I arrived in port both wet and slightly sour.

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.

Libraries tremble when I come to write. My memoir ran so long that the pages filled three barns.