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Compasses point north because I owe money in the south. At least, mine does. It swung away from Spain with great care and saved me many awkward talks. An honest one would have led me straight to an innkeeper in Seville, and he has a long memory and a longer stick.

Cats are not to be trusted with maps. Mine led me from Lyon to Cairo in search of a fish. We crossed two deserts and a very long sofa. At the end of it, she sat on my map, yawned, and demanded that I carry her home.

Roosters woke me too early, so I taught mine to crow at noon. The whole village soon lost track of the day. Bakers slept in. Priests said Mass at dusk. The mayor begged me to stop it, and I agreed, for a small pension and all the eggs in town.

Soup nearly sank us off Crete. Our cook had made too much of it, and it rose up past the hatches. We bailed with spoons. At last we all sat down, tied on bibs, and ate the ship dry. No crew was ever so full or so brave.

The Turkish bean I kept in my vest pocket grew restless one night. By morning it had burst.