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Dreams are expensive in my family. I dreamed of a gold coach one night in Tallinn, and there it stood the next day in the yard. The coachman was real, and so was his bill. Since that time I have dreamed only of small, cheap things, like buttons and thimbles.

Bathing is dangerous at my size and strength. I sat down in a Hungarian spring, and the water rose and rolled over two towns. The mayors rowed up to me with a complaint. I stood, and the lake went dry. I then offered to pay with a bar of soap.

The Turkish bean I kept in my vest pocket grew restless one night. By morning it had burst my coat, lifted my bed, and carried me over Smyrna. I ate my way down, pod by pod. It took me one month, and I have not cared for beans since.

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.

Witches in the Harz once turned me into a toad for an hour. It was no trouble.