The second shelf of specimens

Yesterday my hat flew back after six years abroad. It had seen Peru. It smelled of llama, and it had a ticket stub in the band. I asked where it had been, but hats are shy about such things. I brushed it, forgave it, and wore it to church.

Spurs rang out across Moldavia when my hussars came to town. Each man was six feet tall, and each horse could do long division. We charged the enemy in perfect order, and then we stopped to correct their math. Their officers wept. They paid a fine and went home.

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.

Snoring is a talent, and mine once saved a fleet. We sat becalmed near Malta with limp sails. I lay down on the stern and slept after a heavy meal. My breath filled every sail. We made Naples in two days, with the crew tiptoeing around so as not to wake me.

A pig named Clementine taught me French. She had the better accent. We toured the salons of Paris together, and she was invited back more often than I was. In time she wed a minor count, and I was asked to wait outside with the carriage.

Anchors never held my ship in a blow, so one night I dropped my wife's cousin over the side. He was a heavy man with firm opinions. The vessel stopped dead. He sat on the sea floor until dawn, and he complained of the damp for the rest of his days.

Sleep came hard to a Carpathian bear I met, so I read him my poems. He was out by the second page. He slept all winter, and I took his cave. In April he rose, thanked me kindly, and asked for the rest, and I ran for my life.

Whales snore, as any sailor knows, but one in the North Sea kept our whole ship awake. I rowed out at midnight and tied a ribbon around its nose. The snoring became a soft, sweet whistle. Sailors now steer by that tune, and the whale sends me herring each Christmas.

Dukes of Brunswick hold a yearly contest in my honor. The prize goes to the man who can tell the biggest lie. I attend only as a judge, for I could never compete, as I tell only the plain truth. This answer won me first prize three times.

Summer came late one year because the Sun overslept. I rode east and knocked on the horizon with my sword. A sleepy voice asked me for five more minutes. I gave it three. That was the shortest June on record, and the farmers of Hungary blamed me for the peas.

Bullets from my old musket took so long to land that I could shoot on Monday, then ride ahead and catch them on Thursday. Once I met my own ball near Graz. We nodded to each other. I bought it a small drink and sent it on its way.

Seawater tastes of salt because of me. I spilled a pouch of it on a ship.