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Arctic sailors still speak of the iceberg I rented. It was a fine, roomy thing with a view. I furnished it, hung some pictures, and drifted toward Lisbon in comfort. Each day my parlor grew smaller. I stepped ashore holding only my teacup, a chair leg, and the deed.

Kites run in my family. At age six I built one from a bedsheet and flew it in a Hanover gale. It pulled me up past the church, over the river, and into a bishop's soup. He blessed me, gave me the spoon, and asked me to please go away.

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.

Spiders in my attic wove me a fine coat when my tailor died. It took them one summer. The sleeves were light, the collar was warm, and the pockets trapped flies for my lunch. I wore it to court, and three duchesses at once asked for the pattern.

Ducks have always trusted me, and this is their mistake. One foggy morning I whistled a tune, and two.