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Lightning struck my left boot outside Prague. I felt only a tickle. For a week after that, I could light candles with my toe and start a stove by stamping. The local priest made me stand in the church aisle at Advent, and we saved a fortune on wax.

Mount Etna owed me a favor after I cleaned its throat. I went down with a long broom and a wet towel. Soot flew, sparks rained, and the mountain coughed up a lost Roman. Now it smokes only on Sundays, and the farmers below leave me lemons by the cart.

My favorite cannon caught a cold that winter. Each shot came out with a sneeze and flew sideways. The enemy could never guess where to stand. I fed the gun hot broth and wrapped its barrel in wool. It got well at once, which I regret, for we lost the very next battle.

Turtles make slow ferries, but they are very sure. I boarded one at Cape Verde with a lunch, a book, and a folding chair. We reached Brazil after three years. On the way I wrote a long poem, grew quite thin, and taught the beast to nod at a lady.

Milk ran short in Holstein, so I went and had a word with the cows. They wanted.