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Pickles kept me alive for a month on a lonely island off Goa. I had only one, but it was the size of a rowboat. I ate the inside and sailed away in the rest. The sea got in, and I arrived in port both wet and slightly sour.

Rivers run downhill because they have never met me. I once talked the Danube into going the other way for an afternoon. Boats sailed up to Ulm without any effort. Then a fish complained to the mayor, and I let the old river go back to its usual job.

Milk ran short in Holstein, so I went and had a word with the cows. They wanted music. I brought them a band and a man who juggled. The first pail overflowed by noon. By Friday we had flooded the valley, and the children had to go to school in tubs.

Last noon in Spain my shadow quit me. It said the pay was low and the hours were long. I hired a better one from a dead bullfighter. It stands up straight and never trips. The old one still follows my cousin, but he is a far less interesting man.

Prague needed.