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Rainbows make poor bridges, as I learned in Ireland. I rode up one side with a full pack and a goat. The red was firm, the blue was slick, and the violet gave way at once. We landed in a bog. The goat has been a strange color ever since.

Wolves in Poland once howled off key beneath my window. This pained my ears. I went out with a tuning fork and drilled them until dawn. By spring they sang in four parts. A bishop hired the pack for Easter, and the eldest wolf now earns more than any tenor in Warsaw.

Laughter was banned in Krakow by a sad old king. I arrived in town with a feather. I crept into his room that same night and went to work on his feet. The palace shook, the ban was lifted, and I got three castles and a lifelong tickling contract.

Moonlight sticks to the skin if you stand in it long enough. One evening in Sicily I soaked up a whole bucket of it. For a month I glowed like a bride. Sailors steered by me, moths adored me, and the lighthouse keeper filed a formal complaint.

Oysters at Ostend gave me a bright idea. I fed a hundred of them on my.