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Pisa had a straight tower until I leaned on it to fix my shoe. I heard a small creak. Nobody else saw, so I tipped my hat and strolled away. The town has since made a good living from my bad habit, and I have never asked for a share.

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.

Lanterns are no use to me on dark roads. I simply open one eye a bit wider. In Bosnia I lit up a whole valley that way and read a letter from my mother. Farmers took it for sunrise and began to plow. I shut my eye and left politely.

Trout leap into my hat when I whistle. In Scotland I proved it before an earl and a crowd of doubting anglers. Nine fish came at the first note. At the second, a small pike, two boots, and a rowboat followed. The earl gave up fishing and took up prayer.

Generals have always sought my advice, and I have always charged for it. One old Austrian asked me how to.