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Dice betrayed me only once, in a game with a small red gentleman near Lemberg. I lost my hat and won his tail. We traded back at dawn, since it did not suit either of us. He still writes each New Year, and his handwriting is dreadful.

Holes in Swiss cheese are my doing. Long ago, each wheel came solid as a brick. I took my musket to a dairy in Bern and fired at them for sport. The farmer wept, until the buyers came. They paid double for the holes, and I have billed the canton ever since.

Snow fell so deep in Russia that winter that I skied across the roofs of Moscow and never once saw the street. In April the drifts melted. Then I found I had been sleeping for months on top of a cathedral. The bishop charged me rent, and I paid him in icicles.

Windmills near Delft took to walking one stormy autumn. I caught the ringleader by his sails and gave him a talking to. He promised to settle down, and he ground flour for the poor. Two others fled toward France, and you may still spot them on a breezy day.

Butterflies lifted my carriage over the Pyrenees after the mules gave.