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My uncle grew a turnip so large it had its own weather. Rain fell on the north side. Sheep grazed on the leaves and got lost. I dug for a week and struck a Roman road. We boiled it in a lake, and all of Saxony had supper that night.

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.

Sheep can be counted only once, as I proved in Wales. I had reached nine thousand when one of them coughed, and I lost my place. I began again. Years went by, and my beard reached the fence. The flock at last grew bored and began to count me.

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.

Clocks in my castle ran.