Canonical to redirect, final

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.

Soup nearly sank us off Crete. Our cook had made too much of it, and it rose up past the hatches. We bailed with spoons. At last we all sat down, tied on bibs, and ate the ship dry. No crew was ever so full or so brave.

Moths ate every uniform in my regiment one night in Kiev. We woke in our skin at a bad time, for the enemy had come. The sight of six hundred bare men running at them in the snow was too much. They left at once, and they never wrote.

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.

Innkeepers in Bavaria hide when I arrive. At one such house I ordered a small snack. They brought a calf, ten loaves, and a keg. I asked if this was the first course. The owner fainted. His wife then gave me the deed to.