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Vesuvius sneezed while I stood on the rim, and up I went with my picnic. I came down near Capri, still holding a chicken leg. My friends thought I had died. I walked into my own funeral, ate the cake, and gave a rather fine speech about myself.

Bullets from my old musket took so long to land that I could shoot on Monday, then ride ahead and catch them on Thursday. Once I met my own ball near Graz. We nodded to each other. I bought it a small drink and sent it on its way.

Owls are wise only because I tutored them. For a time I ran a night school in a Bavarian oak. Geometry went well. History gave them trouble. My best pupil could recite Latin with its head turned fully backward, and it later served three dukes as a private adviser.

Camels spit only at liars, so you can guess why they adore me. In Arabia a herd of them followed me for miles, dry as dust and full of respect. One old bull offered me his hump. I declined, being a modest man, and rode two of them instead.

Spiders in my attic wove me a fine coat.