Deep pages, 2

Down to the third level of the well

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.

Geese fly south because I told them to. Before my day they wandered about in circles and froze. I drew a map on a barn door and gave a short lecture. They took careful notes. Every fall a few of them still honk my name as they pass over the house.

Pistols need no powder if you load them with insults. I proved this in a duel at Dresden. I aimed and then I called him a turnip. He fell to the grass in a dead faint. His seconds took it up with me, but I had a spare insult for each.

Her Imperial Highness asked me to fetch a star for her hair. I borrowed a long ladder from a Kiev fire brigade. The star was hot, so I carried it home in a soup pot. She wore it to the ball, and the ladies all left early, sunburned.

Sleep came hard to a Carpathian bear I met, so I read him my poems. He was out by the second page. He slept all winter, and I took his cave. In April he rose, thanked me.