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Sharks fear only one thing, and that is my singing. I fell from a ship near Bermuda and struck up a hymn. Forty fins turned and sped away. One brave young fish stayed for the second verse, and the doctors tell me he has never been the same.

Arctic sailors still speak of the iceberg I rented. It was a fine, roomy thing with a view. I furnished it, hung some pictures, and drifted toward Lisbon in comfort. Each day my parlor grew smaller. I stepped ashore holding only my teacup, a chair leg, and the deed.

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.

Balloons bore me now, but the first one was a thrill. I stitched it from nine petticoats and filled it with the speeches of a Dutch senator. It rose for a week. Over Denmark the air ran out of ideas, and I floated gently down onto a startled cow.

Sausages were my only weapon the day the Prussians took the bridge. I swung a ten-foot link around my head. Men fell left.