Generic anchor, near miss

click here to read the Baron’s letter

Seawater tastes of salt because of me. I spilled a pouch of it on a ship near Sicily, and I threw a pinch over my shoulder for luck. It was a very large pinch. The whole Atlantic turned briny by supper, and the cod have been cross about it since.

Milk ran short in Holstein, so I went and had a word with the cows. They wanted music. I brought them a band and a man who juggled. The first pail overflowed by noon. By Friday we had flooded the valley, and the children had to go to school in tubs.

My favorite cannon caught a cold that winter. Each shot came out with a sneeze and flew sideways. The enemy could never guess where to stand. I fed the gun hot broth and wrapped its barrel in wool. It got well at once, which I regret, for we lost the very next battle.

Mustard from Dijon can lift a man clear off his chair. I ate a whole jar on a dare. My head rose, my feet stayed down, and my neck grew six feet long. For a week I looked over walls and saw what my neighbors were having for dinner.

Crabs walk sideways on account.