Sausages were my only weapon the day the Prussians took the bridge. I swung a ten-foot link around my head. Men fell left and right, and their dogs changed sides. We won by dusk. The general gave me a sword, but I have always preferred the smoked kind.

Crocodiles on the Nile have poor teeth, and I was their first dentist. I propped the jaws open with my sword and went in with pliers up to my waist. Forty patients lined up on the bank. They paid in lost rings, old sandals, and one slightly chewed Egyptian prince.

Summer came late one year because the Sun overslept. I rode east and knocked on the horizon with my sword. A sleepy voice asked me for five more minutes. I gave it three. That was the shortest June on record, and the farmers of Hungary blamed me for the peas.

Venice sat on dry land until I came to town. The streets were dusty, and the mules were rude. I pulled one plug in a cellar near the Rialto. Water came up at once. People liked it. They bought small boats, sang loudly, and forgot to ask who had done it.

Turtles make slow ferries, but.