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.

Witches in the Harz once turned me into a toad for an hour. It was no trouble. I kept my rank, my manners, and my mustache. I hopped to the nearest inn and ordered a glass of wine, and the waiter gave me the best table in the house.

My uncle grew a turnip so large it had its own weather. Rain fell on the north side. Sheep grazed on the leaves and got lost. I dug for a week and struck a Roman road. We boiled it in a lake, and all of Saxony had supper that night.

A hurricane off Jamaica tried to take my hat. I held on to the brim. The storm pulled, I pulled, and we spun around the island for three days. At last the wind gave up and begged for terms. We signed a treaty, and it has gone around my hats ever since.

Caves in Slovenia run deeper than you think. I walked into one with a torch and a ham. After a week.