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Echoes in the Alps are lazy. I shouted my name at a cliff in Switzerland, and the answer did not arrive until the next spring. It came back a bit hoarse, with a slight French accent. Still, I was glad to hear from myself after so long a time.

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.

Mapmakers in Genoa begged me to stop moving islands. I only shifted two or three. One was in my way, and one had a bad smell. The third I gave to a girl in Malta as a birthday gift. It fit nicely in the bay outside her house.

Crabs walk sideways on account of a bet I won. Long ago they marched straight ahead like good soldiers. I wagered their king a bushel of clams that he could not pass a mirror without stopping. He turned to admire himself, got stuck that way, and his whole nation copied him.

Waterfalls need a firm hand. In the Canadian wilds I met a.