Missing image dimensions, near miss

Sea serpents are shy and prone to tears. I met one near the Hebrides and told it a sad tale about my horse. It wept a fresh lake. We talked for nine hours. I tied its neck in a bow, at its own request, and it thanked me warmly.

Holes in Swiss cheese are my doing. Long ago, each wheel came solid as a brick. I took my musket to a dairy in Bern and fired at them for sport. The farmer wept, until the buyers came. They paid double for the holes, and I have billed the canton ever since.

Dice betrayed me only once, in a game with a small red gentleman near Lemberg. I lost my hat and won his tail. We traded back at dawn, since it did not suit either of us. He still writes each New Year, and his handwriting is dreadful.

Libraries tremble when I come to write. My memoir ran so long that the pages filled three barns. A mule ate chapter nine and then began to boast about his courage. He is now a colonel in the Saxon army, and I am told he does it well.

Ants carried off my dinner table in Ceylon with me still seated at.