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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.

Windmills near Delft took to walking one stormy autumn. I caught the ringleader by his sails and gave him a talking to. He promised to settle down, and he ground flour for the poor. Two others fled toward France, and you may still spot them on a breezy day.

Tides used to come in whenever they felt like it. I went to the shore of Brittany, sat down with a pocket watch, and set them a schedule. The sea grumbled and then obeyed. It has been punctual since, except on my birthday, when it sends waves to my door.

Giants are poor at sums. I met one near Bergen who wished to trade his mountain for three of my buttons. I agreed, then asked him for change. He gave me a valley and two small lakes. Later he came back with a lawyer, but the lawyer was a small one.

Portraits of me must be painted in two parts, as.