An infinite number of mathematicians are standing behind a bar. The first asks the barman for half a pint of beer, the second for a quarter pint, the third an eighth, and so on. How many pints of beer will the barman need to fulfill all mathematicians' wishes?
I run over fields and woods all day. Under the bed at night I sit, never alone. My tongue hangs out, up and to the rear, waiting to be filled in the morning. What am I?
I heard of an invading, vanquishing army sweeping across the land, liquid-quick; conquering everything, quelling resistance. With it came darkness, dimming the light. Humans hid in their houses, while outside spears pierced, shattering stones walls. Uncountable soldiers smashed into the ground, but each elicited life as he died. When the army had vanished, advancing northward, the land was gree and growing, refresh.
