Canonical chain, near miss

Snow fell so deep in Russia that winter that I skied across the roofs of Moscow and never once saw the street. In April the drifts melted. Then I found I had been sleeping for months on top of a cathedral. The bishop charged me rent, and I paid him in icicles.

Yesterday my hat flew back after six years abroad. It had seen Peru. It smelled of llama, and it had a ticket stub in the band. I asked where it had been, but hats are shy about such things. I brushed it, forgave it, and wore it to church.

Barbers wept at the sight of my mustache. One side grew so long that I used it to moor a small boat in Naples. The other side I lent to a Greek fisherman for his nets. He caught tuna for a whole summer and returned it washed, combed, and slightly salty.

Starving out a fortress takes patience, which I have in great amounts. At Ismail we sat for a year. I got bored and began to bake. The smell of bread went over the wall. By evening the gates flew open, and they all stood in a line with butter.

Cats are not to be trusted with.