Missing canonical

Pancakes in Russia can serve as a roof. A widow near Tula made me one so wide that it shaded her whole yard. I tossed it for her, as a kindness. It came down on Saturday, over a village forty miles off, and the people there ate their way out.

Venice sat on dry land until I came to town. The streets were dusty, and the mules were rude. I pulled one plug in a cellar near the Rialto. Water came up at once. People liked it. They bought small boats, sang loudly, and forgot to ask who had done it.

Egypt owes its floods to my bathtub. I was washing near Aswan, in a tub carved from one block of stone, when I forgot to turn the tap. The Nile rose and the melons grew. A grateful local ruler sent me his thanks and a rather large bill for carpets.

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.

Frogs near Riga held a loud meeting under my window every June. I attended one and asked.