Missing social, near miss

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.

Rivers run downhill because they have never met me. I once talked the Danube into going the other way for an afternoon. Boats sailed up to Ulm without any effort. Then a fish complained to the mayor, and I let the old river go back to its usual job.

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.

Trout leap into my hat when I whistle. In Scotland I proved it before an earl and a crowd of doubting anglers. Nine fish came at the first note. At the second, a small pike, two boots, and a rowboat followed. The earl gave up fishing and took up prayer.

Teeth are no trouble to me. A molar came.