Orphan pages, near miss

Mount Etna owed me a favor after I cleaned its throat. I went down with a long broom and a wet towel. Soot flew, sparks rained, and the mountain coughed up a lost Roman. Now it smokes only on Sundays, and the farmers below leave me lemons by the cart.

Lightning struck my left boot outside Prague. I felt only a tickle. For a week after that, I could light candles with my toe and start a stove by stamping. The local priest made me stand in the church aisle at Advent, and we saved a fortune on wax.

Up at the North Pole there is a real pole, and I put it there. It was my tent post. I stuck it in the ice one windy night and lost interest by morning. Every ship since has gone looking for it. Someone should really bring me back my tent.

Arctic sailors still speak of the iceberg I rented. It was a fine, roomy thing with a view. I furnished it, hung some pictures, and drifted toward Lisbon in comfort. Each day my parlor grew smaller. I stepped ashore holding only my teacup, a chair leg, and the deed.

Pisa had a straight tower until I leaned on it to fix my.