much admired, I ask questions.
It was told in the New York World, July 29, 1908—many petty robberies, in the neighborhood of Lincoln Avenue, Pittsburgh—detectives detailed to catch the thief. Early in the morning of July 26th, a big, black dog sauntered past them. “Good morning!” said the dog. He disappeared in a thin, greenish vapor.
There will be readers who will want to know what I mean by turning down this story, while accepting so many others in this book.
It is because I never write about marvels. The wonderful, or the never-before-heard-of, I leave to whimsical, or radical, fellows. All books written by me are of quite ordinary occurrences.
If, say sometime in the year 1847, a New Orleans newspaper told of a cat, who said: “Well, is it warm enough for you?” and instantly disappeared sulphurously, as should everybody who says that; and, if I had a clipping, dated sometime in the year 1930, telling of a mouse, who squeaked: “I was along this way, and thought I’d drop in,” and vanished along a trail of purple sparklets; and something similar from the St. Helena Guardian, Aug. 17, 1905; and something like that from the Madras Mail, year 1879—I’d consider the story of the polite dog no marvel, and I’d admit him to our fold.
But it is not that I take numerous repetitions, as a standard for admission—
The fellow who found the pearl in the oyster stew—the old fiddle that turned out to be a Stradivarius—the ring that was lost in a lake, and then what was found when a fish was caught—
But these often repeated yarns are conventional yarns.
And almost all liars are conventionalists.
The one quality that the lower animals have not in common with human beings is creative imagination. Neither a man, nor a dog, nor an oyster ever has had any. Of course there is another view, by which is seen that there is in everything a touch of creativeness. I cannot say that truth is stranger than fiction, because I have never had acquaintance with either. Though I have classed myself with some noted fictionists, I have to accept that the absolute fictionist never has existed. There is a fictional coloration to everybody’s account of an “actual occurrence,” and there is at least the lurk somewhere of what is called the “actual” in everybody’s yarn. There is the hyphenated state of truth-fiction. Out of dozens of reported pearls in stews, most likely there have been instances; most likely once upon a time an old fiddle did turn out to be a Stradivarius; and it could be that once upon a time somebody did get a ring back fishwise.
But when I come upon the unconventional repeating, in times and places far apart, I feel—even though I have no absolute standards to judge by—that I am outside the field of ordinary liars.
Even in the matter of the talking dog, I think that the writer probably had something to base upon. Perhaps he had heard of talking dogs. It is not that I think it impossible that detectives could meet a dog, who would say: “Good morning!” That’s no marvel. It is “Good morning!” and disappearing in the thin, greenish vapor that I am making such a time about. In the New York Herald Tribune, Feb. 21, 1928, there was an account of a French bulldog, owned by Mrs. Mabel Robinson, of Bangor, Maine. He could distinctly say: “Hello!” Mrs. J. Stuart Tompkins, 101 West 85th Street, New York, read of this animal, and called up the Herald Tribune, telling of her dog, a Great Dane, who was at least equally accomplished. A reporter went to interview the dog, and handed him a piece of candy. “Thank you!” said the dog.
In the city of Northampton, England—see Lloyd’s Weekly News (London), March 2, 1912—a detective chased a burglar who had entered a hardware store. The burglar got away. The detective went back, and got into the store. There were objects hanging on hooks, overhead. “By coincidence,” just as the detective passed under one of them, it fell. It was a
It was told in the New York World, July 29, 1908—many petty robberies, in the neighborhood of Lincoln Avenue, Pittsburgh—detectives detailed to catch the thief. Early in the morning of July 26th, a big, black dog sauntered past them. “Good morning!” said the dog. He disappeared in a thin, greenish vapor.
There will be readers who will want to know what I mean by turning down this story, while accepting so many others in this book.
It is because I never write about marvels. The wonderful, or the never-before-heard-of, I leave to whimsical, or radical, fellows. All books written by me are of quite ordinary occurrences.
If, say sometime in the year 1847, a New Orleans newspaper told of a cat, who said: “Well, is it warm enough for you?” and instantly disappeared sulphurously, as should everybody who says that; and, if I had a clipping, dated sometime in the year 1930, telling of a mouse, who squeaked: “I was along this way, and thought I’d drop in,” and vanished along a trail of purple sparklets; and something similar from the St. Helena Guardian, Aug. 17, 1905; and something like that from the Madras Mail, year 1879—I’d consider the story of the polite dog no marvel, and I’d admit him to our fold.
But it is not that I take numerous repetitions, as a standard for admission—
The fellow who found the pearl in the oyster stew—the old fiddle that turned out to be a Stradivarius—the ring that was lost in a lake, and then what was found when a fish was caught—
But these often repeated yarns are conventional yarns.
And almost all liars are conventionalists.
The one quality that the lower animals have not in common with human beings is creative imagination. Neither a man, nor a dog, nor an oyster ever has had any. Of course there is another view, by which is seen that there is in everything a touch of creativeness. I cannot say that truth is stranger than fiction, because I have never had acquaintance with either. Though I have classed myself with some noted fictionists, I have to accept that the absolute fictionist never has existed. There is a fictional coloration to everybody’s account of an “actual occurrence,” and there is at least the lurk somewhere of what is called the “actual” in everybody’s yarn. There is the hyphenated state of truth-fiction. Out of dozens of reported pearls in stews, most likely there have been instances; most likely once upon a time an old fiddle did turn out to be a Stradivarius; and it could be that once upon a time somebody did get a ring back fishwise.
But when I come upon the unconventional repeating, in times and places far apart, I feel—even though I have no absolute standards to judge by—that I am outside the field of ordinary liars.
Even in the matter of the talking dog, I think that the writer probably had something to base upon. Perhaps he had heard of talking dogs. It is not that I think it impossible that detectives could meet a dog, who would say: “Good morning!” That’s no marvel. It is “Good morning!” and disappearing in the thin, greenish vapor that I am making such a time about. In the New York Herald Tribune, Feb. 21, 1928, there was an account of a French bulldog, owned by Mrs. Mabel Robinson, of Bangor, Maine. He could distinctly say: “Hello!” Mrs. J. Stuart Tompkins, 101 West 85th Street, New York, read of this animal, and called up the Herald Tribune, telling of her dog, a Great Dane, who was at least equally accomplished. A reporter went to interview the dog, and handed him a piece of candy. “Thank you!” said the dog.
In the city of Northampton, England—see Lloyd’s Weekly News (London), March 2, 1912—a detective chased a burglar who had entered a hardware store. The burglar got away. The detective went back, and got into the store. There were objects hanging on hooks, overhead. “By coincidence,” just as the detective passed under one of them, it fell. It was a
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