the neighborhood through which I pass on my way to work, has
suggested the necessary association, or has started the right
train of recollections, and then the story appeared to begin of
its own accord. Occasionally the most casual notice, on my part,
of some very unpromising object has smoothed the way for the
relation of a long and interesting narrative. I first heard one
of the most dramatic of the stories that will be presented in
this book, merely through being carelessly inquisitive to know
the history of a stuffed poodle-dog.

It is thus not without reason that I lay some stress on the
desirableness of prefacing each one of the following narratives
by a brief account of the curious manner in which I became
possessed of it. As to my capacity for repeating these stories
correctly, I can answer for it that my memory may be trusted. I
may claim it as a merit, because it is after all a mechanical
one, that I forget nothing, and that I can call long-passed
conversations and events as readily to my recollection as if they
had happened but a few weeks ago. Of two things at least I feel
tolerably certain beforehand, in meditating over the contents of
this book: First, that I can repeat correctly all that I have
heard; and, secondly, that I have never missed anything worth
hearing when my sitters were addressing me on an interesting
subject. Although I cannot take the lead in talking while I am
engaged in painting, I can listen while others speak, and work
all the better for it.

So much in the way of general preface to the pages for which I am
about to ask the reader's attention. Let me now advance to
particulars, and describe how I came to hear the first story in