read much about the conversation of animals. I argued that if
animals conversed, why shouldn't inanimate things communicate with
each other? You cannot prove that animals don't converse--neither
can you prove that inanimate objects DO NOT. See?"

I was thunderstruck with the force of his logic.

"Of course," he continued, "there are degrees of intelligence, and
that makes it difficult. For instance, a mahogany table would not
talk like a rush-bottomed kitchen chair." He stopped suddenly,
listened, and replied, "I really couldn't say."

"I didn't speak," I said.

"I know YOU didn't. But your chair asked me 'how long that fool
was going to stay.' I replied as you heard. Pray don't move--I
intend to change that chair for one more accustomed to polite
society. To continue: I perfected myself in the language, and it
was awfully jolly at first. Whenever I went by train, I heard not
only all the engines said, but what every blessed carriage thought,
that joined in the conversation. If you chaps only knew what rot
those whistles can get off! And as for the brakes, they can beat
any mule driver in cursing. Then, after a time, it got rather
monotonous, and I took a short sea trip for my health. But, by
Jove, every blessed inch of the whole ship--from the screw to the
bowsprit--had something to say, and the bad language used by the
garboard strake when the ship rolled was something too awful! You
don't happen to know what the garboard strake is, do you?"

"No," I replied.