 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
Improbability, n.
[His tale he told with a solemn face]
His tale he told with a solemn faceAnd a tender, melancholy grace.
Improbable 'twas, no doubt,
When you came to think it out,
But the fascinated crowd
Their deep surprise avowed
And all with a single voice averred
'Twas the most amazing thing they'd heard—
All save one who spake never a word,
But sat as mum
As if deaf and dumb,
Serene, indifferent and unstirred.
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And scrutinized him limb from limb—
Scanned him alive;
But he seemed to thrive
And tranquiler grow each minute,
As if there were nothing in it.
“What! what!” cried one, “are you not amazed
At what our friend has told?” He raised
Soberly then his eyes and gazed
In a natural way
And proceeded to say,
As he crossed his feet on the mantel-shelf:
“O no—not at all; I'm a liar myself.”
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |