So, lying down,
with his eyes fixed upon the great stone griffin, he gradually
declined, and died. It was a good thing for some people of the town
that they did not know this.
If you should ever visit the old town, you would still see the little
griffins on the sides of the church; but the great stone griffin that
was over the door is gone.
NOTE: [1] Written in 1887. This story is used by permission of and
special arrangement with _Charles Scribner's Sons_, publishers.
BIOGRAPHY
Frank Richard Stockton, one of America's foremost story-tellers and
humorists, was born in Philadelphia in 1834. His father was a
Presbyterian minister who devoutly wished that his son might study
medicine. This wish was shattered early, for the son showed symptoms
of being a writer while yet in the Central High School of
Philadelphia. In competition with many of his schoolmates for a prize
offered for the best story, young Stockton won easily.
After finishing his high school course, he adopted the profession of
wood-engraver. Although he earned his living for several years by
carving wood, he never lost his desire to write, and practised, at
every spare moment, his favorite avocation. It was this careful and
patient training during his apprenticeship that finally made him the
expert story-teller that he is. It is very interesting to any one who
cares for the acquirement of an excellent style to note how all the
authors contained in this text have had to work with almost a
superhuman force to reach the heights of successful short-story
writing.
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