Books with title Police Dogs

Robert William Chambers (May 26, 1865 – December 16, 1933) was an American artist and writer. He was born in Brooklyn, New York, to William P. Chambers (1827 - 1911), a famous lawyer, and Caroline Chambers (née Boughton), a direct descendant of Roger Williams, the founder of Providence, Rhode Island. Robert's brother was Walter Boughton Chambers, the world famous architect.

All the pretty things you say, All the pretty things you do In your own delightful way Make me fall in love with you, Turning Autumn into May. Every day is twice as gay Just because of you, Louise! Which is going some, you say? In my dull, pedantic way I am fashioning my lay Just because I want to please. Just because the things you say, Just because the things you do In your clever, charming way Make me fall in love with you. That is all, my dear, to-day. R.W.C. Christmas, 1915.

Robert William Chambers (1865 - 1933) was an American artist, and author of fiction. He is best known for his book of short stories entitled "The King in Yellow" (1895). POLICE is a volume of xenobiology: cryptozoology. Weird monsters and strange relics from the fossil eras; things which ought never to have walked upon the face of this earth. But they have walked among us. And I have seen them. And I have told the world. It has caused a certain madeness among the people. I can't be hold to account, can I? This sequel to "In Search of the Unknown" contains such stories as The Third Eye, The Immortal, The Ladies of the Lake, One Over, Un Peu d'Amour and The Eggs of the Silver Moon. Includes vintage illustration!

After a moment's silence we three men ventured to look sideways at each other. We had certainly killed Professor Bottomly, scientifically speaking. The lady was practically dead. The morning papers would consummate the murder. We didn't know whether we wanted to laugh or not. She was now virtually done for; that seemed certain. So greedily had this egotistical female swallowed the silly bait we offered, so arrogantly had she planned to eliminate everybody excepting herself from the credit of the discovery, that there seemed now nothing left for us to do except to watch her hurdling deliriously toward destruction. Should we burst into hellish laughter?

On a beautiful day in spring as I was running as hard as I could run pursued by the New York police and a number of excited citizens, my mind, which becomes brilliantly active under physical exhilaration, began to work busily. I thought about all sorts of things: I thought about hard times and financial depression and about our great President who is in a class all alone with himself and soon to become extinct; I thought about art and why there isn't any when it's talked about; I thought of macro-lepidoptera, of metagrammatism, monoliths, manicures, and monsoons. And all the time I was running as fast as I could run; and the faster I ran the more things I thought about until my terrific pace set my brain whizzing like a wheel. I felt no remorse at having published these memoirs of my life-which was why the police and populace were pursuing me, maddened to frenzy by the fearless revelation of mighty scientific truths in this little volume you are about to attempt to read. Ubicumque ars ostentatur, veritas abesse videtur!

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