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Excerpt: 'It is an odd thing, chance-the one element to baffle the logician and make the scheming of the wisest look as foolish in the long run as the sandy citadel a child builds upon the shore without any thought of the incoming tide. A strange thing, chance; and but for chance I might this day be the sheriff of a shire, my head stuffed with the tangled phrase and sentiment of interlocutors, or maybe no more than an advocate overlooked, sitting in John's Coffeehouse in Edinburgh-a moody soured man with a jug of claret, and cursing the inconsistencies of preferment to office. I might have…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
Excerpt: 'It is an odd thing, chance-the one element to baffle the logician and make the scheming of the wisest look as foolish in the long run as the sandy citadel a child builds upon the shore without any thought of the incoming tide. A strange thing, chance; and but for chance I might this day be the sheriff of a shire, my head stuffed with the tangled phrase and sentiment of interlocutors, or maybe no more than an advocate overlooked, sitting in John's Coffeehouse in Edinburgh-a moody soured man with a jug of claret, and cursing the inconsistencies of preferment to office. I might have been that, or less, if it had not been for so trifling a circumstance as the burning of an elderly woman's batch of scones. Had Mistress Grant a more attentive eye to her Culross griddle, what time the scones for her lodgers, breakfast were a-baking forty years ago, I would never have fled furth my native land in a mortal terror of the gallows: had her griddle, say, been higher on the swee-chain by a link or two, Paul Greig would never have foregathered with Dan Risk, the blackguard skipper of a notorious craft; nor pined in a foreign jail; nor connived, unwitting, at a prince's murder; nor marched the weary leagues of France and fought there on a beggar's wage. And this is not all that hung that long-gone day upon a woman's stair-head gossip to the neglect of her cuisine, for had this woman been more diligent at her baking I had probably never seen my Isobel with a lover's eye.'

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Autorenporträt
Neil Munro was a Scottish journalist, newspaper editor, author, and literary critic, born on June 3, 1863, in Scotland. Munro is now best known for his humorous short stories, which he initially wrote under the pen name Hugh Foulis. Although he began his career as a serious writer, it is his lighthearted and witty works that have earned him lasting recognition. Throughout his life, Munro contributed significantly to the literary scene, balancing his work as a journalist and editor with his passion for writing fiction. He was deeply involved in the literary world and worked on various newspapers and publications. His writing often reflected his keen observation of human nature and the social dynamics of his time. Munro's legacy is marked by his ability to blend humor with insightful commentary on society, creating stories that continue to resonate with readers. He passed away on December 22, 1930, at the age of 67 in Craigendoran, Helensburgh, United Kingdom. His daughter, Isabel Frances Munro, survived him.