something other than ourselves to blame for the embarrassing stuff we feelcompelled to do. Yes sir, every time you find yourself serving the fruitcake-that-tastes-like-a-doorstop at Christmas, or saying, "Prithee, my comely wench, butmightst thou servest me an hotte dogge with ye workes?" at a local Ren Faire, orfighting the neighborhood raccoons for property rights to a swiftly rotting jack-o'-lantern at Hallowe'en, or singing the Whiffenpoof Song at the big Harvard-Yalegame when you wouldn't know a whiffen if it poofed all over you, you can alwaysdefend your actions with the proud and clarion cry: "It's a tradition!"(You can also tryblaming it on your kids, if you prefer, but that won't work with the Whiffenpoof Song. Even kids aren't that gullible.)Now here at the Chicks in Chainmail series of hard-hitting and culturally enrichedanthologies, we've got a little tradition of our own. We call it Blaming Someone forthe Title of the Current Book. Your humble and obedient editor took fullresponsibility—and rightly so—for the series concept as well as for the title of thefirst book, but since then, although the concept has remained true and fixed as thepole star, the blame for the titles of individual volumes in the series has goneskipping merrily hither, thither, and yon.So let it be known, now and for all time,that the person who came up with the title for this one is Mr. Robin Wayne Bailey of Kansas City, Missouri, a fine writer and a great American. (He also has a story in thisanthology, but please note that there is no connection between coming up with atitle for our fourth Chicks book and getting a story accepted. None. So don't gogetting any erroneous ideas. Thank you.)Now that we've settled that, I'd like toshare with you one of the joys of Editorhood. Recently, along with the rest of theChicks series fanmail, I received a rather . . . unique missive from a gentleman bythe name of Jeffrey Tolliver who resides in the great state of Ohio. With Mr. Tolliver'sconsent, I now share with you a brief description of the contents of his letter: Chicksin chain mail. Yes, that's right, your eyes have not betrayed you: Mr. Tolliver is atalented and creative maker of chain mail armor and so, inspired no doubt by theliterary splendors of this august series, he crafted chain mail for five (count 'em,five) stuffed chickens. Of the toy stuffed chicken variety. Chain mail on a roaststuffed chicken is just sick.I have photographic proof of this chicken bechain-mailing in my possession. Henamed them after the Dionne quintuplets and, in my opinion, they are darned cute.He also crafted two wonderful sets of chain mail for a pair of teddybears, Leif Bearicson and Bearic the Red and encourages us all to support our right to armbears.None of this is my fault either. I've got witnesses.With stuff like that happening in the so-called Real World, you would think that thecontributors to this volume of Chicks might be hard-pressed to outdo it on thestrange-and-wonderful scale, but they did. You'll find tales here by some RepeatOffenders as well as by some First-Timers. You'll also find characters who haveappeared in previous Chicks books cheek-by-jowl with new creations. Think of it asopening a box of chocolates, only without anyone doing a bad Forrest Gumpimitation. Make it a nice, big box of chocolates, while you're at it, Godiva forpreference, and go heavy on the cherry cordials. I hope you'll be pleased.Now before I free you to romp barefoot through the rest of this volume, I'd like totake a moment of your time for something serious: This book is dedicated to thememory of my mother, Beatrice Friesner, who passed away in the autumn of 1999.She went through the Depression, World War II, taught in a one-room schoolhouse inupstate New York before serving in the New York City public schools—junior and
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