Story-telling in Texas was so popular that at times it interfered with religion. The pioneer Baptist preacher, Z. N. Morrell, relates in his autobiographic _Flowers and Fruits in the Wilderness_ (Dallas, 1886) that on one occasion while he was preaching in a log cabin in East Texas his sermon was drowned by the voices of men outside “telling anecdotes.” After an ineffectual reprimand, the preacher finally told his interrupters that if they would give him a chance he would tell an anecdote and that then, if it was not better than any of theirs, he would “take down his sign and listen to them.” They agreed to the challenge. The anecdote he proceeded to relate about Sam Houston and the battle of San Jacinto won him the right to keep on talking without interruption. The triumph was but a repetition of David Crockett’s election to Congress through his b’ar stories. An anecdote is not by any means necessarily a windy, but people who cultivate the art of oral narration will sooner or later indulge in exaggerative invention. Some candidate for the Ph.D. degree should write a thesis on the interrelationship of the anecdote, the tall tale, and the short story in America. What is probably the most widely known story that the nation has produced, “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County,” is all three--and it is mostly just a yarn in which the frontier character, Jim Smiley, character being the essence of good anecdote, is more important than the frog. Sixty years or so ago at Covey’s college for ranch boys, located at Concrete, Texas, near Cuero, the “scholars” organized a liar’s club. According to the rules of the club every boy present at a session must tell a story. The teller of what was adjudged the best yarn was habitually awarded as a prize a dozen hot tamales cooked by one of the Mexican women about the premises. One night a certain lad of few words who had been drawn into the club was called upon to contribute. “Wall,” he drawled, “I was raised away out in the bresh up whur I never heared nobody talk, and I jes’ ain’t got no story to tell.” “Oh, go on and tell something,” the other club members urged. “No,” the diffident youth remonstrated, “it ain’t no use fer me to try to make up anything. I jest can’t do it. I’ve been a-trying to figger up something while you all was telling your stories, and the pump won’t even prime.” There was more urging and encouraging. But still the boy from up the creek hung back. As a member of the club, however, he simply had to tell something--or “take the leggins.” Finally the leader of the group suggested, “I guess we can let you off from lying if you’re so much like George Washington. Just go ahead and tell us about some interesting happening. It don’t have to be a lie.”