a little dog like that have a run out here when nobody is around.” “Sure it’s a temptation,” I replied, “but it is against the law.” “Well, a little dog like that isn’t going to harm anybody,” the policeman remonstrated. "No, but he may kill squirrels,” I said. “Well now, I think you are taking this a bit too seriously,” he told me. “I’ll tell you what you do. You just let him run over the hill there where I can’t see him - and we’ll forget all about it.” That policeman, being human, wanted a feeling of importance; so when I began to condemn myself, the only way he could nourish his self-esteem was to take the magnanimous attitude of showing mercy. But suppose I had tried to defend myself - well, did you ever argue with a policeman? But instead of breaking lances with him, I admitted that he was absolutely right and I was absolutely wrong; I admitted it quickly, openly, and with enthusiasm. The affair terminated graciously in my taking his side and his taking my side. Lord Chesterfield himself could hardly have been more gracious than this mounted policeman, who, only a week previously, had threatened to have the law on me. If we know we are going to be rebuked anyhow, isn’t it far better to beat the other person to it and do it ourselves? Isn’t it much easier to listen to self-criticism than to bear condemnation from alien lips? Say about yourself all the derogatory things you know the other person is thinking or wants to say or intends to say - and say them before that person has a chance to say them. The chances are a hundred to one that a generous, forgiving attitude will be taken and your mistakes will be minimized just as the mounted policeman did with me and Rex. Ferdinand E. Warren, a commercial artist, used this technique to win the good will of a petulant, scolding buyer of art.
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