Susy was really growing up.  She had had several birthdays, quite grand affairs, when she had been brought down in the morning, decked, and with proper ceremonies, with subsequent celebration.  She was a strange, thoughtful child, much given to reflecting on the power and presence of infinity, for she was religiously taught.  Down in the city, one night, there was a grand display of fireworks, and the hilltop was a good place from which to enjoy it; but it grew late after a little, and Susy was ordered to bed.  She said, thoughtfully: 

“I wish I could sit up all night, as God does.”

The baby, whom they still called “Bay,” was a tiny, brown creature who liked to romp in the sun and be rocked to sleep at night with a song.  Clemens often took them for extended’ walks, pushing Bay in her carriage.  Once, in a preoccupied moment, he let go of the little vehicle and it started downhill, gaining speed rapidly.

He awoke then, and set off in wild pursuit.  Before he could overtake the runaway carriage it had turned to the roadside and upset.  Bay was lying among the stones and her head was bleeding.  Hastily binding the wound with a handkerchief he started full speed with her up the hill toward the house, calling for restoratives as he came.  It was no serious matter.  The little girl was strong and did not readily give way to affliction.

The children were unlike:  Susy was all contemplation and nerves; Bay serene and practical.  It was said, when a pet cat died—­this was some years later—­that Susy deeply reflected as to its life here and hereafter, while Bay was concerned only as to the style of its funeral.  Susy showed early her father’s quaintness of remark.  Once they bought her a heavier pair of shoes than she approved of.  She was not in the best of humors during the day, and that night, when at prayer-time her mother said, “Now, Susy, put your thoughts on God,” she answered, “Mama, I can’t with those shoes.”

Clemens worked steadily that summer and did a variety of things.  He had given up a novel, begun with much enthusiasm, but he had undertaken another long manuscript.  By the middle of August he had written several hundred pages of a story which was to be a continuation of Tam Sawyer —­The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  Now, here is a curious phase of genius.  The novel which for a time had filled him with enthusiasm and faith had no important literary value, whereas, concerning this new tale, he says: 

“I like it only tolerably well, as far as I have gone, and may possibly pigeonhole or burn the manuscript when it is done”—­this of the story which, of his books of pure fiction, will perhaps longest survive.  He did, in fact, give the story up, and without much regret, when it was about half completed, and let it lie unfinished for years.