Do you know the prettiest fancy and the neatest that ever shot through Harte’s brain?  It was this.  When they were trying to decide upon a vignette cover for the Overland a grizzly bear (of the arms of the State of California) was chosen.  Nahl Bros. carved him and the page was printed with him in it.

As a bear he was a success.  He was a good bear, but then, it was objected, he was an objectless bear—­a bear that meant nothing, signified nothing, simply stood there, snarling over his shoulder at nothing, and was painfully and manifestly a boorish and ill-natured intruder upon the fair page.  All hands said that none were satisfied; they hated badly to give him up, and yet they hated as much to have him there when there was no point to him.  But presently Harte took a pencil and drew two simple lines under his feet, and behold he was a magnificent success!—­the ancient symbol of California savagery, snarling at the approaching type of high and progressive civilization, the first Overland locomotive!  I just think that was nothing less than an inspiration.—­[The “bear” was that which has always appeared on the Overland cover; the “two lines” formed a railway track under his feet.  Clemens’s original letter contained crude sketches illustrating these things.]

Among the Boston group was another Californian, Ralph Keeler, an eccentric, gifted, and altogether charming fellow, whom Clemens had known on the Pacific slope.  Keeler had been adopted by the Boston writers, and was grateful and happy accordingly.  He was poor of purse, but inexhaustibly rich in the happier gifts of fortune.  He was unfailingly buoyant, light-hearted, and hopeful.  On an infinitesimal capital he had made a tour of many lands, and had written of it for the Atlantic.  In that charmed circle he was as overflowingly happy as if he had been admitted to the company of the gods.  Keeler was affectionately regarded by all who knew him, and he offered a sort of worship in return.  He often accompanied Mark Twain on his lecture engagements to the various outlying towns, and Clemens brought him back to his hotel for breakfast, where they had good, enjoyable talks together.  Once Keeler came eagerly to the hotel and made his way up to Clemens’s room.

“Come with me,” he said.  “Quick!”

“What is it?  What’s happened?”

“Don’t wait to talk.  Come with me.”

They tramped briskly through the streets till they reached the public library, entered, Keeler leading the way, not stopping till he faced a row of shelves filled with books.  He pointed at one of them, his face radiant with joy.

“Look,” he said.  “Do you see it?”

Clemens looked carefully now and identified one of the books as a still-born novel which Keeler had published.

“This is a library,” said Keeler, eagerly, “and they’ve got it!”

His whole being was aglow with the wonder of it.  He had been investigating; the library records showed that in the two years the book had been there it had been taken out and read three times!  It never occurred to Clemens even to smile.  Knowing Mark Twain, one would guess that his eyes were likely to be filled with tears.