That this is a fair statement of the Clemens home, and the truest picture of Mark Twain at fifty that has been preserved, cannot be doubted.  His hair was iron-gray, not entirely white at this time, the auburn tints everywhere mingled with the shining white that later would mantle it like a silver crown.  He did not look young for his years, but he was still young, always young—­indestructibly young in spirit and bodily vigor.  Susy tells how that summer he blew soap-bubbles for the children, filling the bubbles with tobacco smoke; how he would play with the cats, and come clear down from his study on the hill to see how “Sour Mash,” then a kitten, was getting along; also how he wrote a poem for Jean’s donkey, Cadichon (which they made Kiditchin):  She quotes the poem: 

Kiditchin

O du lieb’ Kiditchin
Du bist ganz bewitchin,
Waw- — — -he!

In summer days Kiditchin
Thou’rt dear from nose to britchin
Waw——­he!

No dought thoult get a switchin
When for mischief thou’rt itchin’
Waw- — — -he!

But when you’re good Kiditchin
You shall feast in James’s kitchin
Waw- — — -he!

O now lift up thy song
Thy noble note prolong
Thou living Chinese gong! 
Waw—–­he! waw—–­he waw
Sweetest donkey man ever saw.

Clemens undertook to ride Kiditchin one day, to show the children how it should be done, but Kiditchin resented this interference and promptly flung him over her head.  He thought she might have been listening to the poem he had written of her.

Susy’s discovery that the secret of her biography was known is shown by the next entry, and the touch of severity in it was probably not entirely unconscious: 

Papa said the other day, “I am a mugwump and a mugwump is pure from the marrow out.” (Papa knows that I am writing this biography of him, and he said this for it.) He doesn’t like to go to church at all, why I never understood, until just now.  He told us the other day that he couldn’t bear to hear anyone talk but himself, but that he could listen to himself talk for hours without getting tired, of course he said this in joke, but I’ve no doubt it was founded on truth.

Susy’s picture of life at Quarry Farm at this period is realistic and valuable—­too valuable to be spared from this biography: 

There are eleven cats at the farm here now.  Papa’s favorite is a little tortoise-shell kitten he has named “Sour Mash,” and a little spotted one “Fannie.”  It is very pretty to see what papa calls the cat procession; it was formed in this way.  Old Minniecat headed, (the mother of all the cats) next to her came aunt Susie, then Clara on the donkey, accompanied by a pile of cats, then papa and Jean hand in hand and a pile of cats brought up in the rear, mama and I made up the audience.

Our varius occupations are as follows.