I will carry your letter to Mrs. C. now, and there will be a glad woman,
I tell you!  And she shall find one of those pictures to put in this for
Mrs. Barclays and if there isn’t one here we’ll send right away to
Hartford and get one.  Come over, Doctor John, and bring the Barclays,
the Nicolsons and the Browns, one and all! 
                         Affectionately,
                                        SAML.  L. Clemens.

From May until August no letters appear to have passed between Clemens and Howells; the latter finally wrote, complaining of the lack of news.  He was in the midst of campaign activities, he said, writing a life of Hayes, and gaily added:  “You know I wrote the life of Lincoln, which elected him.”  He further reported a comedy he had completed, and gave Clemens a general stirring up as to his own work.

Mark Twain, in his hillside study, was busy enough.  Summer was his time for work, and he had tried his hand in various directions.  His mention of Huck Finn in his reply to Howells is interesting, in that it shows the measure of his enthusiasm, or lack of it, as a gauge of his ultimate achievement

To W. D. Howells, in Boston: 

Elmira, Aug. 9, 1876.  My dear Howells,—­I was just about to write you when your letter came —­and not one of those obscene postal cards, either, but reverently, upon paper.

I shall read that biography, though the letter of acceptance was amply sufficient to corral my vote without any further knowledge of the man.  Which reminds me that a campaign club in Jersey City wrote a few days ago and invited me to be present at the raising of a Tilden and Hendricks flag there, and to take the stand and give them some “counsel.”  Well, I could not go, but gave them counsel and advice by letter, and in the kindliest terms as to the raising of the flag—­advised them “not to raise it.”

Get your book out quick, for this is a momentous time.  If Tilden is elected I think the entire country will go pretty straight to—­Mrs. Howells’s bad place.

I am infringing on your patent—­I started a record of our children’s sayings, last night.  Which reminds me that last week I sent down and got Susie a vast pair of shoes of a most villainous pattern, for I discovered that her feet were being twisted and cramped out of shape by a smaller and prettier article.  She did not complain, but looked degraded and injured.  At night her mamma gave her the usual admonition when she was about to say her prayers—­to wit: 

“Now, Susie—­think about God.”

“Mamma, I can’t, with those shoes.”