The farm is perfectly delightful this season.  It is as quiet and peaceful as a South Sea Island.  Some of the sunsets which we have witnessed from this commanding eminence were marvelous.  One evening a rainbow spanned an entire range of hills with its mighty arch, and from a black hub resting upon the hill-top in the exact centre, black rays diverged upward in perfect regularity to the rainbow’s arch and created a very strongly defined and altogether the most majestic, magnificent and startling half-sunk wagon wheel you can imagine.  After that, a world of tumbling and prodigious clouds came drifting up out of the West and took to themselves a wonderfully rich and brilliant green color—­the decided green of new spring foliage.  Close by them we saw the intense blue of the skies, through rents in the cloud-rack, and away off in another quarter were drifting clouds of a delicate pink color.  In one place hung a pall of dense black clouds, like compacted pitch-smoke.  And the stupendous wagon wheel was still in the supremacy of its unspeakable grandeur.  So you see, the colors present in the sky at once and the same time were blue, green, pink, black, and the vari-colored splendors of the rainbow.  All strong and decided colors, too.  I don’t know whether this weird and astounding spectacle most suggested heaven, or hell.  The wonder, with its constant, stately, and always surprising changes, lasted upwards of two hours, and we all stood on the top of the hill by my study till the final miracle was complete and the greatest day ended that we ever saw.

Our farmer, who is a grave man, watched that spectacle to the end, and then observed that it was “dam funny.”

The double-barreled novel lies torpid.  I found I could not go on with it.  The chapters I had written were still too new and familiar to me.  I may take it up next winter, but cannot tell yet; I waited and waited to see if my interest in it would not revive, but gave it up a month ago and began another boys’ book—­more to be at work than anything else.  I have written 400 pages on it—­therefore it is very nearly half done.  It is Huck Finn’s Autobiography.  I like it only tolerably well, as far as I have got, and may possibly pigeonhole or burn the Ms when it is done.

So the comedy is done, and with a “fair degree of satisfaction.”  That rejoices me, and makes me mad, too—­for I can’t plan a comedy, and what have you done that God should be so good to you?  I have racked myself baldheaded trying to plan a comedy harness for some promising characters of mine to work in, and had to give it up.  It is a noble lot of blooded stock and worth no end of money, but they must stand in the stable and be profitless.  I want to be present when the comedy is produced and help enjoy the success.

Warner’s book is mighty readable, I think. 
                         Love to yez. 
                              Yrs ever
          
                                   Mark