As to churches, I believe they have got a Catholic one here, but like that one the New York fireman spoke of, I believe “they don’t run her now:”  Now, although we are surrounded by sand, the greatest part of the town is built upon what was once a very pretty grassy spot; and the streams of pure water that used to poke about it in rural sloth and solitude, now pass through on dusty streets and gladden the hearts of men by reminding them that there is at least something here that hath its prototype among the homes they left behind them.  And up “King’s Canon,” (please pronounce canyon, after the manner of the natives,) there are “ranches,” or farms, where they say hay grows, and grass, and beets and onions, and turnips, and other “truck” which is suitable for cows—­yes, and even Irish potatoes; also, cabbage, peas and beans.

The houses are mostly frame, unplastered, but “papered” inside with flour-sacks sewed together, and the handsomer the “brand” upon the sacks is, the neater the house looks.  Occasionally, you stumble on a stone house.  On account of the dryness of the country, the shingles on the houses warp till they look like short joints of stove pipe split lengthwise.

(Remainder missing.)

     In this letter is something of the “wild freedom of the West,” which
     later would contribute to his fame.  The spirit of the frontier—­of
     Mark Twain—­was beginning to stir him.

There had been no secretary work for him to do, and no provision for payment.  He found his profit in studying human nature and in prospecting native resources.  He was not interested in mining not yet.  With a boy named John Kinney he made an excursion to Lake Bigler—­now Tahoe—­and located a timber claim, really of great value.  They were supposed to build a fence around it, but they were too full of the enjoyment of camp-life to complete it.  They put in most of their time wandering through the stately forest or drifting over the transparent lake in a boat left there by lumbermen.  They built themselves a brush house, but they did not sleep in it.  In ‘Roughing It’ he writes, “It never occurred to us, for one thing; and, besides, it was built to hold the ground, and that was enough.  We did not wish to strain it.”

They were having a glorious time, when their camp-fire got away from
them and burned up their claim.  His next letter, of which the
beginning is missing, describes the fire.

Fragment of a letter to Mrs. Jane Clemens and
Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis: