Nor still another unsent form, perhaps more characteristic than
either of the foregoing.

Telegram (unsent).  To Col.  George Harvey, in New York: 

Dear colonel,—­No, this is a love-feast; when you call a lodge of sorrow send for me. 
          
                                        Mark.

To Mrs. Crane, Quarry Farm: 

Dublin, Sept. 24, ’05.  Susy dear, I have had a lovely dream.  Livy, dressed in black, was sitting up in my bed (here) at my right and looking as young and sweet as she used to do when she was in health.  She said:  “what is the name of your sweet sister?” I said, “Pamela.”  “Oh, yes, that is it, I thought it was—­” (naming a name which has escaped me) “Won’t you write it down for me?” I reached eagerly for a pen and pad—­laid my hands upon both—­then said to myself, “It is only a dream,” and turned back sorrowfully and there she was, still.  The conviction flamed through me that our lamented disaster was a dream, and this a reality.  I said, “How blessed it is, how blessed it is, it was all a dream, only a dream!” She only smiled and did not ask what dream I meant, which surprised me.  She leaned her head against mine and I kept saying, “I was perfectly sure it was a dream, I never would have believed it wasn’t.”

I think she said several things, but if so they are gone from my memory.  I woke and did not know I had been dreaming.  She was gone.  I wondered how she could go without my knowing it, but I did not spend any thought upon that, I was too busy thinking of how vivid and real was the dream that we had lost her and how unspeakably blessed it was to find that it was not true and that she was still ours and with us. 
                                                       S. L. C.

One day that summer Mark Twain received a letter from the actress, Minnie Maddern Fiske, asking him to write something that would aid her in her crusade against bull-fighting.  The idea appealed to him; he replied at once.

To Mrs. Fiske: 

Dear Mrs. Fiske,—­I shall certainly write the story.  But I may not get it to suit me, in which case it will go in the fire.  Later I will try again—­and yet again—­and again.  I am used to this.  It has taken me twelve years to write a short story—­the shortest one I ever wrote, I think.—­[Probably “The Death Disk."]—­So do not be discouraged; I will stick to this one in the same way.  Sincerely yours,
                         S. L. Clemens.

He did not delay in his beginning, and a few weeks later was sending
word to his publisher about it.

To Frederick A. Duneka, in New York: 

Oct. 2, ’05.  Dear Mr. Duneka,—­I have just finished a short story which I “greatly admire,” and so will you—­“A Horse’s Tale”—­about 15,000 words, at a rough guess.  It has good fun in it, and several characters, and is lively.  I shall finish revising it in a few days or more, then Jean will type it.