It was the 18th of June, 1908, that he finally took possession.  The Fifth Avenue house was not dismantled, for it was the plan then to use Stormfield only as a summer place.  The servants, however, with one exception, had been transferred to Redding, and Mark Twain and I remained alone, though not lonely, in the city house; playing billiards most of the time, and being as hilarious as we pleased, for there was nobody to disturb.  I think he hardly mentioned the new home during that time.  He had never seen even a photograph of the place, and I confess I had moments of anxiety, for I had selected the site and had been more or less concerned otherwise, though John Howells was wholly responsible for the building.  I did not really worry, for I knew how beautiful and peaceful it all was.

The morning of the 18th was bright and sunny and cool.  Mark Twain was up and shaved by six o’clock in order to be in time.  The train did not leave until four in the afternoon, but our last billiards in town must begin early and suffer no interruption.  We were still playing when, about three, word was brought up that the cab was waiting.  Arrived at the station, a group collected, reporters and others, to speed him to his new home.  Some of the reporters came along.

The scenery was at its best that day, and he spoke of it approvingly.  The hour and a half required to cover the sixty miles’ distance seemed short.  The train porters came to carry out the bags.  He drew from his pocket a great handful of silver.

“Give them something,” he said; “give everybody liberally that does any service.”

There was a sort of open-air reception in waiting—­a varied assemblage of vehicles festooned with flowers had gathered to offer gallant country welcome.  It was a perfect June evening, still and dream-like; there seemed a spell of silence on everything.  The people did not cheer—­they smiled and waved to the white figure, and he smiled and waved reply, but there was no noise.  It was like a scene in a cinema.

His carriage led the way on the three-mile drive to the house on the hilltop, and the floral procession fell in behind.  Hillsides were green, fields were white with daisies, dogwood and laurel shone among the trees.  He was very quiet as we drove along.  Once, with gentle humor, looking out over a white daisy-field, he said: 

   “That is buckwheat.  I always recognize buckwheat when I see it.  I
   wish I knew as much about other things as I know about buckwheat.”

The clear-running brooks, a swift-flowing river, a tumbling cascade where we climbed a hill, all came in for his approval—­then we were at the lane that led to his new home, and the procession behind dropped away.  The carriage ascended still higher, and a view opened across the Saugatuck Valley, with its nestling village and church-spire and farmhouses, and beyond them the distant hills.  Then came the house—­simple in design, but beautiful—­an Italian villa, such as he had known in Florence, adapted here to American climate and needs.