Mark the gracious, welcome guest,” “December 5. Gardiner, Maine. On coming to breakfast found a note from dearest Maud, saying that she would sail this day for Spain. Was much overcome by this intelligence, yet felt that it was on the whole best. The day passed rather heavily, the relish seemed gone from everything.” “December 6. Boston.... Reaching home I lay down to rest, but the feeling of Maud's departure so overpowered me that I got up and went about, crying out: ‘I can't stand it!’ I soon quieted down, being comforted by my dear Laura, Julia, and Betty, but could not sleep until bedtime, when I slept soundly.”
Master of heroic jest;
He who cheers man's dull abodes
With the laughter of the gods;
To the joyless ones of earth
Sounds the reveille of mirth.
Well we meet, to part with pain,
But ne'er shall he and we be Twain.
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I had worked hard all the morning, but had managed to put together a scrap of rhyme in welcome of Mark Twain.
A candle was lit for me to read by, and afterwards M. T. jumped upon a chair and made fun, some good, some middling, for some three quarters of an hour.
The effect of my one candle lighting up his curly hair was good and my rhyme was well received.
Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New York. 1916.
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