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Two grand features are lost in print: the weird wailing, the rising and falling cadences of the wind, so easily mimicked with one's mouth; and the impressive pauses and eloquent silences, and subdued utterances, toward the end of the yarn (which chain the attention of the children hand and foot, and they sit with parted lips and breathless, to be wrenched limb from limb with the sudden and appalling "You got it").

Old Uncle Dan'l, a slave of my uncle's' aged 60, used to tell us children yarns every night by the kitchen fire (no other light;) and the last yarn demanded, every night, was this one.By this time there was but a ghastly blaze or two flickering about the back-log.We would huddle close about the old man, and begin to shudder with the first familiar words; and under the spell of his impressive delivery we always fell a prey to that climax at the end when the rigid black shape in the twilight sprang at us with a shout.

When you come to glance at the tale you will recollect it--it is as common and familiar as the Tar Baby.Work up the atmosphere with your customary skill and it will "go" in print.

Lumbago seems to make a body garrulous--but you'll forgive it.

Truly yours S.L.CLEMENS

The "Golden Arm" story was one that Clemens often used in his public readings, and was very effective as he gave it.

In his sketch, "How to Tell a Story," it appears about as he used to tell it.Harris, receiving the outlines of the old Missouri tale, presently announced that he had dug up its Georgia relative, an interesting variant, as we gather from Mark Twain's reply.

To Joel Chandler Harris, in Atlanta:

HARTFORD, '81.

MY DEAR MR.HARRIS,--I was very sure you would run across that Story somewhere, and am glad you have.A Drummond light--no, I mean a Brush light--is thrown upon the negro estimate of values by his willingness to risk his soul and his mighty peace forever for the sake of a silver sev'm-punce.And this form of the story seems rather nearer the true field-hand standard than that achieved by my Florida, Mo., negroes with their sumptuous arm of solid gold.

I judge you haven't received my new book yet--however, you will in a day or two.Meantime you must not take it ill if I drop Osgood a hint about your proposed story of slave life.....

When you come north I wish you would drop me a line and then follow it in person and give me a day or two at our house in Hartford.If you will, I will snatch Osgood down from Boston, and you won't have to go there at all unless you want to.Please to bear this strictly in mind, and don't forget it.

Sincerely yours S.L.CLEMENS.

Charles Warren Stoddard, to whom the next letter is written, was one of the old California literary crowd, a graceful writer of verse and prose, never quite arriving at the success believed by his friends to be his due.He was a gentle, irresponsible soul, well loved by all who knew him, and always, by one or another, provided against want.The reader may remember that during Mark Twain's great lecture engagement in London, winter of 1873-74, Stoddard lived with him, acting as his secretary.At a later period in his life he lived for several years with the great telephone magnate, Theodore N.Vail.At the time of this letter, Stoddard had decided that in the warm light and comfort of the Sandwich Islands he could survive on his literary earnings.

To Charles Warren Stoddard, in the Sandwich Islands:

HARTFORD, Oct.26 '81.

MY DEAR CHARLIE,--Now what have I ever done to you that you should not only slide off to Heaven before you have earned a right to go, but must add the gratuitous villainy of informing me of it?.....

The house is full of carpenters and decorators; whereas, what we really need here, is an incendiary.If the house would only burn down, we would pack up the cubs and fly to the isles of the blest, and shut ourselves up in the healing solitudes of the crater of Haleakala and get a good rest;for the mails do not intrude there, nor yet the telephone and the telegraph.And after resting, we would come down the mountain a piece and board with a godly, breech-clouted native, and eat poi and dirt and give thanks to whom all thanks belong, for these privileges, and never house-keep any more.

I think my wife would be twice as strong as she is, but for this wearing and wearying slavery of house-keeping.However, she thinks she must submit to it for the sake of the children; whereas, I have always had a tenderness for parents too, so, for her sake and mine, I sigh for the incendiary.When the evening comes and the gas is lit and the wear and tear of life ceases, we want to keep house always; but next morning we wish, once more, that we were free and irresponsible boarders.

Work?--one can't you know, to any purpose.I don't really get anything done worth speaking of, except during the three or four months that we are away in the Summer.I wish the Summer were seven years long.I keep three or four books on the stocks all the time, but I seldom add a satisfactory chapter to one of them at home.Yes, and it is all because my time is taken up with answering the letters of strangers.It can't be done through a short hand amanuensis--I've tried that--it wouldn't work --I couldn't learn to dictate.What does possess strangers to write so many letters? I never could find that out.However, I suppose I did it myself when I was a stranger.But I will never do it again.

Maybe you think I am not happy? the very thing that gravels me is that Iam.I don't want to be happy when I can't work; I am resolved that hereafter I won't be.What I have always longed for, was the privilege of living forever away up on one of those mountains in the Sandwich Islands overlooking the sea.

Yours ever MARK.

That magazine article of yours was mighty good: up to your very best Ithink.I enclose a book review written by Howells.

To W.D.Howells, in Boston:

HARTFORD, Oct.26 '81.

MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I am delighted with your review, and so is Mrs.