villainously rapid and crooked, that it looks like it had wandered
into the country without intending it, and had run about in a bewildered
way and got lost, in its hurry to get out again before some thirsty
man came along and drank it up. I said we are situated in a flat, sandy
desert--true. And surrounded on all sides by such prodigious mountains,
that when you gaze at them awhile,--and begin to conceive of their
grandeur--and next to feel their vastness expanding your soul--and
ultimately find yourself growing and swelling and spreading into a
giant--I say when this point is reached, you look disdainfully down upon
the insignificant village of Carson, and in that instant you are seized
with a burning desire to stretch forth your hand, put the city in your
pocket, and walk off with it.

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 Kin