ld let himself go in burlesque and satire,
and he did. He was unsparing in his ridicule of the Governor, the
officials in general, the legislative members, and of individual
citizens. From the beginning to the end of his address the audience was
in a storm of laughter and applause. With the exception of the
dinner speech made to the printers in Keokuk, it was his first public
utterance--the beginning of a lifelong series of triumphs.

Only one thing marred his success. Little Carrie Pixley, daughter of one
of the "trustees," had promised to be present and sit in a box next the
stage. It was like him to be fond of the child, and he had promised to
send a carriage for her. Often during his address he glanced toward the
box; but it remained empty. When the affair was ended, he drove home
with her father to inquire the reason. They found the little girl, in
all her finery, weeping on the bed. Then he remembered he had forgotten
to send the carriage; and that was like him, too.

For his Third House address Judge A. W. (Sandy) Baldwin and Theodore
Winters presented him with a gold watch inscribed to "Governor Mark
Twain." He was more in demand now than ever; no social occasion was
regarded as complete without him. His doings were related daily and his
sayings repeated on the streets. Most of these things have passed away
now, but a few are still recalled with smiles. Once, when conundrums
were being asked at a party, he was urged to make one.

"Well," he sand, "why am I like the Pacific Ocean?"

Several guesses were made, but none satisfied him. Finally all gave it
up.

"Tell us, Mark, why are you like the Pacific Ocean?"

"I don't know," he drawled. "I was just asking for information."

At another time, when a young man insisted on singing a song of eternal
length, the chorus of which was, "I'm going home, I'm going home, I'm
going home tomorrow," Mark Twain put his head in the window and said,
pleadingly:

"For God's sake go to-night."

But he was also fond of quieter society. Sometimes, after the turmoil
of a legislative morning, he would drop in to Miss Keziah Clapp's school
and listen to the exercises, or would call on Colonel Curry--"old Curry,
old Abe Curry"--and if the colonel happened to be away, he would talk
with Mrs. Curry, a motherly soul (still alive at ninety-three, in
1910), and tell her of his Hannibal boyhood or his river and his mining
adventures, and keep her laughing until the tears ran.

He w