e two little girls now, Susy and Clara--went to that lovely
place on the hilltop above Elmira, where there were plenty of green
fields and cows and horses and apple-trees, a spot as wonderful to them
as John Quarles's farm had been to their father, so long ago. All the
family loved Quarry Farm, and Mark Twain's work went more easily there.
His winters were not suited to literary creation--there were too many
social events, though once--it was the winter of '76--he wrote a play
with Bret Harte, who came to Hartford and stayed at the Clemens home
while the work was in progress. It was a Chinese play, "Ah Sin," and the
two had a hilarious time writing it, though the result did not prove much
of a success with the public. Mark Twain often tried plays--one with
Howells, among others--but the Colonel Sellers play was his only success.

Grand dinners, trips to Boston and New York, guests in his own home,
occupied much of Mark Twain's winter season. His leisure he gave to his
children and to billiards. He had a passion for the game, and at any
hour of the day or night was likely to be found in the room at the top of
the house, knocking the balls about alone or with any visitor that he had
enticed to that den. He mostly received his callers there, and impressed
them into the game. If they could play, well and good. If not, so much
the better; he could beat them extravagantly, and he took huge delight in
such contests. Every Friday evening a party of billiard lovers--Hartford
men--gathered and played, and told stories, and smoked, until the room
was blue. Clemens never tired of the game. He could play all night. He
would stay until the last man dropped from sheer weariness, and then go
on knocking the balls about alone.

But many evenings at home--early evenings--he gave to Susy and Clara.
They had learned his gift as a romancer and demanded the most startling
inventions. They would bring him a picture requiring him to fit a story
to it without a moment's delay. Once he was suddenly ordered by Clara to
make a story out of a plumber and a "bawgunstictor," which, on the whole,
was easier than some of their requirements. Along the book-shelves were
ornaments and pictures. A picture of a girl whom they called "Emeline"
was at one end, and at the other a cat. Every little while they
compelled him to make a story beginning with the cat and ending with
Emeline. Always a new story, and never the other way about. The
literary path from th