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I finished a story yesterday, myself. I counted up and found it between
sixty and eighty thousand words--about the size of your book. It is for
boys and girls--been at work at it several years, off and on.
I hope Howells is enjoying his journey to the Pacific. He wrote me that
you and Osgood were going, also, but I doubted it, believing he was in
liquor when he wrote it. In my opinion, this universal applause over
his book is going to land that man in a Retreat inside of two months. I
notice the papers say mighty fine things about your book, too. You ought
to try to get into the same establishment with Howells. But applause
does not affect me--I am always calm--this is because I am used to it.
Well, good-bye, my boy, and good luck to you. Mrs. Clemens asks me to
send her warmest regards to you and Mrs. Aldrich--which I do, and add
those of
Yrs ever
MARK.
While Mark Twain was a journalist in San Francisco, there was a
middle-aged man named Soule, who had a desk near him on the
Morning
Call. Soule was in those days highly considered as a poet by his
associates, most of whom were younger and less gracefully poetic.
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