of a sort to
make privacy desirable.

I remember the 'coon and 'possum hunts, nights, with the negroes, and
the long marches through the black gloom of the woods, and the
excitement which fired everybody when the distant bay of an experienced
dog announced that the game was treed; then the wild scramblings and
stumblings through briars and bushes and over roots to get to the spot;
then the lighting of a fire and the felling of the tree, the joyful
frenzy of the dogs and the negroes, and the weird picture it all made in
the red glare--I remember it all well, and the delight that every one
got out of it, except the 'coon.

I remember the pigeon seasons, when the birds would come in millions,
and cover the trees, and by their weight break down the branches. They
were clubbed to death with sticks; guns were not necessary, and were not
used. I remember the squirrel hunts, and the prairie-chicken hunts, and
the wild-turkey hunts, and all that; and how we turned out, mornings,
while it was still dark, to go on these expeditions, and how chilly and
dismal it was, and how often I regretted that I was well enough to go. A
toot on a tin horn brought twice as many dogs as were needed, and in
their happiness they raced and scampered about, and knocked small people
down, and made no end of unnecessary noise. At the word, they vanished
away toward the woods, and we drifted silently after them in the
melancholy gloom. But presently the gray dawn stole over the world, the
birds piped up, then the sun rose and poured light and comfort all
around, everything was fresh and dewy and fragrant, and life was a boon
again. After three hours of tramping we arrived back wholesomely tired,
overladen with game, very hungry, and just in time for breakfast.

MARK TWAIN.

(_To be Continued._)

FOOTNOTE:

[6] 100,000 acres.

NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW

No. DCXI.

MARCH 15, 1907.

CHAPTERS FROM MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY.--XIV.

BY MARK TWAIN.

[_Dictated Thursday, December 6, 1906._]

_From Susy's Biography of Me._

_Feb. 27, Sunday._

Clara's reputation as a baby was always a fine one, mine exactly
the contrary. One often related story concerning her braveness as a
baby and her own opinion of this quality of hers is this. Clara and
I often got slivers in our hands and when mama took them out with a
much dreaded needle, Clara was