ng them appeared he felt
suddenly lifted to a lofty plane of literature. This was in 1851.

"Seeing them in print was a joy which rather exceeded anything in that
line I have ever experienced since," he said, nearly sixty years later.

Yet he did not feel inspired to write anything further for the Post.
Twice during the next two years he contributed to the Journal; once
something about Jim Wolfe, though it was not the story of the cats, and
another burlesque on a rival editor whom he pictured as hunting snipe
with a cannon, the explosion of which was said to have blown the snipe
out of the country. No contributions of this time have been preserved.
High prices have been offered for copies of the Hannibal journal
containing them, but without success. The Post sketches were unsigned
and have not been identified. It is likely they were trivial enough.
His earliest work showed no special individuality or merit, being mainly
crude and imitative, as the work of a boy--even a precocious boy--is
likely to be. He was not especially precocious--not in literature. His
literary career would halt and hesitate and trifle along for many years
yet, gathering impetus and equipment for the fuller, statelier swing
which would bring a greater joy to the world at large, even if not to
himself, than that first, far-off triumph.--[In Mark Twain's sketch "My
First Literary Venture" he has set down with characteristic embroideries
some account of this early authorship.]

Those were hard financial days. Orion could pay nothing on his
mortgage--barely the interest. He had promised Sam three dollars and
a half a week, but he could do no more than supply him with board and
clothes--"poor, shabby clothes," he says in his record.

"My mother and sister did the housekeeping. My mother was cook. She used
the provisions I supplied her. We therefore had a regular diet of bacon,
butter, bread, and coffee."

Mrs. Clemens again took a few boarders; Pamela, who had given up
teaching for a time, organized another music class. Orion became
despondent. One night a cow got into the office, upset a typecase, and
ate up two composition rollers. Orion felt that fate was dealing with
a heavy hand. Another disaster quickly followed. Fire broke out in the
office, and the loss was considerable. An insurance company paid one
hundred and fifty dollars. With it Orion replaced such articles as were
absolutely needed for work, and removed his plant into the front room