things, if we could know which ones they are. In one of them cradles the
unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething–think of
it!–and putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but perfectly
justifiable profanity over it, too. In another the future renowned
astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a languid
interest–poor little chap!–and wondering what has become of that other
one they call the wet-nurse. In another the future great historian is
lying–and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly mission is
ended. In another the future President is busying himself with no
profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his hair
so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some
60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion to
grapple with that same old problem a second time. And in still one more
cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious commander-in-
chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his approaching
grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mind
at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his big toe into his
mouth–an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the illustrious guest
of this evening turned his entire attention to some fifty-six years ago;
and if the child is but a prophecy of the man, there are mighty few who
will doubt that he succeeded.
SPEECH ON THE WEATHER
AT THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY’S SEVENTY-FIRST ANNUAL DINNER, NEW YORK CITY
The next toast was: “The Oldest Inhabitant–The Weather of New
England.”
Who can lose it and forget it?
Who can have it and regret it?
Be interposes ‘twixt us Twain.
Merchant of Venice.
To this Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain) replied as follows:–
I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in
New England but the weather. I don’t know who makes that, but I think it
must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk’s factory who experiment and
learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted
to make weather for countries that require a good article, and will take
their custom elsewhere if they don’t get it. There is a sumptuous
variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger’s
admiration–and regret. The weather is always doing something there;
always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and
trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it gets through
more business in spring than in any other season. In the spring I have
counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of
four-and-twenty hours. It was I that made the fame and fortune of that
man that had that marvelous collection of weather on exhibition at the
Centennial, that so astounded the foreigners. He was going to travel all
over the world and get specimens from all the climes. I said, “Don’t you
do it; you come to New England on a favorable spring day.” I told him
what we could do in the way of style, variety, and quantity. Well, he
came and he made his collection in four days. As to variety, why, he
confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never
heard of before. And as to quantity–well, after he had picked out and
discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only had weather
enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out; weather to sell; to
deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the poor. The people of
New England are by nature patient and forbearing, but there are some
things which they will not stand. Every year they kill a lot of poets
for writing about “Beautiful Spring.” These are generally casual
visitors, who bring their notions of spring from somewhere else, and
cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about spring. And so the
first thing they know the opportunity to inquire how they feel has
permanently gone by. Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for
accurate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it. You take up the