MARK TWAIN

malignant. This caterpillar two inches long and the
thickness of a cedar pencil—when getting ready to turn
into a great nice moth—partially buries his body in a
little trench—and Nature has got him, the spores of a
peculiar fungus are blown about by the wind, they lodge
in a wrinkle of his neck and begin to sprout and grow;
the roots force their way into the worm and along through
the body, and the worm slowly dies and turns to wood,
preserving all its details, like a petrifaction.

We easily perceive that the peoples furtherest from
civilization are the ones where equality between man and
woman are furthest apart—and we consider this one of
the signs of savagery. But we are so stupid that we can't
see that we thus plainly admit that no civilization can be
perfect until exact equality between man and woman is
included.

That forgotten and discredited invention of the devil,
the gong, still flourishes in Australia and the ringer of it
is still merciless and bangs it like a demon gone mad.

The peremptory, big, frowsy blond waitress in the sta-
tion—and dressy. Made me homesick, she was so like our
home-made article.

It is the strangest thing that the world is not full of
books that scoff at the pitiful world, and the useless uni-
verse and violent, contemptible human race—books that
laugh at the whole paltry scheme and deride it. Curious,
for millions of men die every year with these feelings in
their hearts. Why don't 7 write such a book? Because I
have a family. There is no other reason. Was this those
other people's reason?

The Larrikins of Sydney and Melbourne used to hail
me "Hello, Mark; good night, Mark" and of course I

256