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far Californian retreat。 It was hardly the act of a stingy man。
He had the human fondness for a compliment when it was genuine and from
an authoritative source； and I remember how pleased he was that winter
with Prof。 William Lyon Phelps's widely published opinion； which ranked
Mark Twain as the greatest American novelist； and declared that his fame
would outlive any American of his time。 Phelps had placed him above
Holmes； Howells； James； and even Hawthorne。 He had declared him to be
more American than any of thesemore American even than Whitman。
Professor Phelps's position in Yale College gave this opinion a certain
official weight； but I think the fact of Phelps himself being a writer of
great force； with an American freshness of style； gave it a still greater
value。
Among the pleasant things that winter was a meeting with Eugene F。 Ware；
of Kansas； with whose penname〃Ironquill〃Clemens had long been
familiar。
Ware was a breezy Western genius of the finest type。 If he had abandoned
law for poetry； there is no telling how far his fame might have reached。
There was in his work that same spirit of Americanism and humor and
humanity that is found in Mark Twain's writings； and he had the added
faculty of rhyme and rhythm； which would have set him in a place apart。
I had known Ware personally during a period of Western residence； and
later； when he was Commissioner of Pensions under Roosevelt。 I usually
saw him when he came to New York； and it was a great pleasure now to
bring together the two men whose work I so admired。 They met at a small
private luncheon at The Players； and Peter Dunne was there； and Robert
Collier； and it was such an afternoon as Howells has told of when he and
Aldrich and Bret Harte and those others talked until the day faded into
twilight； and twilight deepened into evening。 Clemens had put in most of
the day before reading Ware's book of poems； 'The Rhymes of Ironquill'；
and had declared his work to rank with the very greatest of American
poetryI think he called it the most truly American in flavor。 I
remember that at the luncheon he noted Ware's big； splendid physique and
his Western liberties of syntax with a curious intentness。 I believe he
regarded him as being nearer his own type in mind and expression than any
one he had met before。
Among Ware's poems he had been especially impressed with the 〃Fables；〃
and with some verses entitled 〃Whist；〃 which； though rather more
optimistic； conformed to his own philosophy。 They have a distinctly
〃Western〃 feeling。
WHIST
Hour after hour the cards were fairly shuffled；
And fairly dealt； and still I got no hand；
The morning came； but I； with mind unruffled；
Did simply say； 〃I do not understand。〃
Life is a game of whist。 From unseen sources
The cards are shuffled； and the hands are dealt。
Blind are our efforts to control the forces
That； though unseen； are no less strongly felt。
I do not like the way the cards are shuffled；
But still I like the game and want to play；
And through the long； long night will I； unruffled；
Play what I get； until the break of day。
End