by Mark Twain
Translated from the Original
SATURDAY.—I am almost a whole day old, now. I arrived yesterday.
That is as it seems to me. And it must be so, for if there was a
day-before-yesterday I was not there when it happened, or I should
remember it. It could be, of course, that it did happen, and that I was
not noticing. Very well; I will be very watchful now, and if any
day-before-yesterdays happen I will make a note of it. It will be best to
start right and not let the record get confused, for some instinct tells
me that these details are going to be important to the historian some day.
For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an experiment; it would
be impossible for a person to feel more like an experiment than I do, and
so I am coming to feel convinced that that is what I AM—an
experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.
Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it? No, I think not; I think
the rest of it is part of it. I am the main part of it, but I think the
rest of it has its share in the matter. Is my position assured, or do I
have to watch it and take care of it? The latter, perhaps. Some instinct
tells me that eternal vigilance is the price of supremacy. (That is a good
phrase, I think, for one so young.)
Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush of
finishing up yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition, and
some of the plains were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants that the
aspects were quite distressing. Noble and beautiful works of art should
not be subjected to haste; and this majestic new world is indeed a most
noble and beautiful work. And certainly marvelously near to being perfect,
notwithstanding the shortness of the time. There are too many stars in
some places and not enough in others, but that can be remedied presently,
no doubt. The moon got loose last night, and slid down and fell out of the
scheme—a very great loss; it breaks my heart to think of it. There
isn't another thing among the ornaments and decorations that is comparable
to it for beauty and finish. It should have been fastened better. If we
can only get it back again—
But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides, whoever
gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself. I believe I
can be honest in all other matters, but I already begin to realize that
the core and center of my nature is love of the beautiful, a passion for
the beautiful, and that it would not be safe to trust me with a moon that
belonged to another person and that person didn't know I had it. I could
give up a moon that I found in the daytime, because I should be afraid
some one was looking; but if I found it in the dark, I am sure I should
find some kind of an excuse for not saying anything about it. For I do
love moons, they are so pretty and so romantic. I wish we had five or six;
I would never go to bed; I should never get tired lying on the moss-bank
and looking up at them.
Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I
suppose I never can. You would be surprised to find how far off they are,
for they do not look it. When they first showed, last night, I tried to
knock some down with a pole, but it didn't reach, which astonished me;
then I tried clods till I was all tired out, but I never got one. It was
because I am left-handed and cannot throw good. Even when I aimed at the
one I wasn't after I couldn't hit the other one, though I did make some
close shots, for I saw the black blot of the clod sail right into the
midst of the golden clusters forty or fifty times, just barely missing
them, and if I could have held out a little longer maybe I could have got
So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age, and
after I was rested I got a basket and started for a place on the extreme
rim of the circle, where the stars were close to the ground and I could
get them with my hands, which would be better, anyway, because I could
gather them tenderly then, and not break them. But it was farther than I
thought, and at last I had go give it up; I was so tired I couldn't drag
my feet another step; and besides, they were sore and hurt me very much.
I couldn't get back home; it was too far and turning cold; but I found
some tigers and nestled in among them and was most adorably comfortable,
and their breath was sweet and pleasant, because they live on
strawberries. I had never seen a tiger before, but I knew them in a minute
by the stripes. If I could have one of those skins, it would make a lovely
Today I am getting better ideas about distances. I was so eager to get
hold of every pretty thing that I giddily grabbed for it, sometimes when
it was too far off, and sometimes when it was but six inches away but
seemed a foot—alas, with thorns between! I learned a lesson; also I
made an axiom, all out of my own head—my very first one; THE
SCRATCHED EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE THORN. I think it is a very good one for
one so young.
I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, at a
distance, to see what it might be for, if I could. But I was not able to
make out. I think it is a man. I had never seen a man, but it looked like
one, and I feel sure that that is what it is. I realize that I feel more
curiosity about it than about any of the other reptiles. If it is a
reptile, and I suppose it is; for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and
looks like a reptile. It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it
stands, it spreads itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is a
reptile, though it may be architecture.
I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time it turned
around, for I thought it was going to chase me; but by and by I found it
was only trying to get away, so after that I was not timid any more, but
tracked it along, several hours, about twenty yards behind, which made it
nervous and unhappy. At last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a
tree. I waited a good while, then gave it up and went home.
Today the same thing over. I've got it up the tree again.
SUNDAY.—It is up there yet. Resting, apparently. But that is a
subterfuge: Sunday isn't the day of rest; Saturday is appointed for that.
It looks to me like a creature that is more interested in resting than it
anything else. It would tire me to rest so much. It tires me just to sit
around and watch the tree. I do wonder what it is for; I never see it do
They returned the moon last night, and I was SO happy! I think it is very
honest of them. It slid down and fell off again, but I was not distressed;
there is no need to worry when one has that kind of neighbors; they will
fetch it back. I wish I could do something to show my appreciation. I
would like to send them some stars, for we have more than we can use. I
mean I, not we, for I can see that the reptile cares nothing for such
It has low tastes, and is not kind. When I went there yesterday evening in
the gloaming it had crept down and was trying to catch the little speckled
fishes that play in the pool, and I had to clod it to make it go up the
tree again and let them alone. I wonder if THAT is what it is for? Hasn't
it any heart? Hasn't it any compassion for those little creature? Can it
be that it was designed and manufactured for such ungentle work? It has
the look of it. One of the clods took it back of the ear, and it used
language. It gave me a thrill, for it was the first time I had ever heard
speech, except my own. I did not understand the words, but they seemed
When I found it could talk I felt a new interest in it, for I love to
talk; I talk, all day, and in my sleep, too, and I am very interesting,
but if I had another to talk to I could be twice as interesting, and would
never stop, if desired.
If this reptile is a man, it isn't an IT, is it? That wouldn't be
grammatical, would it? I think it would be HE. I think so. In that case
one would parse it thus: nominative, HE; dative, HIM; possessive, HIS'N.
Well, I will consider it a man and call it he until it turns out to be
something else. This will be handier than having so many uncertainties.
NEXT WEEK SUNDAY.—All the week I tagged around after him and tried
to get acquainted. I had to do the talking, because he was shy, but I
didn't mind it. He seemed pleased to have me around, and I used the
sociable "we" a good deal, because it seemed to flatter him to be
WEDNESDAY.—We are getting along very well indeed, now, and getting
better and better acquainted. He does not try to avoid me any more, which
is a good sign, and shows that he likes to have me with him. That pleases
me, and I study to be useful to him in every way I can, so as to increase
his regard. During the last day or two I have taken all the work of naming
things off his hands, and this has been a great relief to him, for he has
no gift in that line, and is evidently very grateful. He can't think of a
rational name to save him, but I do not let him see that I am aware of his
defect. Whenever a new creature comes along I name it before he has time
to expose himself by an awkward silence. In this way I have saved him many
embarrassments. I have no defect like this. The minute I set eyes on an
animal I know what it is. I don't have to reflect a moment; the right name
comes out instantly, just as if it were an inspiration, as no doubt it is,
for I am sure it wasn't in me half a minute before. I seem to know just by
the shape of the creature and the way it acts what animal it is.
When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat—I saw it in his
eye. But I saved him. And I was careful not to do it in a way that could
hurt his pride. I just spoke up in a quite natural way of pleasing
surprise, and not as if I was dreaming of conveying information, and said,
"Well, I do declare, if there isn't the dodo!" I explained—without
seeming to be explaining—how I know it for a dodo, and although I
thought maybe he was a little piqued that I knew the creature when he
didn't, it was quite evident that he admired me. That was very agreeable,
and I thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept. How
little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have earned it!
THURSDAY.—my first sorrow. Yesterday he avoided me and seemed to
wish I would not talk to him. I could not believe it, and thought there
was some mistake, for I loved to be with him, and loved to hear him talk,
and so how could it be that he could feel unkind toward me when I had not
done anything? But at last it seemed true, so I went away and sat lonely
in the place where I first saw him the morning that we were made and I did
not know what he was and was indifferent about him; but now it was a
mournful place, and every little think spoke of him, and my heart was very
sore. I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new feeling; I had not
experienced it before, and it was all a mystery, and I could not make it
But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and went to the new
shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had done that was wrong and
how I could mend it and get back his kindness again; but he put me out in
the rain, and it was my first sorrow.
SUNDAY.—It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were
heavy days; I do not think of them when I can help it.
I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to throw
straight. I failed, but I think the good intention pleased him. They are
forbidden, and he says I shall come to harm; but so I come to harm through
pleasing him, why shall I care for that harm?
MONDAY.—This morning I told him my name, hoping it would interest
him. But he did not care for it. It is strange. If he should tell me his
name, I would care. I think it would be pleasanter in my ears than any
He talks very little. Perhaps it is because he is not bright, and is
sensitive about it and wishes to conceal it. It is such a pity that he
should feel so, for brightness is nothing; it is in the heart that the
values lie. I wish I could make him understand that a loving good heart is
riches, and riches enough, and that without it intellect is poverty.
Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable vocabulary. This
morning he used a surprisingly good word. He evidently recognized,
himself, that it was a good one, for he worked in in twice afterward,
casually. It was good casual art, still it showed that he possesses a
certain quality of perception. Without a doubt that seed can be made to
grow, if cultivated.
Where did he get that word? I do not think I have ever used it.
No, he took no interest in my name. I tried to hide my disappointment, but
I suppose I did not succeed. I went away and sat on the moss-bank with my
feet in the water. It is where I go when I hunger for companionship, some
one to look at, some one to talk to. It is not enough—that lovely
white body painted there in the pool—but it is something, and
something is better than utter loneliness. It talks when I talk; it is sad
when I am sad; it comforts me with its sympathy; it says, "Do not be
downhearted, you poor friendless girl; I will be your friend." It IS a
good friend to me, and my only one; it is my sister.
That first time that she forsook me! ah, I shall never forget that—never,
never. My heart was lead in my body! I said, "She was all I had, and now
she is gone!" In my despair I said, "Break, my heart; I cannot bear my
life any more!" and hid my face in my hands, and there was no solace for
me. And when I took them away, after a little, there she was again, white
and shining and beautiful, and I sprang into her arms!
That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness before, but it was not
like this, which was ecstasy. I never doubted her afterward. Sometimes she
stayed away—maybe an hour, maybe almost the whole day, but I waited
and did not doubt; I said, "She is busy, or she is gone on a journey, but
she will come." And it was so: she always did. At night she would not come
if it was dark, for she was a timid little thing; but if there was a moon
she would come. I am not afraid of the dark, but she is younger than I am;
she was born after I was. Many and many are the visits I have paid her;
she is my comfort and my refuge when my life is hard—and it is
TUESDAY.—All the morning I was at work improving the estate; and I
purposely kept away from him in the hope that he would get lonely and
come. But he did not.
At noon I stopped for the day and took my recreation by flitting all about
with the bees and the butterflies and reveling in the flowers, those
beautiful creatures that catch the smile of God out of the sky and
preserve it! I gathered them, and made them into wreaths and garlands and
clothed myself in them while I ate my luncheon—apples, of course;
then I sat in the shade and wished and waited. But he did not come.
But no matter. Nothing would have come of it, for he does not care for
flowers. He called them rubbish, and cannot tell one from another, and
thinks it is superior to feel like that. He does not care for me, he does
not care for flowers, he does not care for the painted sky at eventide—is
there anything he does care for, except building shacks to coop himself up
in from the good clean rain, and thumping the melons, and sampling the
grapes, and fingering the fruit on the trees, to see how those properties
are coming along?
I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to bore a hole in it with
another one, in order to carry out a scheme that I had, and soon I got an
awful fright. A thin, transparent bluish film rose out of the hole, and I
dropped everything and ran! I thought it was a spirit, and I WAS so
frightened! But I looked back, and it was not coming; so I leaned against
a rock and rested and panted, and let my limps go on trembling until they
got steady again; then I crept warily back, alert, watching, and ready to
fly if there was occasion; and when I was come near, I parted the branches
of a rose-bush and peeped through—wishing the man was about, I was
looking so cunning and pretty—but the sprite was gone. I went there,
and there was a pinch of delicate pink dust in the hole. I put my finger
in, to feel it, and said OUCH! and took it out again. It was a cruel pain.
I put my finger in my mouth; and by standing first on one foot and then
the other, and grunting, I presently eased my misery; then I was full of
interest, and began to examine.
I was curious to know what the pink dust was. Suddenly the name of it
occurred to me, though I had never heard of it before. It was FIRE! I was
as certain of it as a person could be of anything in the world. So without
hesitation I named it that—fire.
I had created something that didn't exist before; I had added a new thing
to the world's uncountable properties; I realized this, and was proud of
my achievement, and was going to run and find him and tell him about it,
thinking to raise myself in his esteem—but I reflected, and did not
do it. No—he would not care for it. He would ask what it was good
for, and what could I answer? for if it was not GOOD for something, but
only beautiful, merely beautiful— So I sighed, and did not go. For
it wasn't good for anything; it could not build a shack, it could not
improve melons, it could not hurry a fruit crop; it was useless, it was a
foolishness and a vanity; he would despise it and say cutting words. But
to me it was not despicable; I said, "Oh, you fire, I love you, you dainty
pink creature, for you are BEAUTIFUL—and that is enough!" and was
going to gather it to my breast. But refrained. Then I made another maxim
out of my head, though it was so nearly like the first one that I was
afraid it was only a plagiarism: "THE BURNT EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE FIRE."
I wrought again; and when I had made a good deal of fire-dust I emptied it
into a handful of dry brown grass, intending to carry it home and keep it
always and play with it; but the wind struck it and it sprayed up and spat
out at me fiercely, and I dropped it and ran. When I looked back the blue
spirit was towering up and stretching and rolling away like a cloud, and
instantly I thought of the name of it—SMOKE!—though, upon my
word, I had never heard of smoke before.
Soon brilliant yellow and red flares shot up through the smoke, and I
named them in an instant—FLAMES—and I was right, too, though
these were the very first flames that had ever been in the world. They
climbed the trees, then flashed splendidly in and out of the vast and
increasing volume of tumbling smoke, and I had to clap my hands and laugh
and dance in my rapture, it was so new and strange and so wonderful and so
He came running, and stopped and gazed, and said not a word for many
minutes. Then he asked what it was. Ah, it was too bad that he should ask
such a direct question. I had to answer it, of course, and I did. I said
it was fire. If it annoyed him that I should know and he must ask; that
was not my fault; I had no desire to annoy him. After a pause he asked:
"How did it come?"
Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer.
"I made it."
The fire was traveling farther and farther off. He went to the edge of the
burned place and stood looking down, and said:
"What are these?"
He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put it down
again. Then he went away. NOTHING interests him.
But I was interested. There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate and
pretty—I knew what they were at once. And the embers; I knew the
embers, too. I found my apples, and raked them out, and was glad; for I am
very young and my appetite is active. But I was disappointed; they were
all burst open and spoiled. Spoiled apparently; but it was not so; they
were better than raw ones. Fire is beautiful; some day it will be useful,
FRIDAY.—I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at nightfall, but
only for a moment. I was hoping he would praise me for trying to improve
the estate, for I had meant well and had worked hard. But he was not
pleased, and turned away and left me. He was also displeased on another
account: I tried once more to persuade him to stop going over the Falls.
That was because the fire had revealed to me a new passion—quite
new, and distinctly different from love, grief, and those others which I
had already discovered—FEAR. And it is horrible!—I wish I had
never discovered it; it gives me dark moments, it spoils my happiness, it
makes me shiver and tremble and shudder. But I could not persuade him, for
he has not discovered fear yet, and so he could not understand me.