November 11 Friday – Sam wrote from Buffalo to Orion, chastising him for his responses to Bliss’ offer of employment. He added, “Livy is very sick & I do not believe the baby will live five days” [MTL 4: 229-230].

Sam also wrote to Livy’s friend, Fidele A. Brooks about the new baby, after receiving a note from her [231].

Sam wrote another letter, this in the first person as Baby Langdon to Eunice King Ford (1782-1873), the baby’s 88-year-old great-grandmother

Dear Grandma:

      I have waited with some impatience to hear from you or from some other member of the family, but up to this time no letter has arrived for me. I have received enthusiastic notice in telegrams from Cleveland & in congratulations from Mr. Brooks in New York—& the telegrams from Elmira have been gladly received & carefully preserved. But from you personally, I have not heard, at least in the shape of a letter, & I am obliged to say that I am hurt at it. Every now & then I think it all over & then I comprehend that you cannot write in these latter years without great difficulty. Of course that makes me feel better about it, but it does not last long. I soon get to worrying again & saying to myself that you might have written me one line at least. But never mind, I know it is all just as it should be, & that you have neglected me not because you desired to do it, but because you could not well help it. For I will not believe but that you love me. I am four days old to-day at eleven o’clock. Do you recollect when you were only 4 days old? I guess you don’t. I am looking for Granny Fairbanks tomorrow, & will be glad to see her, too, but I shall be outrageously sorry to part with Aunt Susie Crane, for she was here when I first came, & I have come to like her society very much, & she knows my disposition better than anybody except Auntie Smith.

      I am boarding with a strange young woman by the name of Brown, & her baby is boarding with my mother. I expect Mrs. Brown could take several more boarders like me, for I am not a very hearty eater. I don’t understand this little game, but I guess it is all right. It is some little neat trick of my father’s to save expense, I fancy.

      I have a ridiculous time of it with clothes. Except a shirt which aunt Hattie made for me I haven’t a rag in the world that fits me. Everything is too large. You ought to see the things they call “slips.” I am only 13 inches long, & these things are as much as 3 feet. Think of it. I trip & break my neck every time I make a step, for I can’t think to gather up the surplus when I am in a hurry.

      I tell you I am tired being bundled up head & ears nine-tenths of my time. And I don’t like this thing of being stripped naked & washed. I like to be stripped & warmed at the stove—that is real bully—but I do despise this washing business. I believe it to be a gratuitous & unnecessary piece of meanness. I never see them wash the cat.

      And I tell you it is dull, roosting around on pillows & rocking chairs & everybody else spinning around town having a good time. Sometimes they let that other baby lie on the kitchen table & wink at the sun, but bless you I never get a show. Sometimes I get so mad that I cannot keep my temper or my opinion. But it only makes things worse. They call it colic, & give me some execrable medicine. Colic. Everything is colic. A baby can’t open its mouth about the simplest matter but up comes some wise body & says it is wind in its bowels. When I saw the dog the first time, I made a noise which was partly fright & partly admiration—but it cost me a double dose of medicine for wind in the bowels. Do these people take me for a balloon?

      I am not entirely satisfied with my complexion. I am as red as a lobster. I am really ashamed to see company. But I am perfectly satisfied with my personal appearance, for I think I look just like aunt Susie. They keep me on the shortest kind of rations, & that is one thing that don’t suit the subscriber. My mother has mashed potatoes, & gruel, & tea, & toast, & all sorts of sumptuous fare, but she never gives me a bite—& you can risk your last dollar on it that I don’t ask for it. It would only be another case of “wind in the bowels.” You’ll have to excuse me. I am learning to keep my remarks to myself. {But between you & I, Grandma, I get the advantage of them occasionly—now last night I kept aunt Smith getting up every hour to feed me— but and between you & me and I wasn’t hungry once.}

      That doctor has just been here again. Come to play some fresh swindle on me, I suppose. He is the meanest looking white man I ever saw. Mind, now, this is not a splenetic & prejudiced outburst, but a calm & deliberate opinion formed & founded upon careful observation. Won’t I “lay” for him when I get my teeth?

Good-bye Grandma, good-bye. Great love to you & grandma & all the whole household.

Your loving great-grandson, / Langdon Clemens [232].

Mary Mason Fairbanks wrote to Langdon Clemens upon his birth: “My Dear Langdon / I am delighted to learn of your safe arrival, and gratified that you should have so promptly reported yourself to me, your venerable relative—on your father’s side” [MTPO].

Edwin D. White telegraphed Sam: “The Press club sups tomorrow eve. Come and bring the baby!” [MTP]. Note: See (Nov. 11 or 12) entry.

November 11? Friday – Sam wrote to Olivia Lewis Langdon, asking her and Charley to visit [MTL 4: 234].

November 11 or 12 Saturday – Sam telegraphed Edwin D. White in response to an invitation to the Boston Press Club Supper, saying he was busily engaged in singing “Rock Me to Sleep, Father, “and could not possibly attend [MTL 4: 235].