This unique collection of Twain’s essential short stories and semiautobiographical narratives is a testament to the author’s vast imagination. Featuring popular tales such as “Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog” and “The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg,” as well as some delightful excerpts from The Diaries of Adam and Eve , this compilation also includes darker works written in the author’s twilight years. These selections illuminate the depth of Twain’s artistry, humor, irony, and narrative genius. "I like a good story told well. That is the reason I am sometimes forced to tell them myself." This unique collection of Twain's essential short stories and semiautobiographical narratives is a testament to the author's vast imagination. Featuring popular tales such as "Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog" and "The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg," as well as some delightful excerpts from The Diaries of Adam and Eve, this compilation also includes darker works written in the author's twilight years. These selections illuminate the depth of Twain's artistry, humor, irony, and narrative genius. LAWRRENCE I. BERKOVE , this volume's editor, is a professor of English at the University of Michigan–Dearborn, and a noted authority on Mark Twain. He has published groundbreaking essays on Twain’s major novels, short fiction, travel literature, and religious values. PETE HAMILL , this volume's introducer, is a journalist, screenwriter, novelist, and short-story writer, and the author of A Drinking Life: A Memoir and Why Sinatra Matters . His ten novels include Snow in August and Forever . He lives in New York City. Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog Mr. A. Ward, Dear Sir:-Well, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and I inquired after your friend Leonidas W. Smiley, as you requested me to do, and I hereunto append the result. If you can get any information out of it you are cordially welcome to it. I have a lurking suspicion that your Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth-that you never knew such a personage, and that you only conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler about him it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was your design, Mr. Ward, it will gratify you to know that it succeeded. I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of the little old dilapidated tavern in the ancient mining camp of Boomerang, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up and gave me good-day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley-Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley-a young minister of the gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of this village of Boomerang. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him. Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair-and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the quiet, gently-flowing key to which he tuned2 the initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm-but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse. To me, the spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without ever smiling was exquisitely absurd. As I said before, I asked him to tell me what he knew of Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once: There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of '49-or maybe it was the spring of '50-I don't recollect exactly, some how, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn't finished when he first come to the camp; but anyway, he was the curiosest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side, and if he couldn't he'd change sides-any way that suited the other man would suit him-any way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still, he was lucky-uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no solitry thing mentioned but what that feller'd offer to bet on it-and take any side you please, as I was just telling you: if there was a horse race, you'd find him flush or you find him busted at the end of it; if t