Mr. Stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer. His favorite spot
for this in summer was a grove of large fir-trees near the house. Here,
in the warm weather, he would lie in a hammock. His secretary would be
near, with her writing materials, and a book of her choosing. The book
was for her own reading while Mr. Stockton was "thinking." It annoyed
him to know he was being "waited for." He would think out pages of
incidents, and scenes, and even whole conversations, before he began to
dictate. After all had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly;
but there often were long pauses, when the secretary could do a good
deal of reading. In cold weather he had the secretary and an easy chair
in the study--a room he had built according to his own fancy. A fire of
blazing logs added a glow to his fancies.

I may state here that we always spent a part of every winter in New
York. A certain amount of city life was greatly enjoyed. Mr. Stockton
thus secured much intellectual pleasure. He liked his clubs, and was
fond of society, where he met men noted in various walks of life.[1]

[Footnote 1: Edward Gary, the secretary of the Century Club, in the
obituary notice of Mr. Stockton written by him for the club's annual
report, says of Mr. Stockton as a member: "It was but a dozen years ago
that Frank R. Stockton entered the fellowship of the Century, in which
he soon became exceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won them
all over the land and in other lands, by the charm of his keen and
kindly mind shining in all that he wrote and said. He had an
extraordinary capacity for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the
Century was honored by his well-earned fame, and fortunate in its share
in his ever fresh and varying companionship."]