YOU don't know about me without
you have read a book by the name
of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer;
but that ain't no matter. That
book was made by Mr. Mark Twain,
and he told the truth, mainly.
There was things which he stretched,
but mainly he told the truth.
That is nothing. I never seen
anybody but lied one time or
another, without it was Aunt
Polly, or the widow, or maybe
Mary. Aunt Polly -- Tom's Aunt
Polly, she is -- and Mary, and
the Widow Douglas is all told
about in that book, which is
mostly a true book, with some
stretchers, as
I said before.
Now the way that the book winds
up is this: Tom and me found
the money that the robbers hid
in the cave, and it made us rich.
We got six thousand dollars apiece
-- all gold. It was an awful
sight of money when it was piled
up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took
it and put it out at interest,
and it fetched us a dollar a
day apiece all the year round
-- more than a body could tell
what to do with. The Widow Douglas
she took me for her son, and
allowed she would sivilize me;
but it was rough living in the
house all the time, considering
how dismal regular and decent
the widow was in all her ways;
and so when I couldn't stand
it no longer I lit out. I got
into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead
again, and was free and satisfied.
But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up
and said he was going to start
a band of robbers, and I might
join if I would go back to the
widow and be respectable. So
I went back.
The widow she cried over me,
and called me a poor lost lamb,
and she called me a lot of other
names, too, but she never meant
no harm by it. She put me in
them new clothes again, and I
couldn't do nothing but sweat
and sweat, and feel all cramped
up. Well, then, the old thing
commenced again. The widow rung
a bell for supper, and you had
to come to time. When you got
to the table you couldn't go
right to eating, but you had
to wait for the widow to tuck
down her head and grumble a little
over the victuals, though there
warn't really anything the matter
with them, -- that is, nothing
only everything was cooked by
itself. In a barrel of odds and
ends it is different; things
get mixed up, and the juice kind
of swaps around, and the things
go better.
After supper she got out her
book and learned me about Moses
and the Bulrushers, and I was
in a sweat to find out all about
him; but by and by she let it
out that Moses had been dead
a considerable long time; so
then I didn't care no more about
him, because I don't take no
stock in dead people.
Pretty soon I wanted to smoke,
and asked the widow to let me.
But she wouldn't. She said it
was a mean practice and wasn't
clean, and I must try to not
do it any more. That is just
the way with some people. They
get down on a thing when they
don't know nothing about it.
Here she was a-bothering about
Moses, which was no kin to her,
and no use to anybody, being
gone, you see, yet finding a
power of fault with me for doing
a thing that had some good in
it. And she took snuff, too;
of course that was all right,
because she done it herself.
Her sister,
Miss Watson, a tolerable slim
old maid, with
goggles on, had just come to
live with her, and took a set
at me now with a spelling-book.
She worked me middling hard for
about an hour, and then the widow
made her ease up. I couldn't
stood it much longer. Then for
an hour it was deadly dull, and
I was fidgety. Miss Watson would
say, "Don't put your feet up
there, Huckleberry;" and "Don't
scrunch up like that, Huckleberry
-- set up straight;" and pretty
soon she would say, "Don't gap
and stretch like that, Huckleberry
-- why don't you try to behave?" Then
she told me all about the bad
place, and I said I wished I
was there. She got mad then,
but I didn't mean no harm. All
I wanted was to go somewheres;
all I wanted was a change, I
warn't particular. She said it
was wicked to say what I said;
said she wouldn't say it for
the whole world; she was going
to live so as to go to the good
place. Well, I couldn't see no
advantage in going where she
was going, so I made up my mind
I wouldn't try for it. But I
never said so, because it would
only make trouble, and wouldn't
do no good.
Now she had got a start, and
she went on and told me all about
the good place. She said all
a body would have to do there
was to go around all day long
with a harp and sing, forever
and ever. So I didn't think much
of it. But I never said so. I
asked her if she reckoned Tom
Sawyer would go there, and she
said not by a considerable sight.
I was glad about that, because
I wanted him and me to be together.
Miss Watson she kept pecking
at me, and it got tiresome and
lonesome. By and by they fetched
the niggers in and had prayers,
and then everybody was off to
bed. I went up to my room with
a piece of candle, and put it
on the table. Then I set down
in a chair by the window and
tried to think of something cheerful,
but it warn't no use. I felt
so lonesome I most wished I was
dead. The stars were shining,
and the leaves rustled in the
woods ever so mournful; and I
heard an owl, away off, who-whooing
about somebody that was dead,
and a whippowill and a dog crying
about somebody that was going
to die; and the wind was trying
to whisper something to me, and
I couldn't make out what it was,
and so it made the cold shivers
run over me. Then away out in
the woods I heard that kind of
a sound that a ghost makes when
it wants to tell about something
that's on its mind and can't
make itself understood, and so
can't rest easy in its grave,
and has to go about that way
every night grieving. I got so
down-hearted and scared I did
wish I had some company. Pretty
soon a spider went crawling up
my shoulder, and I flipped it
off and it lit in the candle;
and before I could budge it was
all shriveled up. I didn't need
anybody to tell me that that
was an awful bad sign and would
fetch me some bad luck, so I
was scared and most shook the
clothes off of me. I got up and
turned around in my tracks three
times and crossed my breast every
time; and then I tied up a little
lock of my hair with a thread
to keep witches away. But I hadn't
no confidence. You do that when
you've lost a horseshoe that
you've found, instead of nailing
it up over the door, but I hadn't
ever heard anybody say it was
any way to keep off bad luck
when you'd killed a spider.
I set down
again, a-shaking all over,
and got out my pipe
for a smoke; for the house was
all as still as death now, and
so the widow wouldn't know. Well,
after a long time I heard the
clock away off in the town go
boom -- boom -- boom -- twelve
licks; and all still again --
stiller than ever. Pretty soon
I heard a twig snap down in the
dark amongst the trees -- something
was a stirring. I set still and
listened. Directly I could just
barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down
there. That was good! Says I, "me-yow!
me-yow!" as soft as I could,
and then I put out the light
and scrambled out of the window
on to the shed. Then I slipped
down to the ground and crawled
in among the trees, and, sure
enough, there was Tom Sawyer
waiting for me. |